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familyvideostevie · 5 hours
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you have me, you have me only
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joel miller x reader you get (minorly) injured on patrol. joel does his best to patch you up and not worry too much. | jackson!joel, hurt/comfort, wound-patching, some blood, a jesse cameo, joel being joel, all that good stuff. | 4.2k a/n: part of the just and just as verse. not too soft but not too angsty, either. just another day after the end of the world, you know? thank you @mrsmando for your eyes on this! <3
___
"Almost there," you mutter. "Fuck."
The icy winter wind dulls the stinging in your palms to a numbness. The leather gloves you've had for half a decade stay tucked in your pockets. You don't want to ruin their lining with dirt and blood.
"How's the head?" 
Jesse pulls up alongside you in a trot. The adrenaline from your patrol-gone-wrong pulses heavy at the top of your spine, your vision sharp and the whole world a little too loud around you as Jackson comes into view at the bottom of the hill. Your head, like the rest of you, throbs.
"I'll live."
He scoffs and his horse snorts as if agreeing with him. In truth, you're more pissed than injured, though it certainly looks like you lost a fight. Jesse's cheekbone will no doubt bloom purple tomorrow and his lip is still bleeding sluggishly. His jeans are splattered with gore, same as yours.
"Thanks for back there," he says.
You shrug and wince when it pulls at the skin of your side where you fell. 
"You, too," you tell him with a grimace. "That was quick thinking with the brick."
You like him -- he's good at his job and he's a good friend to Ellie. You know Tommy and Maria are not-so-subtly training him to run this place someday if he wants to. As a patrol partner, you can't ask for much better. He knows all the routes and he's a good shot and his mom knows everything there is to know about everyone in town and sometimes he passes tidbits on to you.
But knowing your shit doesn't mean a damn thing in this world, sometimes. You can still get ambushed by infected on patrol and it can still fuck up your day.
He waves you off. "I just can't believe an elk chose our station to fucking die in."
"Tommy is going to shit himself when you tell him," you laugh. It pulls at your ribs. God, is there any part of you that didn't take a beating?
"He'll just be pissed he wasn't here."
Your horses reach the bottom of the hill and Jesse hesitates, the green scrap of cloth in his hand. The red one indicating an injured party peeks out from his pocket.
"Are you sure you don't want to go to the clinic?"
"I'm fine," you say firmly. "I can patch up at home."
He eyes the cut on your forehead and your scraped palms but caves under your glare and waves the green flag.
"Joel makes the same face," he mutters. "Ellie does, too. Freaky."
The gates open and you grunt when you get off your horse, palms back to stinging.
"Joel's two expressions are pissed and annoyed," you say. “Not hard to pick one up.” You press the back of your hand to your forehead and it comes back tacky with blood. "Fuck."
"I don't think you'll need a stitch." Jesse holds his hand out for your patrol rifle and pats the neck of your horse. "I'll debrief and get these guys settled. You go home."
Normally, you'd protest. But you really just want to take a hot shower and sleep for twelve hours, so you nod and shoulder your pack carefully.
"Make sure you tell Tommy about beating a stalker to death with a brick," you call over your shoulder. "He'll be impressed."
Jesse laughs.
Snow crunches under your boots on the way home. Fuck, you're exhausted. The adrenaline fades with each step and the aches become sharp pains. There aren't too many people out today on account of the cold but you nod and wave, ignoring the double takes at the blood on your clothes.
It'll be a pain in the ass if you can't patch the ruined knees of your jeans. Maybe you can convince Joel to carve something for the woman down the street who can sew better than anyone in town. Finding new pants is damn near impossible.
You’re practically dragging your feet by the time you reach your house. The mailbox labeled Miller, the wind chimes gently swaying on the porch, all of it puts you at ease. You made it home.
The porch steps groan as you climb them and the front door opens from the inside as you reach the top. Joel steps out, hand still on the knob when he looks up and sees you. His eyes widen.
He was on patrol today, too. You left at the same time but he had a shorter route and must have gotten back a while ago.
