#or drawing someone the same way every time

[acrosstheujiverse]

About Last Night…

【📂】 summary: every time you drink with choi seungcheol, you ask the same question—“what do you think of me?”—and every time, he laughs it off with a smile and calls you his precious friend. you pretend it doesn’t hurt. but after one blurry night that you can’t quite remember, everything starts to shift. he looks at you differently. lingers longer. and maybe, just maybe, he’s been waiting for you to ask him the same question—sober. 【🖇️】 pairing: oblivious!seungcheol x flustered!reader. 【💿】 genre: friends to lovers, slow burn, FLUFF (with emotional tension). 【🧺】 tags: mutual pining; drinking; drunken confessions; drunken kiss; teasing; soft angst; idiots in love; DIMPLES; (slight) jealousy. 【��】 w/c: 2.4k+

📬 — author’s note ！i wrote this back in 2022 (11.05) and i'm FINALLY releasing it. °՞(ᗒ╭╮ᗕ)՞°

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“earth to (y/n)~” 

you were staring again.

“if you stare any harder, he might catch on fire.”

hands cupped around your face, elbows resting on the cafeteria table, gaze glued to the boy sitting across from you.

“is this some kind of psychic courtship ritual?”

choi seungcheol.

your crush. your classmate. your friend. the worst combination of all three.

he was lazily spinning his drink bottle between his hands, distracted, and completely unaware that your brain was currently running a highlight reel of all the ways you had accidentally—but very much wholeheartedly—fallen in love with him.

he was good at everything: basketball, speeches, essays, leading your class like it was second nature. he was sharp, reliable, annoyingly handsome, and then, to balance it all out, he also whined like a toddler when he was hungry and sulked when someone beat him at cards.

he was so full of contradictions, so good at getting under your skin, and so stupidly oblivious to your feelings.

... or maybe he wasn’t. maybe he knew. but if he did, he sure as hell never acted on it.

“i swear, the way you look at him... if he doesn’t get the hint soon, i will start drawing hearts in his notebook for you.”

“shht–! don’t jinx it, jeonghan!” 

jeonghan’s words finally pulled you out of your trance.

you blinked, cheeks warming, and sat up straighter.

he chuckled, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe you, then let out a long, dramatic sigh. “why do i feel like i’m the third wheel here?”

you always picked him first for group projects. always sat beside him at lunch.

always ended up next to him during class outings, festivals, dinners, parties.

it wasn’t even a conscious choice anymore. it just happened.

people had started teasing you about it. you always brushed it off with a laugh—blaming familiarity, comfort, convenience. anything but the truth.

but the truth followed you anyway—especially when you drank.

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your hangout tradition with seungcheol was sacred. casual, cozy, and dangerously routine. cheap drinks, shared snacks, music humming low in the background, conversations that dipped in and out of serious and silly.

and every time you drank together, the same thing happened.

“cheol,” you slurred, cheeks warm, breath just a little too quick, “what do you think of me? do you... have feelings for me?”

you always asked that question. like clockwork.

and he always answered the same way. voice syrupy-sweet, tipsy grin stretching across his face.

“my (y/n)-ieee~ you’re a very precious friend of mine. i like you sooo much. my friend~ hehe.”

you wanted to scream.

friend. precious, sure. but friend.

you groaned, dropping your head onto the table. he flashed you those dimples — his signature, unfair, heart-ruining dimples.

those damn dimples. i should’ve brought shades so i wouldn’t have to see them, you thought, bitter and foggy.

“ugh. again?” jeonghan’s voice filtered in, dry and unsurprised.

he dropped into the seat beside you with all the ease of someone flipping open a well-worn book. he didn’t even bother pretending to be surprised anymore.

“jeonghaaan,” you mumbled, half-whine, half-sob. “i’m losing my mind…”

“you’re losing your liver first,” he said, plucking the drink from your hand like a babysitter. “and for what? the same damn heartbreak on loop?”

“well. i’m not gonna argue with a drunk person,” he added, patting your head like a tired cat. “but honestly, (y/n)... you do this every time.”

you turned your face slightly to glare up at him with bleary eyes. “’s not like i plan it…”

“but you do it,” he said, gently. “like muscle memory.”

you blinked slowly, words swimming. “maybe if he knew… maybe… maybe then…”

“what? he’d suddenly realize he loves you back?” jeonghan asked, not unkindly.

you winced. “that’s mean…”

“it’s honest,” he said. “and i’m saying it now while you’re too drunk to remember how mad it made you.”

you opened your mouth to argue, but the door opened.

familiar laughter. light, effortless.

your body stiffened. even drunk, even dulled, your senses still caught her the way a wound catches salt.

“uh-oh,” jeonghan muttered under his breath, sipping his drink like it was tea. “she’s here.”

younghee.

seungcheol’s childhood friend. the other person he was close to—so close it made something in your chest twist.

she breezed in like she owned the air around her, sliding into the seat beside him as if it were hers. her arm looped around his like it belonged there. her head rested easily on his shoulder.

he didn’t flinch. didn’t move away. just smiled—those dimples again—and let her stay.

your stomach twisted.

you told yourself it was fine. they were practically siblings. they'd known each other forever.

but she didn’t act like a sibling.

she touched him like it meant something. whispered things that made him laugh. she always knew where to stand, where to lean, how to fold herself into his space.

and the worst part? he let her.

he looked happy.

and it made you feel ridiculous. childish. petty.

but the jealousy still bubbled up anyway, thick and sour.

jeonghan followed your gaze, then sighed like this was his personal soap opera. “you really know how to pick a time for your breakdowns.”

“sh-she’s… so close,” you muttered, slumping further down into the table, as if it might swallow you whole.

“they grew up together,” jeonghan reminded you gently. “she’s always like that with him. it doesn’t mean—”

“i know,” you said, too quickly. too loud.

you winced at yourself, then tightened your grip on the edge of the table. “i know that. but…”

but you hated how easy it was for her. how she never had to wonder what she meant to him. how she wasn’t you.

“i feel like a joke,” you whispered.

jeonghan didn’t respond. didn’t need to. he just stayed beside you, one hand resting on your back. steady. quiet. there.

and across the table, seungcheol smiled like nothing had changed.

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jeonghan spotted you the moment he walked into the bar.

he didn’t even try to hold it in.

“oh, no way,” he laughed, loud enough for three tables to turn. “you’re actually wearing them.”

you didn’t look up. just raised your drink and sipped like nothing was out of the ordinary.

he slid into the booth across from you, eyes gleaming. “indoors, (y/n)? really? in public?”

“i’m committed,” you said coolly, pushing your sunglasses higher up the bridge of your nose.

“to being a menace?”

“to my healing.”

he snorted. “sure. healing from what? weaponized dimples?”

you didn’t respond—mostly because he was absolutely right.

and then, like fate had a sense of humor, seungcheol arrived. he placed his drink on the table, looked between the two of you, and paused.

“(y/n)... why are you wearing sunglasses? we’re indoors.”

you didn’t flinch. didn’t even blink. you simply pushed the frames higher up the bridge of your nose, silent.

he blinked at you, waiting.

you stared straight ahead, lips pressed into a flat line.

i shall never see those dimples of his ever again, you thought firmly. they’re simply too dangerous. i can’t take any chances. i might fall for him again… and again… and again.

he tilted his head, a lazy smile tugging at his lips. “you seriously not gonna answer?”

“they’re prescription,” you said flatly.

“prescription sunglasses?”

you shrugged. “light sensitivity.”

jeonghan snorted so loudly he nearly choked on his own spit. you kicked him under the table. he doubled over, wheezing.

“worth it,” he coughed, wiping a fake tear from his eye. “you’re so dramatic. god, it’s inspiring.”

seungcheol just laughed, flicking your forehead. “you’re unbelievable.”

“i’m a survivor,” you muttered. “barely.”

and like every other night before this one, you sank back into the comfort of routine.

still too scared to shatter it.

still too scared to see what might be waiting if you did.

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you cursed jeonghan silently as you stared at your phone.

jeonghan🍻: hey, i’m gonna have to bail tonight. not feeling great. sorry, (y/n).

you frowned but said nothing.

across the table, seungcheol picked up his phone, unlocking it without thinking. the group chat was open.

he cleared his throat and read aloud, amused: “‘guys, seriously sick. gonna crash early. no hangout for me.’”

you glanced at the screen just as seungcheol scrolled. the next messages appeared:

seungcheol🍒: dude, you ok? feel better soon. jeonghan🍻: thanks man. (y/n), you owe me one ;)

jeonghan always hated missing your hangouts—but he hated your tortured heart even more.

and you were certain: he bailed tonight on purpose.

to give you space. to give you a sign. to push you, silently, toward the confession you kept holding back.

you rolled your eyes, lips twitching at the thought of his sneaky little plan.

seungcheol looked up, flashing that lazy smile, dimples and all.

“guess it’s just us then.”

you nodded, heart thudding, knowing tonight wouldn’t be like any other night before.

a few drinks in, you settled into the booth beside him, closer than usual. your knees brushed under the table, a quiet spark passing between you. your hand hovered near his, fingers twitching, until your pinky grazed his. once. twice.

on the third touch, your finger lingered.

his eyes found yours—steady, patient. you held his gaze.

“i think i’m gonna kiss you,” you breathed, voice barely louder than the music.

his breath caught too.

no laughter. no teasing. only a quiet, “then do it.”

your lips met clumsily, soft and short. a spark ignited—something crackled beneath your skin.

your heartbeat thundered in your ears.

instead of pulling away, your eyelids grew heavy. your head tilted, settling gently against seungcheol’s shoulder.

he let out a faint chuckle, warm and quiet, as you slowly slipped into sleep.

his fingers found yours under the table, squeezing softly, like he didn’t want to disturb the fragile moment.

“sleep tight, (y/n),” he whispered.

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you woke up the next morning with a pounding headache and one vivid flash burning behind your eyelids—the kiss.

your phone buzzed sharply against the table.

seungcheol🍒: we’re still on tonight, right? usual spot.

you stared at the screen, heart pounding. panic bloomed in your chest.

was it real? or just a drunken dream?

“ughhh,” you groaned, running a hand through your hair. “why don’t i remember?! this can’t be happening!”

you promised yourself you’d stay sober.

but one drink turned into two. the two became three. and somewhere in the blur of warm lights and soft laughter, you asked again, voice barely steady: “cheol… what do you think of me?”

he tilted his head, eyes amused but serious. “you always ask me that.”

you blinked, confused. “what?”

“every time we drink,” he said, voice low. “you ask me that question.”

your heart skipped a beat. “and you always say the same thing.”

he smiled, but it was small. almost sad. “do i?”

you stared at him, desperate. “cheol…”

then a flicker of mischief crossed his face—a smirk just barely there—and you pointed at him, eyes wide. “YAH—CHOI SEUNGCHEOL!! you remember something, don’t you?!”

“maybe.”

you rolled your eyes. “i hate you.”

“no, you don’t.”

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you were already seated when he walked in—library quiet, sun warm across your table. he waved at you, dropped his bag into the chair across from yours, and settled in like it was routine. like this was just another afternoon.

his phone buzzed.

he glanced down, smiled faintly, and picked it up. “hey, younghee. yeah, no, i can’t today. rain check?”

a pause.

“mhm. okay. take care, kid.”

he hung up, set his phone down, and turned back to you.

your expression must’ve betrayed you—because something in his eyes changed. softened. sharpened. knowing.

“what?” he asked.

you shook your head. “nothing.”

he tilted his head. “you’ve always been weird about her.”

“i’m not—”

“you are,” he said, without judgment. “and it’s okay.”

you stayed quiet, unsure if denying it again would make it worse.

“she’s like family to me,” he continued. “like a little sister. not someone i’ve ever liked like that. not even close.”

your breath stalled.

“but you…” he looked at you then, really looked. “you’re not like that.”

you blinked.

“just wanted you to know,” he said softly. “i figured maybe that’s something you needed to hear before anything else.”

the warmth in your chest spread slowly.

quiet. certain.

you nodded. “thank you.”

he smiled.

“now,” he said, leaning back, “wasn’t there something you wanted to ask me?”

and so you did. “cheol?”

“yeah?”

you took a breath. “what do you think of me?”

he set his pen down. leaned back. looked at you fully. “don’t ask me again unless you want the truth.”

your heart skipped. “…i do.”

his smile was soft, almost shy—but it didn’t waver. “then here it is: i’ve been falling for you for a long time.”

your fingers trembled slightly on the table, still curled around your iced coffee. your heartbeat was wild in your chest.

he wasn’t teasing. wasn’t hiding behind dimples or laughter.

just him.

and his answer.

“you’re not drunk, right?” you whispered.

“not even a sip.”

you nodded slowly. “good.”

“you okay?” he asked.

“yeah.” you let out a shaky smile. “just... kinda hard to believe i’m not imagining this.”

his hand brushed over yours, warm and steady. “you’re not imagining it.”

you laughed under your breath. “can i say something embarrassing?”

“please do.”

“i’ve liked you for so long it stopped feeling like a crush. it was just... you. always you. all the time. everywhere.”

his grip tightened gently. “you think that’s embarrassing?”

you looked up. “it’s not?”

“(y/n)...” he leaned in. “i’ve been waiting for you to ask me sober.”

you blinked.

he smiled. “you asked so many times when you were tipsy. i wanted to answer differently. but i didn’t want you to forget.”

“i’m not gonna forget this time,” you said, voice steady.

“good.”

and then—finally—he kissed you.

not clumsy. not rushed. not a maybe.

his lips found yours with quiet certainty. it was soft, slow, but deepened like gravity had always been pulling you toward this moment.

your fingers curled into the sleeve of his hoodie. his hand cupped the back of your neck.

and when he pulled back, just barely, his voice dropped: “no more pretending, okay?”

you smiled.

“okay.”

- fin.

[...epilogue]

[priisprii]

Insatiable — K.MG & C SC

Summary :Mean mean assholes.

Warnings: dom! Seungcheol,dom! Mingyu, sub!fem reader, blow job, handjob, reader's crop top used as a blindfold, degradation,face slapping, cum swallowing, tit pinching, they are mean but you like them mean :3

Word count: 1.8 k

Read the warnings and click at your own risk and minors don't interact.

mingyu and seungcheol are two simple guys with same fucked up mentality and fantasies. they encourage each other run after things they desperately want no matter how wrong it is. They support each other. It's simple.

And you?

You were obsessed with both of them,not just at surface level like memorising thier hangout places and lurking around there or stalking them on social media. Yeah you did that all but it wasn't enough to satisfy your hunger for them.

You meticulously planned coincidence after coincidence, enrolling into the same classes as them, showing up at every party they would be and what not. To the outside world it would seem a series of coincidence just like you hoped but mingyu and seungcheol aren't as stupid and oblivious as you think they are. They know you were embodiment of lady Gaga's song paparazzi.

Seungcheol wanted to maintain distance from you, according to him you weren't the of girl who would be interested in his and mingyu's ways of mind breaking and ruining the girls they bring to bed. Too vanilla he says, how fucking wrong he was. Mingyu helped him change his mind, he knew you were a sick in the head pervert; just like them and you were expert of hiding that side of you behind your innocence filled eyes.

Nevertheless, three of you got what you all always searched for. You —two hot guys with mean and dirty mouths and huge dicks and them; a girl who is just abnormally obsessed with them. They can sometimes be the sweetest people in your life, catering to your every need, providing you with everything you demand, sometimes sneakily beating up your professor cause' he graded your paper unfairly, seungcheol never holding back a punch on guys who eyed you even for a second and mingyu pirating endless movies for you to watch in your free time. They were everything you ever wished for.

♥

A stinging slap was delivered on your face, the impact of it making you come back from your haze. Your eyes were covered with some rag which happened to be your favourite top — until seungcheol decided to tear it off.

"want us to find some other slut who can actually suck a cock properly?" Mingyu asked. annoyed.an underlying threat clear in his voice. you wanted to argue, scream and cry. your throat was all bruised up —a consequence of them using your mouth like a fleshlight from the past half an hour. they sat comfortably on couch playing whatever shitty game you had no idea about while passing you around between them like a cigarette, your knees burning and on the verge of giving up.

Body decorated with their cum, hair, chest, stomach, any part —you name it. Those sadistic assholes can't seem to get tired no matter what.sitting next to each other and conversing about all the fucked up things they are about to do with you, things that would land them in prison for sure but the worst part was—you loved it , loved each and every word, syllabus, command and insult they directed towards you, you loved it more than they could ever.

"Mingyu, be kind, That's not how we treat our fuck toys" seungcheol chides , but you could feel he's just being pretentious and you were right cause' just after few seconds you felt somone back handing you, not with sheer strength but enough to draw out a choked moan out of your lungs. "See that's how you treat erm" seungcheol chuckles followed by mingyu. They were enjoying this a little too much, having someone like you who's far too gone to think straight and allow them to treat you like an absolute rag doll. It's so fun for them to see you breaking down over and over.

Someone bought your mouth closer to their cock, again, probably Mingyu . You weren't even able to smell the cum or his scent, nose too blocked and runny— completely useless. "Now be a good and useful cock sleeve"

You nod aimlessly, licking your lips in anticipation.that wasn't enough for Mingyu though "words dollface ,words" he commands, tightening his grip around your hair. You let out a choked yes and it was enough for Mingyu to get started with you yet again.

"so beautiful yet so filthy" mingyu grunts, outlining your lips with tip of his cock, faintly coating them with your existing spit and cum. once he was satisfied enough he slapped it few times on your cheek "Need you to choke on it" , forcing his dick into your mouth, a choked noise escaped your throat as he buried himself deep touching the back of your throat roughly, he threw his head back, moaning in pure ecstasy .

He continued with his cruel pace, thrusting his hips upwards making you constantly gag and choke around his length , drool pooling around his balls. Your nails were digging into his muscular thigh, anchoring yourself with help of it as you couldn't feel any sensation in your body except the cries of your pussy —begging to be filled up with anything,cock, fingers, dildos it doesn't matter the emptiness was almost painful, clenching around air helplessly.

"mingyu slow down, she will pass out I don't wanna fuck unconscious body" seungcheol complains from side, half focused on the game and half on the porn show happening beside him. He's no better than mingyu, even worse sometimes, when seungcheol is frustrated, he takes it on you— in the most delicious way possible. Landing slaps on your ass and cunt till it's red and swollen up or making you gag around your own panties, his strange obsession with challenging you to be silent while he ruins your insides. Yeah he's no better than mingyu.

the prospect of your passed out body being used by these two men is extremely hot and intense. having your pleasure completely disregarded and thrown out ,just being a real fleshlight for their big and veiny cocks. You need to talk about this some other time with them.

"hyung, can't help it— her mouth is so warm and wet almost as good as her tight cunt" mingyu whines, his cock twitching inside your mouth as his grip on your hair becomes more rigid , a clear sign of him being close. Something about having such a big guy like Mingyu whining because of you makes your chest tight with emotion similar to happiness and pride.

Seungcheol throws the gaming console somewhere, the loud thud echoing in your ears. He takes your hand and spits on it generously before bringing it to his cock , making you wrap your palm around it, his own palm wrapped around yours. In your head which is floating in another dimension this is practically intertwining hands. almost romantic.

