#i would never in my life pit those shows against each other because they are nowhere near the same in ANY way

[buckleydiazmp4]

no but the thing is. they KISSED. on screen. it was a real scene, not deleted, not removed from a script, it HAPPENED in front of the world's eyes. and AND the actors are normal about it and the whole cast and crew is normal about it and it's not vague and it's IMPORTANT. no matter the rest of it and what came after it, it happened!!

[kismets-barista]

Hold onto your Stetson, @ohposhers; have I got some personal HickDory lore for you 😎💜🌟🫧

Excuse the insanity for those who don't feel compelled towards these two

SO!

Hickory and JD met a few good years before the events of the World Tour when Dory was traveling to find Lonesome Flats, got heatstroke and passed out in the desert. Wakes up to Hickory shadowed in the flickering light of a campfire beneath a canopy of the brightest stars he'd seen since the Neverglades, but it wouldn't be until QUITE a few months later until they really started developing crushes against each other. (Cowboy under the stars, you'd think he'd fall right then and there, right? 🌟)

Why was Hickory already in Lonesome Flats, you might ask? Where was Dickory?

In a glue trap, I say in response. Hickory came from Yodelsberg (is there a canonical name for this?) for international study and to learn about new music. He fell in love with country because yodeling and country music are actually quite gorgeous together. She Taught Me to Yodel, anyone?

Delta Dawn obviously didn't take to Dory showing up and around the town, but after some convincing by Hickory and lots of proving himself (plus a vulture attack that resulted in John Dory saving the very young niece of Delta Dawn- Clampers-) he 'earned' a place there and began to work around town.

It was weird for him.

He'd never quite settled down, until then.

(Now, the specific timeline, yearly I mean is a little muddled because I'm still crafting this, but I'll put them out about three years, now.)

John Dory was still living in Lonesome Flats, and he'd started a relationship with Hickory. They loved each other, as my cohort in crime @protagonist-art (CHECK OUT THEIR ART I LOVE THEM SM MUAH) has Hickory tell John when we get write them, "More than the moon loves the ocean." As surely as the tide pulls in and out, so the lovers return to each other.

So Via, what does Hickory think about BroZone?

Oh, my sweet star.

He doesn't know.

After returning to the devastated Troll Tree, John Dory lost a piece of his heart in the damaged pod they used to live in. It was the first time he went grey, and the memories of his brothers started shifting from what was, to what would never be again. He couldn't find it within himself to talk about them, and has his secrets.

But so does Hickory.

Girl wdym stop being so mysterious.

Heh. I know. It's just a glimpse into my dark mind /ref. Anyways, Hickory never told John Dory he was a Yodeler troll. (Another piece of lore that Quizzy and I worked on together and I think it's brilliant.)

Huh? Aren't they in a long-term relationship? Won't this cause issues later on if they don't share these things with each other?

Oh, they love every aspect of each other too much for their bond to truly be broken.

And yet.

One morning, years after just living and loving, John Dory wakes up with a massive headache and nausea.

"Maybe it's that horse that kicked me yesterday, could've gotten me harder than we both thought."

"Lemme check for a knot, Darlin'."

No knots, but there was an egg.

🌟 (Here I'll say that I'm massively in love with the headcanon that trolls conceive through true love- it isn't quite necessary for them to physically do anything unless they want to. Just them, wholeheartedly trusting and putting everything into their relationship and pouring their heart out to their partner.)

They were absolutely ECSTATIC, and rightfully terrified in their own ways. Neither of them were looking for children but not against it, and after resting for a few days they began to plan. A nursery in the house, baby books with millions of names scattered on the coffee table, toys and cute little baby clothes for when the little one hatched.

Wanna know two of the names John Dory had in mind? Rhonda and Dolly.

They were ecstatic until the night John Dory woke up absolutely ill and with a pit in his stomach.

They lost the egg, and it was the second time John Dory went grey in his life.

A week after this had happened, John Dory left a bundled lock of his hair at Hickory's nightstand and did what he knows how to do all too well. He ran.

Hickory never went too far out of Lonesome Flats in the hopes that John Dory would come back. He couldn't imagine what would happen if his love came back and didn't find him there.

The events of World Tour come about, Hickory meets Branch, and travels for the first time since John Dory left.

John Dory continued to travel, until the events of Band Together.

But don't worry, dear readers, for as surely as the tides come in, so will the lovers meet again. 🌟

Aaaand BOOM! That's it! 💜 I've got lore behind the names Rhonda and Dolly as well, and am SO down to answer any questions about them that anyone has. For you, Posh, thank you for asking and helping me to share a story I've been working on, and for everyone else that read this, thank you kindly! I hope that everyone who made it this far has quite a lovely day, or if you didn't, have a lovely day anyways!

Remember to take your meds, drink water, eat something, and stretch!

💜🌟🫧

[writefightandflightclub]

Ride or Die (Santiago “Pope” Garcia x fem!reader): Chapter Eight (of 11 - COMPLETED SERIES)

Series summary: Together, you and Santiago have been “soldiers” then “friends” then “lovers”; but will you ever figure out what comes next, especially when Santiago can’t (or won’t) stop running? 

Genre: a LOT of angst, (some) smut, best friends to… lovers?

Warnings: see collated series warnings, here. Please note, this series is 18+. Minors / ageless blocks interacting will be blocked.

Series info: this is a COMPLETED SERIES. All chapters are written and queued. Posting schedule is here (includes series master list). 

Author’s note: Oh my goshhhhh, I hope you're ready for chapter eight??!!! We've been on such a journey with these two, and I can't wait for you to see where they go next. As always, I would be super grateful for any comments / reblogs / asks you may wish to send my way. ILY :-*

Word count: 8.6k for this part. 

Tag list info: will reblog separately tagging those on taglist. You can request to be added to taglist if you are 18+. Send me an ask, please, so I can keep track :)

In your ensuite, you shower the residue of the day away from your flushed skin, rinsing the sand and sunscreen and sweat away beneath the warm, sluicing water. You’re alone, and yet your thoughts are consumed by another. By Santiago specifically; of course. 

He had promised you something -to give you what you want, need- and you’re trembling already in anticipation of it. You feel butterflies unfurling in the pit of you at the thought of laying down with him. Of baring yourself to him. Of surrendering. Having him hold you. Not urgently or desperately this time - no. Intentionally. Deliberately. Gently. 

You unhook the shower head to rinse the soapy suds away from the contours of you and you think of him - because how can you think of anything else? Indeed, your want is so barreling that even your own hands smoothing over your skin - your breasts, your stomach, your thighs - arouse you, your own touch the precursor to the path his warm, rough fingers might travel. 

You are about to merge with him, but he already feels so much a part of you. 

You belong to Santiago. 

It’s Santiago who is indelibly written onto your body, the map of scars telling the story and you and him. The scar on your shoulder from a bullet wound, the scar on your calf from an off-road collision, the lines and marks all over you where Santiago has been there for you, taken fire for you, pressed his lethal hands to you to keep your lifeforce from ebbing away. 

There’s that, but also, there are the more invisible markers which your life with him - alongside him- has left on your skin. There’s the scrape of his stubble against your neck. The grip of his broad hands on your hips. The pulse between your legs which your body remembers. You have catalogued and cartographed the soft and harsh parts of his body - and his soul. But, you still do not have the map to his heart. He is yet to show you the way; but even so…

He is your ride or die, and your body knows it. Always has. 

Your body knows that you are about to collide with him. To be subsumed by the surge and undertow of him, and you throb for it. You expel a sugared moan into the steamy air as the jet of water provides pressure against your wanting clit, and for a moment you wonder how you can be so gone for him. You have been waiting for him to choose you;  but, in truth, for you it was never a choice. 

One of you can not hope to be read -to be understood- without the other. Your bodies are forever moving through the world as a team, as a pair, even if you leave each other’s side. You didn’t choose it so much as it just happened. A lifetime, wearing familiar dirt tracks into clear waymarked paths with every step forward. 

Still, the map has always remained incomplete. You could never quite see where this path with him ended. How far it could take you. Whether he would walk alongside you some or all of the way. 

You are grateful for him. So grateful. But you always want more. More of him. How could you not? 

Santiago has already made your life beautiful in so many ways. Can he give you something beautiful tonight, too, like he had promised? Something that feels different to those waves which break, over and over, self-defeating. Something that feels different to an ending?

You startle as there is a soft rap at the door, and Santiago’s voice bleeds through the panelled wood, sounding as warm and grainy as sun-heated sand. Like summer. Like sunlight through a clearing in dense, gnarled woods. “Are you ready, querida?”

Are you? 

Are you ready for what he has promised? Because you are suddenly all too aware that what he has offered -in not so many words- is to make love to you tonight. To give himself to you. To let you bask in him. 

Are you ready for that? To see him in more than fragments. Not only snatching the haphazard pieces of him he offers - so jagged that they cut the palm you grasped them tightly in. Are you ready to feel whole? 

Can you take his love if it doesn’t hurt? 

Your heart thuds in your neck; from the hot, billowing steam, and from him. The mere idea of him. You step carefully out of the cubicle, steam venting into the room. Your skin is hot and wet and dripping, and you feel that same way too. 

“Two minutes.” 

You towel off, your hands lightly trembling. 

You think of him, because how can you do anything else?

You think of the water, sluicing down his sturdy body as he showered off in the main bathroom. Of him getting himself ready for you. You wonder if he aches for you as you do for him. You wonder if he grew rigid beneath his hand as you were becoming liquid for him. You wonder, if his heart ever once felt like it had a choice.

You think about him waiting for you right now in the bedroom. Maybe shirtless, black-grey curls wet and tight, his golden brown skin lit with the soft orange glow of the lamp. Of him poised there in the quiet and stillness waiting to collide with you, just like the sea washing over this frayed edge of land in this endless dance - consuming, taking, giving, repeating. Working as a team. 

You wonder if he feels this flutter in him too. This movement in him. This undeniable, slow drag which has always pulled you two to one another. Always. 

And so, he asks you. Are you ready? And you do what you can to prepare yourself for this collision. So eager to merge with him, but basking in the fact that, for once, you get to take your time. That you don’t have to fear or brace, thinking about whether, when you crack the door to the bedroom, he will already be gone. 

Taking your time then, and with subtly jittering hands, discombobulated breath, you smooth sweet-smelling lotion all over your body. Of course, you think of his hands and where they might travel too when they get their chance. Of how Santiago can touch you better than you could ever touch yourself. How he knows your body, seemingly, as well as he knows his own.

And so, you think of him. You think of him and of the ocean and the rocks. Of valleys and summits. Of dense jungles and sunlit clearings. Of the frayed edges of the land and the frayed edges of yourself. Of all the places where things collide and all the places where they merge, and how those places are so often one and the same.  

So then, when you think that you are finally ready? When you have smoothed lotion into your skin and smoothed your pleasant, buzzing nerves, you step out into the bedroom.

And that is the very moment you realise. Realise that you’re not at all ready. That you could never be. How could you be? How could he fail to take your breath away, even once? 

Just look at him. 

You enter the bedroom, your silk robe draped appealingly over the contours of your body and Santiago stands, surging up from where he had perched himself so impermanently on the edge of the mattress. He’s been waiting for you and he looks; immediately. Drinking you in. His jaw falling slack. He looks like he might’ve smiled at first - or greeted you in words. But he can’t do so now. The words are swallowed, perhaps, as a gulp trails down his corded neck. Santiago looks serious, his brows weighted. He looks as though he knows how much this matters. Like he finally knows how much you matter. 

You look at him too, and you find you can’t smile either. After all, Santiago fills you with a joy so heavy that sometimes, it is hard to recognise it as such. 

You simply take him in, then. All at once. The contours and ridges of him, and the paths your hands might travel over his smooth brown skin. You see him. Your lust-ridden and love-sparked eyes dance over his wetted, grizzled curls, scrunched-up but with errant strands coiling across his forehead. You take in his bare, sculpted chest. His toned arms and his soft, inviting stomach. You drink in the way his brushed cotton joggers cling to his ample hips. To his sturdy thighs and to the clear outline of the bulge at his crotch as he swells with anticipation from the sight of you alone. 

His hands hang loose yet primed at his sides as he looks at you from beneath his thick, fanning lashes. The pace of his breathing is slightly quickened, his gilded shoulders rise and fall with greater vigour as he scoops a hand over his flecked stubble and you hear it rasp. Feel it as though his fingers were your own. As though there is no difference or distance between you at all. Not the distance between here and Colombia. Not the distance he runs from you whenever you get too close. 

Your chest tightens with the sheer familiarity of him. Because of the fact you already know how he feels and how he tastes. How the vibration of his moans in his corded throat feel against your skin. Your chest tightens, because even in the mellow light of the room he still looks sharp and sure. Formidable. But he looks like home too. You remember all the ways you already know he is tender, and you want to learn every other way too. 

You take a deep, steadying breath as you sway towards him, from one steamy room to another, Santiago’s warmth every bit as enclosing. You are grateful that the window is cracked open, cool air kissing your heating skin. The sound of the swollen waves mirroring the surge within you.

In this moment, Santiago is not a man to you at all. Rather, he is a landscape. He is your whole life laid out before you. He is everywhere you have been, and he is everywhere you may go. His lands are your topography, and you know that you will walk his paths forever hoping to find a way to his heart. Hoping that, one day, he will let you call him home, even though you’ve already been here learning him for as long as you can remember. 

He is everything. And you’re not ready. And it’s all too much. 

Finally though, Santiago looks certain. He looks ready. He looks at you as though you are the moon and he is the tide, and that within moments he will move oceans for you. That he will flood your frayed edges, smooth and overcoming and inevitable. 

He closes the distance, his warm palm slipping up to gingerly cup your face and his lips slanting to capture yours. His fingertips tugging at the bow of your robe, about to release it. 

But you? You hesitate. You turn, almost impercebtibly, but it is enough for Santiago to notice. 

You hesitate because, by now, you are so used to breaking. And you’re not sure you can do it again. 

For so long, he has viewed you in pieces, and you have started to wonder whether he was the one who broke you apart in the first place. 

Now though? His gentle, earnest eyes reading your face and your body so carefully? His hand reaching out for you in a way that promises healing? That shows his palm holds nothing jagged - nothing but love? 

To your utter surprise, your skin flushes hot with embarrassment and you blink, your lashes fluttering towards your cheek. A modest, bashful smile is primed on your mouth. An apology readying itself on your tongue. It seems silly, you think. Silly to be hesitant now, after everything. Seems silly that after all of the times you have given in when he would promise you nothing, that you would shrink back when he offers you something more. Most of all, you think, it seems silly to be hesitant with him, after all the ways and places and times he has touched you.

You don’t quite understand it, but to his credit, Santiago seems to. When he senses your apprehension, his eyes narrow a little. His brow furrows, and his mouth slants up into a gentle, reassuring smile. 

“Come here,” he says instead, before your garbled, unnecessary apology can free itself from your throat. His voice is as soft as the shushing waves and the mellow light and he takes you by the hand, his fingers twined delicately with yours. He leads you, but not forcefully. He leads you the way the sun leads the moon into the night sky as it chases its warm light - you gladly follow, his palm bleeding heat. His eyes full of sunlight. He leads you then to your bed and he peels the covers back, inviting you to lie with him through a subtle nod of his head. The way this all started the first time he undid you - except tonight, you know, is so very different. 

Santiago climbs in first, never letting go of your hand, and he pats the spot on the mattress exposed by the turned-back comforter. Your fingers tug on your robe and you finally slip out of it, exposing the contours of your body to the pooling lamplight. Santiago’s tongue traces along his lower lip as he drinks you in, watching awestruck as the fabric shimmies to floor, pooling at your feet and leaving you bare. For a moment, you even feel self-conscious as Santiago regards you; for once not frenzied and desperate, but with time to study you. You feel on display and yet he makes you feel nothing but beautiful. Makes it seem natural as you allow the caress of the smooth fabric to be replaced by the warm embrace of him. You slip in beside him, shuffling under the covers. Both of you lying on your side to face each other, but still with some distance between you. 

You breath hitches as Santiago’s arm folds over your bare middle, his lithe fingers applying smooth caresses to your skin, the pads of him dancing up the notches of your spine, tracing the line of your shoulder blade. You are happy for him to touch you. You want it. But you do not reach for him just yet. Your arms remain bunched in the space between you, your forearms guarding your chest. 

“You still want this?” he asks, voice as soft as dissolving sugar. 