"Are you coming to meet me?" you say with a grin that's genuine despite the way your body pulses with pain. He does this sometimes -- milling around the gate, chatting with people on the wall as he waits for you to return. You never really feel like you're home until you see his face.
Joel does not smile back. His eyes rake over you the same way he surveys a room, cataloging all of the important things. The gash on your temple, the rips in your jeans, the way you're favoring your left side. The blood, too -- it's everywhere, you're sure. Palms, knees, collar. Jesse helped you wipe your face before you rode back so that you could see without blood in your eyes, but you must look pretty fucking rough.
"Jesus," he says. His hand twitches like he's going to reach for you. "You okay?"
"I'll be better when I'm not standing out in the cold."
His nostrils flare and he heads back into the house, you on his heels. You dump your pack and sit down heavily on the bench to take off your boots. Joel beats you to it, lowering to one knee with a slight groan, fingers working at your laces.
Normally he'd ask how patrol was, how Jesse did, if you saw anything interesting. Instead, his cheek twitches like he's clenching his jaw so hard it hurts. He unties your double knots with practiced ease and his silence fills the entryway of your house.
In another life, the sight of him on one knee would set your heart aflutter. As it is, you want to run a hand through his hair and smooth the worry lines on his forehead. You know him and this is how he handles it -- he chews on blame that doesn't belong on his shoulders until he can fix it.
"I'm fine," you say softly. You open and close your hands, resting them on your knees. You got most of the gravel out but there's dirt and god knows what else embedded in the tender flesh. Joel pulls off one boot with a firm hand on your calf and then the other before finally looking up at you.
"You wanna explain...this, then?"
His hand waves up in your general direction. There's no tremble in his palm but his brows are furrowed, his shoulders set in that way of his, like he's bracing for bad news. You have a rule about not lying to each other. So if you say you're fine, you're fine. Achey, bloody, and gross, sure. But you made it home in one piece and now you'll let him take care of you and he has to be okay with that.
But you don't mind reassuring him. He worries, and you know the feeling.
You shrug and fail to hide your wince. Joel wraps a hand around your ankle and squeezes lightly.
"I've had worse," you say. "I'll tell you about it if you patch me up."
He softens a little and sighs. It won't do anything to remind him that he can't go back in time and stop you from getting hurt. Joel knows he can't fix everything, can't keep everyone he loves away from harm, can't save the world. Won't, if it comes at the expense of the people in his heart.
But you can give him something to do -- a way to make it better. You could probably bandage your hands and your forehead and the rest on your own but it'll help him just as much as you if he does it.
Life in this world is a constant give and take. You have to be okay with some things, with cuts and bruises and ruined clothes if it means you survived. There's no safety, not anymore.
"Alright, c'mon," he says, standing with a groan. "Upstairs, 'fore you bleed on the furniture."
He holds out a hand for you to stand but you show him your mangled palm. Joel clicks his tongue and grips your forearm gently instead as you rise.
"Gotta clean that," he says.
"That's the plan." You leave your coat and pack behind in a heap and head for the stairs. "A hot shower sounds so fucking good right now."
Joel stops you with a hand on your elbow and you turn on the bottom step. He traces the cut on your forehead with light fingers and you try not to wince.
"Shower," he says.  "I'll patch you up after." His tone leaves no room for argument.
You ghost your fingertips along his jaw and smile at him.
"Yes sir, Mr. Miller, sir."
More tension melts from his shoulders and he rolls his eyes at you. You laugh all the way to the bathroom, even though it hurts a little.
It's been a while since one of you returned from patrol with any sort of injury. Winter means the hoards are sluggish and easy to track and tends to keep groups of people from coming to the valley and making trouble. Today was bad luck and could have been much worse.
You both know how quickly all of the good in your lives can be snatched away. Everyone does.
But you just can't dwell on it. Joel knows it, too, and letting him fuss over you in that way of his will remind him. You're home. You're okay.
You leave the bathroom door cracked as you shower under the gentle spray. Your various injuries sting but you manage to clean the scrapes on your knees and hands and wash the blood from your skin and hair, the water rusty brown as it swirls around the drain. 