"you feel it baby? How hard I am? It's your fucking fault. parading around us in your slutty outfits. told you to wait for few minutes but you just don't understand " seungcheol sneers, biting his lips remembering how they even got you like this in the first place. Teasing them while they were deeply engrossed in their game, hands reaching down your shorts threatening to touch their property, that made them snap.

you whined against Mingyu's cock, sending vibrations down his spine, he pulled your head back, only his tip remaining in your mouth before slamming you down against his length in a quick motion, making you gag uncomfortably, he kept you like that, his unforgiving grip on your hair making you unable to move while seungcheol made you give him a hand job, guiding each of your moments. You were overwhelmed, not sure where to focus; on Mingyu's pulsating length or Seungcheol's painfully hard cock, unsure whether to cry or scream, eyes blinded by the blindfold.

"fuck cumming" Mingyu slurred thrusting his hips upwards one last time before cumming inside your mouth. Ropes of thick, creamy white pooling around your tongue.

" Dare you waste any drop slut" Mingyu rasps still coming down from his high. " She won't gyu, she needs cum like oxygen, right slut?" Seungcheol comments, seeing you swallow his bestfriend's cum like your life depends on it while having you fist his cock with your tiny hand made him so feral, he has never had such a perfect girl at his disposal. Seungcheol found his own orgasm near but he didn't feel like wasting his cum , it belonged in deepest corner of your cunt.

Finally after few seconds or minutes mingyu decides to let you breathe, pulling you away from his cock. you look like you walked straight out his favourite porn; spit and cum smeared all over your face and dripping down your breast. he looks at seungcheol, both being proud of each other to see your defiled state. "Pathetic whore" seungcheol groans.

Seungcheol reluctantly lets go of your hand which was timidly rubbing against cock. He comes near, yanking the excuse of a blindfold off your face, sharp lights hitting you at once, vision blurry due to tears. Mingyu gathers the tears around your eye bags carefully scoops with his two fingers, then puts it in his mouth. The simple action making your pussy needy with desire.

"please touch me" you beg, voice unfamiliar to your own self. your knees finally give out, ass hitting the floor and sitting pathetically. Your headspace was all mushy and soft, blurry vision drinking up their visuals. their upper body was fully exposed,sweat glistening down their skin which you might lick happily if they gave you permission to do so. "touch me please, anyone" you whimpered again.

seungcheol hmms, like he's thinking deep about something before he smirks, getting down on the floor at your level . His hand moves to your exposed breast, carelessly pinching the perky sensitive nipple. "Poor baby, dying to have her desperate pussy filled" seungcheol sings in a patronizing way, continuing his cruel torture on your breast, cupping and pinching the poor bud till it turns into angry shade of red.

"mingyu what do you think? Should we fuck this slut or leave her here all exposed and dripping on the floor like a broken cum dump?" seungcheol leaves the question hanging in the air, slapping your right tit, an evil smirk dancing on his face.

"please, don't leave please I am —" your words were cut off by Seungcheol's slap on your cheek, eyebrow raised, looking at you with disapproving glare.

"are you mingyu dumb slut?" he asks, massaging the area he just hit previously.

"sorry" you mumble, voice barely audible.

Mingyu cooes, feeling bad for you, just a tiny bit, he gets down on the floor, pulling you closer, your back pressed to his chest. hand circling around your neck lightly.

"she's begging, it's only right decision to fuck her hyung till she's begging us to stop" mingyu says tightening his hold around your neck, hand moving down between your legs, moving between your folds and collecting your wetness. " she's so fucking wet" mingyu says, bringing his fingers up near seungcheol, which Seungcheol proudly puts in his mouth, groaning at your taste. He sucks them clean.

"let's take this to our bedroom" seungcheol says, he cups your cheek tenderly"shall we Love?" He asks, masking the lust behind his eyes, mind corrupted with all the possible positions he's about to put you in.You got yourself insatiable freaks who would always stay hungry for your taste.

A/N: I have so many evil ideas for this au .would you all like to read them?

[emily-escott]

Jedi Master Lene Kostana

I’ll admit, the format of Dooku: Jedi Lost was really hard for me to engage with. Because it reads like a script, it felt to me like all the characters were going 😐 at each other the whole time. I know I probably should have listened to it to get the full effect, but I have a really hard time locking in for audiobooks, even if it’s a whole production ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ it’s one of my flaws. But anyway! Lene is so fascinating to me because she really is cut from the same disaster cloth as Yoda’s lineage. Almost every decision she made had me going “why would you do that” or “thats just going to make things worse” but we really do love to watch someone who’s technically not wrong about the fate of the galaxy continuously make questionable choices that harm the ones they care for and undermine their reputation with the Council. It’s an age-old tradition.

Here’s my headcanons for her -

- After getting to know Thame Cerulian through their shared interest in the Sith, she initially viewed him as an irritating, pseudo-intellectual bother. His belief that the Sith could return comes more from a place of (by her estimation) frivolous academic conjecture rather than actionable concern. However, when he’s offered a seat on the High Council, she realizes it could be advantageous to involve him in her research. He is incredibly knowledgeable, and as long as she puts up with him, he can intercept most of the prying questions from the Council. (To be clear, I don’t ship these two - Thame likes guys)

- She watches as Dooku, Sifo, and Jocasta all develop a big stupid crush on each other and goes out of her way to foster whatever that is. She does this largely because she thinks it’s cute, but also to confuse Thame and spite Yoda. Thame isn’t sure why these boys are always hanging out in his apartment, but he doesn’t really mind. Yoda knows exactly what’s going on, but is frankly relieved Dooku even has friends.

- While training Sifo, she quickly learns her words carry a lot of weight and anything she says could potentially end up being extremely impactful to her apprentice. This is advantageous most of the time - Sifo only needs to be told something once for the lesson to stick, and it warms her heart to see him basking in her praise, even over something small. The downside? Lene is horribly foul-mouthed, and Sifo is a sponge.

In terms of visual references, there’s obviously not much to go on. The book basically says she’s purple, she’s got a shaved head, and she has a curl of hair behind her right ear… The lil baby version of her in that one comic I haven’t read at least shows what the species looks like. @ junchan_nyan_art has a couple gorgeous drawings of younger Lene on insta, and @bolithesenate more or less captured how she looks in my mind! idk what the curl of hair behind her left ear is supposed to mean or look like. So I’m giving her a sick faux hawk. idc. I was pretty much happy with her design right off the bat, it just took a few drawings to really nail her features. What do we think, is this something?? I feel so late to the party. She’s been on my to draw list foreverrrrr but I just wasn’t getting around to reading the source material 💀 we’re really in serious blorbo territory now, this ain’t an entry level Star Wars blog anymore, if it ever was

[beast3end]

Happy birthday, my dear~

Summary: You were born as a soul jam for Virtue. You are their friend, mentor, and guiding light. You are closer than any other of the Virtues. You are the light, and they are your protectors. Characters: platonic!shadow milk & reader; platonic!burning spice & reader; platonic!mystic flour & reader; platonic!eternal sugar & reader. WC: 2,5k CW: gn!reader; there may be mistakes in the text because English is not my native language; light of knowledge!reader is very chatty; light of Change!reader is a bit toxic; Silent Salt will be added after their release.

The general beginning:

For the first time you wake up in someone else's arms: the heat scorches your cold body, and a quiet whisper penetrates into your very core, resonating, filling to the brim.

A figure made of the purest light is smiling — you can feel it because thin lips are touching your… body. Or something that can be considered one.

You don't remember anything, you're the snow-white first snow on the mountain tops: just as untouched and innocent.

But you know that this is not a kiss — life itself is being breathed into you.

"Nice to meet you, my dear," a voice sounds like the tinkling of bells. "I hope someday you will find the strength to forgive me. This is the best uniform I could make for you."

You want to reassure her that everything is fine. You can't move to stroke her warm light. You're shouting that you're not mad. But nothing works. Her don't hear you, or maybe they just ignore you. You can't understand — you can't see someone else's face.

"You will become a companion and a support for one cookie. Lead them by lighting their way with your power—don't let them get lost in what awaits them."

You swear, but your oath hangs in the air, unheard.

When her palms approach the baking tray, you see them: have cookies, sleeping peacefully and waiting in the wings. Four of them are decorated with large stones that began to twinkle and hum more and more the closer you got.

You got it.

You're just like them.

And you are destined the last cookie, still deprived of stone, future light.

It's like love at first sight.

Your body is heating up more and more with every second, now not you who's being burned, but about you. The impatience to cling to someone who would become your legs and arms almost sizzled inside you.

"Happy birthday, my dear light ◆◆◆◆◆◆…"

Shadow Milk:

Before he saw the other Virtues; before he heard the voice of the Witch of Life… His consciousness is shuddering from your excited voice, shouting "hello!!"

It was the speedrun of Virtue's acquaintance with his soul jam, congratulations to him.

He quickly realizes what it means to be a Virtue of Knowledge. You're quite talkative.

No, it's not like that.

You literally won't shut up.

"Shadow, what is this?" "Shadow, what do you think, how to do this?" "Shadow, why do they do it this way?"

Probably, if you had been in the wrong hands, everything would have ended badly. The same Burning Spice is not very patient — Shadow Milk has more than once caught moments when he openly cursed with his souljam. But he's not like that! In fact, being a Fount of Knowledge, he was delighted with your every question. You knew how to find a gap in everything and turn everything upside down.

Shadow Milk is a curious cookie. Curiosity was baked before he was — after all, how else can you gain knowledge without having an ounce of curiosity? But you're literally on another level. Maybe it's because you're not a cookie; maybe it's because you're the purest quintessence of what he's supposed to bring to the world. The question that was just beginning to form on his tongue, you already voiced it as if it were your breath.

Sometimes even the night itself wasn't a hindrance to you. You buzzed and scratched his mind from the inside, your insistent whisper of "Shadow, Shadow" pulled him out of the world of dreams.

"What is..?" "If we burn circles of filling, limiting and drawing mana from the moonlight on the bottom of the jug, we can make the jug fill on our own, but so that the contents do not spill out from the edges?" "There is only enough space at the bottom of the jug for two circles…" "And if we combine circles of restriction and mana drawing? Half of the symbols echo each other, and they also have a similar energy flow structure!" "…" "…" "It's useless, but let's try" "Yay, yes!!"

Without waiting for dawn, the Fount of Knowledge went to the library. He was looking for books that could be useful, and you remembered every article about double magic circles: how they work, what needs to be considered, how it affects the effectiveness of the spell.

Shadow Milk hated the session season as much as the students hated them. But he had one advantage that they didn't have: you.

"I don't know who wrote this nonsense, but he clearly has the brains of a chocolate frog." "Who do you have to be to confuse the circle of teleportation with the circle of summoning? Brave! Instead of escaping, this cookie will be able to throw her Pokemon into danger." "I don't know what kind of potion this cookie was trying to make, but it's tea. Shadow, don't laugh! It looks like tea, smells like tea, and I'm sure it tastes like tea too!.. Are you seriously drinking this?!"

The longer he lived, the more authoritative his words were. Every year, fewer and fewer cookies appeared ready to challenge him — they simply retreated, admitting defeat in an argument that had not even begun. This annoyed Shadow Milk. It annoyed you.

In the end, you were the only one who dared to try to change his mind about one thing or another. It wasn't always successful, but sometimes you won over him!

Eternal Sugar:

You didn't talk to her right away.

When Sugar of Happiness asks itself, "How can I make cookies happy?" you ask immediately, without hesitation, "What would make you happy yourself?"

Sugar of Happiness doesn't know. She, who had just been born, born for the mission of making others happy, did not know what happiness was.

"It's okay," you reassure her in a soft, warm voice. Your voice is gentle and caring, like a cloud of cotton candy, and Sugar of Happiness feels the anxiety dissipate in an instant. "We can figure this out together. Step by step. That's going to be our priority right now, because only a happy cookie can make everyone else happy, right?"

And that's how your journey began.

You pulled her along to meet the sunset on the hill. You offered her to try every food she could lay her eyes on. When you saw how some cookies taught young cookies to draw, you pushed her to test themselves in this.

Not every one of your ideas was successful. During some classes, the Sugar of Happiness fell asleep, she didn't like something else, and in the third she just couldn't see what you saw. And with every failure, you felt as if a crack appeared on your body, even though it wasn't.

"We've just wasted our time…" you muttered with guilt in your voice. Instead, you could have tried to find something else that would definitely make Sugar of Happiness happy! "I don't think so," Sugar of Happiness herself sings with a smile. "After all, we realized that it doesn't make me happy, right?"

In the end, the first thing that finally aroused interest in Sugar of Happiness is playing musical instruments. She was especially good at lyra. Sometimes she would sit in the town square and gather a crowd of cookies listening to her play. And you… as if under hypnosis, you started singing.

When this happens for the first time, Sugar of Happiness feels the lightness in her dough, as well as the warmth curling somewhere in the center of her chest. You notice it right away. Now, every time her fingers pluck the strings of the lyre, you sing. Only for her.

When the Garden of sweet Delights is ready, you congratulate her. The first step in realizing your mission has been accomplished. Now it's a small matter.

You are surprised to notice that Sugar of Happiness imitates you: she greets each cookie with a gentle, gentle voice; she helps each one find something to do in the Garden that makes the cookie happy. Someone likes to take care of flowers, someone likes to bake, someone has a rich imagination and a silver tongue.

She gives her all for the sake of others, stopping only when you insist on rest.

After all, Sugar's of Happiness mission is to make cookies happy, and yours is to make Sugar of Happiness happy.

Mystic Flour:

While the other Virtues managed to establish contact with their soul jams, you remained silent.

Mystic Flour felt your invisiblepresence. The power that you shared with her when she fulfilled the wish of another cookie was warm. But this feeling you of watching and studying her froze her fingers so much that sometimes she couldn't even bend them.

Anxiety ate the Mystic Flour from the inside out: don't you accept her? Maybe you're not rejecting her completely just because you two are connected because of the witches.

On the other hand, you were… at a complete loss.

Mystic Flour was a kind, gentle, and generous cookie. You, who were born as a guiding light for her, were just a ridiculous flicker of a candle. Flour itself was the light that one could blindly follow.

But at some point, it became impossible to remain silent. The cookies that followed her sometimes annoyed you with their frivolous desires. This time, as many as three of them clung to the Mystic Flour at the same time — everyone was sure that it was he who should be listened to first, and the rest could wait.

Mystic Flour stood and watched the growing dispute, anxiously shifting her gaze from one cookie to another. It was at this moment, when her discomfort level began to go through the roof, that she heard you: "Straighten your back and lift your chin higher. Relax your shoulders and don't look into your eyes, look at they forehead. It'll make you less nervous. And then tell them to calm down, otherwise none of their wishes will be fulfilled."

Your voice is clear and unbiased. Maybe a little commanding, but firm and confident. This confuses her even more than the scolding of cookies, which is why she follows your instructions without a second thought.

"You should remember," you continue when the situation has calmed down. "These cookies have come to ask you for a wish, not the other way around. You have the right to refuse the stupid, you have the right to ignore the overly arrogant."

You weren't very talkative. You only made yourself known at certain moments, giving advice on how to behave to Mystic Flour in certain situations. Sometimes meager praise was what Flour expected when she did what you were just about to ask.

You realized what your mission was as a soul jam. You were supposed to be the inner core of the Mystic Flour. Make the right image out of her soft dough, so that they can't look down on her, and send her to the oven so that this image doesn't crumple under the impact. The main thing is not to let her lose this kindness and sincerity.

"We should make a temple in the mountains," you insist, when Mystic Flour chooses a place for his temple. "The higher, the better. Maybe then there will be fewer fools, and there will be more worthy fulfillment of desires. Let them think whether it's so important in the face of a ladder of a thousand steps."

Burning Spice:

The way you first made yourself known was not by talking. At that moment, there was a battle going on against the monsters — Burning Spice was trying to protect the village that sheltered him and the rest of the Virtues. He was about to strike with a parashu when the ground beneath his right foot changed, turning into quicksand. Before he could react, he stumbled absurdly, and a second monster flew over his head, which he did not notice, and bit the neck of the one Spice was going to cut down.

"Oh Witches," your doomed voice rang out, full of suffering. "My cookie is an idiot!"

Any one of the Virtues, watching they friend, was sure that he did not get along with his soul jam at all. Every time he addressed you, it was more like an endless, incessant argument.

It's not just his fault. You've been adding fuel to the fire too. "You can't really protect yourself." Your voice is mocking and snide, Burning Spice is sure that if you had a mouth, you would have bared your teeth in a wide grin. "Then how are you going to protect others?"

He had to listen to it after every battle, when he returned with serious wounds, and sometimes even almost crumbled. Stupid, weak, stubborn — you hit his sore spots with a vengeance, picking at the wounds and penetrating under the crust like the most terrible virus. He didn't want to admit it, he hated to admit it, but you were right.

Hard training wasn't the only thing he did. He fought tirelessly every day with his only opponent, you. And this battlefield was different from the battles against monsters. You didn't try to hurt him, but every little victory you win is a humiliation for him.

When a small stone falls on his head, the impact is stronger than it should be. "What is it?" you giggle when Burning Spice tries to lift that stone, but it doesn't work. "You don't have enough strength? And I said that you need to develop fine motor skills!" "How is this related?!" "You'll spend a couple of weeks modeling clay and you'll understand! Or you won't understand—I just remembered who I'm talking to, haha!"

Burning with rage and indignation, he follows your words — he must prove that your words are utter nonsense! But time passes and Burning Spice realizes that the parashu begins to feel different: he feels where it is more convenient to grab so that the base does not slip, as well as how to keep the balance of the weapon. His movements become clearer and his punches more precise. It makes him even angrier.

Damn clay modeling!

One day, his patience bursts like a soap bubble. He bites you. Trying to bite through, well, or at least cause just a small crack. Anything! Instead, he feels you vibrating against his teeth because you're laughing. "Oh witches, what are you trying to achieve?!" you scratch somewhere inside him, testing how much he will last. "If I could be broken so easily, I would have already broken, considering how often you fall!" "And for who am I falling?!" "I'm developing mindfulness in you, since the witches have deprived you of brains! Since there is no strategy when you rush into battle, then be kind enough to at least pay attention to the situation around you!"

When the first temple is being built for him, you are silent. Burning Spice feels his dough itch with a sense of emptiness: he was so used to your caustic comments that the silence seemed uncomfortable. Unpleasant. Alien. He never contacted you first—it was always you, your advice, and your jabs at his weaknesses.

"Are there any complaints again?" snorts Burning Spice, leaning back against a pillar. You don't answer. "Hey? Knock knock, is the splinter in touch?" You're still silent. "If you answer me, I'll jump out of the window."

He always knew that even though you were like that, you were worried about him. You expressed it in her own way. Your banter has always been aimed solely at making him stronger. And if you were too soft… he would just brush off your words.

"Have pity on the poor cookies," you say without enthusiasm. "Anyone is traumatized by the sight of some fool jumping out of a fourth-floor window." "It's the first time you've been silent for so long." "I was thinking." "About what?" "Perhaps my presence is no longer necessary. Maybe you can handle it without me now."

There's silence at first, and then Burning Spice laughs, loud and raucous, so that it takes his breath away. "This is the stupidest thing I've ever heard in my life!" You hum in displeasure on his chest. "If it wasn't for you, I would have turned into crumbs back then, on the first day of our baking!"

You're silent, now considering his words.