You can’t bring yourself to meet his gaze, for you know it will be an irresistible, sweet, moreish thing. You can’t allow him to gaze into the depths of your own eyes just yet. After all, it is not only your body which is laid bare for him. Your feelings are too, you fear. Every single want and dream and desire and insecurity. He can read you. Knows you. 

“Yes,” you attempt to state levelly, and yet your voice cracks wide open. “I want this more than anything.” 

With a soft, perhaps relieved, exhale, Santiago shimmies forward then, closing some of the distance between your bodies. Tangles his thighs up with yours. Shifts his head so you are almost nose to nose on the pillow, dipping briefly to plant a fleeting kiss to the tip of your nose. All the while, too, his hand continues to wander over your body. Stroking you, caressing you, asking for nothing in return, and you bask in these slow, stretched, careful moments. 

“Then… what is it?” 

You finally look up at him then and, try as you might, you can’t disguise the way your eyes shimmer with emotion as you note the way concern has etched its way into his brow. For reassurance, your arms tug tighter into your chest. 

His eyes become liquid too, the earthy mirror to your own. They shine with a deep well of friendship, of care, of love. And you realise exactly “what”.

Part of you is afraid, sure. Part of you has been hurt too much to accept that you could share something truly joyful with the man. But a larger part of you is keen to relish in this waiting and restraint for other reasons.

Why, though? Why on earth would you wait? Hesitate? Well - it’s quite simple, really. Because if it doesn’t begin, it can’t ever be over. If you don’t have him like this - whole, fully - then you can never lose all of him. Losing pieces of him was hard enough, wasn’t it? And you don’t know that you could bear to lose a scrap more than that. 

Santiago’s gaze dips to your mouth and you can tell he’s eager. Good to go when and only if you should give him the green light. You want that. You do. Still, upon examining his expression more closely, something tells you that there is one more wall to fall. You’ve encountered so many of his walls already, that you’re not sure you have the strength to tear this one down. 

In the end, you are grateful that you don’t have to. That he does it for you. 

“You were wrong, you know,” Santiago’s voice sounds out, a gentle tone but full of subtle cracks. His hand slides up, gingerly capturing your cheek in his palm, holding your gaze with his. You don’t know what’s coming, but your chest tightens with some unknown thing, even as Santiago’s thumb tenderly strokes back and forth over your cheek to soothe you. Your brows knot, and you shake your head lightly, exhibiting your confusion. 

Pursing his lips, preparing himself, Santiago tugs the covers up to your shoulders, keeping you warm. “That night in Philadelphia,” he continues, a divot carving itself into his brow at first, and yet a mere moment later, his face lilts into a soft, wistful smile. “That was it. That was the night.” 

His smile widens, ever so subtly, and his eyes shine with enough adoration that you wonder if you’re meant to be here. If he can really be looking at you like that, or if you’ve momentarily stolen someone else’s life. “The night that… what?” 

“The night my dumb ass first realised that I was in love with you. And… the night I first realised you didn’t love me back.” 

You face scrunches with even deeper confusion now. 

What?! But, that couldn’t possibly… 

That night was years before you even hooked-up. Years and years and years before all of this. Before you even felt…. 

Oh. 

Oh. 

Your breath stalls in your chest then as comprehension floods you. 

He loved you first.

Your chest constricts, and your heartbeat pushes the rhythm of his name into your mouth, in lieu of any words. 

Santiago. 

Santiago. 

Santiago. 

All this time? 

He crooks his finger under your chin, his gaze level and calm - no blame in it. “You were wrong, see? You didn’t get there first, querida. I was waiting a long time for you. I guess I got scared you’d never catch me up, and so I…” His eyes swim briefly then, clouding over with something like regret. “...I started running. And I guess I just…” His shoulders hunch up towards his ears. “I didn’t know how to stop.”

Santiago. 

Santiago. 

Santiago. 

Your heart thuds his name, and you are overcome with too many emotions to name. Emotions which bend you from the inside out, mobilising you to unfurl yourself, to move towards him. But you don’t; not just yet. 

You do see it plainly now, as you look into his earnest, regretful eyes. You’d spent so long acting as though he had something to prove to you, but you already know who he is, don’t you? Know that he’d never hurt you if he could help it. You see plainly how it has hurt him to love you. That it still hurts him to love you. 

You don’t want that for him. You never wanted that. In fact, all you’ve ever wanted is for him to feel safe. To feel loved. And so, if Santiago can’t run freely into your safe hands? If he doesn’t believe he’s brave enough to do so? If your arms were closed to him for so long that he forgot what it felt to be open? If all of that is true, then you will reach for him instead.  

“Santiago.” You breathe his name, finally pushing the syllables from out of your chest. Finally squeezing errant tears from the corners of your eyes as you realise all of this time you’ve loved each other alone instead of together like you should have. As you mourn all the missed moments. As you lament all of the things which got in the way. 

That doesn’t matter now though. All of that feels inconsequential. It all feels like bullshit now that your paths have finally converged. 

And so, you do reach for him with your careful, killing hands. It is your turn to gingerly cup his cheek with your palm now, his stubble rasping beneath your hand, and his long-lashed eyes fanning closed as he leans gratefully into your touch. 

There’s so much that you want to tell him. So much that you want to say. 

That you’re here now. That you love him. That he doesn’t need to run. 

But… you don’t want to say it with words. After all, that was never the language you two shared most fluently. You want to tell him with touch. You need to. Want to tell him plainly and hear those sentiments returned in the writhing conflux of your bodies. In the moment, with your love for him spilling out of you, it seems no other way you could tell him - show him - could be enough. 

You reach out then, and with a stuttered inhale, your chest a butterfly house, you press your palm to his warm, bare chest. You feel his heartbeat thudding under your hand. Faster, Faster, Faster, as you touch him. 

You love the man. You will keep his heart safe in the roll cage of your ribs if he’ll let you. You will. You promise. You’ll be gentle with it. No more bracing. No more collisions. 

“Santiago,” you breathe as you move closer. As close as you can get, in fact, your form pressed up against his, skin to skin. “What do you want, right now?” You speak the words into the junction of his neck, his pulse point throbbing against your wanton lips. “What would make you happy in this moment?” 

You feel the deep vibration in his throat as he hums, moans, begs - dumbly - and you know intuitively that he cannot rely on words in this moment either - only on his touch. Can only tell you -show you - what he wants, craves, in the act of reaching for you, his hands finding familiar paths on your skin but walking them in a new way tonight. He reaches for you. Rolls you beneath him in a fluid motion because you yield, already a boneless, molten thing under him. 

He touches you. Caresses you. Kisses you. You return it. For a moment you are a mess of ragged breath and sweat and clashing teeth and tangled tongues. Of pads of fingers and brushed cotton and soft heaving moans. And then, his strong arms bracing him over you, Santiago pauses - amidst a breath snatched from your mouth. Pauses just to look at you there beneath him. His eyes flit all over your face, and he huffs out a disbelieving puff of air. 

”Holy shit, hermosa.”  He looks at you as though you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. Perhaps you are. His molten, lust-dark eyes certainly make you believe it. 

Still, just before your greedy fingers can wind up and over, brushing over the prickle of short, buzzed hairs at the nape of his neck to drag his mouth back over yours, Santiago shifts, his kiss eluding you.  

Santiago has always had the map to your heart, and as his fingers trail so confidently down your skin, his lips working down the column of your throat, your breasts, your puffy nipples, stubble grazing you, you think that maybe, finally, he is following it home. Your bodies always were symbiotic; moving, fighting, then fucking as a team. He already knows as well as you do that your bodies, the cartography of your love, is a terrain which can be best understood by traversing it. That touch is the language you share. That you were always fluent in. This time, it is not a touch borne out of jealously or frustration or anger. It is not half-hearted or contingent. It is beautiful and joyful and giving. It is soft and attentive and God he’s never felt so good. 

You expel a breathy, silent moan - a plea really - as Santiago presses his body up against yours, his knee nudging to kick open your thighs. His hips dipped to grind his clothed erection into your heat. Your skin heats, desire curling in the pit of you and you kick away the covers, his warmth more than enough now. With a gust of air, a show of restraint - you swear he’s so desperate for you he could have dry-humped you through his clothes - Santiago manoeuvres his sweat pants off of him, and when he settles in position again he is bare and warm and hard against your slick. 

“Are you-? Do we need-?” 

“-I’m protected,” you answer as his muscled form braces over you, his strong arms boxing you in, the tip of his nose nudging yours, his thighs between your parted legs as the straining mass of his arousal glides over your folds. You wrap your legs and arms around him, holding him tightly, your nails tracing lovingly up and down the canopy of his broad shoulders. Twining into the mess of damp curls on top of his head. You feel the press of his soft stomach against yours. The heat of him everywhere. 

His lips meet yours desperately then, his mouth so needy for yours you could swear his lower lip is trembling as he opens up to shove his tongue over yours. “Baby,” he asks, wracked by need already, his brow burdened with the weight of it and his words barely intelligible. “Are you ready for me? I need you, querida.” 

“You’ve got me,” you soothe. “But I… I want you like this.” He looks surprised for a moment as gently, you guide him on to his back, rolling yourself on top of him until you’re straddling his meaty thighs. You take control away from him and for a moment, you can see he feels the loss of it. That he seems vulnerable, unsure. That while he had clearly intended to give into you, fully, that doesn’t mean it’s at all easy for him to surrender. “Just lie back and let me take care of you, okay?” 

His eyes lock on to yours, soft and uncertain, and it occurs to you again that you’ve never taken him like this. That he has always tacitly taken control. That he has always focussed on your pleasure as paramount. His words, whispered against your skin, into the shell of your ear - that’s it, princesa, right there, huh? - still echo in the depths of you. And now, you want to focus on him. Tonight, things are different. 

You feel desire twist in the pit of you as you look at him all spread out beneath you like this. Evidently needy for you, his cock rock hard and nestled against his stomach. You want to keep him on the edge for hours. Want to hear gruff moans unspooling from deep in his chest. Want to see his fingers rake through the sheets and his jaw tipping to the sky as he writhes his curls back into the pillow, eyes rolling to oblivion. 

You want to kiss him, everywhere. Want to smooth your hands over his brown skin until he melts into the mattress. You want to cover him with your body until he feels safe. 

You want him to feel safe. 

As you examine his form, already near boneless on top of the mattress but reaching for you - reaching with his fingers, with a jut of his chin to raise his pretty mouth, with a buck of his hips to chase your friction -  you settle for a compromise. A balance of your urges to demolish and exalt him. 

For a moment then, you even entertain the idea that you can exhibit restraint enough for foreplay. To tease him. To drag this out. Indeed, Santiago whimpers, an uncharacteristic sound from a man too stubborn to ever admit defeat, and with the sound, your stomach lurches with want. He grows entirely needy as you suckle at his neck, leaving purple love bites in your wake.

You shuffle your hips down his sturdy thighs so that you can fold to slide your tongue over his pecs, circling his pebbled nipple, beginning to trail your warm, wet mouth down his abdomen in a way that makes his glistening cock -wet with your juices- twitch on air. 

“Please. Goddamn,” he begs already, his thighs shaking beneath you, and you don’t need to be told twice. You want the thick, needy, ruddy length of him inside of you as badly as he appears to want that too.

You’ve waited long enough for this. To hold him so completely and to love him with your whole body. 

And so, you shift up until your slick arousal settles over the hot, straining mass of him. It’s slippy - you’re so wet already, and the contact earns a deep, guttural noise from him. 

Then, as you settle in position, automatically - more than automatically, like it’s preordained - Santiago’s hands settle at your hips the moment you are on top of him. They rest in that familiar place he loves to hold, fingers splaying, pads digging into your supple flesh. He grips you in his broad, lethal hands. 

Hands that were trained to kill but made to hold you tenderly; just like this, you think. 

He holds you, and ever so suddenly everything falls into place. As though you were lost all of this time and you have finally found where you were supposed to be. Like someone just handed you a map and assured you you can never lose your way again - not now that you’ve found him. Not as long as you hold on and don’t let go. 

You look down at him, your whole world beneath you and Christ, he’s usually beautiful - luminescent even - but you’ve never seen him look quite like this before. He looks… undone. Unguarded. Needy. Dishevelled. Vulnerable. His lust-blown eyes are blackened with desire yet shining too with adoration. His lids are heavy. Screwing shut as you glide yourself along his shaft. Gusts of breath coming from the circle of his soft, plush lips. That stubbled jaw raising, tipping up as his crown of lustrous curls beds down into the pillow. Light and shadow pooling and dancing and swimming in the contours of him - his sharp nose and heavy brows and sculpted chest. All that and more; but the true beauty? 

The true beauty is when his eyes flutter open once more; and you clearly see the eyes of your best friend looking back at you. 

You see him all at once, rather than the parts of him he’s attempted to compartmentalise. 

Emotion and desire twist in your gut and all you want in that moment is to show him. To show him that he’s loved. 

He’s so, so loved. 

And so are you. 

You hinge at the hips, your head falling to the side of his, temple to temple, cheek to cheek, his stubble rough against you. His familiar scent, woody and citrus, fills your lungs. You feel his brow against yours is already slick with a sheen of sweat as you dip your mouth towards the shell of his ear. “Are you ready?” 

His voice is hoarse. He is levelled by his want, but his face still cracks with a smile, the muscles in his cheek shifting against yours and the rake of his stubble conveying heat all the way to your core. “Are you kidding? I know you didn’t miss this.” 

He plants his feet and bucks his needy shaft against you with greater pressure, the head of him pressing at your swollen clit, gliding over it. You moan at the unexpected zip of pleasure, blooming out from your centre to every extremity, and you feel Santiago’s dirty, satisfied chuckle vibrate through you, chest to chest. 

His chuckle quickly digresses to a moan as you return the favour just as suddenly. As you rise slightly on your thighs, until you are able to grip his aching shaft in your hand and notch him in position, your folds caressing the blunt head of him. His grip on your hips tightens as you lower yourself on to him, feeling how he spreads you open as his girth pushes past your entrance with a thick, hot glide. 

Santiago chokes as he bottoms out, and you can feel him throb and pulse in your centre as he adjusts to the sensations. 

You feel full of him. Full in every sense. 

Fuck. You didn’t know. You didn’t know it could feel like this with him. Light. Playful. Delicate. Joyful. Beautiful. 

“Fuck, hermosa,” Santiago keens as you begin to move, folding over him once again, covering him with your body, your thighs enclosing his ample hips and your forearms planted, bracing yourself against the cushioning either side of his head. 

It feels soft and syrupy as you enclose him in your wetness. Sweat beads and gathers between your bodies as you undulate and rise and fall on him, the slow, sensuous drag of you causing him to bite down into the meat of your shoulder, his breath hot as it billows into the hollow of your collarbone. 

Santiago clings to your hips for a moment, an admirable attempt to guide your motions - until it all becomes too much. Until he surrenders fully and lets you lead. His hands first fist into the sheets at his side, and then they wrap around your back, coming to rest there, his fingers intermittently dancing over your skin. For once, his embrace is not a desperate thing. He’s not attempting to pull you closer or to push you away. He simply wants you exactly where you are. Exactly like this. 

It’s tender, the way he’s touching you. The way he’s trusting you and letting you set the pace. The way he kisses a string of pearls along your skin, the wet, percussive sounds filtering down to your bones. It makes you feel some kind of way, so you try desperately to focus on the sensations his friction is stoking in your centre. In the way the glide and drag and pressure of him inside of you is causing a steady, building, eddying ball of light to hover in the core of you, getting ready to burst out and fill your whole body with sunshine. 

It has felt dark, sometimes, to love him. But right now? It feels like dawn. 

You screw your eyes shut against the dam of emotion breaking within you. Against the tears threatening to spill over. You distract yourself from feeling too much all at once, planting kisses along the length of his beautiful, sculpted jaw. By devouring his mouth the way one would savour a feast. Slowly. Intentionally. Your tongue, ever so deliberate against his. 

“Fuck,” Santiago curses, his voice trembling. “You’re dripping all over me. Jesus fucking Christ.” 

You are. You can hear it. Feel it. This pooling slick between your legs being worked out of you. Coating him. Making everything smooth and fluid and easy, after so long with such friction between you. 

You ride him like this, communing with grunts and moans. Communing with his body, which you read so well. So automatically. You know what each shift and expression passing over his face means. You understand the tightening of his thighs beneath you. You can read his breath, his touch, his sounds, his movements, and you relish in the ways that you know him. All the ways you know how to make him feel good. 