Joel knocks when you're almost done and the hinges groan when he steps into the bathroom.
"Leavin' you clothes," he says, voice raised so you hear over the spray. "You okay?"
"Still alive," you call back. "Almost done."
The water starts to turn lukewarm so you switch off the stream and drag back the curtain. Joel is nowhere to be found but he's left you loose shorts so your knees are exposed and a big, faded graphic t-shirt that you brought home for him as a joke last year as well as fresh underwear and warm socks. You gently pat your skin dry with an old and scratchy towel and do your best with your hair before sliding them on. 
Joel knocks again and this time he has the bag with all of your first aid stuff in his hands. The steam from your shower rushes out into your bedroom and you shiver.
He jerks his chin at the counter. "Wanna get up there?"
You haul yourself up with a groan and he stands between your knees, arms crossed and head cocked.
"What're we dealin' with, here?"
You look down at your messy palms and rattle off what hurts.
"Cut on my forehead, bruised rib, probably, fucked up hands and knees, and..." You look up and find Joel running a hand down his face. "That's it."
"You sure?"
You glare at him. He glares back. His eyes drift to your forehead gash.
"Cut could use a stitch." 
He's still tense, you can tell, probably will be until he wakes up tomorrow and you're still next to him in bed. Until the wounds turn to scabs turn to scars. Maybe not even then.
"I think I've had enough cuts over the years to know what needs a stitch."
His eyebrows rise just a little bit, turning his expression from interrogative to exasperated, but he knows better than to tell you to do something when you’ve set your mind against it.
"They're offerin' medical degrees on the Creek Trails, now?"
"Joel."
He holds his hands up in surrender. "Fine," he says. "Let me feel your ribs."
You raise your arms a little and he slides his palms under your shirt and up your torso, pressing gently as he goes. Braless as you are, he brushes the underside of your breast, and your breath hitches. His eyes are soft with quiet amusement but he doesn't tease you.
"Your hands are warm," you murmur. He reaches the place on your side that took the brunt of the impact and you hiss.
"Sorry," he says. "Doin' real good. Deep breath for me." You obey and he withdraws, satisfied.
"Nothin' broken," he says.
"Told you."
He hums and pulls out the precious few disinfectant wipes from your first aid kid. You can get Joel to do a lot of things just by asking, but arguing with him about wasting supplies on you never works. He washes his hands in the sink and glares are you like he knows what you’re thinking.
"Forehead first, then hands, then knees," he says. "Okay?'
You nod, eyes fluttering shut. He grips your face with gentle fingertips to keep you still.
"How was your patrol?" you ask him.
He makes a noise low in his throat that's halfway to being a laugh.
"C'mon," he says. "You don't want to hear about mine. I know you're dyin' to tell me what happened."
The alcohol wipe stings as he swabs at your forehead and you tense. Joel's thumb rubs slow circles at the corner of your mouth and you press your knees into his hips.
Funny how you've had broken bones, been stabbed, shot, pretty much everything over the last twenty years but it's the small stuff that hurts the most. Stubbed toes, sliced fingers, alcohol wipes on shallow wounds. Some things just don't change.
"Okay," you say. "Well, you'll never believe it, but a damn elk decided to die in the station where the logbook is."
You tell him how you and Jesse rode up and saw the blood trail immediately and heard the moans and groans. You kept the horses on the other side of the fence and checked the first floor and the overlook, but the elk had weaseled its way under the collapsed staircase.
It smelled like death, rust and decay heavy in the air. The animal must have died just after the last patrol.
But it wasn't the problem. It was the group of Infected it attracted -- two runners and four stalkers. You have no idea where they came from but, since you were on patrol, the priority was eliminating them. The runners were easier, although one of them was responsible for the gash on your forehead when it managed to push you into the wall. You and Jesse cleared them quickly, one bullet each.
You thought you got all of the stalkers. One of them was munching on the carcass and went down fairly easily with your good aim. Jesse helped you clean your forehead so you both could clear the passage to get to the upper level and sign the logbook. The corpses went over the side of the station into the forest below. The Infected had eaten so much of the elk that it wasn't too heavy, though you both were sweating and dirty by the time you finished.