"This temple was built for me. What do you think?" "…I think it's too luxurious for someone like you." "I'm in a good mood today, so I'll pretend I didn't hear that."

You're mumbling awkwardly. Burning Spice can feel the warmth spreading through he body from the dough touching you. "Congratulations, Spice. You've grown a lot during this time and you deserve it all."

[insomniac-dot-ink]

A month later, an advert appears in the paper. You wouldn’t normally answer, the odds of getting caught would go up every time you do stupid shit, but your bike spoke broke. DoorDash had been suiting you just fine–you really could bike forever. But the spoke on your bike split like someone snapping their fingers and your heart sank. You used to love biking.

Plus, the advert felt targeted. Near the back of the paper, you’d been checking them every day now, and it was barely a paragraph. WANTED: Spirit or Ghoul with high endurance. Strong preference for ghoul. Flexible hours and attire. Temporary position, paid upfront. Meet at crossroads at twilight.

It was dated for that day. How presumptuous, you think, and you fold the newspaper in half and then in half again like you’re storing good wedding linen.

“I’m going out, grandma!” you call toward the drawing room.

Your grandma mutters to herself, she was a muttery person, before yelling back: “bah! No need to always tell me, you’re an adult, kitty Kate.” The statement was a little at odds with your childhood nickname, but grandma was always insisting you fly to Paris on your own or adopt a hellhound or buy a house. Well, you’d like those things too.

You're out the door in late afternoon. No heels this time, and your pantsuit had gotten a small grass stain last time so leave that too. You walk because of the bike situation, and you walk even more quickly when you’re out of your neighborhood. There were several devil’s crossroads throughout the city, most were tourist traps, but everyone agreed Old Town really did host an intersection of the otherworld. It was also a tourist trap, naturally.

You leave the sidewalk and walk up and then down several stone streets that become stonier with every block. Old Town is lousy with crowds and you suddenly wish you’d worn your pantsuit and heels. A ghoul that looks like she has a business degree might turn out better in their photos, you think.

Head down, eyes on your feet, you almost run headlong into her. She has a the same crooked smile that matches her crooked nose.

“You made it.” Stephanie is wearing a studied leather belt and a pair of black skinny jeans. You pang with jealousy–it must be easy for her to throw on pants or a long skirt and blend right in. “You’re early.”

You muster a smile and check the skyline. “Too early?”

She shrugs. “Depends on if you want the job. Come on, this way.”

Glancing around, you slide a face mask on. No way are you going to be identifiable near Stephanie and her gigs. You walk in step toward the back alleys, thick with shadows and crisscrossing side streets.

“I like the new hair,” Stephanie says as you walk.

You touch the ends of your shortened hairdo. “Thanks.” You muster a better smile. “I was going for morning weather lady.”

“Want to be on the news?” She snorts, and you don’t mention you interviewed at a local radio station. You didn’t make it to the second round. Stephanie points at her own head. “I was mainly talking about the color.”

You feel a blush creep down your neck, and you’re even more glad you put on the face mask on. Had you meant to bleach your hair the same white as hers? God, you’re embarrassing.

“It’ll fade soon.” You sigh, tosling your Weather Lady locks.

“Green?”

“How did you know?” you say dryly. “I used to tell the kids in class that it was part of a curse on my bloodline. Haunted by the ghost of grass or limes, I suppose.”

“I take it spirits aren't the source?” You kind of like that you have her attention, this stranger out of time.

“Nah.” You smile behind your mask and lower your voice, “my family’s favorite symbiote. Can’t get enough of us.” You refrain from saying the word “fungus” since no one wants to hear their companion has a mossy covering from her hair to her teeth. You’d tried dying your hair a hundred different colors as a teen and the fungus always repopulated from the scalp outward.

She laughs, dusty and a little grating. “Is that the difference between a ghoul and a spirit, then? One has phantom green and the other makes their own.”

“Something like that . . .” You are distracted by the empty street ahead. Old Town takes a drastic turn into a residential district, pock-marked by dank puddles and frayed laundry lines. The doors are firmly shut on either side of you, and Stephanie leads around the corner to a layer of bright yellow tape.

“Here we are.” She grins at the crime scene tape.

You set your jaw. “Paid upfront.”

—------------------ The alleyway has a neglected feel, straddling the line between the tourist district and the one for everyone else. An ATM sits at the corner, a soda machine, another machine just for bottled waters, and a third one, near the back, surrounded by a web of police tape.

Stephanie has you hang back until the sun splinters across the horizon and turns the sky a quilted purple. She nods, pulled her hood up, and has you duck your heads under the tape.

You follow as low to the ground as you can, eyeing the mouth of the alleyway. “Where are the cops again?”

“Getting special forces.” Stephanie rolls her eyes. “A priest. Come on.”

Crossing the yellow tape in a few bobbing steps, you see why they’re getting a priest. The vending machine is gently glowing. You cup your eyes, and press your face to the glass, glancing between the licorice packs and rolls of powdered donuts. “Jesus Christ,” you say when you see it, which is appropriate.

A fingerbone slots at the very front of the candy bar wrung, caught in the spring like a gruesome snack. The bone is sun-dipped yellow and cracking in places. You jerk back when you blink and the fingerbone reappears among the cracker packets a second later. You feel slightly ill.

Stephanie clicks her tongue. “Saints’ bone.”

“What is it doing in there?” you ask without taking your eyes off it.

Stephanie gets to her knees in a creaky, pained movement. “Some kids used it to pay.” Your mouth falls open and Stephanie cuts in, “Saints bones can be used to pay for anything.”

“Yeah--and for miracles,” you say pointedly. Like the miracle of getting stuck in a vending machine, you guess.

“Kids.” Stephanie says and makes a ‘what can ya do’ gesture. She adds more quietly, “hungry ones. And when the cops go looking for them maybe there is nothing in the machine after all. Maybe their eyes were no good and there is no illegal owning of bones or holy objects used as currency.”

You suck on your bottom lip and follow Stephanie down to your knees, hoping the kids at least got one of every kind. “Why can’t it get out?” You never see the finger move, but every time you blinked, it changed positions.

Stephanie propped open the mouth of the vending machine, wrapping her knuckles against the glass with her other hand. “Bit like a casket . . . Bones don’t leave the casket.”

You groan and peer through the vending machine slot, flexing your right hand and eyeing the finger bone. “Two hundred,” you grunt, “now.”

You get $250 for your troubles, inflation and all that. You jam your entire arm in and reach. Your eyes burn from holding them open, locking the bone in place with your gaze, and shoving half your shoulder into new, fascinating positions. The pad of your finger grazes the bottom of the bone.

“Ow!” You realize why no one else has yanked it out yet. “It bit me.” Jerking your hand back, pinpricks of sluggish black blood dribble out of the tip of your finger. Technically, the bone didn’t really bite, but it had become sharp enough to cut.

Stephanie let out a long breath. “I was hoping it wouldn’t register you . . .”

You growl, “ghouls aren’t undead-undead. It wouldn’t recognize me as one of its own.” Stephanie rubs the back of her neck and you let out another groan. “Whatever. Stand back. Give me some room.”

You blink several times until the bone reappears close to the bottom of the case and you jam your whole arm in all at once. You growl, knowing what to expect now. You tell your body to forget your hand. When you yank the damn thing out, black blood sluggishly weeps down your wrist.

“Fuck you too.” You throw the bone to the ground and shake your hand out.

“Hey! Careful.” Stephanie dives on the finger bone, slamming what looked like a shoebox down on it. The lid seals and begins glowing faintly. Stephanie glances up from the ground. “You okay?”

You cover your hand with a handkerchief before she can see. “I will be.” One of your fingers may have been dangling off but your grandma had remedies for that. The moss was useful for more things than just dye.

Stephanie frowns in a way that suggests birthday party cancelations or a rash you can’t reach. She slides you another fifty. “Hazard pay.”

You plan to stay and clean up any trace of blood or fingerprints, but Stephanie grips the box in both hands and turns. “Come on. The witch said we only had until the sun sets.”

“But . . .” You look between the back of Stephanie and the machine.

She waves a hand in the air. “We’re professionals!”

Who is “we”? you wonder. But the less you know probably the better. You check that the gore is contained to her hand all the same and run after her a second later. “Are,” you swallow, panting and looking at the shoebox. “Keeping that?”

“The kid swiped it from the family’s heirlooms, I suppose.”

You grip your pulsing right hand and lower your voice further, “should they be getting it back?”

Saints’ Bones were almost always stolen, claimed by raiding soldiers generations ago or crooked thieves, and kept apart from their holy bodies. Stephanie looks both ways before crossing the street, and then turns on you. “Should, should, should. Shouldn’t you be in the military? Ghouls get paid like CEOs there.”

You study your feet, sun disappearing behind you and leaving you both in the dark. Stephanie steps in close and hands you a brick-like cellphone. “Well, if you’re interested in more gigs in the future. . . I won’t have to pay any more newspaper fees.”

A part of you considers smashing the phone to the ground, but you take it in your good hand.

“So I can mangled again?” you say this to your shoes, still gripping the phone.

She waves, weakly, and presents a meager smile when you look up. “Well, I mean, you’re good at it.”

You snort and turn away, trying to hide the sudden warmth in your chest and temptation to buy a leather belt. She doesn’t let you watch her leave and you decide to bus home for once.

--------------------

A/N: I'm thinking of turning this into series if people are interested!

WANTED

You find the advert face down on the table. You’re picking up after your grandma. She insists her mind is sharp as a tack but her empty tea cups and loose handkerchiefs and day-old newspapers litter every surface. You scan the paper, and a part of you is sure there aren’t any more jobs like this.

The paper is yesterday’s paper and the various jobs match LinkedIn: nannying and dog walker and kitchen staff. The advert, the one, is stark against the others. You read the tiny printed words over and over, always getting stuck on the word WANTED.

Your friends told you not to go: what kind of job asks you to meet in the middle of the woods? What kind of jobs has no website or contact info? What kind of jobs were advertised in the goddamn paper? You friends wouldn’t get it.

Anastasia, your best friend since third class, tells you to keep your “Find My Phone” on and call when you get there. She really wouldn’t get it. Your grandma tells you that this is the world, the other version of it, and you are her granddaughter. So go.

You walk the three and a half miles in high heels. This job probably wouldn’t even expect high heels, but old habits die hard. You were once convinced in college your girlfriend cast a curse on you, the sleepless nights and a relentless rash proved it. Now that you’re an adult, an adult-adult, you don't think so anymore. If anything was a witch’s spell, it was LinkedIn. Hours and hours of youth wasted on the same go-around.

5 years of experience and 3 different references and no street parking but the bus is only a block away. You can walk, right? Unpaid overtime and shaving your legs to go sit for an hour in an uncomfortable plastic chair. That’s an unusual last name, is it a family one? Ah. I see.

You can walk for a long while. Your heels slup, slup, slup in the soupy ground and it takes you longer than you’d like to look around. The street lights dwindle. The trees gather. The path disappears. The woods are thick and unfamiliar and an iron fence rises in the distance. Despite the late summer heat, the air smells of frost. Maybe Anastasia was right–whether you are your grandmother’s descendent or not.

She comes out of the woods on rail-thin chicken legs. Her skirt is short, cut at a horizontal angle, and she looks like where the punk scene from the 80s went to die. She has a studded leather jacket and bleach-blonde asymmetrical hair. You shove your hands in your stupid suit jacket and check the skies. Half-moon, just risen, you’re right on time.

“You here for the advert?”

“It’s half-moon, isn’t it?” you say back and flash her a tight smile. You had had a sudden sinking feeling about her ability to write you a paycheck. 

She looks you up and down. “Spirit?”

“Ghoul.” You shrug. “Yaga?” She sticks out one of her stalky chicken legs. “Servant of one. Two gens back. On my father’s side.” Your strained smile gentles. “I’m Katie.” Her smile sharpens in response. “Stephanie. Come on, let’s take a walk.” “Was that a real advert, Stephanie?” You saddle up beside her despite yourself. “Cause if you’re just here to pull my leg, know that I'm pretty hard to put down.” She lets out a harsh laugh that sounds like it hurts. “I’m counting on it.” She winks. “Now, not sure I know your line so well, what’s the difference between a ghoul and a spirit?” What is a spirit or ghoul? What was a gig worker or a salaried one? Perhaps a whole length away. Stephanie pushes a bush aside to reveal a hole in the iron fence and leads you through. The grass turns from wild heather to manicured green and you emerge into a field of rolling hills. Your skin prickles. You might be hard to kill, but not to capture. You stay low to the ground.

“Can I be paid upfront?” Her breath smells of winter frost and fresh-turned soil. “You down that bad?”

You survey the trimmed grasses and gentle slopes, the unnatural prickle spreads through your skin to your bone. A house rises in the far-distance, and you swallow thickly. “Is this some Scooby Doo shit?”

“Come on.” She pushes your shoulder. “I’ll pay upfront. The only real question is if you’ve got a pair of lungs on you.” You toss your ponytail back. “For as long as you like. But, I gotta ask, are there really not any free banshees right now?” Stephanie’s smile falters for the first time. “Old world is dying,” she snorts. “Or just buried deep enough to feel that way.” “We’re still here.” “Still here.” She slips you two hundred and takes you to the side of a small lake. The water is murky and the edges form an unnatural drop. She hands you a lightweight dress, gauzy and impossibly white, and you wrinkle your nose. You looked back and forth between the far-distant house and the lake.

It took you the whole walk to place the gate and the house and the land: The Turnpikes. Built almost seven generations back and larger than ever. You couldn’t imagine. The old world was dying, but you supposed it was also just right there. You put the dress on and kick your heels off. Gathering your stuff, Stephanie gives you a big thumbs up and backs away. You take a deep breath, you don't need many, but you had a feeling it would count.

A light in the far-distant window turns on. You see your grandma in your mind’s eye, her tangled green hair and wicked little smiles. All this for two hundred? But a ghoul isn't a banshee. You jump in feet first.

The wet and the cold and the dank water with no memory swallows you. You submerge in the tiny manmade lake, and when you come out, you come out screaming.

The fear of ghouls is an ancient one–something hard to kill. That can walk forever, fight forever, go Without forever. And you think, as you toss your head back, drip water, and let your lungs rattle in your chest, that you might scream forever too.

For two hundred bucks, a ghoul can be a banshee and a world can be made old and new and when you scream, you can scream until you’re made real again.

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[luciemggio]

The Hardest Part

Pairing: Sebastian Stan x elementary f’school teacher reader

Warnings: low self confidence

Summary : Sebastian Stan’s girlfriend feels insecure after he films scenes with a beautiful co-star. Though she trusts him, it hurts. He gently reassures her that while others may be beautiful, she’s the one he loves and comes home to.

The key turned in the lock just as you were setting down your tea mug.

You heard the familiar shuffle of sneakers being kicked off, the soft thud of his backpack hitting the wall, and then—

“Baby?”

His voice floated through the apartment like a favorite song, one you’ve played a hundred times. Normally, it filled your chest with warmth.

Tonight, it made your stomach twist.

“I’m in the living room,” you called back, wrapping the blanket tighter around yourself.

Sebastian appeared in the doorway a second later, damp from the rain and flushed from the cold. He looked tired but happy. God, he was always so effortlessly beautiful — tousled hair, jaw dusted with scruff, eyes full of that warm, boyish energy you’d fallen in love with.

“There she is,” he grinned. “I missed you.” He crossed the room quickly and bent to kiss your forehead.

You tried to smile. You really did. But your stomach pulled tight as the scent of his cologne — something expensive, woodsy, faintly unfamiliar — clung to him.

“How was the shoot?” you asked, keeping your eyes on the mug in your hands.

He collapsed next to you with a sigh. “It went well. Exhausting. You’d think filming one kiss would take five minutes, not five takes. But it’s done. We wrapped.”

You bit your lip.

There it was.

The kiss.

The actress.

You’d seen the set photos. The red carpet promo. Her name trending next to his, side by side. You weren’t trying to compare. You weren’t. But it was hard not to see it — her elegance, her stunning features, the way the press called her “enchanting,” “sultry,” “Hollywood’s golden girl.”

And then there was… you.

An elementary school teacher who spent most days with glue sticks in her hair and kids’ crayon drawings in her tote bag. Who lived in oversized sweaters, grocery shopped in leggings, and wore the same three pairs of shoes every week. Who felt, sometimes — like tonight — wildly out of place in his world.

“Did you—” you swallowed, keeping your tone casual, “—did you have to kiss her more than once?”

Sebastian turned toward you slowly, eyes narrowing just slightly, picking up the shift in your tone.

“Yeah. Five or six times, maybe? Director kept wanting different angles.”

You nodded. “Right. Of course.”

You were quiet for a beat too long.

“Hey.” His voice softened. “What’s going on?”

You shook your head quickly, eyes still fixed on the swirling steam of your tea.

“Nothing. I just… had a long day. That’s all.”

Sebastian shifted closer. “You’re a really bad liar when you’re tired, you know that?”

You laughed once, but it cracked before it fully formed.

“It’s stupid,” you whispered.

He gently took your mug and set it on the coffee table, then cupped your cheek so you’d look at him.

“Nothing you feel is stupid. Talk to me.”

You hesitated. Then finally, you let it spill.

“I know I’m not the most beautiful woman in the world, Seb.”

He blinked.

“I know I’m not,” you said again, quietly. “I don’t have cheekbones like hers, or perfect skin, or a body that belongs on a movie poster. I’m just… normal. Average. And it’s fine, I’ve made peace with it most days, but—”

Your throat tightened.

“But it’s hard, sometimes. Watching you on screen with these incredibly beautiful women, kissing them, holding them like they’re yours. And I know it’s your job, I know that. But it doesn’t stop my brain from spiraling. From wondering why you’d come home to me when you could be with someone who actually fits in your world.”

His expression shifted into something deeper. Serious. Hurt. Gentle.

“Sweetheart,” he murmured, brushing his thumb over your cheek. “Don’t do that. Don’t talk about yourself like that.”

“I’m not fishing for compliments,” you said quickly. “I’m just… trying to be honest. I know there are women out there who are sexier, smarter, more graceful, more everything than me.”

He leaned in, resting his forehead against yours.

“Maybe,” he whispered. “But none of them are you.”

You didn’t answer. He took your hands in his, lacing your fingers together.

“You’re the one I want to come home to after fourteen-hour days. You’re the one I call during lunch breaks just to hear your voice. You’re the one who makes me laugh when I’m bone-tired, the one who leaves notes in my bag when I travel, the one who knows me better than anyone.”

You stared at him, throat tight, trying not to cry.

“I know it’s hard,” he added. “I know what it looks like from the outside. I’m kissing someone else on camera, and she’s stunning, and it feels impossible not to compare. But babe, I’m acting. It’s choreography. It’s not my heart. My heart—”

He reached for your hand and pressed it against his chest.

“—is right here. With you.”

You swallowed hard. “I just… I can’t stop thinking about how unfair it is. You have to kiss people, pretend to be in love with them. And I have to just… accept it.”

He nodded slowly. “You do. And I don’t take that for granted, not for a second. I know how much trust that takes. I know how strong you are. You let me live my dream, and you still wait for me. Still love me. That’s not average. That’s incredible.”

Your lips trembled.

“I just wish I looked like someone who belonged on your arm,” you whispered.

“You look like the woman I’m going to marry.”