You kiss a bead of sweat from his temple, the salt flooding your tongue as you rise up on him, lifting your body away from his to let the cool air soothe your heat-pricked skin. Relishing the look and feel of him beneath you. Relishing the way he drinks the sight of you in too with a slack-jaw, watching the way your hips work over him. The way your breasts bounce and sway lightly with the motion. You shift your angle slightly, until a long, gritted exhale unspools from Santiago’s plush mouth, his pretty eyes fluttering shut and his grip on your hips unwavering but weakening. 

“That’s it. Right there? Just like that?” 

“Uh. Uh huh,” he replies through gritted teeth, his expression looking pained as he tries to work through it. “Holy shit, baby.” 

You beam a devilish smile down at him until his eyes spark with mischief, and your core clenches on his dick as you watch him swipe the pad of his thumb over his pink, supple tongue, liberally gathering spit. He reaches for you, rubbing the pad of him gently against your clit. 

“Good?” 

Good? Yeah. Good enough to make your toes curl and your legs weaken beneath you. Good enough that you can scarcely continue your ministrations, your body sagging forward again, slumped almost boneless over him. 

“Tired?” Santiago asks you, and you stubbornly answer no despite the burn and tremble in your spent thighs. He sees right through it. “Let me flip you over?”

Reluctantly you concede and he rolls you, carefully, staying inside of you and never breaking contact. Settling your back against the mattress and his sweat-sheened body over you like a canopy. Like safety. 

He kisses you - deeply. 

He thrusts himself inside of you, the noises between your bodies obscenely wet by now, his grunts and groans percussive as he continues to stoke that white hot ball of light in your middle. 

He has never rocked you like this. So tenderly. So reverently. Slow and sure. Not racing towards any ending. He makes love to you as though he’s not afraid of any kind of ending at all. Like this perfect moment can just stretch on forever. Like he can always be buried inside you. 

You, though? You are still afraid of that ending. 

It feels good. God. It feels impossibly good to be held by him like this; but it’s bittersweet. Bittersweet enough that you still have to screw your eyes shut against the flood of emotion you are continuing to hold back behind that dam. 

Santiago’s lips graze your cheek, a softly planted, lingering kiss. “Hermosa,” he encourages. “Look at me.” 

“I can’t,” you admit, and you feel a sting of prickled heat beneath your eyelids. You feel vulnerable, exposed, in a way you’re not used to either. You feel like you want to run, but you know now. That never did very much good. 

“Look at me,” he insists, his voice soft and smooth, no sand left in his throat. So you do. You trust him. You follow him. Walk with him, like you’ve been on the same road all along, each without a map. 

You don’t know what you expect to see when you open your eyes, but all you do see is his gaze fall softly on yours, even as he fills you. You see him as a friend and a lover. You see him as everywhere you’ve been and everywhere you’re going. He’s a landscape, and his whole being is expansive and opened up to you. 

He fucks into you, his pace consistent and steady, and he plants intermittent kisses over your cheeks, scattering them into your hairline, your neck, the corner of your mouth. That ball of light inside you tightens, shrinking down, and you know it’s getting ready to burst. To radiate out into every extremity. 

You feel like you’re heavy and weightless at the same time. Like you’ve sunk so far into the mattress that you’re inches below it. Like you’re floating up to the ceiling. “It f-feels too g-good,” you stutter, your voice mere breath.

It does - feel too good. Not just the sensations, but him. The familiarity and safety of him feels too perfect to risk never having this again. 

Your eyes roll back into your head as Santiago keeps hitting that spot deep inside of you over and over, pleasure sparking and sizzling, white hot. “It’s okay, querida. I got you. Just keep looking at me. I got you.” 

You wrap him up like the gift he is, your legs folding around him, the tender soles of your feet settling on to his plush ass cheeks. Your arms winding around his middle, tightening, drawing him to you. Drawing him so close to you that you can’t look at him anymore, his head buried into the junction of your shoulder, his curls tickling your cheek. You draw him close enough that there is no space between your writhing bodies. So close that you don’t know where he ends and you begin, a mess of breath and sweat and limbs like twined dense jungle.

I love you.

I love you is what you want to say. I love you too is what you want to hear back from him - but your mouth makes the shape of some different words instead. “I don’t want to lose you.” 

It’s a broken, laid-bare plea. It’s what all this comes down to, isn’t it? You can’t fathom losing him. Can’t fathom being without him. 

“Cariño,” Santiago speaks against your neck, his lips sliding hot and wet down the column of your throat. “I’m never lost when I’m touching you.” 

It’s not what you wanted to say. It’s not what you wanted to hear. But you realise, in that moment, as Santiago moves his mouth to meld desperately with yours. As a lone tear sluices over the bridge of his strong nose. You realise that the words each of you spoke mean the same damn thing anyway. 

His tongue shoves unceremoniously over yours then, Santiago coming undone now, ragged and frayed like an edge of land as you wash over him, flooding him with liquid. He opens you up, everywhere. The cave of your mouth, your weeping cunt, your heart breaking open like dawn. 

You moan and he punches your name from his lungs as his hips stutter into you. His thrusts become sloppy but he keeps consistent pace long enough to tip your pleasure over the brink. For you to come undone, a star bursting from your middle, light pulsing out to every extremity and sending jittering aftershocks through your body. You clamp down on him, hold him close to you as you ride it out, your head buried in the crook of his shoulder, his creamy load pumping into you, deep and urgent, and his disbelieving, wracked moans sounding in the shell of your ear. 

You convulse on him, squeezing every last drop from him, your legs quivering. 

You cling to him. Cling to him for dear life as your pleasure swells and breaks and ebbs and flows. 

In turn, Santiago comes down with a shudder, his chest rising and falling in ragged breaths above you. Eventually, he slips out of you, wordlessly, his eyes shining still with unwaning, transparent adoration. He kisses you, everywhere. Puts his hands on you. He laves his tongue over you in gratitude. He kisses every crook and peak and contour and valley of you. He kisses your scars, his mouth curved with a smile the whole while. He applies love across the cartography of you, of your life together. He presses his lethal hands to you and he kills you; softly. Gathers you up to him. 

It is then, in this moment of impossible tenderness, that your tears find their release. 

It floods you. All the times you’ve almost lost him. All the times you should have been holding each other close instead of pushing each other away. All the times you should have been cherishing this beautiful, fragile thing between you instead of fearing it. 

You let the tears eke out; but then Santiago kisses them away too, concern shimmying in his molten eyes. 

In this moment, you feel that he’s loving you how he’s always wanted to love you. Showing you what he’s always wanted to show you. 

And then, something else slips out of you. “I love you.” Your voice is small. Afraid. Even now. 

But this time, Santiago does not hesitate. “I love you too.” 

A few more tears fall. You would like to believe they are happy tears, but you still somehow feel that they are bittersweet. 

Wordlessly, Santiago shifts you, gently, bundling you up against his warm, sturdy chest. 

You listen to his heartbeat thudding in the shell of your ear, noticing it gradually slow. 

You let him trace idle shapes into your skin. 

Let him hold you close, until he stills. Until his breathing is so soporific that you wonder if he has succumbed to sleep. 

“You still awake?” You venture. 

“Yeah.”

“We made a mess.” 

“I know. But it’s okay. I put you in the wet patch.” 

The laugh that escapes you is unexpected. Shifts some of the heaviness in your chest. You bat him playfully in the pec, tweaking his nipple for good measure. “You’re a bastard, Garcia.” 

You think his throaty, reciprocal laughter is the most beautiful sound you’ve ever heard. “I’m kidding! I’m kidding!” 

You shift back just a little, enough to look up at his face. His teasing grin slips effortlessly into something far softer and more earnest when he’s looking at you. 

“Come here,” he proposes softly, guiding you up. Leading you back into the shower. You follow him. You follow him though he never would seem to follow you anywhere. 

Still, you push all that away, in favour of the here and now. With him looking at you like that, what else is there? 

And so, you let yourself enjoy it. You enjoy it as he playfully tweaks your nipple in return and you giggle. As he wraps his arms around you from behind and your fingertip draws a tentative heart in the steamed-up mirror. As he leads you into the cubicle with him, beneath the spray of warm water. 

As you step beneath the stream with him, his fingers twined with yours, you realise that he’s taking you all over again. Making you his, but not by fucking - no. This time, he’s taking you with his soft eyes. With the way his soaped hands move with reverence over your slick body, reluctantly washing the traces of him away from your skin. With the way his mouth moves languidly against yours - and he tastes of soap but you don’t care. He’s taking you. Piece by piece. Taking you until there’s nothing left. Until your heart has migrated little by little, bit by bit, into the roll cage of his chest. Gently, this time - as though for once he might even keep it safe. 

You dry off together, and you settle back on to the bed. 

Already, you can feel Santiago packing this away. 

Putting his heart back inside his chest like a folded map.  

You drag his lips to yours and you kiss him. You’re not sure if you’re trying to kiss him to death or kiss him to life; but you know that you have to kiss him with everything you’ve got regardless.

You know that you have to beg him, without words. With touch. The language you two have always shared, your bodies moving symbiotically through this world, as a team - no matter the distance between you. One of you incapable of being read without the other. 

You know that you have to beg him. 

Stay. 

Stay. 

Stay. 

Stay; ‘til the sun comes up. 

Stay; forever. 

For every new day. 

He could never run towards you, he insists. Not yet. So, instead, you reach for him, your arms wide open. You soften your lethal hands. You relax that killing grip. You make him feel safe. Feel loved. It’s all you’ve ever wanted, if only he would let you try. 

“Turn over,” you whisper, with a soft curl of your lips, and he does so. He lets you wrap him in your arms, chest to his back, and he hums - a low, resonant sound - as you plant a lingering kiss to the back of his neck. You stay like that, until the both of you fall asleep. 

It turned out to be a beautiful night. The most beautiful night of your life, in fact, with the person you love most in all the world. You held him all night. Kept him safe and warm. 

But, when you wake up, you feel only cold air at your back. Cold sheets under your palm as you reach for him. 

Maybe he did stay, at least until the sun came up. But now, he is gone. 

In truth though, you’re not even upset. At least, maybe… you’re not even surprised. 

He’d promised you something that didn’t feel like an ending. He’d given you that, but in many ways it had still felt like a goodbye. 

At least this time, you had said the kind of goodbye you would have wished for. Not an angry, bitter thing. At least this time, you did all you could to let him know how you feel, in all the ways you know how. 

You sit up on the edge of the bed, and you tug in a long slow breath, releasing it into the quiet solitude of the room. 

Is it true that there are some people who you can only ever love in fragments? 

You don’t know, honestly. For now, you only know that you feel broken into pieces too. 

It always hurts when you say goodbye to him, doesn’t it? 

At least this time, it was a more beautiful thing; just like he’d promised, right? 

And, as you stand and move to begin your day, you remind yourself that he hadn’t promised you any more than that. 

[stargirlfics]

B U T T E R F L Y

Joel Miller x Black Latina Reader

Summary: Sometimes the path to healing starts with a reminder of what’s been lost

Warnings: 18+ ONLY, death tw, child death tw, some TLOU spoilers but doesn’t follow canon, post-outbreak!Joel, angst, hurt/comfort, trauma and violence mentions, fluff, slow burn vibe, mutual pining

Word Count: 5.6k

My mind has been stuck on the butterfly imagery connecting Sarah and Joel in the show, and in the game too! I grew up hearing from my abuelita that monarch butterflies are symbols of loved ones who’ve passed and I thought that would fit well here! This fic explores grief and pain but also finding hope through it too 🦋

To be soft-hearted at the world’s violent end, that’s where you’d decided to make a home for your heart with all its fragile beating.

Doomed is what they all said you were, surviving the outbreak this long sooner or later came with a price and they had been right, but still, half out of spite, half out of needing something to hang onto, the tenderness of you remained.

Surviving was a miracle and most could go on just grateful to wake up another day, but you’d seen how void life was lived here in the ruins of a former world, and as doomed as it all appeared, you tried your best to find pockets of light where you could, fighting the urge to shut yourself away. 

Because maybe one day those pockets of light would be abundant where they were once scarce, maybe one day, if you kept yourself open to it, there would be a sign of a changing tide to let you know you were finally safe. 

How strange signs could be, in plain sight but unseen until your brain could catch up with what your soul was feeling, and rarely did they ever come without complexity. 

In your case, that complexity came with a stern scowl that belonged to one Joel Miller. 

The first whispers you’d ever heard about Joel were that he was grumpy, stubborn, and not the kind of man to be messed with. He was the muscle behind trades done in shadowed alleys here in the QZ, illegal substances, weapons, extra ration cards, you name it. 

He was intimidating to most people, even you; having a reputation for being a man of few words and an even shorter fuse would do that but you knew there to be sorrow there too, etched deep in the lines of his face, reflecting like moonlight in his eyes. 

You’d never spoken to him, not in all your time in Boston, always seeming to narrowly avoid crossing paths, but you often saw him from afar. In the town square, catching glimpses of him waiting in line to collect a job’s earnings or in the pit, hauling bodies to the acrid cremation pyres smoldering hot throughout the day. 

If you thought about it, that’s where you saw the sorrow most.

That old, faded bandana he wore over his nose to block out the stench of burning gave you the clearest view of his eyes; sad, angry orbs fixated on the task like it was penance for him. 

All those hushed whispers told you he wasn’t a good man, that he had hurt people to get what he needed, and that wasn’t a surprise, you’d seen it enough to understand the grim nature of the wasteland you were in, how people often turned against each other if they thought it meant they’d live to see another day. 

Maybe that understanding was how it happened that day, the first time you’d meet, something in your soul already well tangled with something in his yet neither of you knew it yet. 

You’d been expecting someone else at your door that evening, a friend of yours with a bag of good soil snuck in from the outside in exchange for a radio of yours that was in decent shape. 

Instead, you were greeted by Joel Miller, bag in hand, a frown already on his face as he explained the switch up, even pointing to a note on the bag in your friend's handwriting to vouch for him. 

His voice had caught you off guard, a low, gruff bass in his careful cadence, Texan accent making the words go down smooth. 

“Okay, no problem, she did tell me she wasn’t sure if she would really make use of it. You can step in if you want, I’ll just be a second.”

Maybe you shouldn’t have been so trusting. 

That’s how people got robbed, taken advantage of, murdered and you weren’t going to get any sympathy from neighbors or any FEDRA soldiers in the area if something were to happen but despite that, and his reputation, you didn’t feel unsafe. 

Quite the opposite. 

Joel was certainly the grumpy type and you didn’t doubt he was capable of hurting you if he wanted but as you returned with the radio you found him just where you’d left him, his body filling your doorway in a way that reminded you of a guard dog. 

Something had caught his eye in the time it had taken you to walk back, gaze fixed somewhere behind you. 

It took you a second to realize what exactly he was staring at, eyes tracking him and following until they landed on the butterfly figurine hanging from the makeshift curtains of your kitchen sink window. 

Golden hour light warming the window had bathed the glass winged butterfly in its rays, casting fractals of color across the wall and the worn wooden floors. 

You studied his face for a moment then, a familiar kind of sadness reaching his eyes, the darkened circles underneath them a little more noticeable now. 

You wondered when the last time he got any proper sleep was. 

“I made it…” interrupting his thoughts gently you gestured towards the window when he looked at you in question, “La mariposa...took me ages to fit the glass and wire together right but I think it came out ok.”

He grunted in response, finally handing over the bag of soil when you noticed the slightest tremble in his hands. 

Oh…so he’d been caught off guard too. 

Something about your butterfly had shaken him up and you were curious, who could blame you for being tempted to cross what you were sure he would say was a line, but you pretended not to notice, trying to offer him some privacy, a second to collect himself. 

You’d appreciate it if he did the same for you in his place after all. 

The exchange was completed swiftly after, a palpable silence settling between you before he was leaving almost as quickly as he arrived, taking the fading summer sunset with him.

–

Joel barely slept that night, woken by nightmares again, a routine he was familiar with, haunted by the same old ghosts but it was different this time, the barbed wire around his heart digging in just a little extra, memories of her surfacing. 

Sarah. His Sarah.  

He didn’t realize just how long it had been since he was reminded of her this way, of what it felt like to be her father, shutting himself off to that years ago, unable to think about his life with her before because that pain was nearly unbearable. 

There is only after, the after in which she doesn’t exist, where he searches for her in his sleep and wakes knowing he won’t find her. 

Because he watched her slip away, had pleaded and begged to the skies to bring her back, had held her in his arms, hands stained red with her blood, and had to accept that she was gone and he was granted no time to say goodbye. 