"Lemme guess," Joel says. You open your eyes as he carefully pulls the wound closed with two butterfly bandages before he gestures for your hand. He holds your wrist gently and tilts your palm side to side, looking for dirt. "There were infected inside the station, too."
"Look at you," you tease. His eyes flick to yours for just a second, intense as always. "It's like you were there."
"Smartass," he grumbles. The disinfectant stings on your palm, too, but you keep talking and keep your gaze on his face.
"Jesse climbed the rope up to the control room first but had to fend off a stalker at the top so he didn't see when another one grabbed my ankle and pulled me down mid-climb, which fucked my hands. The fall is how my rib got bruised and I tore up my knees fending it off."
Joel's cheek twitches. He wraps one of your palms in gauze and turns his attention to the other.
"Fuckin' hate those things."
"Me, too. When I got to the top, finally, Jesse was tugging a pipe from the head of a corpse. There was one more -- it jumped out of that supply room on the side, the one where Ellie found a bong, once, I think. I dodged it but my gun jammed and my hands were bleeding."
"Should've been wearing gloves."
You tap his leg with your foot and ignore him. Not taking your bait about the bong means he’s still pissed. "And then Jesse killed it with a brick."
"I taught him that," Joel grumbles.
He ties off your other palm and as soon as he's done you frame his face. Joel allows it, allows you to stare at him for a few seconds like you're memorizing him. You're telling the story like it was a fun adventure -- and it was. You're plenty capable and he knows it, too.
But you were scared. You don't tell him that right now, instead grounding yourself in the man in front of you. His hands are rough and dangerous to most, but tender and careful to you. The broad, firm line of his shoulders, always braced for the next hit.
The gash on the bridge of his nose, the lines at the corners of his eyes. His beard, greyer every year. You swipe your thumbs along his cheekbones and he sighs.
"Lucky me," you say softly.
You lean in to kiss him, just a light press of your lips to his. His wide palms rest on your bare thighs and he kisses back with a kind of desperate firmness, as if he's proving to himself that you're real. That you're here in front of him, under his hands, in his care.
Joel drags his lips along your cheek.
"Knees," he says.
He steps back and releases your thighs with a squeeze. He treats more of your torn skin, a frown back on his face.
"I do want to hear about your patrol, by the way."
He shrugs. "Not much to tell," he says. "Didn't even get to shoot anythin’.”
You swing your foot back and forth, tapping the side of his thigh with every pass.
"But you had the nice route," you whine. "Tell me what the lake looked like."
"Quit distracting me," he grumbles.
"Like you don't have the steadiest hands in all of Jackson," you say softly.
He snorts. "Are you flirtin' with me?"
"I'm always flirting with you, Joel Miller."
You lied to Jesse earlier -- Joel has hundreds of expressions. He just keeps most of them for you. For Ellie, and Tommy, too. You know every one of them by now.
The look on his face now says he's thinking about kissing you again, maybe just to shut you up.
You grin at him. "Tell me about your patrol, now, seriously. Unless talking and using your hands at the same time is too much for you."
He smirks back. "Think we both know that ain't true."
"Now who's flirting?"
Lazy heat curls in your belly but fatigue stops it from turning into anything. Joel must see that in your eyes because he simply taps your chin with a knuckle and starts talking.
You start to slump as his Texas drawl wraps around you. He tells you how the lake was still, how he and Astrid saw bear tracks but no bear. How he found a tape for Ellie that he's going to give her tomorrow, how he wore his gloves today like you've been telling him to.
Some people might say that Joel is a man of few words. You thought he was the quiet type when you first met him, another stoic survivor in a world that demands hardness of everyone. But not shy, never shy. Just...waiting. Watching.
He and Ellie can shoot the shit for hours -- a dynamic they've fallen back into easily enough since they started spending time together again. He's funny, he's clever, he's annoying as shit when he wants to be.