Your eyes snapped to his.

“I’m serious,” he said, voice steady. “You’re everything I want. Everything I love. And yeah, there are a million beautiful people in the world — but beauty doesn’t hold me when I’m anxious at 2am. Beauty doesn’t help seven-year-olds read, or sing in the car off-key, or kiss me like the world’s about to end.”

He cupped your face again, thumbs brushing your cheeks.

“You do.”

You felt the tears spill then. He kissed them away, gently, reverently.

“I don’t need you to be the most beautiful woman in the world,” he said. “I just need you to be mine.”

And in his arms, wrapped in your oversized sweater and messy bun, you finally let go.

Because maybe you weren’t the most beautiful woman in the world.

But you were his.

And somehow, that was more than enough.

[luvrgeorge]

the thrill of the game

summary: this event was glamorous, everyone in their best clothing, sipping expensive champagne, but none of that mattered, because george was here, and you and him love to play a game at these events, who will cave first? pairing: george clarke x fem!reader warnings: mature (MDNI) WC: 4k

the room was crowded, loud, packed full of faces both familiar and unfamiliar. you loved these events, socialising with people you hadn’t seen in a while, getting a bit too tipsy with your friends, but there was one thing about these events you loved the most.

you could feel his glare every time you moved, his eyes following you through crowds of people, studying your expressions and movements. you loved the thrill of the game, seeing who can tip the other over the edge first, who can take it just a bit too far, but it always ends the same, you and george naked in a hotel room.

he looked hot—undeniably, effortlessly hot. he always did, of course, but these suit and tie events? they were something else entirely. They gave him a kind of elegance that made your pulse trip over itself.

tonight, his black suit hugged him in all the right places, the cut so precise. the fabric clinging to his shoulders, broad and powerful, tapering down to a waist that made restraint feel like a joke. the tie was the only thing that looked tight—everything else was smooth, commanding, deliberate.

he moved with that quiet confidence that always made people stop mid-sentence. even now, surrounded by people and murmuring voices, his presence pulled focus like gravity. and you stood there, trying to keep your own cool while your eyes betrayed you, tracing his every line, every movement.

you knew what was under all of it. the suit didn’t hide much, not really. it hinted, seduced. It left enough to the imagination, sure—but your imagination didn’t need to work that hard. you’d memorized the terrain, every muscle, every scar, every inch of warm, unforgiving strength that lay beneath those expensive layers. and the worst part? he knew you were watching. of course he did. that slight smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth wasn’t for anyone else.

you were doomed. absolutely doomed. you had no faith in yourself for winning tonight—not when he looked like that. and deep down, a part of you didn’t want to win. not really. you wanted to lose. badly. completely. willingly. but god, you were dying to win, just this once.

you tried to keep your glances to a minimum this time, only looking at him when you knew he was looking away, and this time, he was talking to a girl. you couldn’t see her face, but from behind she was slim, taller than you, and wore a gorgeous burgundy dress, falling down to her feet. it didn’t make you jealous, at least not enough to cave this early into the night, but it made you motivated, motivated to win this night, motivated to make him surrender first.

you scanned the room, eyes drifting lazily over glittering gowns and stiff tuxedos, all the polished elegance starting to blur together. you weren’t looking for charm or conversation. you were looking for a weapon. someone attractive enough to make george’s jaw tighten, to make his eye twitch the way it always did when he pretended he didn’t care.

your gaze paused at the bar.

he was tall—taller than most in the room—and built like he belonged on a rugby field, not behind a hotel bar. his black shirt strained ever so slightly across his chest as he moved, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows in that perfectly careless way that made it obvious he didn’t care much for the dress code. scruffy, but clean. confident without trying. his hair was short, messy in that intentional way that walked the line between rugged and boyish.

he was exactly the kind of distraction you needed.

not too polished. not too perfect. but solid, striking. the kind of man who’d draw george’s attention the moment you leaned in just a little too close. you pictured it already—the way george’s eyes would narrow, how he’d try not to look but wouldn’t be able to help himself. how his fingers would twitch at his sides, itching to pull you away, to remind you who you belonged to.

and god, you wanted to push him just a little further. make him feel it.

so you took one last sip of your champagne, set the glass down, and started walking toward the bar—hips swaying just a bit more than usual, every step deliberate. the game had started, and tonight, you didn’t plan on playing fair.

‘what you drinking?’ the bartender said, flashing you a smile. the event was classy, an open bar with smart attire, so you doubted they served your usual rum and coke combo. you looked around the room, women all holding glasses of champagne or cocktails.

‘surprise me, what do you think i’d be drinking?’ he smiled at you, walking away and grabbing a glass, mixing up something with whiskey.

‘whiskey sour?’ you took the glass, taking a sip. the whiskey burnt your throat, but you could handle it.

‘you’re good at this y’know’

‘i do a lot of these events, and i can always spot a girl who likes whiskey’ he clearly wasn’t good enough at spotting them, you hated whiskey, and the drink was disgusting, but that was never the point.

you were leaning over the bar, maybe a bit too far, listening to him speak, giggling a little to much, over-exaggerating all your movements.

‘just to let you know, i’m not into girls’ the bartender said. you moved back slightly, unsure of what to say. ‘but i know what you’re doing, that guy over there, the tux, the hot one’ he nodded towards george, but you didn’t look. ‘you’re making him jealous, what is he, an ex? a new thing?’ you laughed.

‘george? he’s…’ you started, but the words caught somewhere between your throat and your pride. what was george, really? not a boyfriend. not just a fling, either. he was a habit. a comfort. a storm you kept walking into, knowing full well how it would end. you could lie. say george was nothing. or say he was everything. but neither felt quite right.

george was just the guy you went home with after nights like these—after the noise, the lights, the tight dresses and fake smiles. he was the one who pulled you in like gravity the second you got too close. but he didn’t text you good morning. he didn’t ask about your day. he didn’t take you to dinner, didn’t hold your hand in public.

you weren’t dating. but you weren’t just sleeping together, either.

“he’s a friend,” you said finally, the words feeling a little hollow, a little dishonest, even to yourself. your fingers tapped against the bar, casual, careless. “a good friend.”

the bartender gave a knowing smile, not pushing for more. but it hung there, unspoken—how ‘friend’ didn’t quite cover it. how there were glances and touches and late-night calls that didn’t belong to friendship.

‘so what, you guys sleeping together?’ you laughed again, shocked at his bluntness, but finding comfort in the fact he understood. you nodded in response. ‘so why are you flirting with me?’

you sighed, rolling your eyes. ‘we have this thing, an unspoken thing really, it just started happening’ the bartender laughed. ‘at every event, we see who caves first, who can make the other more jealous before we give up and leave together, it’s all a bit of fun really’

‘so, it’s a sex game? he’s gonna come over, pull you aside and you’re gonna go have sex?’ you cackled at the bar tender, admiring his blunt charm.

‘that’s what i’m hoping for, you don’t have to entertain it though, thank you for the drink’ you pick up your drink, smiling at the bar tender.

‘he’s looking at you, you know’ you stopped. ‘the girl he’s talking to is still there, but he hasn’t said a word in a while’

‘does he know you’re looking at him?’

‘no, he’s completely fixed on you’ you smirked. ‘how long before he comes over?’

‘i don’t know, i’m usually the one to find him first’ the bartender moves closer to you, placing his hand lightly on your neck, whispering in your ear.

‘tonight’s boring, i’m happy to play along with you, just smile and laugh, he’s still watching’ you did exactly that, giggling at every word he said, despite having a completely normal conversation.

you could feel george’s sharp eyes like daggers in your back, you knew he was watching you, knew he was seething with jealousy as another man placed his hands on you.

after a few more minutes, you felt a quiet shift in the air beside you—someone new, close but not intrusive. you turned slightly, and there she was.

the girl george had been talking to.

you hadn’t seen her face before, not properly. god, she was beautiful. not just pretty—striking. effortless. her features were sharp and soft all at once, the kind of face that made people stop mid-sentence. she stood confidently, alone, ordering just one drink—a cosmopolitan. something crisp, pink, elegant. something george would never touch.

your stomach twisted, just slightly.

you glanced around for him then, for the first time in a while. scanning the crowd, looking for that familiar silhouette, that black suit that always seemed to cut through a room like a blade. but nothing. no george leaning smugly at the bar, no smirk waiting to meet your eyes across the room.

you turned back toward the bartender, your expression questioning. he only shrugged, brows raised like he had no idea either. he hadn’t seen where george went, and clearly, the girl hadn’t followed.

when she left, drink in hand and heels clicking softly across the marble floor, you exhaled.

‘thank you’ you said to the bartender, sliding him a generous tip. he grinned, pocketing it with a nod.

‘this was fun, good luck with the rest of your night’ he said, a little amused, a little pitying.

you move back through the bodies of people, searching for george. there was no sign of him anywhere. not a glimpse of that sharp black suit, not the familiar shape of him leaning in a doorway or watching from across the room. it was like he’d vanished into the glittering crowd, swallowed whole by champagne and chatter. the girl had wandered off too, back to the cluster of people you assumed were her friends, already laughing at something someone else said, his brief distraction forgotten like it meant nothing at all.

you were just about to search elsewhere, the lobby, the bar, the crowd—when you felt it.

a hand on your back. firm. warm. possessive without being rough. fingers grazing the bare skin on your back, resting just enough to let you know they could move if they wanted to. and then—hot breath on your neck, too close, too intimate for the public setting, but somehow exactly what you’d been waiting for.

‘you giving up yet?’ he murmured, voice low and smug, like he already knew the answer.

you turned, slow, letting him see the full weight of your reaction. and there he was.

that damn smirk stretched across his face like it belonged there—lazy, confident, a little cruel. his eyes held that familiar spark, something between amusement and warning. he was close, closer than necessary, his suit still immaculate despite the heat of the room, his tie slightly loosened like he was getting tired of pretending to behave.

‘didn’t know we were playing,’ you said, though it came out softer than intended.

he chuckled, not moving back. ‘you always know.’

and you did.

‘who said i’ve given up?’

‘you’ve left your boyfriend at the bar,’ he said, voice thick with amusement, eyes locked on yours like he was watching you unravel in real time. ‘so i assumed you were coming to find someone better.’

you scoffed right in his face, the sound sharp and disbelieving, even as your stomach twisted at how accurately he’d read you. you tried to roll your eyes like it meant nothing, like the heat creeping up your neck was from the whiskey, not him. like your legs hadn’t started moving the second you realised he wasn’t anywhere in sight.

“i’m not caving this time,” you said, lifting your chin just enough to make it sound like you meant it.

he smiled at that—slow, smug, knowing. the kind of smile that made it clear he didn’t believe you for a second. not because you were weak, but because he knew exactly how to make you forget why you ever tried to resist him in the first place.

“well,” he said, voice dropping to that low, dangerous murmur he reserved just for you, “when you’re ready, i have a room upstairs.”

your breath caught, just slightly. not enough to be obvious. but he noticed. of course he did.

“in the meantime,” he continued, leaning in close enough for your perfume to catch on his collar, “i’m going to ask your boyfriend for a drink.”

and just like that, he turned. didn’t wait for your reaction. didn’t give you the satisfaction of a final glance. his hand slid off your back as he walked away, slow and deliberate, the touch lingering. you felt the absence of it immediately, like a warmth torn away too fast.

you watched him head toward the bar, straight toward the bartender, the curve of his shoulders relaxed but purposeful. you knew him well enough to recognise what he was doing—staking territory without ever having to say a word.

he was playing dirty, and god help you, it was working.

you hated him, hated how unfazed he was by everything you did, hated how he never caved, always pushing you to your limit. as strong as you tried to be, he always won. but you were determined to for that to change.

he was leaving the bar, but just before he left, you walked up to him, leaning in close and taking the key card out of his jacket pocket. you turned to the bartender, reading the room number from the card ‘room 34, i’ll be there for when your shift is over’ the bartender smirked, knowing exactly what you were doing, but george was non the wiser.

you head towards the elevator, leaving george and the bartender behind, without sparing a single glance.

you enter the room, finding the mirror to check your hair and makeup, adjusting your dress. you loved dressing up for these events, you loved shopping for the most perfect outfit. tonight you had chosen a long black satin dress, backless with a sultry slit in the leg, paired with golden heels. you loved doing your hair and makeup too, spending so much time on the little details, ensuring your hair was curled perfect, each strand sat so beautifully down your back. it was almost a shame it would all be ruined soon.

you sit on the edge of the bed, ankles crossed, fingers twitching slightly in your lap as you wait. the room is quiet, apart from the low hum of the hallway beyond the door. then, a faint beep — the key card on the door — and the slow turn of the handle. you straighten up quickly.

he steps into the room, the dim light catching on the bubbles in the two flutes of champagne he carries. he looks at you like he’s starved — but his gaze is soft, gentle in a way that makes your stomach tighten. without saying a word, he crosses the room, hands you a glass, and takes a slow sip of his own, his free hand sliding onto your waist like it’s meant to be there.

‘took you long enough,’ you murmur, lips brushing the rim of your glass as you drink.

‘you played dirty tonight,’ he says, pulling you closer, his voice low and warm. his breath hits your collarbone, and you can already feel your skin prickling beneath it.

‘is that not how we play this game?’ you say, your voice light, teasing.

he smirks, leans in, and presses his lips to your neck — not hard, just enough to steal your breath. your body reacts before your mind does, tilting into him, heart racing under his touch.

‘you know…’ his hands are moving now, up and down your back, slow and possessive. ‘i hated seeing you with that guy.’ you felt a sense of pride, knowing that you made him jealous, knowing that he couldn’t stand seeing you with another man.

another kiss, deeper this time, and you gasp, gripping his shirt.

‘you knew what you were doing,’ he murmurs, voice rough against your skin, ‘and god, it worked, i've been waiting for this all night.’

he finishes his glass slowly, never breaking eye contact, like he’s savoring both the drink and the tension. then, without a word, he takes your half-finished glass from your hand, brushing your fingers as he does. he sets both flutes down on the table with a quiet clink that feels final, like the closing move in a long-played chess match.

he pulls off his tailored suit jacket and tie, his hands returning to you, fingers tracing up the side of your neck, brushing your jaw, then slowing over your lips. his thumb lingers there, pressing gently, parting them just slightly. he smirks, like he already knows what’s coming. he leans in — his mouth just a breath away from yours, and you can feel the warmth of it, the tension strung tight between you.

but you pull back, just enough.

‘not yet,’ you whisper, your breath catching.

he freezes, brows furrowing, lips parting as his eyes darken with need. there’s a flicker of frustration in his face, but it’s tangled with desire, with the hunger that’s been simmering between you both all night. your hands rest on his chest, grounding him, letting him feel how close he is — but denying him all the same.

‘tell me i win.’

he blinks, thrown off for a second. ‘what happened to this not being a game?’

‘just tell me,’ you say, your voice quieter now, more dangerous. ‘tell me i win, and then you can do whatever you want to me.’

his lips curl into a smirk again, but it’s different this time — there’s a flicker of surrender in it, a knowing. he moves in close, slowly, one hand sliding up the back of your neck, fingers tangling in your hair, the other resting heavy on your hip like he’s holding back from pulling you in.

his mouth brushes your ear as he whispers, low and deliberate, ‘you win.’

and that’s all it takes.

you crash into him, lips colliding in a kiss that’s messy, breathless, hungry. his hands waste no time — one slides down the curve of your bare back, the other hooks beneath your exposed thigh, pulling it up and around his waist with practiced ease. your body presses fully against his, and he holds you like it costs him nothing — like he’s wanted to do this since the second he saw you.

your fingers twist into his shirt, mouth moving against his like you’re trying to make up for every second you made him wait. he lifts you slightly, holding nearly all your weight in one arm, and the sound you make only pushes him further.

he lifts you up effortlessly, your legs tightening around his waist, arms locking around his shoulders. your fingers slide into his hair, gripping just enough to make him groan against your mouth. he walks you toward the bed, each step slow, controlled, like he’s savoring the moment. when he reaches it, he lays you down with a tenderness that contrasts the heat between you, like you’re something delicate and breakable. his lips never leave yours — not for a second — the kiss deepening as his body follows yours down.

his hands wander into your dress, fingers tracing outside your lacy, dampened thong, so close to what’s underneath. he hooked two fingers underneath, slowly inserting them into you. you let out slow, breathy moans into his mouth, untucking his perfectly uncreased shirt to grip onto his back, leaving marks in his skin. ‘god baby, so wet, just for me’.

he knew your body so well, he knew every inch, every flaw, everything you liked, everything you didn’t, and still, somehow, he could make you feel things so new, so intense, so raw. the rush was almost instant, no warning, no preparation, overcoming your entire body with an orgasm so passionate that you crumbled in his hands. you were breathless, finished, but so desperately needy for more of him.

you pull him back into your body, kissing him as you struggled to unbutton his shirt enough for him to pull it over his head. you unbutton his trousers, clawing for his hardened cock beneath. he kicked them off with his shoes and boxers as you went to unzip your dress, but he stopped you. ‘keep the dress on’ he growled, repositioning you both on the bed.

he laid down at the top of the bed, pulling you towards him. you straddled his lap, feeling his cock so close to your heat. ‘ride me baby, show me how much you need me’. you positioned yourself over him, sliding down slowly. no amount of experience with george could ever make you used to him, he was so big, stretching you out, hitting every inch of your insides.

you started slow, rocking back and forth, george gripping your hips, guiding you. ‘you’re doing so well gorgeous, fuck, you’re amazing’ he let out low, soft groans as you moved, sounding like a pure symphony humming in your ears. you let your dress straps fall down your shoulders, breasts spilling out to george’s pleasure.

your knees were buckling under the pleasure, you leaned on george for support, tired, but starving for more. george know you couldn’t handle it, not now. he pulled you off him, flipping you over and straddling the top of you, re-aligning himself. he thrusted deeper than you were willing to go when you were on top of him, going hard and fast, grabbing your hands and holding them above your head. he was insane, so gorgeous, build so perfectly, fitting in you like a jigsaw, like he was made to fuck you and only you.

he increased his pace, your moans growing louder and deeper. he moved in to kiss you, hungry and passionate, your arms still restrained, legs wrapping around his waist, your heeled shoes digging into his back.

‘you’re mine, only mine’ his words sounded so sweet, so possessive. he stopped kissing you, hand moving to your chin, tilting your head slightly to touch his and make you look him deep in his piercing blue eyes. ‘are your ready?’ you nodded, breathlessly, eyes locked together as you finished in harmony, george slowing down as he pumped inside of you, holding your hand and stroking your face. he kissed you one last time, deep, but romantic, slowly pulling out and laying beside you.

you were breathless and tired, head buried in george’s chest as it rose and fell, still warm and slick from your shared experience. the room was quiet, except for the faint hum of the city outside and the slowing rhythm of your heartbeats syncing beneath the thin sheets tangled at your waists.

‘i like winning’ you smirked, your voice a low whisper against his skin.

george let out a small, satisfied chuckle. his chest rumbled softly beneath your cheek as he dipped his head to kiss the crown of yours, lips lingering just long enough to make your pulse jump again.