Days turned to weeks, months into years and he had learned to operate on a certain level of numbness, just focused on surviving, never getting too attached, acting cold and angry, just a dead man walking. 

Until now, his chest nearly caving in with the truth that he was still breathing even after so long spent closed off. 

He wasn’t even sure why he’d considered your friend’s offer to complete the exchange at all, he knew he shouldn’t have, the radio you traded wasn’t in as great a shape as he would have liked, he knew that upfront and still begrudgingly agreed, not expecting to feel so exposed, so upended by a simple encounter.

That butterfly shining in the sunlight of your kitchen made his heart stop the second he saw it, flashes of memory surfacing, almost like his little girl was pulled to the surface of his skin again, like if he stepped inside he could reach out and she’d be there. 

A dreadful reality had washed that away after a moment, grief swallowing up the hope just as he knew it would, like it always had, but something was undeniably different this time for Joel. A difference that left an ache in his center. 

Because for those few fleeting seconds, he had felt alive again. 

–

The second time you met Joel was intentional, another bag of soil in exchange for some instant coffee this time. 

It was still early morning when he knocked on your door, quiet, hands tucked in the pockets of his jeans and a sleepy kind of softness that you hadn’t seen before around the edges of his eyes which made you wish he didn’t look so inviting then. 

It wasn’t so hard to look at him as unapproachable as he made himself seem, he was handsome, the streaks of gray peppered in his hair and along his beard lending to his rugged look. 

“About the coffee, it’s not as strong as it could be but it’s the best I’ve got,” you handed over a jar, watching him open the lid and sniff its contents.

“That’ll do just fine.” 

Relief arrived at his approval, you gathered it’d been a while since he had any and you were glad your stash wasn’t a disappointment. 

You watched as he knelt down to set his backpack on the floor, stowing the jar inside and handing you the bag of fertilizer mix you had inquired about. 

It wasn’t long now before he’d be out the door again, these things were best kept short and simple but as you thanked him for the exchange and moved to store the bag with your other garden supplies, you noticed a moment of reluctance. 

Joel didn’t plan on lingering around now that you both had what you came for but then he was reminded of what he felt the last time he’d been in your space and his mouth was moving with the thoughts that were swimming in his head before he could bite back the words.

“That’s a good amount of soil you have, got some sorta secret garden FEDRA don’t know about?”

Suddenly you felt very silly for wanting to smile at his curiosity but also recognized the significance of him asking. 

“Something like that, yeah. I…actually found a spot of flowers growing through one of the QZ fences and I’ve been tending to it. It's no garden but the flowers are in bloom now, first time I’ve seen real butterflies in years.” 

You watched him perk up at the mention of real butterflies, furrowed brows hiding the flicker of emotion mere seconds later but it was too late, you’d seen it already. 

Up until now, your little patch of greenery had been a private endeavor. 

Something for you to put some love and effort in, and just a quiet, secluded place to be, to clear your head or be alone for a while, away from some of the chaos in the streets, and yet here you were, now, carefully asking him if he’d like to see it too. 

You thought just maybe, bringing him there would do him as much good as it had done you. 

And it’s there, in that moment when he says yes that you see all that hard exterior start to slip just an inch.  

It’s an inch you can work with. 

–

Early morning dew still clings to the soft blades of grass sprouting up near the fence line, the section where you’d been taking care of the vegetation noticeably more vibrant with color and growth. 

Slowly, you’d been replacing the dirt, had saved as many roots and sprouts as possible, taking care in replanting them, and from there, a shabby little makeshift garden bed had formed. 

This would be your third week caring for it and now Joel was trailing behind your steps to see it too.

His body language was tense like he couldn’t quite be sure you weren’t actually taking him to some secluded corner to ambush him, but you get it.

Being wary was smart, but you couldn’t lie that it was satisfying to let him take it in without explaining anything first, the tension in his shoulders easing, sagging when his eyes fell upon the dusky blue flowers and rich green leaves and vines growing up from the ground, searching for the sun’s nourishment. 

Joel couldn’t be certain whether it was the day’s first tendrils of summer heat making him feel warm or the fluttering orange and speckled black wings of a butterfly nestled atop a marigold. 

He glances at his wrist, at the memento that never leaves his side, a broken watch, and there’s a moment of clarity in the silence where Joel can feel it, all the shattered parts of him spilling out, and there isn’t any way he can catch it all, he’s already too late and he knows it. 

Panic works its way into his bloodstream, causing his hands to shake, not used to being so disarmed, so flayed open. 

His fingers curl into a fist, trying to steady himself, needing a moment to catch his breath, to process. 

And there you were, your gentle voice cutting through the noise in his head and that tidal wave of emotion. 

“They’re monarch butterflies, which means they’re special,” you’ve moved a little closer now, watching another one land next to its friend on the flower. 

“What makes' em’ so special?” Joel takes a deep breath and you do too. 

You thought for a second he might shut down and walk away, there wasn’t anything keeping him here after all, he had the coffee he came for and yet still took you up on your offer. That in itself was difficult not to attach yourself to immediately but there was no denying it felt good to know you’d earned maybe an ounce of his trust. 

“In Mexico, my abuela used to say they were a sign of the dead coming to visit the living, loved ones, our ancestors, the monarchs carry their souls to us. I think they’re good luck too.”

The smile working its way onto your lips is fond, sad, one you knew he’d recognize, the silent but shared knowledge of loss was a heavy burden to carry. There was no mistake about it, but being here, amongst your flowers and your butterflies made it easier. 

Orange and gold halos shimmered around the plant life softly swaying with the wind, your own features now warmed with the climbing sun, brown skin shining deeper under the light. 

Joel was looking at you now, following your words. The meaning of what you were both looking upon hitting him square in the chest when that feeling blooms behind his eyes again, that itch of something alive, something beautiful growing again amongst concrete ruins.

And it's there, standing next to you, watching you water the soil while butterflies float around you that he works out what that feeling must be. 

Salvation. 

–

After that morning, trading goods with Joel became a regular occurrence. 

Soil for another stash of coffee or a packet of seeds for a hunting knife in need of experienced hands, neither of you quite sure how it happened but eventually the trades became more like friendly favors to each other than practical transactions. 

Your ‘garden’ also became a frequent place for you both to go, so much so that on any given day you could bet he was there, a quick stop on his way back home, or in the morning before the day started, it became an unspoken shared refuge. 

Joel helped you fix up the makeshift garden beds when it became clear your tender care of the plants called for an upgrade and you were grateful for it, dismissive at first, not wanting him to feel obligated.

You could handle yourself around a hammer and a few nails but he insisted and you relented, the two of you knelt under the setting sun, working on the task together. 

It didn’t matter that it was closing in on curfew time, or that you didn’t really have anything to compensate him for his time because, the moment itself, the small inklings of trust building between you were actually far better. 

That’s when you started to see him nearly every day, sitting against bomb-scarred concrete, always facing those marigolds, the ones the monarch butterflies you’d told him about always flocked to. 

At first you kept your distance, knowing better than to pry. 

It was clear he’d been through a lot, most his age-if you were guessing correctly-had, old enough to have lived a good portion of their lives before the outbreak, the last witnesses of an old world. You wanted to respect that and as long as he was finding some sort of peace here, you were content. 

You didn’t mind his company either, he wasn’t much of a talker, but his presence was comforting and familiar and you felt safe with him near. 

Eventually though, keeping him at a distance became impossible, both of you stumbling through the uncertainty of what to say to each other yet not giving up on trying at the same time. 

And Joel had resisted too, had tried to keep his words short, always residing somewhere in between neutral and aloof but the more he watched you in your element, amongst the seedling sprouts and vines and moss, the more it made him want to talk.

It was easy to find his voice around you. 

You were soft-hearted, he could see that and it wasn’t easy to get used to the way you looked at him, like you cared, like you understood something about his brokenness right away, had let him sit here day after day watching the butterflies because somehow you knew it’s what he needed, but he didn’t mind the learning curve either. 

His usual annoyance and reluctance to speak about feelings couldn’t keep up this time surrounded by reminders of Sarah, coaxing the small part of him that hadn’t died with her out of its state of numbness, softening him again. 

‘You were never gonna do it for yourself’ rings in his ears. 

He’d never been much good at that, doing things for himself, and Sarah was always so clever about calling it out, even now, nudging him awake again after all these years. 

It’s why he decides to tell you when you ask one day, sitting next to him on sun-warmed stone. 

He merely came by to sit for a little while and clear his head and found you already sat in his usual spot, butterfly watching, your eyes telling your secret, that you had been crying before he arrived, his first instinct carrying him forward, to your side. 

He offered you some water, even sliced an apple in half to share with you, pleased with himself when he got a smile out of the gesture but remained as quiet as you were, wanting you to feel like you could just be. 

“Who do they remind you of?” your voice was small, unsure of how he’d react to the question, overexplaining in hopes it would make him recoil less, “It’s okay if you can’t talk about it, I understand. It’s just that…what I told you about the monarch butterflies, I really do believe in it you know, the people I’ve lost…they feel so close to the surface, like they’re watching over me and I think you feel the same.” 

Joel nods after a moment and you’re exhaling a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

It takes him a moment but he finds the words. 

“My daughter…her name was Sarah. They were her favorite, actually, since she was bout old enough to talk. I used to call her my little butterfly when she was a baby which, yeah, got real old when she started middle school but I liked to remind her anyways, just to see her roll her eyes at me. Just as long as she knew I loved her, you know, that I never stopped, not since the moment I held her in my hands for the first time.”

It broke your heart to hear. 

And it hurt him too, to speak about her and then remember that he had lost her, that twenty years had passed and he couldn’t remember what she smelled like anymore, and he hated the nightmares but without them, he was afraid of forgetting her face, her eyes, the coils of her hair, the sound of her voice calling out to him. 

It was only now that he was seeing how deep he’d pushed it all down, bottled up tight out of fear, and then somehow you’d entered his life, Molotov aimed straight at his heart, stunning him into remembering her the way she deserved to be. 

“I’m so sorry,” you extend all the comfort you can, knowing there weren’t any words that would ever make it right but you wanted to try anyway. 

“Yeah, me too. But you’re right, she feels close, and I know you’ve put it together by now but it’s why I’ve been sittin here every day, I see those butterflies and I see her, I remember her and it feels...good. I didn’t want it to; don’t really trust things that feel good but it does and I wanna thank you for that, for letting me have that.” 

He worries he’s said too much, or said the wrong thing, wanting to kick himself because he was never much good at words either but the sight of your lips pulling up into a small smile came as a relief. 

“She’s with you, Joel. And there’s no need to thank me, it’s been good for me too, doing all this. I think it helps.” 

He nods again, agreeing before asking you the same question, extending an opportunity to open up too; a big step when keeping personal histories to a minimum was the lay of the land around here. 

And it wasn’t easy, to talk about the things that hurt, baring your grief to Joel, and trusting him with it but you did and he had held it so gently, understanding it for what it was. 

Looking back you think maybe it’s there that things started to change, where your life and his started to merge. 

Sometime after that conversation you gifted him one of those glass winged butterflies like the one in your window, showing it to him one evening in the garden, earning you the first real smile you’d ever seen from him. 

It was after he told you more about himself, about Sarah, his brother Tommy, recounting happy memories; like the time he and Tommy surprised Sarah with her own soccer ball for her birthday one year, how he’d caved almost immediately the time she begged him to get her a polaroid camera, and you shared too, thinking on good times you’d had with the people in your life. 

It meant a lot to Joel that you spent time crafting the ornament, knowing just how deep the symbolism of it went for him. 

You were always doing that, looking out for him, planting tiny seed after tiny seed, slowly working your magic on him, ensnaring him deep, making him want to look out for you too. 

Under the fading sun again you sat with him, watching the marigolds, the calm, slow fluttering of wings, and it’s in that same spot that you find your hand in his for the first time. 

No words needed to be said, this was far better. 

A little while later you saw your gift hanging from the window in his living room, right next to the radio you had first traded him for.

The two of you had found yourselves escaping the heat here after some time tending the garden together, pulling weeds, clearing new soil of rocks and rubble, now sharing his couch, a rusty old fan that still somehow worked cooling the sweat prickling the back of your neck.

Curfew hour was nearing and you knew you would have to start making your way back home but Joel warned that he’d heard from a FEDRA officer he did trades with that they were patrolling the streets early the next few nights.

You knew why, it was hard to forget the hail of gunfire last night, a group of Fireflies going after a group of officers on patrol, a fight that neither one had won. 

Tensions in the QZ had been high all day since then and Joel suggested that you stay here with him for the night, saying he didn’t want you dealing with anything that might be going on out there.

He was being protective, a disapproving frown on that handsome face of his when you told him you didn’t want to intrude on his space but he was right, things had already started looking a little dangerous on your way back from the garden and you appreciated that he was trying to keep you safe. 

So you stayed. 

Curled up on Joel’s old, worn couch with a blanket that smelled like him tucked around you, the white noise of the fan still blowing and the knowledge that he wasn’t far, just in the next room over, carried you off to sleep.

–

One night had turned into two and then three and somewhere in the last couple months of summer that were left, you spent most of your days and nights with Joel. 

No label had been applied to whatever your situation was with him, you knew better than to ask, this all needed time, and you were okay with that, just content on holding onto this good thing with him. 

Because you liked being around, like sharing a space with him and sitting in the garden together, opening up to each other more and more every day. 

It was nice watching Joel come out of that hardened shell of his, watching him find it easier to talk about things, noticing him trying to live life more, not as reluctant to connect. 

Things were good, not to say that there hadn’t been bad days amongst all the progress made, there were plenty of them in fact. 

Days where old patterns became default again, stretches of nights where the nightmares returned, both of you trying to wade through it. 

When the aching of old wounds came knocking and the walls came back up again. 

You hated to fight with Joel when that happened, and you hated not being on the same page but he was so stubborn it wasn’t always easy to bite back your frustration. 

He had told you about his past, about the people he hurt in those early days and it’s something he wrestled with, believing in the goodness you saw inside him when all he could see were the bad things.

It frustrated you sometimes, how he preferred to shut himself off, to you, to Sarah’s memory because he felt like his hands were too dirty, too blood-stained to even try. 

“Que, no entendes?! Please, Joel! Stop trying to be something you aren’t. You think you aren’t a good man but bad people don’t get upset about being bad. Do you think you can just turn it off, the part of you that was always a good man, a good father? Well sorry, but you can’t, that’s who you are to your core, I saw it the first moment I met you and every time since then.” 

 “I’ve killed people,” his tone was mean, and venomous, another attempt at pushing you away. “Goddamnit, it’s not as simple as-”

“I get that! Look I know that you’ve done bad things but you’ve also spent every waking moment punishing yourself for it, do you realize that? All these years you’ve been paying your penance any way you can and I’m trying to tell you it’s okay live well, that you don’t have to torture yourself anymore because we have to try and make something out of all this pain.” 

It wasn’t easy to get him to see what you saw but you didn’t back down, even when it would have been easy to, Joel knew it too, guilt washing over him as you looked at him then, tears brimming in your eyes. 

“You’ve endured enough.” 

It’s those final three words from you that makes him ease up, a reminder you nudged him with often, that he could rest already, could make amends by making a choice to find the light. 

He lets you take some space from him, coming to find you before bed because he doesn’t want to fall asleep without fixing things. 

“I’m sorry. That wasn’t fair, talkin to you like that. You’re just tryna help my sorry ass and I haven’t thanked you enough. I’m gonna get better at that.” 

It’s the first time you ever hug him, noticing the tremble in his hands as he says the words, feeling the sincerity in his voice, unable to stop yourself from all but barreling into his arms. 

He’s still for only a moment before his arms wrap around you in return, the two of you bathed in moonlight, that butterfly still hanging in his window, pushing you towards each other again just like it had when you first met. 

–

Eventually, the day comes when the monarchs leave, the approaching fall and winter seasons carrying them to warmer places, a solemn change in what had been yours and Joel’s routine. 

The absence of the butterflies that had provided so much hope the last few months was felt, but the world was also a lot more open and wide now too. 

You no longer slept on Joel’s couch, you slept pressed against him now, and woke with your limbs tangled with his, a quiet partnership forming.

It scares both of you, knowing that you had grown to care for each other so quickly, knowing that was dangerous and reckless but also feeling stronger because you were a team. 

You think that’s why you make the decision together, one rainy fall evening when Joel comes home with a message from Tommy. 