And Joel is quite the storyteller. If you had to guess you'd say it comes from having to entertain Tommy when they were kids, from getting Sarah into bed on his own over and over. Keeping Ellie occupied, keeping her talking when things were scary and hard and fucking awful.
It's just another way he takes care of people.
"Still with me?" he says. You realize your eyes have closed. When you open them you find Joel looking at you with tenderness and a spark of amusement. The tense line of his shoulders is nowhere to be seen. "All done. Tired?"
"And hungry."
He washes his hands and throws away the various wrappers and blood-stained wipes.
"Sure you're awake enough to eat?" he teases.
You roll your eyes at him. He laughs.
"Joel," you say, catching his elbow. "Thank you."
"C'mon, now."
He looks like he wants to argue with you for saying it but reaches for you instead. He traces the cut on your forehead just like he did at the bottom of the stairs, brow drawn again. You can't tell what he's thinking as he drags his thumb down and around your eye, cupping your cheek fully for just a breath before releasing you and stepping towards the door.
"I'll heat some soup."
Dinner is quick and quiet, your energy sapped from you to the point of exhaustion. Everything aches, despite Joel's thorough care. When he suggests turning in early you don't protest.
He takes longer than you to get ready for bed. You slide under the worn duvet and wait, trying very hard to keep your eyes open. Your bruised ribs throb in time with your heartbeat and when Joel finally turns off the light and gets in bed next to you in his threadbare sleep pants he practically hauls you into his embrace.
You go willingly, tangling your legs and laying your head on the juncture of his neck and shoulder. You press your palm to his chest, fingers threading in the coarse hair. His heart thuds and it grounds you.
"I didn't get any good gossip off Jesse," you whisper. "On account of the whole surprise-infected thing."
He yawns. "S'pose it's a good excuse."
"Can I tell you something else?" you whisper. "A secret?"
Joel hums, lips brushing your temple as his hand snakes up your sleep shirt to press against your lower back.
Even though you know each other down to the bones, some things remain inexplicable. Parts of your pasts that linger in the darkest parts of you, the parts that stay shrouded until the moments like this. You don't have to be brave in the quiet hours of the night, entwined with him as you are. It's the safest place you'll ever be. Safe enough that you can crack open and let Joel in, let those steady and worn hands keep you together.
"I was scared today," you say into his neck. "When the stalker dragged me off the rope. I panicked, I --"
You don't tell him how your initial thought when you hit the ground was of him, how you closed your eyes tight and thought of your name from his mouth, of his smile when you come through the door. The stalker had its bony fingers digging into your ankle and you wondered if you'd ever feel Joel's hands on you again.
Death will come for you sooner or later and when it does it'll be Joel's face that you hold in your mind before it all ends.
But today, you kicked death until its stupid fucking mushroom skull caved in.
Joel presses his lips to your temple. You can feel his heart beating faster, as fast as yours. It's the only thing that betrays his own fear.
Wounds in this life often go deeper than the skin. When Joel comes home with bloody knuckles and shuttered eyes it's one thing to stop the bleeding, to bandage him and get him to eat something. It's another to hold him, to coax out the story, the fear. To follow him downstairs when he has a nightmare, to look for him in every room. It's all part of what you do as partners, as lovers, as people in this world. You take care of each other.
Neither of you can fix a lot of things. But you can ensure the scars heal into something light, something you can barely see.
You can hold each other in the dark.
"Scared me, too," he rasps. A secret for a secret. "Lotta damn blood."
You kiss the underside of his jaw. "Can't get rid of me that easy."
Joel pulls you closer, somehow, mindful of your side.
"Rest, now," he says. "You ain’t goin' anywhere."
It's a command, a promise. You hum your agreement and let sleep drag you under.
thank you for reading <3 reblog, send feedback, general masterlist here!