‘you’re insufferable’ he murmured, but his fingers drew lazy, featherlight circles on the bare skin of your lower back, betraying the fondness in his words.

you turned your face slightly, your nose brushing his collarbone. ‘you love it.’

he didn’t argue. instead, he pulled you a little closer, as if the space between your bodies wasn’t already non-existent. The warmth of his skin, the faint scent of sweat and your perfume still clinging to the air—it wrapped around you like a cocoon.

‘you always do this,’ he said quietly, after a beat. ‘get all competitive, steal my focus, and then leave me like this—wrecked and entirely yours.’

you smiled against him, sleepy and smug. ‘that’s the intentions of the game’

his hand drifted to your thigh, squeezing gently, a silent reminder of the connection that still pulsed between you both. you felt his heartbeat under your ear, steady and real.

‘stay?’ he asked, softer now. vulnerable, even.

you didn’t answer right away. you just nuzzled into his chest and let your hand trace the faint line of hair down the center of his torso.

‘i was never planning to leave’.

[virginreprise]

J U N K Y ' P R I D E

joel miller x reader

" ARE WE JUST DUST, ON THE FLOOR AGAIN? I THOUGHT WE WERE ON THE MEND " ✧ ⁺ ⁺ 　°

WARNINGS: suicidal ideation, angst, smut, panic attacks, emotional whiplash, joel sucks but then sucks less, emotional constipation, slight emotional manipulation, there are many emotions, light fluff, joel miller has a big cock, joel gets physical and not in a good way but its only briefly mentioned, joel miller is an asshole, i think it woiuld be appropriate for a joel miller is his own warning tag right about now

WORD COUNT: 10k

CHAPTER ONE ✦ CHAPTER TWO

AO3 LINK

CHAPTER THREE—WESTBOUND

BROKEN GLASS, MISSING HANDS, THE ABSENCE OF A TICK AND THE LOSS OF TIME.

Always and forever, there would never be enough time. 

There was no time for apologies, for healing, stitches snapping open every time they were replaced—every time arms were raised above heads in protest of the loaded pistol pointed at an already cracked open skull. Blood trickled down foreheads, parting like the red sea as it reached noses and ran for glistening, wet eyes in a desperate bid to blind the man on his knees; hoping he wouldn’t have to watch the quick, callous silence that followed the bang and gunsmoke. 

All: harsh displeasure, laughs ringing in his ears like a taunt, cackling and screaming, “You couldn’t save her,” whilst he begged on his knees and gripped his head to will them away. 

It was crawling in, on all fours like a temptress in the night, slinking around corners, using his cries as the music of her soul and wrapping her arms around his neck. A gentle kiss to his lips, distracting him from the cool metal against his stomach, dragging upwards until the point reached his neck. Pressing in, drawing blood, smiling softly and then reaching inside his mouth and pulling his heart right from his open fucking chest. 

Joel saw you—every night. Felt you around his cock every goddamn night. When he lay face first into his pillows, half-drunk from the whiskey he’d given up pouring, preferring to suckle from the bottle whilst visions of you smiling up at him, the drip of slick from your pussy that stained the bed sheets, danced in his peripheral—begging him to burst through the door and hold you tight against him. To apologise for leaving you curled in on yourself and wondering what you had done wrong. 

Always: staring at the cracks on the watch’s surface, blonde hair in the edges of his eyeline, blood-stained blonde—red dripping from his hands as he shook. 

You were supposed to make it better. Taking care of you was supposed to make him feel better. But he’d cum on your stomach like a fucking pussy and was already halfway through the door before you could convince him that his hands weren’t dirty; that he wasn’t tainting anything by touching you. 

There had been a flash of red on your cheeks, the imprint of his palm branded against your skin and dripping onto your tongue—you lapping up the sickly sight like you wanted to consume every part of him. Eyes welled with tears when he’d pulled away; leaving you red and wondering. Those questions that were etched along your lips: What happened? Why did you leave me? Why did you leave her? Why do I feel like I’m going to wake up tomorrow and find you with a gun in your palm and your brains all over the fucking wall? 

How did you know him so well? How did you manage to convince him of everything and then cause him to go spiralling headfirst into his deepest hallucinations and feel regret coursing through his stomach on a tidal wave of penitence?

He did not sleep until the alcohol poisoned his mind and left him desperate for someone to fuck up, for someone to cross him so he could beat them bloody. Senseless violence: all he conceived in his fucked-up head that hadn’t been the same since her—the name spluttering and stuttering against his tongue. Unable to come out. 

Pathetically, he wanted Tommy. He’d been so close after he’d left you bleeding, hand on the receiver, fingers shaking as he pressed button after button. That piece of yellowed paper that housed his little brother's chicken scratch—the Wyoming area code blotched and smudged from the continual worrying of Joel’s calloused fingers. He had hovered over the last number, lip quivering as he realised he couldn’t do it. That even if he was a selfish bastard, unable to think before making his decisions, he couldn’t call after fifteen years and bother the one person who had at least tried. 

Tommy who had stuck by him for as long as he could bear, before the self-pity and wallowing was too much for anyone, even Jesus Christ himself, to tolerate. 

All-consuming, self-conscious, doubt. Doubt in his ability to continue onwards, doubt in his strength, in his slowly dwindling figure that shadowed the sobbing, thirty-two-year-old him that clung to her. Limp and lifeless in his arms, losing everything that he had fought for—everything that had given him purpose. 

He’d gone to sermons when he was younger, dressed in his Sunday best and holding onto his mother’s hand. They had told him of the telos—that fellowship and eternity with God was entirely central. Even then, he had denied it, looking over at his brother who yawned in the pews and kicked his feet in boredom; Joel knew that that kid was who he was supposed to live for. Mother and father who had given him his blood: he bled for them. His only child who he held in his arms, endeared by the crying and the clench of her little hands as she whined in protest: his sole reason. 

Never, had he felt more strength than when he was with his family. There was no other reality in which he could feel a greater allegiance. 

But the anchor had been pulled from the bottom of the sea, lifted out by the force of God, and left him hurtling towards the rage of a storm—pulled under and decomposing with the shipwreck. 

He’d crawled his way to a lost island, screaming their names before realising that they were on the other side of the earth. 

Alone. 

What a thing it was to live alone in a world that was unkind to the solitary. 

It had been years, goddamn years since Joel had had anything as meaningful as the merging of bodies that you two shared weeks before. That nervous flip in his stomach he got when he felt undeniable pressure to perform well; hope that his age hadn’t caught up with him yet. That post-orgasm haze that he’d taken a few minutes to recover from—something he’d usually be able to ignore after a night with some woman he’d found down at The Esquire after he couldn’t stand the bruising quiet any longer. It’s why he’d kissed you before he’d let you go, why he’d given you that final flash of comfort before stripping the mattress from under you and leaving you asleep on the floor—cold and shivering. 

Your face had almost killed him. In the dead of night, when that expression flickered behind his closed eyes, he began to think that you’d poisoned him. That something so heart wrenching and painful was not kind enough to kill him on the spot. It waited. It festered. Until it seeped into his blood and had the veins in his forearms protruding until they burst wide open and left him bleeding to death on the bathroom floor. 

He’d meant it, when he’d said that he’d be there for you. If you needed anything, he would be waiting. Joel had been searching, for a very long time, for someone to look after. He was restless when he had no family, when he had no one to protect and caress. His family was his oxygen, his purpose, his entire reason for existing. 

He did not have a family. Not anymore. 

His mama had died shortly after his dad, too heartbroken to carry on without the man she’d dedicated so much of her life to. Tommy had been gone for so long that Joel didn’t even know if he was alive or dead, married, divorced, kids or just that echo of his nephew crying over the phone during those last conversations. He’d conjured an image, a pretty picture of everything that his brother had gained and he had lost. They’d stripped so much from him: one by one. It started when he was thirteen and his grandpa had died—listening to his mom sobbing as she hung onto the words of the person on the other end of the phone. The brusque way his father had clapped him on the back when he’d broken the news, how Joel had comforted his little brother as he cried—telling him harshly to keep it down because he’d upset Mama and dad wouldn’t be happy with his blatant display of emotion. 

That cycle of loss continued years later. A wife that he had loved dearly: running away from the possibility of having to fulfil vows that they had uttered in the courthouse after their rushed marriage—too afraid of what people would say if they found out he’d knocked her up and ruined the poor girl's life. Holding a baby in his arms as he willed himself not to cry, those traditional male values he’d been instilled with since he was a child rushing around in his head. Unsure of what to do when she bawled, holding a bottle to her lips whilst balancing a phone between his ear and his shoulder; listening to Tommy babble about his latest hardships as if a girl rejecting his advances was the biggest loss man could acquire. 

He’d taken it for granted, he understood that now. He wished, ardently, almost furiously, for those days back. A tension headache forming behind his eyes as he finally got a two-year-old Sarah to sleep, whispering down the phone as he tried to remedy a job gone wrong, ready to yell at Tommy for fucking up until he looked at her sleeping, the hand stroking her hair that he wouldn’t remove in fear she’d wake up, and felt that complete sense of calm. The fulfilment that she provided him. 

She’d been taken too. 

That glowing in his chest, the smile he couldn’t push down when he looked at her, when she came racing home from school to tell him about the A she’d gotten in her math test, or when she reached those middle school days and he couldn’t stop the ache in his heart as he realised how quickly she’d grown up. 

All of it: over. 

Ruined by the harshness of life and the awful happenings that landmarked every one of the unfortunate events that spread the length of his timeline. 

It was childish to believe that someone was out to get him, he knew that. It didn’t stop the feeling, however as he gripped his kitchen counters and waited for the aches in his back to go away, the stabbing in his heart that occurred every time he brushed his fingers over that godforsaken thing on his wrist and thought of the blood on his hands and the blood all over her pretty hair. He’d cradled her with that hand, cradled you with it too. 

However, no matter how much he tried to convince himself it had been a bad idea, that you were bad. He could not. He wanted to make you nasty, make you evil so he could give himself a reason to feel such blind hatred towards you. 

You’d fucked with his head and he didn’t appreciate it. Left him aching and grasping for a reason to keep surviving. If you weren’t going to be it then nothing would. 

Perhaps, it was self-destructive. Maybe, he wanted to die—a morbid desire for it all to just end. It wasn’t as if anyone relied on him, like he was needed or wanted in the community. He’d jumped off that horse a long time ago, been trampled by heavy hoofs and left everyone lingering behind him. 

You gave him a strange sense of purpose. Someone that he was genuinely interested in talking to. 

All those people who called him their “friend,” he could not give two fucks about. Those who used him for their personal gain; he, in turn, used them. It was a game of survival in this life, not camaraderie. He had learnt that the harsh way. When they saw that he was getting too comfortable—too happy; it had to be stripped away. 

Acceptance of the melancholia came easy; a space to reconcile it was much more difficult to come across. 

There had been a flash with you, however. A sharp, blinding spark that transformed itself across the backs of his eyes and then left when he let go of you. That moment of euphoria and he was done. Completely fucked because no matter how much he wanted to, he would not get it back. 

He’d exiled you and sent you flying over the border—the opportunity in the foliage much more substantial than the tumbling wasteland Joel resided in. 

The weeks that preceded that fateful day were some of the most miserable of your life. 

The tension between the two trailers was thick, a stalemate ravaging no man's land every time you stepped onto the dewy grass in the midst of dawn and breathed in the sickly scent of tobacco. The lingering smell told you he had been there. Elbows resting on rotting wood and fingers playing with the end of a cigarette—filter dirtied and yellowed by the constant touching and breathing. 

The stubbed end that lay, still smoking. You had missed him by a second. 

You missed him. 

Missed seeing that grimace, the determined smoulder in his gaze when you walked by and smiled softly at him. You missed his annoyance when you’d come knocking and ask him for another favour—still expecting nothing in return. 

You missed his hands on your skin, lips on your neck, whispers in your ear as he wiped away the tears. 

For a while, there had been no notice of him at all—nothing to indicate that he was still alive. You’d thought, with a churning stomach, that maybe he’d gone and done it. All that time spent mulling had finally come to fruition. One Friday night, you had worried yourself so much that you’d stomped out of your trailer, one foot on the first step towards your misfortune, when the light had flickered on and you slinked away with a finality—a decision that you were not obliged to save him. 

Until one Saturday evening, sitting on the broken steps, gazing at the stars, he came calling. Sparkling and broken in the dim light, stumbling and groaning as he tripped over his own feet, not recognising your presence just a few steps away from him. The discordance of his movement had a flash of light burning along your skin, the chill of the night air gone, the hiss of the snakes in the tall grass, stopping in companionship—letting you ponder over the situation that had presented itself. 

“Joel?” you called from the lone step, watching his head flick upwards in confusion—attempting to stand straight, square his shoulders, and act tough when he realised that your eyes were on him. 

Your name came stumbled from his lips—an attempt to not seem as drunk as he was. It seemed he had wished the day away with cheap whiskey and warm beer. Perhaps, he just had a low tolerance that you had not anticipated from someone so intimidatingly large. 

“Are you okay?” you asked as he stepped onto the grass, purposefully avoiding your watchful gaze as he pushed his hand into his pocket and searched for his keys—jangling in the solitude and passivity of the night's reclusion. “Joel?” 

“M’fine,” he mumbled. If it wasn’t for your questions, you would’ve thought he was talking to the walls, eyes firmly forward, back turned to you as he tumbled up his steps. Reticent in the way he always was—unable to allow vulnerability to push him against a heart-shaped bed and present love on a bloodied plate.

“Are you drunk?” you pushed. 

“Why does it matter?” he slurred. 

With a sigh, you stood, crossing your arms across your chest to stop the cold from seeping in, and stepped towards him. He’d stopped at the top of the stairs, perched on the porch like a starved vulture hoping to morph the dry sand into fresh meat. He could smell you: the warmth of your flesh, the deepness of your blood. If he turned around, you were prepared to let him feast. 

“I’ve never seen you like this,” you observed, eyebrows furrowed in concern as you hesitantly advanced, pushing out a breath as you stood on the step below him. 

Joel twitched when you halted, his porch light blaring in the background, illuminating his featureless face—obscuring the wet of his eyes that he blinked at furiously. 

“I ain’t drunk,” he huffed and his rejection burned fresh through the jerk of his shoulder when you placed your hand atop it. Fist clenching by your side, hand scorched and blistering, you stepped back. 

“Okay,” you muttered sympathetically. “I’m sorry.” There was something brewing in that mind of his. The brilliant torment that ravaged the war fumbling and relentless in the depths of his being. If you had to, you would step into the middle of the battlefield, white flag raised, and settle an agreement between the rage and the tenderness. “If you wanna…” A pregnant pause permeated the space as you gazed at the expanse of his back—the dust on his shirt, the scratches on his neck. It clicked all of a sudden. “Are you hurt?” 

Eyes honed in on the red streaks along his broad neck, seeing a tendon twitch as he slowly began to turn. 

It was an unshakeable disappointment when he faced you, and stood on his porch throne—haloed by the yellow glow of the lights of angels. Crusted blood under his nose and a gash along the bridge. A bruise was forming on his cheekbone. Eyebrow split open. 

“Jesus Christ, Joel,” you murmured, taking in the sight of his pillaged body. His skin: scorched earth. He looked defeated and sick. Man and violence: you could not comprehend. The willingness to destroy: an inescapable commonality between the species. 

Woman: born to serve and nurture. Matrimony and matriarchy. 

Just as you had been taught, sympathy soaked your throat, the urge to care building tall inside of you. 

You stepped forward with a swiftness he could not attempt to dodge in his state, and instinctively grabbed his wrist. 

“What’d you do?” 

His truculence was clear through the violence in his eyes as he gazed at your grasp—unintentionally tight and bruising. It disappeared when you softened, grip loosening, eyes dragging to the marks on his face. 

“Just a bar fight.” He shook his head dismissively, pulse pumping like the beat of a parade drum under the heat of your fingers. 

“What about?” you pried, part genuine concern and part curiosity as to how he’d found himself in this predicament—what God had allowed you to touch him again after so long without the desperation of his kisses. 

“Nothin’.” 

“Joel-” 

“It was nothin’.” He grabbed the hand clasped around his wrist, pulling it away, holding it in suspense and forcing you to gulp down a mouthful of sand. “Please,” he murmured. Sweeter this time. “I don’t want you worryin’ ‘bout me.” 

“But I do.” It was an easy statement to make, the words slipping from your throat and diving straight for his chest. A bullet hole on his shoulder and the acceptance of defeat as he let your arm drop to your side. 

Another shift in dynamic pulsated through the air like the aurora borealis; hopefulness in the colour. 

Joel offered you no response, just stood with his eyes locked on the turf and his lips twitching downwards in pensive passivity. 

A flourish of deep compassion warmed the stitchings of your flesh and pulled you into a role disparate from the ones you had held previously in the man's presence.  

“At least let me fix you up.” You began to turn, allowing him to follow if he wished. Up the steps, carefully ascending one, then the other, then pushing your door open and leaving it ajar. 

He followed moments afterwards. 

You both rode on a mare with glistening skin, demanding acceptance from the wild plains and the cackling hyenas. Both with only one journey to reach eudaimonia. The threshold lay just ahead of him, the jut of the doorframe that you had tripped over countless times, bordering the golden gates. Joel pushed them open, closing them behind him with a softness that had become familiar to you in these quiet moments of gratitude for his commiserations.

A light glow illuminated the kitchenette, lamplight streaming through the rest of the trailer and the TV that you had left on, muffled in the background. Your feet were bare against the carpet, shoes haphazardly lying near the front door where you’d kicked them off whilst Joel deliberated. You briefly diverted your course to switch the TV off, the late-night slop burning in your ears and then disappearing with a click and a thump as you threw the remote back down on the couch. 

The comforting roughness of the carpet disappeared when you stepped against the tile, the material cold on the soles and you hastily reached into the bottom corner cupboard to pull out your first aid kit. Hands trembled as you undid the clasps, a gentle vibration through your fingertips that almost caused you to drop the antiseptic wipes you acquired from the messy little box that you had filled when life only needed a band-aid to fix. 

He was hovering behind you. You could feel him. Eyes firmly on your back, watching you work. 

“Sit down,” you said simply and the scrape of the one wooden chair that sits lonesome under the kitchen table rattles in your ears like the call of bone whistles. 

There is a moment where you allow yourself a second to breathe, to regulate the undeniable draw you have to the man sitting drunk and waiting for you to fix him. As if you had the ability to fix Joel Miller. Every piece of him was stashed way out west down the Oregon trail, hidden in the Californian mountains, deep within a cavern—you were not brave enough to venture forward, only buying a slice of courage from an entity unknown as you turned around, antiseptic in hand and stepped towards him. 

There’s a simple carefulness in the way you settle yourself above him, breath held, eyes refusing to catch his as you hesitantly hold his face and begin to wipe away the filth from the nasty gash on his eyebrow. 

The silence was almost unbearable, his eyes fixated on your face as you wiped and tried not to show so much surprise at his compliance. He sat, letting you touch him, heal his bruises and staunch the blood flow with a soft touch and shaky exhales. With seemingly no irritation, nothing to indicate he would be disappointed if you were to question, you pressed. 

“What happened?” 

There was a pause, a held breath and a confession that shook you steady—hand pausing its movement and lips parting in poorly contained shock. 

“They were talkin’ bout you.” He sniffed, jaw set and eyes sad. “I couldn’t listen without sayin’ something.” 