They had gone through a rough patch recently, being apart from each other for some time and still not seeing eye to eye on Tommy’s choices but slowly, they’d started talking again and there was news that Tommy and the group he was with had gotten a hydroelectric plant that had once belonged to FEDRA up and running. 

There was electricity and a place to stay if you and Joel were interested, plus Tommy wanted you to meet Maria, said she did him a whole world of good and this was some of that good in action. 

It hadn’t been a hard choice to make even knowing how difficult the journey would be.

This was the chance you’d both been waiting for, and had talked about, a far off dream of running away from all the violence that was inescapable here in Boston, searching for something better out there, and now it was within reach. 

So you’d left your garden in the care of a friend you knew would understand its importance, and you bide your time with Joel, making deals, doing jobs, collecting and saving up supplies, and helping him map the way to Jackson. 

And then the day came when you left the QZ behind for good, watching the city fade away in the rearview mirror.

Making it to Tommy hadn’t been easy, there had been one too many close calls for comfort but the trust you and Joel had in each other didn’t waver, and here you were, finally on the other side. 

Settling in hadn’t been the easiest, especially for Joel, his guard still up but little by little, you both sank into a new way of life. 

You quickly learned how to ride a horse and hunt in the woods surrounding the power plant, even making friends with some of the families in the community. 

Joel had taken to things a little slower, but even he couldn’t hide for long, helping some of the men in the group with repairs on things that needed fixing, even cautiously attempting to make friends with you. 

Small pockets of peace started to open up the longer you stayed and the threat of raiders loomed over that peace at times, keeping everyone on alert for attacks but you all had Joel and Tommy now, always amongst the first to be out there protecting, defending fiercely.

You knew they wouldn’t let anything happen to you here.  

As spring arrived again you found a nice spot for a garden, pointing out sprouting flower buds to Joel one day, almost missing the fond smile forming on his lips, both of you knowing what this meant. 

You were happy here, and happy being with Joel, the two of you building a new garden together this time, until finally, as the chill spring breeze transitioned into summer heat and sunshine you were sat next to him like you had been what seemed like ages ago, watching the butterflies circle the flowers in bloom in what had become Sarah’s Garden. 

Joel made you a promise; to keep going for family, the family you, him, and Tommy were now. And you promised the same, not scared of how much you cared for the man by your side anymore.

It wasn’t perfect, the world was still rotten and the broken parts of you all were still raw, still healing, but this time her light was guiding the way through it and that made it all worth it.

---

A/N: When I saw that butterfly hanging in the window of his place in Boston I just couldn’t resist writing something about how he got it and here we are! This world is so dark and tragic and while this fic doesn’t change those facts, I hope it plants some gentle, hopeful little seeds of healing, because Joel deserves that and so do you as the reader! thank you for reading this, I’d love to hear your thoughts on it! 💌

some tags no pressure! @inklore @allaboardthereadingrailroad @yelenas-lova @ozarkthedog @amethystwonders11 @blkmorticia @moreofem @eupheme @obiknights @tarrenterror25 @superhoeva @buckyhoney @plumbits

[ddoxhan]

another life

I know I would love to just do laundry, take a walk in the park with you. in another life, I promise, we will.

word count : 0.5k words

genre : angst, fluff(?); two people who were each others' world and fate was against them; squint real real hard for that miniscule fluff; minji x gn! reader

t/w : none :)

a/n : newjeans world domination, and they've dominated me. SUMMERJEANS COMING SOON I'M EXCITED TO HYPERVENTILATE AND GAY PANIC OVER WHATEVER THEY'RE GONNA DROP.

to my dearest, I finally have the courage to tell you whatever I'm feeling for you. yet, I never had the chance to tell you in person. maybe I should have just sent you that text at midnight, maybe I should have told you about my feelings when we walked side by side at the park. maybe, but I didn't. was I a fool? I don't know, but I wasn't too sure about what I felt was right, was appropriate.

I didn't deserve you, who brightened up my life with her shine. the one who picked me up from my bottomless pit, showing me that there was no such thing as endless agony. the one who stuck by me even when I was closed off and hurt you multiple times, too many times, which I still regret till this day.

I was selfish, for wanting both your attention only on me, yet wanting you away from me because I was poison. you would do just fine without me, but I'd struggle to the ends of earth without you. I want you to be happy, but it didn't seem like you would be when I'm around.

if you were to be with me, I would be nothing but a burden, someone who couldn't make you smile. I live to see that bright smile of yours, for sure I don't have the right to take it away. but at that time, I didn't know you reciprocated my feelings, and I admit that I was dense to notice it. it's not every day that I receive affection and love, I wasn't raised in an environment like that.

receiving affection, made life so much better. receiving affection from you, made my life the best it could ever be. and I feel really grateful that I had someone like you in my life, someone who didn't mind my scars, my pain, just embracing me for who I am, what I am, and what I would be no matter what. I'd give anything to have you back. it didn't matter what it would take, because I have nothing further more to lose. wishing that I could turn back time every midnight, I know we are past that point of our lives, our time.

I know I would love to just do laundry, take a walk in the park with you. hold hands as we stroll in the night, share kisses under the lamp post, cuddle in bed on a sunday morning. it may have not been this life, but in another life, I promise, we will. there will always be a day where we'd be in each other's arms, whispering I love you's. a day where I open my eyes from my slumber and I have all the time to admire those features of yours, falling in love again and again with you.

tell me you're waiting, tell me you still like me, still love me. when I find you again, look at me with that same gummy smile you gave me when we first met. and say,

'I've waited for you, my love.'

because when I see you again, there will be nothing between us, just you and I. under that cherry blossom tree, where I first fell for you.

I love you, minji, more than you think.

[ohsunnyboy]

to chase a dream | zhang hao ˚₊‧⁺˖

all your life, you and zhang hao have been chasing each other. you wonder here, if this is where your symphony ends.

TAGS: musician!au, gn!reader, rivals to lovers, angst with happy ending, suggestive!makeout

A/N: something about zhang hao called for dramatics so here i am (≧∇≦)ﾉ ! self-indulgent as usual :)

WORDS: ~1450, EXTRA: music info and terms here !!

"That was wonderful playing earlier."

History doesn't even begin to describe what you have between you two.

Your friends could joke that there would be enough to write an opera. Star crossed and all. All about the virtuosos of violin and piano. Of Zhang Hao and you.

You want to hark it back to those fitful days in grade school. Full days of comparing sheet music, trying to one-up each other about the difficulty. Hao, and his too big violin case and you, trouncing him every talent show because his hands hadn't quite yet grown out of their stubbiness. The satisfaction in remembering those big whiny tears brings warmth to your soul.

Then, there came high school.

Oh, you loathe it; he doesn't. Not when his hands became a study in lines and grace. Envy would eat you alive if you had any less pride. But you weren't so above yourself to not look at him. Hard to not notice when he grows a head taller and of course, starts topping the local competitions only to shove it under your face.

Your parents loved it. Gave a reason to push you further and deeper into competitions and over the top galas. To push your fire against someone who was all finely diced ice. There was nothing you liked less when you wanted to live for the glory of the crowd, not medals and flowers.

Eyes followed you everywhere when he was in the picture. And yours always found his.

"Here to mock me?" you ask.

The laugh you draw is enchanting. "Never." And it's so sincere you might just believe it. "Just here to say my farewells."

The Winter Gala spins behind both of you: through a door, down some ornate stairs and into a pit of some thoroughly drunk musicians. From the balcony, only the trickles of laughter and music eke out the door. But you would hardly focus on that, not when Hao stands very plainly in front of you.

"Already? it's only an hour into reception." You twirl the champagne in your hand with consideration before you gesture him to come to where you lean on the balcony rail. "Thought you would stay to kiss ass with some of the others."

"Not this time. No, I mean..." The howl of the wind carries his unease. Traffic horns and gala laughter do nothing to smother whatever he tries to hide in his tone. You know him too well.

There's more than history between you two.

But whatever he says next has you rethinking everything. "I'm leaving, leaving. I won't be back in the country for a while so, here I am."

There's a moment where you think he's entirely pulling your leg. Pulling you along to another little joke at your expense. But you've known him your entire life at this point, and you’ve been through too much to realize that he’s not joking.

“… Am I the first to know?”

You count the beats and steady your breath. Years of this, all for what?

“Only Minghao-Ge and Junhui-Ge, and now you. But knowing them, they’ll be drunk enough tonight to let it slip,” he explains in this awfully fond tone. “Mark Lee from the LSO watched me perform at the showcase in July and scouted for me. I think he got on Junhui-Ge’s nerves with how much he emailed him.”

Medals and flowers. Smiles and bows. The curtain draws, where are you now?

"Congrats," you say after a second – watching nothing but your past fly by you. Despite the ache, you raise your glass. "Cheers," you smile and take a sip. Raising it into the moonlight and offering the glass to Hao for his own toast but he just shakes his head.

You pout. "Don’t like it?”

Instead, he takes the glass from you and settles it onto the edge. Pink dusts his cheeks as watches you from the corner of your eye. “Want to remember this.”

Heat flares to your cheeks at the weight of Hao’s words. A night to remember is one way to put it.

"So, when are you off to London?"

"This Monday."

You blink. "... That's fast."

"Why? You think you'll miss me?" and it's said with that smile of his. Infuriating and secret, so many layers of discourse that haunt you – it’s a memory that you'll take to the grave.

"Of course, it's you," you mutter, disgustingly honest with yourself. "It'll just be... quiet, without your excuse of music causing a riot." Honestly, you can barely hear Hao's chuckle when you're too stuck in your head to mind the charm in it.

You want to edge back into your comfort zone of easy quips, nothing serious but scathing wit. But nothing you say lights the fight that used to start so easy back when you two were younger. When your worries were small like the cars below.

A full look at his face is all you want to chance a glance for. What would you see? Remorse? Eagerness? Disappointment? You could read him like a book with a single glance, what’s stopping you now?

"What about you? are you going to stay in Singapore? I thought you'd be the one to chase excitement."

"I’ll chase whatever my parents dangle in front of me.” And the laugh he breathes is empty because you both know it’s bitter but true. Hao’s stood aside long enough to understand. So, when he sidles closer next to you it warms you more than they ever did. "Yixing-Ge told me he's also planning to leave for Boston, promised me that I'll get his seat when it happens."

"If it happens,” he teases.

"It’ll happen."

You nearly jump when you feel it. Hao’s warm hand on top of yours. It’s spindly and calloused, worn out in the way a weathered musician’s should be. It’s all you need to guide you back to where you are.

"I know you'll make it. Just make sure it's something you want.” Hao’s breath is right next to your ear. Clear as day and easy as a song. It’s so simple to say: take what you want.  

Blood in your ears, chest heaving, nothing to catch you when you fall but the discordant crash of keys.

It sounds like a melody.

"It's never going to be something I want."

"Then, what do you want?"

You.

Instead, you turn to face Zhang Hao. A challenge of a smile on your lips because you know where this ends.

To face the music, the crowd, the eyes that watch.

"What's it like? to chase a dream?" you ask.

Brutal, visceral, freeing. An infinite number of interpretations for one word.

The stage becomes your world, and the spotlight burns you alive. Pressure flays your skin even as your fingers glide across smooth keys and you hush your heaving breath. Running to your last page, heart in your hands, smearing red across white. There's no audience when you dream; you are your own critic, you are your own end, but your destiny is not you.

To chase a dream is to become raw.

"Like chasing you."

You hum low and satisfied. Carding a hand through Hao’s hair, you guide him down.

Kissing Zhang Hao feels like being on stage all over again. Being set on fire, skin flaying, blood rushing. It’s everything he isn’t, but everything you are.

You swallow his groan, biting across his lips as your hands trail down him. Everywhere you've wanted to touch feels unbearable. You want to chase this feeling: Hao's hands on your hips and cradling your jaw. Trailing his red ears and holding around his throat; it's little fires everywhere.

Distance doesn’t exist as you push into each other. Hao has you against the rail, hands cradling you like you’re his own instrument. Playing you to pluck you into satisfaction.

Years of us, made for this final movement.

This ache and greed that makes musicians like you two come alive. You know Hao as your years of black and white keys that haunt your dreams and make your reality. There isn’t a crevice in his mind you haven’t touched or a melody that he’s played where he never thought of you.

You hold Hao by the chin, determination set into your eyes and a chord of steel in your tone. "There better be a future for us – I’m not having you leave me here in your past.”

"Anything," he breathes against you. More than history. More than a future. Chasing your dream. "Anything for you."

thanks so much for reading !! this was a tough one but i'm glad i wrote it ! if you enjoyed please like or reblog :D ⭒ masterlist

[heyiwrotesomethings]

Hello ! 🤗

First of all thank you so much for your Shinobu's stories, it's always the best time of my day when I see you have new updates about her, I honestly think you write the best and most accurate Shinobu from all the fics I've read.

I was wondering if I could ask you a modern rivals academic to lovers Shinobu x f!reader (whatever pronouns you want) ? They are in competition for almost everything, becoming the presidents of student councils, being the best in sport, in class, model student... until they realize that they keep challenging each other to gain the attention of the other because they have a long time crush.

Have a nice day. ☺️

Valedictorian Speech

Shinobu Kochou x She/Her Reader Modern AU

A/N: Please forgive the pace jumping, this is like a year’s worth of events condensed downs to something more manageable for me. Also takes place in a American school system to make my life easier too. I was feeling inspired by Kaguya-sama Love is War as I wrote this so it was a lot of fun : ) Hope you enjoy! Word Count: 4,070

(Y/n) couldn’t quite articulate what it was about Shinobu Kochou that made her so angry as a five year old. She had been praised all year by teachers and peers alike for how advanced she was. The most talented and beloved of all the students… until she arrived. Cute as a button and smart as a whip, Shinobu Kochou moved in all the way from Japan and turned (Y/n)’s world upside down.

Suddenly everyone was fawning over her instead. So impressed by her advanced math and science prowess and how she was to be able to switch between Japanese and English without a second thought.

She was athletic too, the fastest kindergartener in the grade, even leaving (Y/n) in the dust by several seconds. It was humiliating!

So (Y/n) decided she had to work harder to prove that she was just as good as Shinobu, if not better. When she got home, she demanded to learn multiplication and division, no amount of languages were enough to conquer. She ran laps around the block several times while she waited for the bus in the morning. She was going to show Shinobu she was just as good as her, she had to be!

***

Shinobu had been so nervous to move so far away from home. She wanted to cry, to pretend she was sick, anything to not go to her new school. She’d be joining in so late, everyone would have their friends already and no one would want to talk to her. They’d all just stare at her from afar, whispering about her.

However, when she casually answered the super special math problem on the board with the teacher’s promises of a class reward tied to it, she had been showered with praise and affection. At lunch, her classmates marveled over the lunch her father had made for her and offered to play all manner of games during recess.

It was perfect. Better than anything she had dared hoped for, except for one thing. One of her classmates, the one she had been assigned to sit right next to in fact, never gave her the same praise and attention that the others did.

That shouldn’t have mattered to her. Her mother had told her she couldn’t win over everyone every time, but she wanted to be recognized by her too. (Y/n) was smart and cute and funny when she was playing with her friends. Shinobu wanted her attention too.

So she did what had been working out for her thus far and kept achieving, hoping to impress (Y/n) as she had the others.

But that only seemed to make (Y/n) shun her more. Still Shinobu was stubborn. She would get that recognition! They would be equals, friends!

Too bad (Y/n) was just as stubborn, if not more so. Their competitive nature towards each other was noticed by those around them. Soon their attempts to vie for the others attention and validation, became a true rivalry as students began pitting them against each other.

“Shinobu did the best on the math test! I knew she would!”

“Yeah, well (Y/n) got the highest score on the spelling test!”

Eventually Shinobu and (Y/n) had forgotten what all of their efforts to outdo the other were even for. They filled up on the misinterpretations of their peers and grew to detest the each other over the years and that was how they got to where they were now.

“Morning, Shinobu. How did you do at the cross country meet yesterday?” (Y/n) asked as she opened her locker, or course next to Shinobu as it was every year since middle school.

“Good morning, (Y/n). It went well. Two personal bests.” Shinobu answered casually, flicking a swatch of hair behind her ear.

(Y/n) hummed in acknowledgment, waiting for Shinobu to ask her how her swim meet went. Then she could casually drop that she had achieved three personal bests. One more than Shinobu! (Y/n) had only asked her how she had done because she already knew! She had looked up the results late last night, comparing them with Shinobu’s previous records. It had been awhile since she had the upper hand like this!