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familyvideostevie · 19 hours
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it's your turn for choosing
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this was born out of a prompt request from my dear, dear, @softlyspector. this is for you, becca!
getting asked out via a smudgy scribble on a coffee cup | valentine's day prompts
joel miller x reader
summary/warnings: joel stops by your coffee shack every day. it's not your fault you're a little in love with him because of it. | modern au, fluff, flirting, jesse and cat and ellie cameos, game!joel in my head. i have not been a barista so sorry to all baristas if this reads wildly off-base. | 5.6k
a/n: it's giving rom-com! happy valentine's day. a bit different from my usual fare but hopefully it makes your heart warm. love u. thank u always to @macfrog and @bageldaddy for your eyes.
___
7:32 am. It’s helpful in this line of work to know exactly when you’re fucked. 
The espresso machine has been on the fritz all week and despite how much you want your current method of fixing it to work – banging a fist on the top until it stops wheezing – all signs point to today being a very bad day indeed. 
You’ve only been open for two hours. 
Here for three, awake for four. God, you’re tired.
Anyway – you’re fucked. And there’s nothing you can do about it. 
You call the time of death on the machine and search for something you can write on.
The Zone – a stupid name, but you can’t be bothered to change the sign that came with the place – is a coffee shop that sits between towns. 
Your coffee shop. 
It's more shack than shop, not really a zone of anything, just an order window and a five-drink menu. It's the kind of place that appears like a mirage for tourists right before they get on the highway at an ungodly hour and serves as a quick stop for everyone else. You open earlier than any other place around to get the truckers and the farmers and close when you stop being able to keep your eyes open.
The faded brown clapboard building is no bigger than an RV. The paint is chipped and the roof is a too-bright shade of green and you serve your drinks and the occasional sweet treat when you can get a good deal off of the baker two towns over through a window. It’s not a fancy chain, it’s not a drive-thru. You’ve got a bathroom and a few rickety cafe tables and chairs and no fucking common sense since you like it. 
You even love it, some days.
And the craziest part is that it works. Even on mornings like this one, when your espresso machine breaks during the lull between rushes and your part-time help calls in sick and you’ve spilled coffee all over your apron twice – it works. 
You tear off the lip of a cardboard box and write in big block letters: NO ESPRESSO TODAY. Maybe Tess, the baker, knows someone who can fix it. She knows everyone.
“Fuck you, you piece of junk,” you say. You give the machine another smack for good measure. 
Someone clears their throat and you whirl around, makeshift sign in hand. 
You’ve been doing this long enough that a handsome customer doesn’t phase you, but the man standing at your order window makes your stomach swoop for just a second.
“Morning,” you say, summoning your smile. “Hold on a sec, let me just –”
You lean out the window and wedge the piece of cardboard against the napkin holder on the ledge.
The man’s gaze drops to read. You take the opportunity to look at him. 
He’s tall and broad – if you had to guess, you’d say he works on one of the farms around here. He’s tan, dark hair threaded through with grey. His arms are crossed and you wish he wasn’t wearing a jacket so you could see his forearms. His denim shirt is undone at the top and you fixate on the chorded column of his throat, on the teasing glimpse of chest hair underneath.
The guy looks tired. 
Bone-tired, the kind of exhaustion you see when you look in the mirror. It comes from hundreds of early mornings and late nights, from hours on your feet and plenty of worry. He’s got lines at the corners of his eyes and a few around his mouth and you find yourself hoping they’re from laughter. 
“No espresso,” he reads, slow and unhurried. His drawl fits in with most of the folks around here, but you’re sure you haven’t seen him before. You’d remember. 
“Hope that doesn't scare you off,” you say. “Still got everything else.”
“Everything else being…” He glances at the chalkboard that serves as your menu.
DRIP COFFEE. LATTE. CAPPUCCINO. TEA. HOT CHOCOLATE. All written in your blocky hand in white paint. 
“Three options.”
Trial and error have taught you that simple works best. You’ll make anything people ask for, so long as you know how and have the supplies, and if they’re nice about it you won’t charge too much extra.
“Can I get you one of those three options?”
You’re not trying to rush him, but the next wave of people is bound to show up any minute.
“Black coffee will do,” he says. His mouth tugs up at the corner into a smirk that makes your face feel hot. “If you have that.”