After the initial, stomach-lurching waves of nausea and uncertainty, you held his jaw tighter, and began to wipe again—wound clean but so deep you couldn’t help but wipe and weep and hope that he wouldn’t confess another heart-skipping sin. 

Pathetically, you thanked him, hands shaking, breaths coming steady and controlled as you tried desperately to stop yourself from crying. Frustration: an undeniable churning. There were a million things you wished to say, spurt curses at his face as you pushed and pushed until he was just a ball of matter begging for mercy. To leave him as he left you—curled in on yourself, waiting for God to help you make sense of his departure. His rejection. But God had left long ago, his lingering presence unfelt in the doorways of a time long past, the bastard no longer the lone star on the Texas flag. 

When you felt his hand reach your wrist, pulling you away from his face, you began to tremble, lip quivering as you blinked away an onslaught of tears. 

“Baby-” 

“Don’t,” you begged softly, all fight gone as you basked in the burn of his fingers around you, hoping to see the scar when he finally peeled them off. “Please, Joel.” 

Those sad southern eyes looked at you with a despair unknown to you—a deep, lingering pit in the darkness that tugged on every fibre. That made you pity this man who had ripped you fully in two. 

“Okay,” he appeased. “Okay, honey, I’m sorry.” He began to rub the inside of your wrist with his thumb, waiting for the welling tears to fall, just so he could wipe them away and lick the salt of you off his skin. 

“You’re such an asshole,” you said when the tears finally fell, sniffing in a display so piteous and pathetic. 

And Joel had no reply—the silence was an agreement. 

He knew. Had known for a very long time. He could not blame it on her forever; he could not blame it on the loss. At a certain point, there had to be a common denominator and the only answer was him. 

“I just-” you scoffed, ripping your wrist from his hand, rubbing at the phantom bruise that wrapped purple and blue like tendrils of poison. “I just wanted to help you. I- I feel sorry for you, Joel-”

“I don’t need you to.” 

“But I do,” you interrupted, desperate to make him listen, to pull down the defences for once. “I can’t help the way I feel.” 

“I ain’t good for you-” 

“Would you please give yourself some credit? Stop being such a self-pitying asshole and maybe you wouldn’t be so miserable.” 

He stopped, stunned by your insistence, chewing on his next words before spitting them at your feet. 

“You ain’t got a clue.” 

You sensed the rage, the brewing red heat that bubbled in the pits of his pupils. The thunder clapped overhead and the rain began to pour as you looked in his pitying eyes. The windows to the soul: a dark soul that searched for something sacrosanct in a time where everything reigned unholy. It begged to take the body instead of the mind, let the crowd part and the shouting cease as he knelt before them with stigmata displayed—the crown of thorns digging, dripping. Blood-soaked. 

He waited for you in the haze of the desert and his soul flickered and died when you refused to bow. When you forced once more, the object of your essence, the need to heal something broken. 

“Let me have a clue then.” Your voice was quiet. The summer rain beat down on the windowpanes and he quieted with the muffled sound of running water. 

The silence stilled the tension and his eyes hung low as you pulled away from your spot between his legs to throw away the dirtied alcohol wipe. There was comfort in the rain as you fumbled around your first aid box and ripped another wipe open. No resistance came when you began to wipe his cut again, and you worked quietly, comfortably in the cataclysm of your growing companionship. 

When you finished, you dropped the evidence of your communion in the trash and, with your arms crossed over your chest, rested on the counter. 

Joel stayed at the table, just watching. 

It was you who broke the joining of your solitude. 

“I didn’t think it would rain here in summer.” 

Your eyes fell on the windows, the patterns that the rain made against the glass. It was soft on your ears and a welcome reprieve from the dry ground. You hoped the birds were enjoying the feel of the water on their feathers. 

“It happens sometimes,” he said gruffly. He looked exhausted, and you twitched with the itch to touch him. “It’s not regular, but it ain’t all dry down here.” 

“I like it,” you murmured, eyes fixed on his tired ones, and with a rush of adrenaline that spread to your shaking fingers, you advanced the short distance between you. He shuddered when your fingers reached his hair, a jerk movement that had him tensing with the unpredictability, but then, he relaxed. He softened as the shower ceased to a gentle thrum of rain. 

His head pressed against your stomach, the cut on his eyebrow brushing the fabric of your clothes—the wound irritated and raw as it began to bleed again. 

Dextrous fingers worked through his hair, throat dry as you struggled to whisper words of comfort in the face of such evil. He took the comfort better than you expected, softened quietly and let you stroke his scalp—let himself lean on you. 

“You’re so sweet,” he muttered as his hands slid to your waist, pulled you tighter to him as his heat seared into your skin. “Sweet thing.” 

You wanted to cry, but decided it was better to be brave for him, that you deserved so little comfort when he had spent so long desperate. So you swallowed away the ache and let his blood soak your shirt. You let him stay until he couldn’t bear the vulnerability anymore and cut through the atmosphere with his bruising force as he pulled you down onto his lap and brushed your hair from your face. 

“You got sad eyes, babydoll,” he muttered wistfully, and you were too caught up in his affections to be bothered that the change came from his discomfort at his blatant display of his conceived weakness. His thumb came to play at your lip, and you talked through the movement. 

“You’re bleeding again.” You reached for him, but he simply shook his head.

“Don’t you worry about me.” There was a sigh as he held your chin, eyes heavy, hands tight around your waist. “I’m a goddamn asshole and you’re…you’re sweet. I don’t know where you fuckin’ came from, but you scare me, honey.” 

You convinced yourself that he was still drunk, that the spew of affection was bred from the alcohol coursing his veins yet there was so much conviction in his stare, so much truth and power as he leant up to kiss you, so soft you barely felt it, that you couldn’t reconcile his actions with your doubts anymore. 

“I’m sorry—”

“Stop it.” 

He silenced everything with another kiss, flesh on flesh, the glorious union of your sweet pandemonium. You felt like you were on fire, embarrassed and confused at his insistence. You worried, beneath the pleasure of his mouth moving against you that this was another ploy. What was stopping him from leaving you again and then coming right back when he decided that there was something inherently wrong with you that repelled him? Everything he did was inherently wrong. The hypocrisy sickened you. 

“Joel,” you breathed as he began to kiss your neck. “Joel, stop it.” His tongue was rough as he flicked at your skin, his hands around your waist pulling tighter. “Joel.” 

Your insistence was lost on him, his eyes closed, his grip bruising as if this moment would determine every future interaction, like if he could not have this once he would never have it again. But your brain was churning, you were struggling with the fight between physicality and mentality and his hands felt cold as stone when you pushed at his chest and slid gracelessly off his lap to distance yourself from him. 

There was a guilty look on his face that signalled the softening of your disgusted countenance and you wiped at your mouth with the back of your hand. 

“Sorry, I—” he began, but the words got lost somewhere in his throat and they got pushed back down with the acridity of all his lies and deceit. 

“You can’t just—” you struggled with your emotions, thrusting your hands in the air like the answer would form in your ears. “You can’t just kiss me and hope it makes everything better. It’s been three fucking weeks, I didn’t invite you in with the hopes that you’d fuck me.” 

The hum of the wind battered your ears alongside his silence, the whistle of tension as he tightened his fist, knuckles blistering white and then unclenching again as his eyes darkened and lips twitched. 

“No, you were just worried about me, ain’t that right?” Suddenly, he stood, hulking around the space as his rage materialised under all the careful depictions of the true nature of his soul. “Just wanted to make sure I was okay?” 

“Yes!” you exclaimed, entirely exasperated and let your chest heave as every unspoken word threatened to spill. “Jesus Christ, Joel, I thought you killed yourself the other day. You had me worried sick.” 

“Am I that pathetic to you?” 

“It’s not pathetic to feel—” 

“I don’t fuckin’ feel!” he shouted. All of a sudden, an outburst of anger and a shiver of fear as he closed in on you. “I don’t feel shit about this place, any of those people and especially not you. I had a family, and now that’s gone. I had a life and I ain’t bout’ to let some dumb little girl bury me in my own sadness because she can’t keep her goddamn nose out of that life.” 

Your breaths were coming fast and hard, your body immobile as you gripped tight at the kitchen counters. Your feet were cold. Your toes hurt with how numb they’d gone, and yet the sweat from your soles imprinted the linoleum like the brand of his kiss on your swollen lips. Pathetically, you felt scared. Pathetically, you did not say anything else, just let out a disgusting whimper as your throat closed and let the tears slide down your face. 

You were running before he could convince you to stay, running from your own trailer. In hindsight, it had been a stupid move, terribly juvenile, but he lorded your space as if it were his kingdom, and not even home felt safe anymore. So, you left. The rain beat deep and heavy against your body like the bass of concert speakers, bare feet numbing to nothing as you stomped across the grass. 

There were brief shouts of your name, lost to the wind as they were taken by the sky, and you trudged forward with words caught in your contracting chest and the promise of everything melting to nothing beneath the soil. You would walk to Oklahoma if it would get you away from him. 

“Goddamnit,” you heard, harsh and bitter, behind you. He was quicker, strides longer, anger larger. You were a fool to think he would let you go wandering. 

The hand around your wrist was warm, inviting against the cold wind, and you couldn’t afford the pleasure of such comfort, so you shunned it away, ripped the offending thing from your body and whipped around to face him. 

“Go away,” you said hoarsely. “Please, just leave me alone.” 

He reached for your wrist again, and you jerked away. Madness in his eyes, he reached again, this time for your exposed bicep, hairs standing on end from the chill of the rain, and tugged you close.  

“Makin’ me go out in the goddamn rain,” he muttered, as if dragging you back to where you’d ran from wasn’t offending. As if his insistence wasn’t shattering your soul as he pulled you along. 

With a pathetic whine, you began to sob brokenly, a sound he absorbed, mulled and let dictate his actions as he stumbled to a stop and loosened his grip on your upper arm. 

“Just let me go,” you pleaded between cries, breath hard to come by, head spinning as you clutched at your chest with your free hand and cursed your mind for forcing you into such a vulnerable position. The doctor had called them attacks, but no doctor could label the affliction of your soul. Your mother called them pathetic, and you were more than inclined to agree with her. 

“Jesus Christ.” Joel shook his head, a look of disgust plastered across his face as he let you go. “What is this? What are you doing?” 

“Just leave me alone,” you managed to get out between breaths, not forgetting your manners as you fumbled out a broken “please.” 

But he did not go. Your eyes blurred from the tears yet you could still see the outline of him, haloed by the light coming from Jimmy’s trailer that brightened as the bastard pulled open the curtain to see what the commotion was and whether by his own selfishness at being caught, or your delusional need to make it seem like he cared, he carted you away. “Babygirl” was on his lips again, and you could not help but fall into his chest and let him pull you back home. 

When you arrived back at the trailer, the grass was soggy under your feet. He set you down on his porch, mumbled “wait there,” and went over to close your door, which had been left ajar in your escape. Upon his return, there was conflict in his gait, a set furrow of his brow as he opened his door and pushed you inside. 

You still couldn’t breathe, could barely hear his words as he set you down on his recliner and left to get you a glass of water. You couldn’t gulp down the liquid when he handed it to you, too settled with the panic to care when the water dribbled out of your mouth and he took the glass from you with a sigh. 

“Stand up,” he commanded, his care concealed by his harshness and you heaved and shook as he guided you to a stand and you were shocked into submission when he wrapped his arms carefully around you, pulled you tight to his chest with your ear pressed against his heart and began to take consistent breaths. All in, and all out. One big breath, the feel of his chest expanding, then one big exhale, and his heart slowed beneath you. “Breathe,” he murmured. “Just breathe, babygirl.” 

It was hard not to listen to him. The desperation to be good was bigger than whatever disorder pervaded your sense and it was easier than it had ever been to sing away the discomfort and let him hold you. You breathed, then cried, and then apologised as if it was your place to say sorry for his misgivings. As if he were not the entire reason you had deteriorated into solemnity. 

He shushed you with a kiss to your head, arms coming round tighter as he had done when he’d sat you down against his lap only minutes previous, yet you did not feel this time that he would ignore you when you asked him to let go. You felt comfort in the knowledge that he was dangerous no longer, caged and chained, and when you removed your sticky, crusted cheek from his chest to gaze at him through misted eyes, you felt yourself soften and slip. 

You were leaning up to kiss him before you could decide your assumptions were wrong, and he fell down against your lips like the wind of a thousand summers. 

Neither of you spoke as he kissed you to the bedroom and there was no sound aside from the smacking of lips and the springs of the bed when he clambered over you. There was no time for you to contemplate the fact that you were in his bedroom, sprawled out against his bed as he suckled a mark against your neck. No time to think of the repercussions, the likelihood of him banishing you again once the night was over.

And yet, he was apologising into the junction of your neck, mumbled apologies that you couldn’t decide whether they were genuine or not. His fingers slid down your damp body, peeling the soaked clothes from your skin with a gentleness you couldn’t understand. It was whiplash. It was cruel. He was cruel and yet so sweet the moment the guilt overtook him and he couldn’t live in the stubbornness anymore. So, you just wrapped your legs around his waist and tugged him close, pulled his face back to your own and kissed him with the reverence of the summer breeze. 

Still, he worked diligently at your wet clothes, peeling the fabric from your chest and shushing your whine as he pulled away to get it over your head. You would’ve laughed at the sound it made against the floor if it wasn’t for how enraptured you were with him. You were hot, all over, fire in your loins when he tugged off your bra, ripped off his own shirt and pressed your bodies together. His skin against yours was paradisical, a plain so Godly you couldn’t even perceive it as sexual in your hazed mind. It was so dauntingly intimate, so separate from your last encounter that it felt like your soul was merging, entwining, all from the blessedness of his warmth atop yours. 

Everything else came off slower then, the kisses sloppier, shuddering in their rhythm as you lay naked. When he rolled onto his side, you went with him, leg cocked over his hip, and cunt knocking against the length of him with the movement of your lips against one another. But you were too tired to feel him fully, too locked in the escape from your mind, that you just wanted the kiss to last forever and his body against yours until the day you died. He made you feel so small, so delicate as his hands skated across your waist, over your hip, down then up again to brush his thumb on the underside of your breast.

You whined when he finally parted, a string of spit connecting you to him—snapping when he uttered slurred words. You could only assume his body was tingling as much as yours, that his brain was as addled and hazy. 

“Go to sleep, baby.” So soft through his lips, your heart twitching when he forced a smile. 

“But you—” you began to protest, eyes suggestively looking down at his cock which hung half-hard and heavy, jumping with every brush of your thigh. 

“Don’t worry ‘bout me,” he interrupted. “Don’t you ever worry about me. I ain’t worth it.” 

You were too desperate to please him to disagree, too wrapped up in how perfect the moment was to break it by talking back, so you nodded, eyes so heavy, body sinking against him. The world went dark when you slipped, but his inviting hands kept you grounded. Then, you felt his lips against your eyelids and you let your mind fall completely blank. For the first time since you had become aware of your own mortality, you felt safe as you drifted. In the arms of danger, you felt comfort. 

The two of you fell asleep naked, no promise of anything more, just the simplicity of the present. The predicaments would come when the sun rose, and you were content to let the night shelter you from the promises of dawn. You did not dream; you just kept the pleasure of unconsciousness, which stopped the maddening thoughts of the future and the constant skipping of your heart as his fingers dragged along your skin, and his soul twitched towards the hole in yours. 

You woke to mumbles, half-words that hummed against your hair. The sun was bleeding through the curtains, the light against the bedspread swimming along the shape of your calve that peeked from under the covers. Your skin felt dry, your mouth the same, and you could feel the mat in your hair from where the rain had dried the knots in place. Yet, he was there. He was still alive and breathing next to you, still as close as he was when you had fallen asleep prior, but this time, twitching and talking in his sleep with a tremor.

When you moved to touch him, his eyes shot open with the instinctiveness of a man used to the dangers of unconsciousness, and you retreated with the burn of the brown against your face. There was a stark silence, only broken by the bark of Jimmy’s dog, who tended to roam on his lonesome, then he pulled away from you to scrub a hand across his face and murmured a soft, “Mornin’.” 

“Morning,” you replied, feeling cold when he peeled himself away from you and leant up to sit on the edge of the bed. 

You hadn’t expected him to kiss you and hold you with the morning sun blessing your entwined bodies—you hadn’t expected him to stay at all. However, it didn’t lull the sting when the bed shifted with the loss of his weight and he groped for his sweatpants, thrown over the back of a chair in the corner and tugged them on. 

Yet, there was hopefulness in the dew and you gazed reverently at his figure as he reached into his drawers to grasp a flannel and turned to question you. 

“You want coffee?” he asked, jaw twitching at your eager nod. Then, he threw the flannel on the bed, the item landing softly beside you and he gestured to you with a gruffness that warmed your heart. “C’mon then.” 

There, he disappeared from the room, cracking his neck as he went, and his footsteps muffled along the carpet, pausing in the kitchen. 

You waited a fair few seconds before you pulled his shirt on, fully overwhelmed by the scent of him as you swung your legs over the side of the bed and trembled over to the doorframe. It seemed oddly domestic, strangely comfortable in the wake of such discomfort. But you retraced the footprints he had left behind and made the short walk to the kitchen, feeling awkwardly exposed without panties, despite the flannel covering you. 

Joel was busy making coffee, his back to you as he pulled two mugs from his cupboard, each mismatched and novel. Awkwardly, you swayed in your spot, arms crossed tight against your chest, mulling in the quiet as the ceramic clinked. 

“How do you take it?” he asked softly, mind occupied as he left the coffee to brew.

“Cream and two sugars,” you answered, and he scoffed amusedly. 

“Shoulda’ known you liked it sweet.” He turned then, arms mirroring yours, biceps bulging, and you thought of how those arms had cradled you just hours previous. You honed in on the bruise around his eye, the redness of his wound, but he was still beautiful, and it didn’t matter. There was no reason to give notice to his violence when that hostility had protected you. 

It was instinct, when you reached out to feel his strength again, feet moving of their own accord, trembling as you got closer and then sighing in contentment when he reached out too. He held you, tight as anything to his chest, your chin tickled by the hair there, and he leant down with something akin to adoration in his eyes before kissing you. 

His lips were plump and malleable underneath, no bruise to his touch, just the simplicity of the morning as his hands gripped your waist, trailed down after a harsh squeeze and pulled the fat of your ass into his palms. You yelped when he pushed you back to the counter, laughing against his lips as he lifted you onto the worktop and shoved his way between your legs. 

Amusement quickly gave way to carnal desperation, and every sensation pent up from the night before when you’d gone to sleep wet, came pummeling to the surface when he trailed his fingers across your thighs and kissed the space below your ear that had you keening. 

“J-Joel,” you fumbled out, hands gripping his shoulders and tugging him tight against you. He was teasing along the skin of your inner thigh with his fingers, suckling and nipping in a manner against your neck that would surely leave a mark and you jerked with a choked moan when he pressed his fingers against your clit. 

It was a slow glide towards your slit, calculated and clumsy all at once and he struggled to stifle his groan when he found the slick of you. 

“Jesus, baby,” he uttered, head falling into the crook of your neck. “Can I have you now?”

The question had you clamping around his hand, thighs joining together as he softly brushed your clit, breaths hurried against your skin as he pressed hard into the counter. Joel Miller was desperate, and it was blissful. Joel Miller wanted you with a desperation you finally felt mirrored your own and you were struggling to keep your rationale. 