(Y/n) contained her evil laughter, meanwhile Shinobu had finished retrieving what she needed for her first and second hour classes and closed her locker.

“See you later then.” She said, her signature smile warping into something more sinister the second she turned her back on (Y/n). She had her now.

Of course Shinobu knew all about the swim meet results, she had listened to them live on the radio during the bus ride back to school. So (Y/n) got three personal bests, brava… Shinobu knew a trap when she saw one. (Y/n) was hoping she’d ask how her event went as well so she could gloat, but Shinobu wouldn’t give her the satisfaction. If (Y/n) brought it up without being prompted, she would look like a desperate and insecure little girl.

“Yes, see you in calculus.” (Y/n) answered as cheerfully as she could, meanwhile her hand was griping her locker door so tightly she could have warped the metal.

She knew damn well Shinobu was avoiding the topic on purpose. She was trying to make her look like a toddler seeking out praise!

An image of Shinobu cooing at her, patting her on the head and congratulating her and telling her how cute she was filled her mind and she wanted to scream.

No matter. There were plenty of other situations where Shinobu could slip up today. Cold calling teachers, pop quizzes, tests, extra curriculars, Shinobu could spill tea on her blouse during lunch for all (Y/n) knew!

“Ah yes, I believe we have a test in calculus today. No calculators or notes either if I recall correctly.” Shinobu hummed. “Did you study?”

“Not a bit!” (Y/n) laughed, making a show of looking sheepish. “I’ve been so busy with that model for anatomy that it must have skipped my mind.”

“Oh I’m sure you’ll do just fine.” Shinobu smiled, cupping a hand over her mouth, “Between you and me, I haven’t had much time to study either.”

A lie on both ends!

(Y/n) and Shinobu had both been studying like crazy to memorize all of the formulas. They were only playing it off like they hadn’t studied to lull the other into thinking they didn’t need to try as hard, making it a double whammy when they did better than the other.

“You’ll do great! You always do.”

“Oh, and were you able to get that paperwork for the council done? My ever so diligent VP?”

Damn her!

Shinobu had been hanging that over her head all Junior year!

When they were freshman, they had both ran for student council president. Neither of them had won, but for freshman they did rather well in the polls.

Sophomore year (Y/n) had managed an upset and beat out the senior candidate. Shinobu had gotten the second most amount of votes, earning her the Vice President position. (Y/n) could not have been happier, she had bested Shinobu!

Until elections rolled in again Junior year and Shinobu had sniped three more measly votes than her and took the role of President right out from under her, leaving (Y/n) as the Vice President.

However now in their Senior year, the preparations for their final election were almost underway. One point each, this was the tie breaker and much more important than any battle they had thus far because there would not be another chance. Besides who would claim the title of valedictorian, this would be either the highlight or shame of their highschool careers.

“All ready, Pres.” (Y/n) gave a mock salute, “Think you’ll defend your title?”

“I wonder.” Shinobu smiled, then she went on her way.

(Y/n) dug into her locker for her books with a scowl. That position would be hers once more, come hell or high water!

***

And… done!

Both girls stood from their seats simultaneously, subtly glaring at each other from across the room. They both maneuvered to the front of the room, handing their tests in to the teacher at the same time.

The teacher chuckled quietly, familiar with the antics of his two brightest pupils and got to work grading their papers right away as the girls stood by anxiously.

“Good work girls, perfect scores as always. Got the extra credit too.”

“That’s great.” (Y/n) quietly cheered.

“Yes, thank you.” Shinobu smiled.

God damn it!

They went back to their respective seats, silently stewing. That bad mood carried on to their after school activities with the student council.

But it did not affect the seamless way they worked together while sorting the paperwork. They didn’t even need to speak to coordinate, they just knew how the other liked things done and did it. It was for efficiency’s sake! Not because they were absolutely obsessed with each other and thought about each other every waking moment of the day.

“I can’t believe re-elections are just around the corner!” Mitsuri wailed as she came into the room.

“Don’t worry, Mitsuri. I’m sure the secretary position will be yours again. You always do a good job.” Shinobu assured, handing another signed paper to (Y/n) for her signature as well.

“Mhm, it would be stupid for no one to vote for you.” (Y/n) agreed.

“You guys are too nice! I’m so glad we got to know each other over the years. I’m going to miss you guys when we graduate!” Mitsuri sniffled, “Where are you guys going to college again?”

Ah yes, thank you Mitsuri! This day was saved. They already knew they had applied to the same college. When they were in middle school, they had to do a, ‘where do I see myself after high school project’, and share it with the class. They knew exactly where the other would be going so they would apply there too. Who would remember something from so long ago? They would play it off as a coincidence.

After all, why end a years long rivalry in high school? College was the big leagues, if they could beat the other there, that would leave everything else moot.

Shinobu and (Y/n) laughed internally, gearing up for the big reveal, they opened their mouths,

“Tokyo University.”

“Havard University.”

Both turned to each other with thinly veiled surprise.

Nice going idiots! Maybe you should have considered that since you two are always playing mind games with each other that the other would have had the same idea! Now (Y/n) was set to leave the country while Shinobu would be left behind! Could you think of anything more tragic?!

“Wow, that’s so crazy!” Mitsuri marveled, “For some reason I thought you two would go to the same college since you seem so close. Hard to separate the dream team!”

You took the words right out of their mouths, Mitsuri.

“Well, you know,” (Y/n) cleared her throat, “time to move on to greener pastures.”

“Yes, I’m in need of a new challenge. It’ll be good for us to spread out.” Shinobu answered tightly.

On the inside they were screaming at each other. ‘Greener pastures’, ‘new challenge’? Were they really still not good enough?

Maybe if they took even a second to re-evaluate their feelings for each other, to be genuine with each other, they would realize that this wasn’t a simple model student rivalry, they were constantly vying for each other’s attention because they were in looooooove.

“Oh! Are the election guidelines done? I’ll take those to the office right away.” Mitsuri snatched the papers from (Y/n)’s hands and went skipping out of the room, leaving Shinobu and (Y/n) alone with the can of worms she had unknowingly opened.

“So, Tokyo.” Shinobu prompted, unnecessarily straightening a stack of papers.

So, Harvard.” (Y/n) countered, not giving an inch.

“Scholarship?”

“Full ride, obviously. You?”

“No question.”

There was a pregnant pause.

“I better get to practice then now that this is taken care of.” (Y/n) said, standing from her seat.

“Me too.”

Oh come on you guys, talk! You are both so obviously depressed about this! Stop being so prideful!

***

This was it. The principal was counting the votes. It had been a grueling campaign trail, but it was sure to pay off for one of the dearly beloved girls.

“Good race,” Shinobu murmured, tone overly sweet, from where she sat next to (Y/n) in the auditorium. “I could tell you put a lot of work into your campaign this year.”

A dig at (Y/n)’s humiliating loss last year.

“Nervous perhaps? I could tell that you’ve been working very hard as well.” (Y/n) replied.

“The results have been tallied!” The principal announced, a bit of feedback coming off of the microphone making many of the students groan.

(Y/n) and Shinobu sat straighter, going over their acceptance speeches in their minds, imagining the customary handshake between the President and Vice Persident to show no hard feelings…

God, just ask to hold hands. They would look a million times less desperate than they did pinning over a handshake of all things.

“This year’s student council president is…”

Come on, come on, who is it?!

“Mitsuri Kanroji!”

“Really?!” Mitsuri stood from her seat, thanking everyone she passed.

Meanwhile, if one stray gust of wind would magically whip through the auditorium, (Y/n) and Shinobu would have surely crumbled to dust on the breeze.

“Good for her.” (Y/n) spoke monotonously.

“Yeah, she’s often underestimated. It’s nice to see her get some recognition.” Shinobu agreed, matching her tone.

“Mhm, a lot smarter than people give her credit for. Not too mention so charismatic.”

“Extremely.”

Okay, well, that was unexpected, but there was always the VP position…

“And as is customary, second place and our new Vice President is… Obanai Iguro!”

What?! And they thought Mitsuri was the dark horse. Their little known treasurer, Obanai, was an actual snake! They didn’t even know he was campaigning!

That’s what happens when you only have your eyes and thoughts on each other twenty-four seven…

Although, it probably would have made them feel better to know that Obanai definitely cheated just so he could shake Mitsuri’s hand. Again, just ask them out instead of looking for a weird round about way to hold your crushes’ hand.

“What are we going to do with all of this free time?” (Y/n) asked aloud.

“I wonder.” Shinobu sighed tiredly.

***

They did find something to do with that spare time.

All year they had been cramming, taking every opportunity they could to eek out a higher GPA, but it was still neck and neck. Their AP psychology final was the last grade that had yet to be entered.

They really wasted that whole year studying instead of acknowledging their feelings and the fact that they would be thousands of miles away from each other, huh?

But they would be forced to confront those feelings soon enough when they were called down to the office.

“Congratulations ladies, it may come to no surprise to you, but you both have achieved the best grades of your senior class. We have two valedictorians this year!” The principal chortled delightedly. “Would you two mind terribly to write your speech together? I think it would be more impactful that way.”

“I see no problem with it.” Shinobu answered casually.

“We can figure something out.” (Y/n) shrugged.

“Great! Two weeks until graduation. Try not to let it get to you, I’m sure you girls will do just fine.”

“Thank you.” They answered together.

They had thought this outcome would depress them after the election debacle, but both felt rather neutral about it. They hadn’t had much time together with all the work they had been doing so having to write a speech together seemed like a good out.

Or, you know, could have just chilled and asked to hang out instead.

As they walked back to their study hall, they tried to deligate a time to meet. Easier said than done. These two were so busy with all of their extra curriculars that finding an decent time would be impossible!

“I guess we might have to plan something overnight over the weekend so we can work on this.” Shinobu suggested.

Yes! That’s how you do it Kochou! How will (L/n) respond?

“Over the weekend…” (Y/n) pretended to mull it over, “Yeah, that should work. No one will be home except for me, so we should be able to get it done without any distractions.”

Oh my god, an unsupervised sleepover?!

“Sounds good.”

It’s happening! It’s happening!

“Cool.”

“Great.”

…

“See you then.”

“Yeah.”

Awww, so awkward! But we already knew their social skills were a little out of wack.

***

They had been anticipating this meet up all week. Of course neither brought it up at all because they couldn’t afford to sound excited by the prospect, but when their track and softball practices let out, there they were walking side by side to (Y/n)’s house! Something they hadn’t dared dreamed about in their wildest fantasies.

Shy glances, brushing hands on the narrow sidewalk! They could die happy!

Wow guys, dial it in a little bit.

Shinobu wasted no time committing (Y/n)’s home to memory. Every cute picture, every smell, every little knickknack on (Y/n)’s shelves— she was in (Y/n)’s room! Ah! How exciting!

“What do you want for dinner?” (Y/n) asked.

Shinobu nearly swooned at the domesticity of it all.

“Anything is fine.” She somehow managed to sound casual as she plopped down on the edge of (Y/n)’s bed.

***

They were taking a break from typing out their seamless speech to have the takeout that had been dropped off and Shinobu was searching for a talking point. They had never talked about anything that wasn’t school related.

“Wow, isn’t this a blast from the past.” Shinobu chuckled, seeing the row of yearbooks on (Y/n)’s self.

Still school related, but it was something.

“Oh yeah,” (Y/n)’s lips twitched curiously.

“Let’s revisit, maybe—“

“No need for that. I could put something on the tv.”

“I guess some background noise would be nice.” Shinobu smiled, still reaching for the most recent year book since she hadn’t had the time to look at it yet.

“We should finish typing out the speech so we can send it in for evaluation.” (Y/n) tried to deter her again, reaching for the book.

Why was she being so weird about a silly yearbook?

Shinobu pulled the book towards her chest, away from (Y/n)’s hands. She sensed the discontent too, and she wanted to make (Y/n) squirm.

“What don’t you want me to see? Is your picture embarrassing? Did you blink again like in third grade?”

“Ha ha, yeah, you don’t need to see it. Or if you do, look in your own yearbook when you go home.” (Y/n) tried to snatch the yearbook away again, notably more uneasy.

Again, Shinobu held it out of reach, standing up and running away with an evil grin and book secured under her arm.

“Shinobu!” (Y/n) ran after her, but Shinobu was always faster, that’s why she gave up on cross and track in seventh grade.

“Come on now,” Shinobu laughed, cracking open the book as she slid behind the living room table, “What could be so bad that you wouldn’t want me to see…”

(Y/n)’s picture was totally fine. It was Shinobu’s picture that held something interesting. Below her picture, by her name, was a little heart in what appeared to be purple highlighter. Damning evidence. Shinobu’s own heart picked up in tempo.

(Y/n) snatched the yearbook out of Shinobu’s hands, though it was already too late. Without a word she walked stiffly back to her room, shoving to book back in place while Shinobu stood awkwardly in the doorway.

“I’ll finish typing out the speech and I’ll email it in. You can go home.” (Y/n) told her without looking back at her. Her voice wavered ever so slightly, but Shinobu noticed.

(Y/n) sat on the bed, back to Shinobu, and opened her laptop again. Any teasing and gloating Shinobu had on the tip of her tongue died.

Good job reading the room for once, Shinobu. You’ve earned a cookie.

“(Y/n), I’m sorry I looked, but this is a good thing I think, because I actually—“

“I don’t want to hear it!” (Y/n) snapped. “I don’t care what you think because it won’t matter anyway! I’ll be almost seven thousand miles away so who cares!”

Shinobu’s throat tightened and she tried to swallow the awful feeling down, but it almost made her feel worse. She should have swallowed her pride and said something sooner, because (Y/n) was right, what good would it do them now? They’d only have the summer… maybe less if (Y/n) needed time to get used to Tokyo.

“Alright then. See you Monday I guess.” Shinobu said solemnly.

(Y/n) didn’t reply and Shinobu gathered her things and left. As soon as she got home, she stalked passed Kanae who was surprised to see her.

“I thought you were having a sleepover tonight.” She called.

“Cancelled. Not feeling well.”

“Oh, well you have mail on the counter—“

“Later.” Shinobu grunted, stomping up the stairs.

“Okay, grumpy. Feel better soon.” Kanae could tell this was an emotional, ‘I don’t feel good’ and not a physical, ‘I don’t feel good.’, so she decided to give Shinobu some space.

As soon as Shinobu was alone in her room, she buried her face in her pillow to soak up the frustrated and hopeless tears. Then she wallowed in her sadness the rest of the night and most of the next morning.

She turned her head, glaring at Kanae when she entered without so much as a knock and turned on the lights. In her hands she carried a plate of food and a letter.

“I’m not hungry.” Shinobu grumbled, turning away and burying herself under her blankets.

“At least read your mail first,” Kanae sighed, “I don’t know what your attitude is all about, but I think it might help.” She poked at Shinobu beneath the covers until an exasperated hand pushed out from underneath and snatched the letter from Kanae’s hand.

When Kanae left, Shinobu sat up and looked at the letter, finally registering who it was from. Quickly, she tore it open and read it.

Maybe things weren’t as hopeless as she had originally thought.

***

“It’s no secret that Shinobu and I, for as civil as we seem to be with each other, fought like crazy to be the one to give this speech.”

“As you can see, I couldn’t manage to shake (Y/n) free from my coattails, so here we both are.” Shinobu teased, earning a quiet rumble of laughter through the crowd.

They hit all the right beats in their speech, but Shinobu could tell as the closing words got closer, (Y/n) was trying harder not to get choked up.

“And so, to finally break free from the devil woman next to me, I’ve decided to attend Tokyo University because it was the furthest I could physically get from her.” (Y/n)’s voice broke at the end, but it was covered by the polite laughter of the crowd.

Shinobu caught her hand in her own, causing (Y/n) to meet her eyes questioningly, tears threatening to fall.

“Which is why I am happy to announce that I too, will be attending Tokyo University.” Shinobu declared, going off script, dabbing the tears from (Y/n)’s cheeks with the sleeve of her gown.

“What?” (Y/n) sobbed. Surely she had misheard.

In a surprising turn of events Shinobu had actually applied to both schools just in case (Y/n) had the same idea, but her application to Tokyo had been lost in the mail for weeks and then her acceptance letter decided to get lost too, for quiet a few months, actually!

“You can’t get rid of me that easily.” Shinobu grinned.

That grin was quickly swiped off of her face, when (Y/n)’s lips overzealously met hers, but she was all too happy with the interruption to mind.

“Oh my god! It’s finally happening! My ship!” Mitsuri stood from her seat and cheered, prompting everyone else to do the same.