So you nodded, pulled his face up to yours and breathed out a “fuck yes, please,” before he kissed you hard and began tugging on his sweatpants. You didn’t look when his cock sprang free, his appendage already disappearing between your legs as he tugged you closer to him and ran the tip up and down, up and down until he notched at your entrance and began to sink in. 

It stung with the stretch of a thousand cuts, breath catching in your throat, hands gripping against his shoulders, driving him closer to you so you could breathe in every breath he expelled. Your haste had been your downfall in those first few moments where he pushed in further, forgetting in your desperation how big he had been the first time—how much you ached afterwards. But the pain seemed welcome, your body responding in kind with a gush of nectar, the sharpness of you cutting through and salving the wounds of your insides. Then, it didn’t seem so bad, and you let your mind go blank as he pushed to the hilt and held himself there whilst he caught his breath. 

“Goddamn,” he muttered. “Been dreamin’ about this pussy.” 

The crudeness was back and you couldn’t help but smile against his mouth as he kissed you again. 

“Been dreamin’ about you…” He pulled away and you prepared yourself for the stretch again as he hugged you tight, arms wrapped around you, hands sliding along your bare back as he shoved his hands under your shirt and he pushed back in with a groan before monologuing again.

“Fuck, been dreamin’ about you every night. Can’t get you out of my head.” 

You just whined, worried that if you said too much, he’d realise what he was confessing and stop. 

Another thrust, a heavy breath you sucked up and let posion your lungs—grabbing hard onto his shoulders, feeling against the bare muscles of his back. You would never forget how smooth his skin felt under your fingers, that even as you passed over the hardness of his age, he still felt like silk. He still emanated a youth that polarised how old he really was; the amount of life he had lived thus far. 

Then, his movements came more consistently, his words less measured and fabricated. The truth came there on the counter in the midst of summer morning, where everyone else seemed to be resting—where your souls entwined under the coming sun. The air shifted, and the ground split, and you were dragged to hell with him whilst performing the carnal sin that belonged to heaven. 

“You’re so pretty,” he said, breathy and soft, uncharacteristically sweet as he forced your eyes to his, placed a hand on your cheek and supported your lolling head. “Look at me.” You tried with wet eyes as he continued to thrust, so deep inside you yet frustratingly not deep enough with the position he’d locked you in. You wanted to ride him there on the floor, wanted to feel him splitting you open. You would be happy to die with the feel of his cock inside you—would be happy to die with his words ringing unceremoniously in your ears. 

“There she is,” he uttered into the space between your lips, eyes locked with his, trying your best not to let them flutter closed. “My pretty girl. My girl…all mine, right?”

You didn’t answer immediately, trying to understand what his question meant, whether the betrayal would come after he did, or he’d keep the covenant you were about to make as his fingers found your clit again and he began to rub with intention. He watched with reverence in his eyes as yours closed and your back arched, thighs jerking as his slapped against yours. He was inside you, asking for you, implying in the most explicit way he knew how that he wanted you. Whether it were to be temporary or not, you couldn’t care, not when he was being so sweet, so soft as he fucked you on his kitchen counter and watched, waited, expectantly for your answer.

“All yours,” you breathed out before you could bother to mull the implications of your words, not bothering to read over the terms and conditions before signing along the dotted line. 

But he choked out a moan, head falling into his neck and fingers faltering against you as he thrust and pushed and gripped you as tight as he possibly could. Your thighs were trembling, your head lolling to the side as you floated with the sensation of his rocking. 

The revelation you came to there, a revelation that should’ve been obvious to you, yet you had unconsciously tried mightily to deny, was that you cared about him considerably. The attachment that you had to him created an environment you were unsure you could leave. It was your Eden, it was the bliss of the freedom of Adam and Eve, so many passages unexplored; forbidden fruit to eat. The only way you would leave would be if he banished you, and even then, you would dream of Eden and its prosperity whilst you shook, ashamed of your nakedness and sin. 

Joel’s hips stuttered, and he breathed heavily to ward off the oncoming feeling, desperate in his movement against your clit, to make you come before he did. 

As the heat began shining through the window, the sun rising in conjunction with the rise of the sensation in your stomach, you fought back the urge to rip into his skin—to hold him there against you, flesh under your fingernails, and not let him go until he was skeletal, limp and dead. 

In an entirely hypocritical acknowledgement, you realised how much you adored him. In a way that rendered you disgusting and simultaneously amused at your head, you realised how much you liked his harshness. He was mean, but didn’t you deserve such a firm hand? He was eager to build you up and then let you go, but wasn’t that push and pull exactly how you lived in your head—teetering between happy and sad. Uncomfortably, somewhere in the middle of those feelings. 

But you fought your urges, just let your hands tug at the ends of his hair, nails along his scalp and focused hard on the feeling brewing inside you, the one that twitched along every nerve and tingled tantalisingly in the hedonism of your mind. 

“Joel, “ you managed to choke out. “Joel, please.” You consistently felt like you were repeating yourself in these moments, not witty enough to reply to his dirty mouth, not brave enough to disagree with his accusations when he degraded you, and then seemed to love you when he gave you every piece of himself he had left. 

“Go on, baby,” he murmured, pressing his lips against your neck as his hips sped up, jaw clenching as he tried to ward off the same sensation currently brewing inside you. He let out a few measured breaths, licking against your collarbone to appease himself and muttering words into your neck that almost became unintelligible against the ringing in your ears. “My pretty baby,” he said. “I’m sorry…so sorry, angel-girl.” 

Tears streamed from your eyes against the pressure of his cock inside you, trying to steady your stuttering breathing as you held him painfully tight and focused hard on the feel of adrenaline coursing to your overworked heart. 

“Look at me, angel,” he requested softly, his forehead pressing against yours, palm resting against your cheek and thumb brushing away the tears. When your eyes met, you struggled to dispel the insurmountable feeling that was churning inside you. 

With his eyes on yours, you came, sweat pooling on your back, body jerking when he came too—warming in your stomach as he stuttered and settled. 

For a few solid minutes, you both breathed each other in, breaths mingling, tears sipping from his eyes too from the overexertion and your thighs tightened around him as if the cum coating you was a promise of seperation rather than union. 

Then, the spell was broken as his dick slipped from you and the evidence of his misgivings spilt. 

“Shit,” he muttered, a flash of panic in his eyes that seemed to fall away when he gazed at the white glint along your cunt. “Sorry.” 

You were too warm to care, too full of him to worry about the thing pouring from you—the way that it could implicate your life. So you just shook your head and pulled his face back to yours, kissed him hard and then let him go, breathless and sated. 

“It doesn’t matter,” you assured. “It’ll be fine.” 

With a set stare, a determination in his countenance that showed he trusted you, he nodded. Then, he pulled you off the counter, muttered a “Don’t get any of that shit on my carpets,” humour in his uncomfortability, and patted your ass as he sent you on your way to the bathroom.

You waddled, cursing the lack of care from him, but still smiling as you heard the clinking of mugs again—the scraping of metal spoons against the ceramic. He was still taking care of you, but ultimately allowing your independence. He had also not told you to leave. He had not left, and it was enough for you to consider skipping like an over-eager schoolgirl to the bathroom. 

Softly, you closed the door behind you, met with the bleeding sun through the frosted windows and slumped down onto the toilet—wiping diligently after you’d ripped a few squares from the roll. 

As you sat, pondering the situation you’d been presented with, you felt the lingering doubt rise again like bile in the throat. There were no guarantees. This was not a promise, his cum saturating the thin paper was nothing more than the working of a man unable to control himself. What if that was all this was? What if it was just the action of Joel’s lack of constraint? He was not a man who loved easily, who gave himself up so willingly, yet it seemed, as you flushed the remnants of him away, that the moment in the night, the moment in the kitchen, was exactly what you hadn’t expected it to be: a promise. 

It would be foolish, to think that it was some kind of declaration, that you’d be holding hands and getting married before the month was out—in truth, the longevity of the relationship seemed just as blurred as the possibility of what would greet you when you walked from the bathroom—but it was something. There was an essence in his domesticity, a skip in your chest when you washed your hands, detoured to the bedroom to pull your panties back on, and went down the hall to see him sipping on his coffee; your mug sat next to his. 

He did not smile when he saw you, didn’t open his arms like a loving partner, but you didn’t expect him to. Everything about Joel Miller was subtle—all implied, not blatant—and you were content with the meaning of your steaming cup next to his, the way that he placed his down to hand yours to you.

You took the coffee gratefully, fingers brushing, but without the tension that used to cloud such muted touches. The contact settled with the prospect of easement, and you followed him like a loyal dog when he gestured to the door and muttered a soft “C’mon.” 

On the way, he snatched up his pack of cigarettes, his zippo going with it, and held the door open for you like a perfect gentleman when you walked past. 

The wood of his porch was rough under your bare soles, and you honed in on the lonesome garden chair that symbolised so much more than a place to rest. You had stared at that chair for weeks when he had left you waiting, gazing out the window and wishing to sit stubbornly in the empty space and give the plastic purpose. 

So, you hesitated when he went to sit in his preferred seat, gazing at the scratched white and hypothesising in your head what it would mean when you followed his action.

Joel looked at you funny when you didn’t mirror his movements, a cigarette hanging unlit from his mouth—his coffee mug placed on the table that sat between the two objects. 

His questioning gaze moved you, and you were shuffling to the seat, shaking as you planted yourself down and forced to put your mug next to his on the table in fear you’d spill it. 

There was the click of a lighter, and he handed you the smoking stick silently, another click as he lit his own, and the scent of tobacco permeated the space alongside the scent of coffee and dew. 

“Gon’ be humid today,” he huffed out, shifting in his seat, legs spread wide, still shirtless, and you couldn’t help but stifle a giggle. His head snapped towards you, a smirk curling at his lips. “What you laughin’ for?” 

You smiled wide, puffing carefully on the cigarette and expelling the smoke with a scoff. 

“We’re gonna talk about the weather? Really?” 

He returned your scoff and replicated the drag, tapping away the ash with his forefinger. 

“What else you wanna talk about?” 

In truth, you didn’t know, you didn’t have a goddamn clue where you would start a conversation with Joel. When you conversed with him, it ranged from mind-numbing small talk to the weightiest of confessions and equivocations. There had never been moments where you just sat and discussed whatever was on your mind, so you shrugged and looked him in the eye. 

“I don’t know,” you said honestly. “We don’t really talk, do we?” 

He left your eyes then, gazing at your trailer, at the window he used to peer through so often and stubbed his cigarette out on the chair, melting the plastic before throwing the end over the porch bannister. 

“No,” he said monosyllabically. “I guess we don’t.” 

Silence overcame you, then, and you settled with it—settled with the rising sun against your face and the pounding of your heart when he placed his hand, palm up, against the little table. The invitation was clear, his intentions solid, and you reached out your left hand to his, letting the cigarette burn away in the right. He squeezed the flesh when you touched, just a brief tightening of his grip before he entwined your fingers, and let them rest together. 

The weight of something unidentifiable settled on your shoulders when he did not pull away—when he let the coffee go cold in favour of feeling your touch. He did not remove himself when people started to wake, when the park bustled, and they all looked as they walked past. You just settled in silence, unmoving, unblinking, let the angels fly around your head like a crown of lilies and repeated his words, mumbled them quietly in your mind: “I’m sorry…so sorry, angel-girl.” 

There, they rang true. You gripped the apology like you gripped his hand and closed your eyes, safe with the inaudible promise of prosperity.

© virginreprise

A/N Well...I'm back with this after I said it was finished!! I did not expect to come back to it but the TLOU fandom at the moment has been a shambles and I was hoping that by revisiting the first fic I ever wrote for Joel, I would get my love for writing back again. And I guess it worked because I'm here and posting and the vision for this part was so clear in my head. I can't promise any more after this so I'm going to keep it as complete but with enough convincing I might be able to make something up.

[laserbobcat]

as someone who's 33 and writing Narilamb and reading your comics, and also kinda interested in different kinds of art myself, it is so so nice seeing someone around my age who's into this fandom and making art. I feel so stupid sometimes that it's hard to even pick up a pencil or stylus - and I'm new new new to art like that so I need that practice time. seeing people like you making what you love and not giving a good goddamn is really inspiring. I'm sure you get lots of love for your comics but idk I just wanted to say thank you 💗 your cat and Leshy make so many people smile for so many different reasons :)

AW I do get a lot of kind feedback, but it's rare that I don't have the time/energy to answer. I really appreciate messages. I do read and see all of it, and every little tag matters. It's why I try my best to leave at least a little tag when I reblog art, and I'm not shy about sending messages to creators when I have, again, time/energy. People are shy, but we are all dorks, you realize it pretty quick when you start interacting more with the artists you follow. Warning surprise super LONG life dump bellow. I was like "Inspiring, are you sure? I'm also wreck, let me tell you just so there's no misunderstandings" and bam, novel.

About being 35 and making whatever I want: I do in fact feel self conscious about a lot of things, it's just that people on the internet don't really matter. That sounds harsh, but it's true. It's like people you meet on the street, or at bars, or at work: mostly polite positive interactions, some nice memories, a few of them will form solid bonds with you, the vast majority of them will be lost as soon as they're not in the same vicinity as you anymore. And it's normal, and it's ok. Humans aren't made to nurture too many relationships, even the social ones. So I personally enjoy fandoms in a detached sort of way that might feel like I don't give a damn. I think it's healthy tbh. But it's easy to appear calm and detached when you don't really have skin in the game. I really care about this blog it's my fun place, but it's completely detached from my actual life. I'm being an anonymous dork among dorks, it's nice. Some people are dumb sometimes and I don't care. What are they gonna do, sue me, lol. BUT LIKE. I almost deleted that blog once because and IRL person I know found it? I panicked SO HARD. Y'all nerds can look at my silly comics with cute cats kissing: not people in my real life. I'd rather be found drawing hardcore tentacle porn or sniffing paint. I'm not like, brave or anything, I'm hiding online XD

And honestly life is haaaaaaaard right now. For everyone lately. but for me personally: fanart is a nice hyperfocus to forget that life is a bitch. A distraction. I've always been "too sensitive" never could hold a job for too long, because people are awful in low level entry jobs, I never got one that I really like. I've been studying art and digital art, it's been hard, and it didn't lead me anywhere professionally for various reasons. I paid a private school and I am just finishing paying a big loan, just for the (average) skills I got being used to draw a cartoon bush with legs, kissing a cat, on a dusty website. It's so incredibly easy to feel like a failure. And being an artist SUCKS in this world. I'm not an artist by choice, god I would love to be smart enough to have done different studies, and have some kind of job that actually pays. But no, just did a professional profile, and all my affinities lead to creative work, I'm doomed to be good at things that are hell to make money off of when you don't have twice or thrice the energy a regular job needs. I just can't stop. Even when I take breaks, I always come back to creating things. A life's curse, truly.

I feel depressed now, so let's filter this shit through my "15 years of therapy" voice translator: -I'm not too sensitive, people telling me this in my life have all been notorious assholes. If we had more raw hearted people, daily life would be softer, and we wouldn't have wars. Us kind softies are vastly underappreciated. -I haven't been paying a school for nothing, I met my best friends there, learned a lot of skills and methodology that serve me today, and will serve me later in ways I can't just pinpoint yet without hindsight. I also have a lot of experience and help I can share with younger people and beginners. I'm a great art teacher. -I'm happy that I can't help being creative. So much people trail off into things they don't like, and realize later that they're utterly miserable. It's harsh, but not having the strength to pursue something you don't like is kind of a blessing. You avoid so much shit on your life path. it's not a life worth living. I've seen people with good paying careers give them up to get fully into a passion. -It's okay to draw a bush kissing a cat, who fucking cares what you do on your free time, the cops? It's ok to enjoy cute and silly things even when everything gets serious- especially when everything get serious. So much of us get our inner child crushed it's terribly sad. -The silliness is serious actually. You can get a powerful life lesson from deep books about philosophy and self-care and shit, but they're not rare everywhere else. The silliest movie, comic or fanfic can have a line or a character that will resonate enough with you to change your life. Like a tiny little piece that was missing in your personnal puzzle. I felt deeply moved by some comics online, so my own comics online 100% have the same value. What are "serious" media but hobbyists getting their art to a bigger professional scale. We're all telling stories around campfires and there's nothing stupid, shameful or weak about that. Egyptian gods were dramatic furries ffs.

I'm eternally stuck between "Yeah follow your heart and do art" and "It will lead you to hell though" because I feel like both are true. But do you really have a choice? What are the other options? I personally don't, so I just pick up the pen for a hobby, and started applying to ceramic courses for a career change. We'll see where it goes.

Well that was a lot, but I have some serious anxiety issues that make me over-explain stuff, and I'm talkative, and I'm on my period. Enjoy.

[mikuyuuss]

My Random Thoughts about Kny and Collectivism

(This is a really messy personal post so I don’t know if this even counts as a proper analysis) but I’m just fascinated by the way Kny portrays collectivism, specifically how it is shown in the Demon Slaying Corps, because it is something that is very personal to me.

I grew up in a very collectivist culture. Even if my family isn’t that strict, it managed to worm its way into every aspect of my life. In a collectivist environment, you're supposed to conform, so you can only imagine that it was a struggle for me, a neuro divergent girl, to navigate myself in such an environment. A lot of people like me felt the same way. It doesn’t help that I would search the internet and the popular notion is that collectivism=bad, individualism=good, so I grew up HATING the idea of collectivism (maybe I even romanticized the latter a bit) I saw collectivism as something that is inherently toxic because of the way it hurt me and many others.

When I first read Kny, I immediately noticed that collectivism is a recurring theme. From families, to relationships, to bonds, and carrying ones will. For the most part, the story seems to portray this in a positive way. At first I was put off by this, but I noticed that despite that, the majority of the characters are unique, and I wanna talk about the characters specifically.

Even if collectivism is a big thing. There are many characters who don’t fit the mold of a traditional Demon Slayer, from the slayers themselves who have their own customized breathing style, to the girls within the butterfly estate, or the swordsmiths during SSV. They are all seen as valuable within the corps. Characters like Tengen and Mitsuri also stood out to me. Tengen and his siblings were raised to be killing machines for their family. Mitsuri had to hide her true self just to fit in to society. Their back stories show the dark side of a collectivist environment was dehumanizing to them. At the same time, there's the collectivism within the Corps, that allows Mitsuri and Tengen to embrace themselves. They get to be accepted for their uniqueness and willingness to live for themselves. The story shows that everyone is unique and has their own way of contributing to a greater cause, and that it’s not possible without their help. Even if you don't help to the extent of sacrificing yourself, that's fine, as was the case with Tengen who decided to live the rest of his life with his wives. The story doesn't shamed him for his decision, and he's still welcomed in the corps.

I like this because it shows that the Demon Slaying Corps is a collective of unique individuals. Not everyone has to be the same or fit a certain mold. It shows that collectivism doesn’t always mean total disregard of the individual, because those same individuals are the ones that make up the collective.

When I first read Kny, I was like “ugh why is everyone so selfless? Am I not allowed to value myself?” but the more I read it, the more I interpret it as “Let’s try to be kind and helpful to each other because everyone matters, even you” and that’s why I think that Kny might be Gotouge’s barely disguised longing for a kinder world.