It was sure to be a valedictorian speech that would not be soon forgotten. Breathless, the couple delivers their final lines before they could be shooed off of the stage for their overt display of affection.

[shadowedvales]

so… in the additional media of stranger things (specifically the comics i’m mentioning), it was initially brenner’s idea/plan to kill off the other test subjects because they weren’t performing as well as eleven was. it was his best solution because that way, all the resources, time, and money could instead be placed only to her. and i just…. sure henry is a fine character and the massacre makes a lot of sense to me, but i think i am once again gonna change up my canon to actually fit this potential narrative instead.

i genuinely think the comic canon of the lab and brenner is far more intriguing than the show. everything with 9/9.5, ricky, and francine. eleven being the only one who grew up completely in the lab. those other kids were either volunteers, well into their teens, or had some semblance of a home life. eleven was the only one practically moulded from the womb. and they all had such a range of interesting powers. i firmly stand with the idea that jane is the only one who can contact the void.

brenner’s entire point of view on the lab subjects changed the second he found out terry was pregnant. he discovered he could steal this baby and make her his own. there would be no convincing the child because it’s all she would have ever known. because of this, i would not put it past a man like brenner to kill the other subjects for the sake of the “greater good” in this case, eleven.

eleven’s gifts just continue thriving beyond his wildest expectations. brenner would never dare assume that having moulded her from the womb, she would still be able to grow into her own person, her own mind, and one day be able to see him for exactly who he was.

back before season four aired, it was obvious there were other test subjects because jane was 011. so there were at least ten kids before her. but i always liked the idea/assumed that she was the last experiment because she was the most successful. that they didn’t need anyone after her because she was fulfilling everything they set out for her to do. with flying colours.

i just think the whole rainbow room idea, pitting the kids against each other thing… been there, done that. boring and predictable. i think at this point my portrayal of her time in hawkins lab really stems from the complete isolation she endured. where having the rainbow room, although eleven was obviously the most isolated out of the kids, brings that sense of community and sister/brotherhood. albeit extremely warped and toxic. knowing that she wasn’t alone in that experience just. doesn’t sit well with me. i think it’s important to note that she was alone, physically and mentally. which is why kali is also so important to her growth. i thought a lot of the flashbacks of her time in the lab during season four was really boring, repetitive, and just very predictable. although peter becoming vecna was a surprise to me, and was a nice little twist, the idea of her having an ally on the inside was really interesting.

maybe they did get as far as they do in canon, peter ballad was telling the truth about everything, about some of the workers there being prisoners like him, and he really wanted to get her out and to safety. but before they can escape through the pipes, they’re caught. peter is shot on the spot, and eleven is put into the isolation room for a few days as punishment. in this timeline, henry would be vecna, but henry would not be peter ballad.

when eleven turned seven, and was already showing extreme promise, where the other children were average at best, brenner had the eight children killed. kali had already escaped. this was the main cause for peter to gain eleven’s trust and try to get her out. because if brenner could murder his “children” in cold blood, there’s no way eleven was safe even in spite of her power.

when eleven is allowed out of the isolation room, her testing becomes more rigorous in attempt to distance and make her forget about what she attempted to do with peter. brenner begins gaslighting her, saying that there was never a peter, that she must have been dreaming. eleven does ask “papa” about “mama”, given peter told her of the day terry broke in the lab, but brenner is convincing enough to make eleven believe it was all in her head. say she is around eight years old, meaning the same timeline of season fours canon flashbacks.

i still do wanna keep the henry creel canon, and keep him as 001. brenner didn’t have him killed alongside the other test subjects, because who knows, one day he could become an even better asset than 011. brenner definitely wants to be able to control henry, but keeps the chip in him because, for the moment, doesn’t know how. killing him would be too big of a loss.

when eleven is ten years old, henry’s concealed powers break free and he manages to get the chip out himself, and unleashes hell onto hawkins lab. he almost kills brenner by snapping his bones, but eleven manages to stop him. her extreme abilities are unleashed, and she sends henry to the upside down. she does fall into a coma due to the extremity of the situation, but she does not forget what happened. brenner believes she’s the perfect weapon as she stepped in to save him without a second thought, was able to defeat henry, and opened a door to something he never thought possible. eleven is rewarded for her efforts. although she remembers the entire battle / confrontation, her memories regarding the portal are very hazy.

brenner decides not to focus on the portal straight away, instead gets her training harder and harder to see what else she can accomplish. also loved the idea of brenner sending her into the void to “look for him” so that will definitely be kept.

by the time she escapes and season one begins, her knowledge of the upside down is basically what we see in canon. because she passed out the moment after she sent henry away, she was once again gaslighted into believing she merely threw him through the glass and killed him. for two years she believed this, until making contact with the demogorgan, and those memories return completely.

due to her saving brenner’s life, (it was pure instinct. she happened to be there. saw her “papa” hurt and knew she had to make him better.) brenner constantly thanks her. but in a very condescending way. tells her: “you saved me so i can continue saving you.” aka, harness your abilities and see what else i can achieve from you. despite the fact that she saved his life, these words and phrases make her feel indebted to him. that she owes him something further.

i don't realistically see her thriving with her speech improvement until she's well into her twenties at least. her slowed development, sensory and social deprivation causes a serious delay in language. surrounded by other children she would have overheard conversations, some would have spoken to her. her conveniently forgetting her upbringing pre the battle with henry just isn't good enough for me anymore. it makes more sense for her to have been raised alone.

it also helps indicate why she gravitated towards the boys when they found her in the woods. they would have been the first people her age she ever remembered seeing. as far as she knew, during the lab there was no one like her. everyone was much older, they were adults-- although she stayed with benny, i'm not sure if she would have stuck around very long. where she followed the boys home without thought.

also it's important to note that after time, jane does understand that peter ballad was a real person, and was truly the first person (aside from terry) who wanted the best for her. when she remembers him, knows that brenner was lying, she deals with immense guilt regarding his death. he was shot right in front of her eyes, because he was trying to help her. this is another catalyst as to why after season two, jane never refers to brenner as papa. she does not give him that sort of credit.

[fangirleaconmigo]

Watching S6 of Justified. (About halfway through) And man, this show allllllmost knows what it has. It’s gets 90% of the way there then fumbles it. I mean I still love it but listen…

They’re like…Raylan and Boyd are thee dynamic, the narrative foils, the life blood of this thing.

And you’re like yes.

And then they’re like…

And so the best way for us to build tension and drama would be for us to pit them against each other over Ava.

😂😂😂😂😂😂😭😭😭

It doesn’t work!!! Like! At all!!

Firstly, Boyd has always treated her like thee queen, and suddenly they have him treating her like a possession he’s pissing all over. She’s being downgraded to plaything and trophy.

No.

If they were fic writers I’d be like…OOC my dudes.

Second, they’ve already made it clear that Raylan does not have feelings for Ava, and nowhere in this story have we gotten any other message. I mean he was a fuck boy, ghosted her, and now he’s actually kind of a dick to her. When she’s yellin at him, I’m always rooting for her.

So. I dub this shit contrived and weak. No. I could buy these three in many different configurations. I could buy Ava fuckin off to be hugely successful and leaving these two in the dust.

I could also buy them in a poly if she never had to deal with Raylan’s shit. Like if Boyd were assigned to Raylan exclusively. These three could be like an open triangle, or a V arrangement here. Because here is what the narrative has established:

Ava is sick of Raylan’s shit and wants nothing to do with him. As she should. Ava loves Boyd.

Boyd adores his queen Ava and his princess Raylan and wouldn’t have it any other way.

Raylan is codependently and homoerotically obsessed with Boyd.

Got it, Justified show runners?

I will never fall for the “oh Boyd grabs Ava’s ass in front of Raylan to show him who is boss” or “Ava kisses Raylan out of nowhere for no reason once and no one mentions it ever and we know she is sick of him but still we’re supposed to care”

Dumb! and! stupid!

Justified writes the best female characters, then when they need drama, they reduce miss Ava to this, no no no. She is not a possession, and those men have no reason to fight over her.

You’re almost there, Justified. So close to getting it.

[babybluebex]

timothee fans are upset that people are saying dom should be playing bob dylan because he looks more like him. some timothee fans are saying that he can act and dom can’t (basically saying dom doesn’t have the range) so it’s a back and forth thing.

ok here's the thing about the whole bob dylan thing: when that movie was first announced and cast like a while ago, dom wasn't on the scene yet, timothee was the best choice at the time, and even though dom has now come along, we're stuck with timothee as dylan (not to discredit timothee, bc i think he's a talented actor, but he's definitely chosen a few odd roles and life choices recently that make me question him)

THATS NOT TO SAY THAT WE WILL NEVER SEE DOM PLAY DYLAN, all those beatles biopics were just announced, and dylan HAS to show up at SOME point in ANY of those movies, right??? not all hope is lost for us

but also dom needs to play steve winwood more than dylan, like he and winwood look IDENTICAL?? but whatever

and the thing about dom versus timothee is like, we know what timothee's range is, he's not gonna surprise us by now because he's been acting for so long and done so many vastly different projects that we kinda know what the edges of his abilities are, but dom, we don't know yet, we know he's capable of some good stuff, but he's still a complete mystery. would he KILL as dylan?? i think so!! but even if he WERE a contender for that specific dylan role, it would've been a smarter move for the studio to cast timothee instead of an unknown actor who has a single imdb credit to his name, yknow?? we lost that battle before it ever even started

basically all this to say, i don't see the need for this beef. they're different people with different abilites, and like at the end of the day, they're both skinny tall white guys with messy hair and dark eyes. like why do we need to pit two bad bitches against each other, yknow?? also timmy fans, you're literally winning SO MUCH recently, like dom is not coming for timmy's crown or whatever, chill tf out

anyway. those are my thoughts. you're welcome to yours. :)

[basedkikuenjoyer]

A Tale of Two Hannya: Art Imitates Life

These are always kind of a trickier beast to write because by design the comparison casts a more negative light on a popular character. But they tend to be well received. Living near the path of peak totality for the big US eclipse, had me wanting to finish this one sitting in my drafts because well...we have both sun & moon themes as well as a dynamic of "upstaging" each other. Which is kinda cool. I really do think, when taken together, Kiku & Yamato give you one of the most interesting dynamics in this massive series despite the two faces almost never appearing together.

Let's step back a little though. Why? Why would our author structure so much of Luffy's story in Wano through the top two new faces for the arc? Almost splitting Luffy's story in half with mirror opposites; humble and helpful followed by flashy yet flawed. Pitting organic bonding against the spotlight. A very straightforward and earnest trans woman foiled by a deliberately inconsistent and ambiguous character falling somewhere you'd call transmasculine. Our Crane Wife and our Dragon's King's Daughter, forget the plot of One Piece for a moment...what's the reflection of our world they mirror?

As gross as it is to compare oneself to Doflamingo, I promise I'm going somewhere with this. And, to be fair I can think of a few specific people who'd make that type of comparison about me. I like to think I use my powers for good, but anyone with them would say that. Touched on it a little with the Otohime side story but over the 2010s I had my little strings in just about every corner of LGBT activism throughout a region that's now a solid gay haven in a conservative state. For the first half of that decade, it was thrust upon me because people saw how solid a representative a young, cute, well-spoken lady would be at diffusing old stereotypes. An MA in Political Science helped too.

Because it's currently Ramadan still, I'd like to share one story I feel was a high watermark and how it rippled in a way that is gonna shape my outlook here. When I noticed there was a shift. One I felt trepidation about aspects of initially and today feel vindicated seeing how Gen Z views their elders. It was Ramadan a fair few years ago now, while part of a board for something I got to know a local Muslim leader and his wife. They were used to inviting other community leaders to join them for Iftar, the fast-breaking meal. They wanted to show their young progressive members they were listening and respectfully invite someone trans, remember these are often very sex-segregated places. Even if there were some livid hardliners most of the women really liked me and you could tell it meant a lot to some of the older teen girls who really wanted to square more progressive beliefs with their faith.

Late 2010s, so if I told you there was backlash in queer circles guess who. More or less entirely people who'd fit that college radfem to transmasc mold. "I'd have gone to the women's side in solidarity and liberated those oppressed women being soo radical." "Don't you think what Rhea did was you know, kinda problematic? If I have to explain to you how it's low-key cultural appropriation I don't even..." "They only picked her because she acts like a little Barbie doll." Yes, that last one is peak feminism. They can call me wicked if they want; at least I was called to serve while they were all just rabble-rousers who decided they were the only morally pure enough ones to be local leaders. That's what this was all about, politics.

If you ask me personally about the current state of trans movements? It kinda comes down to that. Most Milennials, trans women, men, & even nonbinary folk, tend to use the community as a temporary safe haven but acceptance has come far enough it tends to stay temporary. Gender is but one aspect of our identity, the hugbox and group chats about pronouns only really feel like they're giving you something for so long. The holdout? In my experience that tends to be trans men or transmasc enbies who took a half-step before coming out in the relative privilege of radical feminist spaces offering a little space within. I don't have a whole lot of animosity towards these guys...it just feels like sometimes it becomes all of our problem when that radfem space pumped you full of a distorted vision of "male privilege" and you feel jilted you didn't get that by waking up one day and saying you are now man.

Was Eiichiro Oda going for all that? Fuck no. I was a longtime leader of a local movement, he's a cis author on the outside looking in. Better way these two make sense is more an author being aware enough (Japan had a similar trajectory over the last decade) these two serve well as standins for the extremes of what a teen today sees about this transgender community. Okama type caricatures just don't work anymore. Transmasc nearing 30 who feels like they don't even know what they want? Playing word games that feel like you never stopped and thought how they'd sound to other people? Chasing an idealized version of masculinity? It's not exactly an uncommon sentiment. It's a side-effect of finally getting that long sought visibility...scrutiny goes hand in hand.

It's a Tale of Two Hannya because it's weaving in the story of one community experiencing a Tale of Two Movements. Two movements that are at times diametrically opposed (foes). That's where the upstaging or "eclipse" aspect comes in. The way beats for one influence the other even without trying. Why Yamato's the one trying to find a place and Kiku's already dealing with average pressures of being a woman. Regardless of how you feel about that personally, you have to at least acknowledge this is the general impression teens today seem to have. Hypothetically, you could get the same effect between a more clear-cut trans man and someone kinda like Kamatari.

Ultimately, Wano is about who we are vs the roles we play. We see other places where themes of just saying you fill a role doesn't mean you are. I've said Yamato's a gentle critique of the extreme "you are what you say your are" side of trans movements. I understand why people would want to see things that way, but gender is a social phenomenon. For the record, I do think it low-key radiates dude energy to not care about shit like cannonballing tits out into the main bath, no one should have to act a certain way and all that. But it's a good pair for demonstrating where we're at in general. The emotions they evoke out of readers are a good reflection of where young men are kinda at on all this trans stuff. And both are still portrayed as cool, friendly people. But I do see where it's coming from when Oda shifts that classic immaturity element from Kiku more to Yamato.