I still wouldn’t say that I'm a fan of collectivism because it is something that continues to hurt me. But in a way, Kny has helped me reconcile with that part of my culture, even if just a little. No culture is perfect and so is collectivism, but that also means that it doesn’t have to be inherently bad either, and Kny shows that. Maybe it isn’t super realistic, but it works in a way. The idea that collectivism can be something that uplifts individuals is very comforting to someone like me, who struggles with it for a long time.

Maybe that’s why I draw a lot of group pictures when it comes to Kny. I like the way Kny portrays collectivism, and it shows.

[olderthannetfic]

I don't know how to tell you this but someone writing fixed t/b fics and saying they do that because that matches their lived experience is not erasing you or being rude to you.

People complain on their own fucking profiles about something they don't like in the current top/bottom discourse but y'all just wanna tell everyone how good it will be to have them switching.

Why are you in my replies? Why? Would you combust spontaneously if you don't say to a person who clearly ships fixed t/b that "it's so fun to have them switch from time to time though 😍😍😍"

I am in the patreon of an artist who has fixed t/b preference. It's on her profile in patreon. It's clear as day on her public social media profiles, she always draws only fixed t/b positions. And then she puts out a poll asking for ideas and people still come in and go "when will they switch?" "can they switch?" "it would be so fun if they switch!!" Is it harassment? No. But it's the equivalent of asking sushi at wendy's. It is the wendys! WHY ARE YOU ASKING FOR SUSHI??? Or it's just the artist draws them very beautifully and every other artist in our fandom ignores their height difference (like switch shippers by the way) and every other artist makes them both too buff even when none of them are in the canon and this one doesn't, so you feel entitled to their art and wanna make them cater to your interests? As if you're not the same people who yell about "fetishization" and "why are you tagging for t/b? That's fetishizing!!" Just like checks notes antis or other fixed t/b shippers who are too into their preference.

I am fucking happy you have your preference! But that's all there is - a preference. No one owes you making content for it. No one has to change their preference to include you. And no fixed preference shipper wants to hear how cool it would be if they make their content switch.

This is why people don't like you. Not because of some equality thing or whatever. Y'all are entitled and annoying as fuck.

--

[rainrot4me]

The hc on Clockwork drawing Toby makes me wonder. What IS your opinion on Toby x Clockwork/Ticciwork?

Oh, where do I begin. To me, Ticciwork is like a gunpowder x lighter situation. They’re definitely exes who keep getting back together and splitting up again, but I feel a deep love for one-another that nobody else really gets.

Nat’s calculated, hardened, with a tight grip on her emotions—but she feels deeply. She’s the kind of person who would scoff at feelings while secretly craving stability, protection, someone who sees her scars and doesn’t flinch. She works with control—mechanical precision, trauma that forced her into maturity far too fast.

On the other hand, Toby’s chaotic, impulsive, and often out of touch with his own emotional landscape. He’s rough around the edges, but there’s this raw honesty in him that Nat would notice—and might even crave. His tics, his temper, his noise—those could unsettle her at first. But over time, I think she’d see the vulnerability beneath all of it.

Howeverrrrrrr, they’re manic. Put two crazy, traumatized people together and you’ll get an explosion before you get anything kind.

They break up at least three times a year. And every time, it ends the same way: with bruised lips, sharp words, and one of them slamming the door. But they never stay away. Toby throws things. Not at her—never at her—but around her. He can’t handle the silence. Can’t handle the thought of losing her. Natalie stands like stone, arms crossed, eyes burning. “You always ruin this. Why can’t you ever just be satisfied?” But two nights later, he’s outside her window, soaked in blood and rain, shivering like a kid. And she lets him in. Always.

They’ve seen each other at their worst. Not the messy proxy shit—the real stuff. The things no one else knows. She knows about the way he cries in his sleep but never lets the tears fall. He knows she doesn’t wind her clock when she’s overwhelmed—lets the ticking stop because she can’t bear to feel the time pass. They never talk about it. But they both remember.

Most nights, he finds her in the bathroom, floor tile cold against her legs, trembling hands trying to hold herself together. He sits beside her. Doesn’t say a word. Just slides a hoodie over her shoulders and rests his head on her knee.

Now for everyone’s favorite part, the sex.

It’s angry. Gripping. Desperate. Like they’re trying to punish each other for still loving this much. She claws at his back like she’s digging through all the silence between them. He leaves bruises on her hips like he’s trying to prove something—like maybe if he marks her up enough, she won’t leave again.

Afterwards, she curls into his chest, breath hitching.

“You’re the worst fucking thing that’s ever happened to me.”

“Yeah?” he rasps, lips at her neck. “Then why do you still co-come back?”

“Because no one else sees me like you do.”

He goes quiet. Pulls her closer. “Shut up.”

They date other people. Clockwork flirts to make Toby jealous. Toby fucks someone else to prove he’s “over it.” But it always feels wrong. Off. Like they’re wearing someone else’s skin.

They can be halfway across the country from each other and know when something’s wrong. She’ll wake up with a tight feeling in her chest. He’ll get that electric buzz in his bones. And eventually one of them shows up.

No matter how bad it gets, how many times they blow up, if someone else lays a hand on the other? They’re dead.

It’s toxic. But also? No one else has ever loved them like this. No one else ever will. They’re both so fucked in the head that nothing normal or soft would satisfy them. So, sure, they’re horrible and awful to be around, but no one else sees them the way the other does. That still doesn’t mean that Natalie won’t beat the absolute shit out of him. She has shot him before, she will do it again.

꩜ .ᐟ

[l0cadef4nfock]

Some more of my Batfam appearance headcanons

Bruce: he 100% had salt n pepper hair; yknow, the black with lines of white in it, if not from his age then from the stress of being Batman for over two decades and being the father of like 7 feral children. But the cool part is that, his hair is jet black, and the white parts can probably reflect light. Also, I hc that when he adopted Dick he still went out in Gothic outfits with full face of goth makeup, but by the time he got Duke he just put on eyeliner everyday and wears black turtlenecks.

Dick: GIVE THAT MAN LONG HEALTHY LUSTROUS HAIR PLEASE. His hair reaches his hips when he showers, it’s almost as black as Bruce’s, and it’s straighter than him (pan Nightwing my beloved). He wears it in a man bun while he goes out as Nightwing, and either in a ponytail or wears it down when he’s with friends/family. He started growing it out when he moved out, and after one particularly bag fight with Bruce he got blue highlights that matched his suit, and gave his dad a heart attack because “secret identities dick!”.

Jason: I saw one artist that draws him half blind, like that the bomb that killed him got him in the eye and now he has an explosion shaped red scar on his face and a white soulless eye. When Roy really annoys him, Jason will come over to his house when he knows he’s on patrol and wait in the dark, and when Roy comes back he just see’s a green glowing eye in his kitchen and he almost shits his pants. Every. Single. Time.

Tim: TRANS TIM IS CANON IN MY OPINION. Let my dude be born a dudet. Let him be double queer. Also, he has piercing to match with his punk boyfriend that he loves very much. Like, it started with snakebites to annoy Bruce (he learned from Dick’s highlights phase), but then he really liked it, and got the regular ear piercing (little Robin earrings he had custom made), and after he started dating Kon they got matching earring together (I don’t know how they’re called, those long ones that sit on your lobe? You know what I mean?). And let my boy have a mullet, we all know he’s the biggest dick glazer and when he saw Nightwing with a mullet when he was 9 it changed his brain chemistry forever.

Damian: give that child some melatonin before I lowk commit. Also, very important, he is Arabic AND CHINESE. He has Chinese blood in him and you are definitely able to see that. In my mind, he’s a few shades lighter than Talia, and his hair is exactly Bruce’s color, he got his mother’s eyes and eyebrows, and his father lips and nose. Also that bitch is GAY and he dresses the part in the best way possible. Like yes he’s still emo as fuck but he 100% fits the gay stereotype of thinking about what to wear for hours and stressing about his looks. OH and he’s the biggest eyeliner abuser in the goddamn family (Bruce is very close behind him and dick is in 3rd and is very unhappy about that).

Cass: she is the proudest lesbian you have ever met, and I mean it. She has a lesbian flag keychain that she keeps on a scissor shaped carabiner that she puts on her jeans with a lesbian star pattern embroidered on it, she rocks scissor shaped earrings right next to her masc lesbian mullet with purple highlights that she gets so very excited every time someone asks about because that means she can info dump about her amazing girlfriend for the next three hours. She has 300 bracelets, earrings and necklaces to match with Steph, and the only shoes she ever wears are mismatched converse, one black and one purple, that she’s sharing with Steph. She has black mini vampire nails, she has countless queer pins on her bag (ahem ahem she uses she they pronouns) and will gladly give you one if you want it.

Steph: pretty much the same as Cass, but she has black highlights instead of purple and she is WAY less extreme than her. She was a bit hesitant about the highlights at first, because she wasn’t sure how that would go with her curly hair, but Cass argued that she always straightens it anyways and Steph is like. “Oh right. Okay babe.” After that talk in which Cass found out Steph has curly hair (she ment it when she said she always straightens it) she starts every morning by begging for Steph to style it curly, and that’s the primary reason why you might spot spoiler with curly hair and a very happy (and a way less brutal) Black Bat.

Alfred: just wanted to remind you all that he canonically sleeps in a suit.

[houtdoggo]

BULLY OC INTRO

CHARLIE HICKS

- Charlie and her brother Brian were born into a dysfunctional family. Both parents were alcoholics who did not admit it and were convinced that everything was fine with their family. They treated their children more like a burden that needed to be clothed, fed and given a roof over their heads.

- The mother, being drunk, often quarreled with the children and if Charlie or Brian cried, she tried to shut them up by any means. In principle, she did not like any bright expression of emotions in the house, so she reproached the children in every possible way if they reacted too violently. Because of this, Charlie and Brian, already growing up, do not know how to use their emotions correctly. Because of this, it is quite difficult for Charlie to socialize at school.

- Despite her problems with socialization, she tries to get along with people who are really being nice to her, and vice versa.

- She has some kind of pyromania. Charlie really loves watching things burn or explode, she even has a small notebook in which she writes down how she sets fire to trash cans or dry grass. She keeps a lot of firecrackers at home, which she rarely brings to school to have fun or scare the Preppies. You can always find matches and a lighter in her pockets, so she can often light a cigarette if someone asks (but she doesn't smoke herself because of the taste that makes her want to puke lol ).

- At school, she was caught setting fire to things on school grounds more than once, so she tries to control herself during school to avoid being kicked out.

References:

RELATIONSHIPS WITH THE CLIQUES

Nerds:

She spends most of her school time hanging around with some non-clique students or nerds, cuz she is a big fan of the G&G, and most likely cuz she is not so bad in chemistry and math. And nerds don't seem to mind her company either, so they often hang out with her.

Jocks and Bullies (For Charlie they are no different from each other):

For most of the Bullworth students she is just a "weird" girl because of her communication problems and strange behavior. A good target for bullies and jocks, ridht? She is aware of her weirdness and is irritated by bullying. So she always tries to fight back, respond to insults verbally or start a fight, even if it is obvious that she will lose. But to be honest, it doesn't really help and the mockery of her doesn't stop. Although she doesn't care because she knows that she's cewl :D (Or maybe not...)

Greasers:

On rare occasions, she can be seen next to Greasers. Seems like she is on good terms with Lucky and Ricky, probably cuz she's quite good at understanding bikes and their repairs. But at the same time she's a little clumsy and therefore often makes mistakes in the shop class. Other greasers, in turn, treat her neutrally, even knowing that she is on good terms with the Townies. But since she's still not a Townie, cuz she's is a student at the school, they just don't care about her, and think of her as something like "come on she's just a weirdo what she can do to us lol" and they will be right

Townies:

In her free time from school she usually hang out with Townies, directly because her brother is a member of this clique, and thats why she is on pretty good terms with them. She is also good friends with Zoe, Their relationship can be called almost sisterly, although Zoe often likes to playfully tease Charlie a little. But still, they are something like besties :D

Preppies:

And finally, she has a mutual hatred for preppies. They treat her as badly as they treat everyone below their class. They also find her weird and often make fun of her, that's why she often gets into daily squabbles with them. In fact, Pinkie especially likes to make fun of her.

Some random shit:

- She stinks like something is burning

- She actually has green pupils, but I draw them black to make her look, um... more cartoony?

- was quite a cruel child

Voice claim:

any oc interactions are welcomed c:

[ellclarkey]

Game night meet cute. (requested)

Arthur tv fluff

warnings(none)

a/n: first thing i’ve written go easy on me💔

(the spacing probably looks so dumb but idk how to do it)

Isaac loved hosting things at his place.

Game nights, movie nights, random little dinners they were always at Isaac’s.

It just made sense.

His place was the most accessible, his best friend lived right across the hall, you were only a few minutes down the road, and the rest of his mates were around the area as well.

Somehow, though, you’d never met the guy across the hall.

His best friend.

Which felt nearly impossible considering how often you were over but that changed the night of game night.

you walked in, the last one to arrive, spotting some familiar faces in the mix but also two new ones.

One was a smaller guy with curly blond-ish hair, who you assumed was Chris md, based on the height jokes you’ve always heard about him.

The other one had that kind of quiet confidence you only noticed once he was already in the room, not loud, not flashy, but undeniably there.

Tousled curls framed his face just enough to make you wonder if he knew how effortlessly good he looked (he probably didn’t).

His eyes light but in an intense kind of way.

A beautiful deep brown that locked with you as soon as you entered the room.

“Arthur” you thought as you made your way into the room.

“Hey” you greeted Isaac embracing him into a slight hug.

You give a wave to the rest of the room as you sit in the only seat available next to Arthur.

“Hey” he whispered.

“Have we met yet?”

“Hey, no we haven’t” i shot him a smile

“Well it’s a pleasure to finally meet my best friends best friend” he puts on a jealous glare.

I crack a smile “same goes to you.”

The night progresses, full of easy laughter and chaotic rounds of charades, Pictionary, and a particularly unhinged game of Gartic Phone.

Isaac was in his element.

Loud, dramatic, and gleefully yelling over everyone.

Arthur, though quieter, was surprisingly sharp when it came to guessing things, and he kept tossing these smug little glances your way every time he got something right.

“I’m kind of hungry,” Arthur said at one point, turning toward Isaac.

“Grab something to eat, then you know where the food is,” Isaac replied, barely looking up as he argued over whether that drawing was a dog or a terribly drawn horse.

Arthur nodded, standing up and disappearing into the kitchen.

A beat passed.

Then, casually maybe a little too casually you stood as well.

“Me too, actually.”

You weren’t hungry.

Not for food, at least.

You pushed open the door to the kitchen and found Arthur halfway into a cupboard, poking around like he wasn’t totally sure what he was looking for.

“Looking for something?” you asked, teasing.

He turned, caught, a sheepish grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Something quick. Don’t want to miss any more of Isaac accusing people of cheating.”

You leaned against the counter, arms crossed loosely.

“Important stuff.”

Arthur chuckled, then gave you a look — something softer now that you were away from the group.

“So what brought you in here, then?”

You held his gaze for a moment, feeling the tension settle between you like a held breath.

“I don’t know. Just thought I’d keep you company.”

His smile widened not cocky, but warm.

“Well, I’m glad you did.”

“So,” Arthur began, pulling out a bag of chips, “what made you think I needed company?”

You smirked, tilting your head. “I’m just here for moral support. Someone’s got to make sure you don’t eat all the snacks.”

He laughed softly, that warm, easy sound you already liked. “Fair enough. Was starving to be fair.”

There was a pause just long enough to feel meaningful.

You found yourself studying him more closely the way his hair flopped slightly when he moved, how his eyes caught the light in a way that made them shimmer, the way his smile softened when it wasn’t directed at the crowd.

“You’re not what I expected,” he said suddenly, voice low. “Not in a bad way.”

“Is that so?” you teased. “What did you expect?”

He shrugged, running a hand through his hair. “I don’t know, maybe someone a bit more… Loud? Or firece” he smirks

“So a clone of Issac?” you giggle as you felt a flutter in your chest from the acknowledgement. “Glad I could surprise you I guess?”

He stepped a little closer, the space between you coming smaller. “I guess surprises can be good.” He states almost mysteriously

You swallowed, heart racing, you let out a breath.

The sound of footsteps and laughter from the living room nudged you both back to reality. Arthur glanced toward the door, then back at you.

“Should we head back?”

You nodded, reluctantly stepping away from the counter.

“Yeah. But, hey,” he added with a smile, “thanks for the company.”

You smiled back, feeling a warmth spread through you. “Anytime.”

You guys walked back and continue game night. About an hour passes and everyone goes home except for Arthur Issac and you.

“Goodnight Issac had a great night and very great to meet you Arthur.””

You walk our arthur following close behind “D’you want a pal to walk home with?” He questions sweetly

“Only if it’s you.” You respond with burning cheeks

He walked me home that night and hangouts at Isaac’s changed forever.

[goosterbold]

Hi, I love seeing your art! Do you have a typical process when it comes to using your colors/shading?

Howdy! That's very kind of you to say! I'm pretty unsatisfied with my own color work, so I'd like to point you to someone I admire's work before I start talking here- please eyeball GGDG's work (largely posting as pallisia on here (please play SoulSov)). The way they paint mood, their grasp of texture is fuckin' unbeatable. I know this is cliche, but I also highly recommend looking at Mary Blair's work. It's the gold standard for color for a reason. When I color, I try to think about mood too. I usually use a brush with a flexible opacity for 'building up' color and shading. If (for fanart) a character has official colors, I like to eyeball those (though I think eyedropping is very viable and is a wonderful way to teach working with strong contrasting colors), then flex them towards whatever mood I'm aiming for. Warmer, cooler, sadder, happier... Sometimes a green metal looks more metallic than a grey metal (this is not universal advice just a hypothetical finding), you find strange things playing around like that.

After a while you draw a character so much you 'know' the colors, and they start to mutate a little. You find fun moods you like to play with. You learn that drawing this character with black hair with deep blue hair sells an approach you like when making art of this character. Not that you should lock in colors or nothin', but a lot of like, color stuff like that comes with time and fiddling around.

I'm a student of 2011 tumblr, so I shade with a hard light layer usually. The shadows hold strong vividity of color + it's a very flexible method for like. Cleanup on the fly. Plus you can do a lot of mood adjustment by playing with hue and saturation- I also like hitting lighting as a hard light layer, but please be advised this can end up looking a bit muddy if you're not careful (I run into this problem a lot)

If I run into contrast issues, I often find playing with gradient maps on a duplicate layer can help me figure out what my troubles are. Though be warned this CAN really muddy the colors, so try to be thoughtful using this.

Here's what I mean about colors tilted warm (this is not general advice but the mood I wanted to pursue in this drawing)- I then used a hard light overlay with a strongly saturated red, a purple on the cloak (it's fun to play around with this, sometimes you want all the same shadow color, sometimes you want to keep in mind each part's individual tone. It depends on the mood you're pursuing). The lighting here is a light green for contrast.

Hope this is what you were looking for! My advice is to play with every layer setting you possibly can. Try also to think about the material (I don't have this in my drawing at all but think about this- how does light pass over fur? How does light pass through clothing, based on different thicknesses? If light travels easier through a thin coat vs a thick scarf, how would this look different when you're painting color onto it?) and what mood you want your piece to carry.

Good luck out there !