[shadowedvales-a]

so… in the extra canon of stranger things (specifically the comics i’m mentioning), it was initially brenner’s idea/plan to kill off the other test subjects because they weren’t performing as well as eleven was. it was his best solution because that way, all the resources, time, and money could instead be placed only to her. and i just…. sure henry is a fine character and the massacre makes a lot of sense to me, but i think i am once again gonna change up my canon to actually fit this potential narrative instead. because,

i genuinely think the comic canon of the lab and brenner is far more intriguing than the show. everything with 9/9.5, ricky, and francine. eleven being the only one who grew up completely in the lab. those other kids were either volunteers, well into their teens, or had some semblance of a home life. eleven was the only one practically moulded from the womb. and they all had such a range of interesting powers. i firmly stand with the idea that jane is the only one who can contact the void.

brenner’s entire point of view on the lab subjects changed the second he found out terry was pregnant. he discovered he could steal this baby and make her his own. there would be no convincing the child because it’s all she would have ever known. because of this, i would not put it past a man like brenner to kill the other subjects for the sake of the “greater good” aka eleven. eleven’s gifts just continue thriving beyond his wildest expectations. brenner would never dare assume that having moulded her from the womb, she would still be able to grow into her own person, her own mind, and one day be able to see him for exactly who he was.

back before season four aired, it was obvious there were other test subjects because jane was 011. so there were at least ten kids before her. but i always liked the idea/assumed that she was the last experiment because she was the most successful. that they didn’t need anyone after her because she was fulfilling everything they set out for her to do. with flying colours.

i just think the whole rainbow room, pitting the kids against each other thing… been there, done that. i think at this point my portrayal of her time in hawkins lab really stems from the complete isolation she endured. where having the rainbow room, although eleven was obviously the most isolated out of the kids, brings that sense of community and sister/brotherhood. albeit extremely warped and toxic. knowing that she wasn’t alone in that experience just. doesn’t sit well with me. i think it’s important to note that she was alone, physically and mentally. which is why kali is also so important to her growth.

i genuinely thought a lot of the flashbacks of her time in the lab during season four was really boring, repetitive, and just very predictable.

although peter becoming vecna was a surprise to me, and was a nice little twist, the idea of her having an ally on the inside was really interesting. maybe they did get as far as they do in canon, peter ballad was telling the truth about everything, about some of the workers there being prisoners like him, and he really wanted to get her out and to safety. but before they can escape through the pipes, they’re caught. peter is shot on the spot, and eleven is put into the isolation room for a few days as punishment. in this instance, henry would be vecna, but henry would not be peter ballad.

when eleven turned seven, and was already showing extreme promise, where the other children were average at best, he had the eight children killed. kali had already escaped. this was the main cause for peter to gain eleven’s trust and try to get her out. because if brenner could murder his “children” in cold blood, there’s no way eleven was safe even in spite of her power.

when eleven is allowed out of the isolation room, her testing becomes more rigorous in attempt to distance and make her forget about what she attempted to do with peter. brenner begins gaslighting her, saying that there was never a peter, that she must have been dreaming. eleven does ask “papa” about “mama”, given peter told her of the day terry broke in the lab, but brenner is convincing enough to make eleven believe it was all in her head. say she is around eight years old, meaning the same timeline of season fours canon flashbacks.

i still do wanna keep the henry canon, and he could easily still be 001. brenner didn’t have him killed alongside the other test subjects, because who knows, one day he could become an even better asset than 011. brenner definitely wants to be able to control henry, but keeps the chip in him because, for the moment, doesn’t know how. killing him would be too big of a loss.

when eleven is ten years old, henry’s concealed powers break free and he manages to get the chip out himself, and unleashes hell onto hawkins lab. he almost kills brenner by snapping his bones, but eleven manages to stop him. her extreme abilities are unleashed, and she sends henry to the upside down. she does fall into a coma due to the extremity of the situation, but she does not forget what happened. brenner believes she’s the perfect weapon as she stepped in to save him without a second thought, was able to defeat henry, and opened a door to something he never thought possible. eleven is rewarded for her efforts. although she remembers the entire battle / confrontation, her memories regarding the portal are very hazy. brenner decides not to focus on the portal straight away, instead gets her training harder and harder to see what else she can accomplish. also loved the idea of brenner sending her into the void to “look for him” so that will definitely be kept.

by the time she escapes and season one begins, her knowledge of the upside down is basically what we see in canon. because she passed out the moment after she sent henry away, she was once again gaslighted into believing she merely threw him through the glass and killed him. for two years she believed this, until making contact with the demogorgan, and those memories return completely.

although henry offering eleven a place at his side wouldn’t be canon, he would definitely still look at her as an enemy for basically stopping his revenge. AND the whole speech between he and jane never sat right with me. jane telling him that brenner hurt him, made him what he was etc. Like. No? henry was a sociopath. he killed his family. in this one instance, brenner didn’t do anything to make him who he was. so jane always saw him for exactly who he was, and there’s absolutely no sympathy there.

[transhawks]

My comment was not directed entirely at you sorry for the confusion it was mostly about horis wording and how he handled act 3 I completely understand your analysis on it it just that the fandom and other hawks fans love to minimize what he has done while bringing excuses or babyfying him instead of doing proper analysis on his character sorry for the confusion

Then please go talk to those Hawks stans. You're preaching to the choir here.

I'm barely considered a Hawks stan, we all know this. I don't go a week without finding someone random who I have never seen in my life has me blocked because I'm mean to my blorbo and like being honest about Hawks being fucked up, even appreciate and stan him for the worst of him. Like if you're trying to convince someone, the person who used to scream all 2020 that hawks stans were cop apologists (not that I should have tbh) is not the person you need to convince about what Hawks did being wrong.

And finally, again, I disagree about Hori. I would have agreed two years ago but we've gotten:

Keigo yelling his fucking head off while looking deranged that they need to "kill them all (twice)":

Keigo outright telling us he likely had Twice's body destroyed right after the raid like that shit is fucking normal.

Horikoshi illustrating that Keigo's "tells" in mental illness are connected to his eye size which made the Hawks "optimist" comment clearly delusional in retrospect since the panel shows his voice as shaky and his eyes as uneven, and the anime doubles down on how insincere he is on this.

The anime choosing to portray Keigo's discussion on Jin and desire to help Endeavor as ominous and menacing when the scene was at most ambiguous in the manga. There's no reason it was animated like that unless someone directly told the composer and staff it was not meant to be a hopeful scene for him.

Horikoshi's deliberate pitting of All For One and Hawks against each other - All For One who complains he's amoral when he's actually extremely immoral and a liar. And Keigo who commits immoral acts for what he believes are moral reasons. Both characters are shown to have fairly delusional and warped perceptions of reality.

Horikoshi deciding to consistently have Keigo and now Inasa wounded in the exact same area. Keigo was wounded in the middle of his forehead twice. Both characters are now "literally seeing red" after being struck in the place of the Ajna/Daisanome/Third Eye which deals with perception.

I'm just saying, there's such an eagerness to think Horikoshi isn't slowly leading into something with Keigo when if you look back, it's clear he's leading us somewhere. If you expect to be disappointed by Horikoshi, you will be.

[souryogurt64]

SWMRS posted a video. Lydia is a fucking liar. If she was such a victim and cared so much, then the whole “post about the regrettes on your story so I don’t go public” thing…sick to my fucking stomach. Fuck her for ruining their lives. Clearly attention was all she was after. She was either going to get it by then promoting her, or by coming up with a bullshit story

I didn’t watch the video because I want to move on with my life but my best friend did for me and apparently they were saying that handjobs and blowjobs aren’t sex or sexual.

I have made the decision for myself that rock music is something I love, even if a lot of rock stars perpetrate or make excuses for abuse of women and girls. I understand that decision is not for everyone and people may not like me because of it but it’s a decision I’ve made.

SWMRS and the Burger scene as a whole sold the whole rock and roll experience to people as that but feminist and safe for teenagers. It was very disingenous and cruel. What I’m about to say is not about just SWMRS, it’s about the entire scene.

I never experienced anything directly sexually inappropriate with a band guy but during that time in my life I was routinely bullied and humiliated as an interviewer by both bands and security, there was so much catcalling, and I fainted and (probably) cracked ribs in the pit due to a crush injury. I don’t consider any of those things to be that big of a deal for me personally, but these shows were the same as any other rock concert except we were being spoon fed this lie that everyone there was our best friend and so nice and we were so safe and we would pick each other up when we fell and everyone was this social justice warrior that was looking to uplift young women.

It left a lot of us very confused and vulnerable and naive and too trusting because we would walk out of these shows where wasted band guys were babbling onstage about safety and beating the shit out of and killing abusers only to have their BFF merch guys and opening bands call us whores. I was just getting started as an interviewer and I would leave these shows where everyone was talking about respect and unity and feminism and the bands would be so cruel to me and each other in interviews and security would scream in my face that I wasn’t allowed backstage because I was a woman and then I’d walk in on the lead singer with some random girl up against a wall or something and then I’d leave the show hearing people outside the venue and sometimes the band’s staff screaming sexual threats and degrading comments and following teenage girls around.

It was like any other rock concert except we were all being systematically defanged and lured into being trusting and having our guard taken down. It was just unbelievable.

SWMRS were the worst offenders at positioning themselves as these pop punk saviors and protectors They were giving these speeches about literally killing abusers and passing out zines about consent and now they’re pretending they don’t even understand age of consent laws or the fact that blowjobs and dry humping or whatever is sexual activity.

It was incredibly dishonest, and incredibly evil. No one really gives a shit about Lydia or her actual feelings, but the reason she came forward was because of this exact thing. Not anything else— because of the hypocrisy and two-faced evilness. These bands were the first to turn on their friends the second people went down for whatever allegations even though they knew they were also guilty. Cole was on his moral high horse firing off tweets about being so disappointed in The Frights when he knew Lydia was about to go public.

And now this band that championed social justice and feminism and consent for years are siding with Johnny Depp and pretending blowjobs aren’t sexual to create some weird loophole. It’s just disgusting.

I can stomach shitty ass rock dudes in shitty ass rock bands acting the way they’ve always acted and will always act, but the dishonesty is so repulsive. It’s why Lydia came forward and why SWMRS will never be able to recover. Even if Lydia made everything up, they’re still showing that hypocrisy with their 180 degree turn on consent and feminism the second it benefits them, just like they turned on their friends when it benefited them even though they also knew their careers were going to be nuked. And even now they’re being dishonest by trying to present the band as just Max and Cole on the surface when Joey is clearly still a part of it.

P. S. Personally, this made me believe that all men are the same and this won’t ever change— Two of Lydia’s biggest supporters are her current boyfriend, Dylan Minette of Wallows/13 Reasons Why, and her father. Dylan also got with her when she was underage and there’s rumors he yells at her and hits on other girls in front of her in public. Her father is a very vocal Johnny Depp supporter. Billie Joe used to be known as one of the most feminist/egalitarian band dudes but he released a song literally calling Lydia a cunt. A cunt. And his best friend Jesse Malin owns the Bowery Electric where SWMRS announced their show.

P. S. S. Cole personally sent me a very cruel and manipulative letter that was designed to pull at my emotions while also being very hollow and disingenuous.

EDIT: I have apparently been wrong about the cunt song 😔

[theroyalsims]

BREAKING: CROWN PRINCESS BREAKS SILENCE, MAKES PASSIONATE SPEECH IN SUPPORT OF SISTER, OTHER VICTIMS OF PHOTO LEAK SCANDAL

A pre-taped message from Her Royal Highness The Crown Princess was shown on multiple television network prior to the evening news.

The roughly 5-minute clip shows The Crown Princess, dressed in a blue blouse, standing behind a podium at the Palace’s press room. Here is a transcript of  her statement released in full:

“This month, several Brindleton public figures, myself included, have been the subject of a horrible and disgusting scandal, where our private photographs, videos, and messages were released to the public.

As much as I would like to remain quiet and hope that all will eventually be forgotten, I realised that if there ever was a ‘right’ time to speak, it would be now. I stand before you now not only to defend myself, but for others as well, especially those who are not in the position to do so themselves. 

All this intrusion has caused pain and grief for so many people. It has ruined relationships. It has torn families apart. This vile obsession with gossip has destroyed lives. 

Years of malicious rumours, pitting sisters against each other, have left my sister and I in tatters. It started when we were children - who wore the better dress, who has the higher grades, who has better hair - and it has since haunted us throughout our adult lives. Countless stories have been published - some so fanciful, it might as well be in children’s story books - telling nothing but lies and half-truths. But these little “stories” have done so much damage to an entire family. As they say, if you repeat a lie often enough, people will eventually believe it and accept it as fact. In reality, there is no villain or hero in our story. There’s only us, two sisters trying to find our way through this crazy life we were born into, and because of all the false narratives and speculation, Eleanore and I will never be the same. 

If the intention was to embarrass me by releasing my private photographs, then your efforts have been futile. I am not ashamed of those photos. They were taken at happy moments in my life, when I was in healthy, happy relationships, and I will forever be grateful of those memories. However, the fact that they, along with my private messages, have been made public without my knowledge and consent is a gross invasion of my privacy. It is not only illegal, but it is also immoral, and I hope that the person or persons responsible will be brought to justice soon. 

I am used to public scrutiny. The position I have comes with privilege and duty, but it also comes with a burden, that is, my life will never really be mine. I have long accepted that I will never know what it will be like to have a quiet life, a peaceful life. I will always be followed, photographed, and picked apart. People - strangers - will judge me for things I have or have not done. But despite it all, I welcome those challenges wholeheartedly, as I know that they are far outweighed by the opportunities I have been given. In having my platform, I am able to reach out. I am able to help others. I am able to serve my people. That, to me, is worth all the difficulties I am set to face. 

However, in my heart of hearts, I have one wish. One singular wish. I wish that the public will finally realise that my sister and I are people; people capable of being hurt and feeling pain. We are not mere ideas of who people think we should be. And it is my sincerest hope that we be afforded the tiniest bit of respect, and with it, even the tiniest bit of privacy. 

Thank you.”

The speech marks the first time The Crown Princes has personally addressed rumours. Anya is notorious for being an “ice queen” who is known for keeping her cool and staying quiet, shrugging off rumours and scandals thrown at her. However, it looks like Anya as finally reached her limit. 

In issuing the statement, the Crown Princess has confirmed the authenticity of the photos and the messages. Her Royal Highness has also seemed to confirm her falling our with her sister, Eleanore. 

The Palace has also confirmed this morning that legal action has been taken, and similar transgressions will not be taken lightly. 

[reikunrei]

I’ve said this a hundred times before but I’m always thinking about how odd it is that so many people insist that henry/vecna/one are these intrinsically evil characters who don’t deserve any understanding toward their actions/circumstances when. the show is literally telling us to be compassionate toward them?

a child was struggling in life. he tried to escape his circumstances because he felt he was in danger. he was then kidnapped by the creepiest man in the world, squirreled away in a secret lab, branded, bred, chipped, and tortured for over 20 years… and even if this child grew up to be someone to commit mass murder, why don’t people see this situation for the tragedy it is? why is it so hard to understand that he was pushed to this point, not that he was going to do this from the start?

you can get on your high horse all you want and claim that you would never snap like that if you were kidnapped branded bred chipped and tortured in a secret underground lab with no one in the outside world knowing you were still alive for over 20 years. but tbh. I would kill some people too if it meant I had a chance to get out of there. if I thought doing that would grant me my freedom, as well as the freedom of other victims (remember, it’s clear that in some way one thought he was saving the lab kids/they weren’t actually gone) then yeah I’d fucking take it

now, does someone deserve forgiveness for killing dozens of people, including children? no, not for those actions. that’s still a fucked up thing to do, obviously

but that’s not what I’m talking about. I’m talking about how so many people seem to have forgotten who brenner is. the dude kidnaps (or breeds) kids and forces them to do his bidding under threat of torturous punishment. he never gives any of the kids proper support, and that includes henry and any other version of him that may have existed

we’re shown henward being scared of brenner when he’s being tattooed. we’re shown el being wary of brenner in the lab. we’re shown her defying his commands (ie. not killing the cat) and him retaliating with torturous punishment (ie. isolation, electrocution). we’re shown her (and one) calling hnl a prison. we’re shown how competitive the lab was between el and her siblings, and them ganging up on each other/brenner pitting them against one another

not to mention that henward had a whole childhood outside of the lab and knew what he had been taken from, and as he grew up he would have known all of the milestones that he was missing by being trapped in hnl. he would be aware of the potential for the real life he could have had. anyone would be more than bitter about that

sooo again, why exactly is henry/vecna/one the big bad when brenner is right there with his fingers stuck in the guts of everything smearing blood all over the walls because he’s too busy having fun to care about what consequences his actions might bring?

and yes, the show is presenting everything as if henry=vecna=one and that he did do everything he’s being accused of. but folks loooove to say that st is all about subverting common tropes. so why can’t that be happening here too? why does this hodgepodge of information have to be so cut and dry when the veneer can be scratched off with just your fingernail to reveal the frankenstein’s monster of mismatched pieces that it is underneath?

the show is screaming at us, both in subtle and blatant ways (how many times does it have to be said in the script that not everything is black and white before people take it to heart), that nothing is as it seems. that something weird is going on and things aren’t adding up. that just maybe maybe maybe we should feel bad for this kid who was forced to become a monster because nobody would listen otherwise

it was so obvious to me when I first watched st4 that we were meant to see that el could have become a “vecna” if she didn’t get the love and support that she received. and that will could have become a “vecna” if he was never saved from the ud. and if henward had received the love and care that those two kids did, he probably would have turned out just like them. but he didn’t. and it’s a tragedy to see what could have been, and how quickly it was all snatched away

…….. but people refuse to acknowledge that, and continue to tout that henward is a born-and-raised monster who was never deserving of kindness like his protégé(s)?

we have no idea what’s going on, but that also means we can’t take the portrait of this “villain” at face value. not when every core aspect of the show is telling us the exact opposite