“Thank you for taking pity on me,” you say, going for teasing and missing the mark by a mile. You just sound tired and genuine. “You just made my morning.”
He looks amused and you turn from him, unable to hide your grin. You pour a steaming cup and snap the lid on.
“Pretty shit morning if this is makin’ it,” he drawls.
You hand him the cup and your fingers brush. 
“You have no idea.”
He eyes the sign again and then your stained apron. “I got some notion.” He tugs his wallet from his back pocket and pulls out a $5 bill. “Keep the change,” he says.
You want to refuse, to thank him, but a few more cars pull up and Mr. Black Coffee just raises his cup to you and heads back to his truck.
Well, shit. You hope he comes back. A tipper like that, and hot? You sure wouldn’t mind if he became a regular customer. __
You call Tess that afternoon and she does know a guy, so the espresso machine gets fixed and things go back to normal. Your part-time help returns in the morning and nothing else breaks. 
Today is uncharacteristically warm for the season. The inside of The Zone is almost stifling, always at least 15 degrees warmer than outside, and you keep wiping your sweaty hands on your apron as you make espresso after espresso for the lunch crowd.
Cat, a spunky girl who likes to practice her latte art when it’s slow, takes orders at the register. You keep half of your attention on her and half on the four drinks you’re working on. 
“Black coffee, please,” someone says to her. Someone whose voice you recognize. 
“Can I get a name for that?” Cat asks. It’s busy enough that calling names is easier than calling orders, no matter how small your menu is.
“Joel,” he says. You let the milk steam on its own and pour the black coffee before Cat can do it.
“I’ve got it,” you tell her. “Can you finish up those drinks?”
She shrugs and you swap places. You know you’re sweaty and coffee-stained but you smile at him and hand over his coffee.
“Hot coffee on a day like this?” you tease. He – Joel – is sweaty, too. The collar of his work shirt is dark with sweat and his hair is a mess. He must be here on his lunch break. He takes the cup from you and slurps a long sip as a reply to your question. 
You laugh. Joel looks pleased. 
“Operatin’ a full menu, I see,” he says, pulling out another $5. “Glad you got it fixed.”
“It’s still a piece of junk,” you shrug. “Just don’t tell anyone I said that.”
He waves off your offer of change and raises his cup at you, taking a few steps backward towards his truck.
“Thank you,” he says. He eyes the tag on your chest and tacks your name on at the end. It sounds good from his mouth.
“Bye, Joel,” you say. His lips twitch but you barely have time to think about it before you have to take the next few orders. 
The line dies down and you step away from the register to help Cat with some cappuccinos – your least favorite drink by far due to all the damn foam they require – and she eyes you.
“Dude,” Cat says. “What the hell was that?”
If it wasn’t already a billion degrees in here you know your face would feel hot. 
“What the hell was what?”
She can’t reply for a few seconds while you grind beans for some espresso.
“I didn’t even know you knew how to flirt,” she muses, tapping a frother full of milk a few times. “That was pretty bad flirting if you ask me –”
You turn the grinder on again to drown her out.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” you yell. She rolls her eyes at you until you turn off the machine.
You tamp down the grounds and slot them into the machine.
“I mean, not my type at all, for like, so many reasons,” she says, wrinkling her nose. “Way too old for me, for one. Man, for another. But I see the appeal, I guess. Seems like he likes you. And was that a five-dollar bill? Black coffee is two bucks, last time I checked –”
“Can we get back to steaming milk, please?” you snap, more embarrassed than mad. “I am not taking flirting advice from a teenager.”
“I’m twenty!” she sputters. “Wait, so you admit that you like him?”
“Milk.”
Cat is right, though, and you know it. You just don’t see any harm in having a crush on some guy who comes to your coffee shop. Running this place means you see hundreds of people every day. You know their names, you ask them about their kids and their pets and their jobs, and you smile at them even on your bad days. It’s just part of the job. The daily interactions keep you afloat, make you feel more solid in your own life. People see you, they recognize you, they know you – even if it’s just because you make them coffee. 
Maybe Joel will keep coming back. Maybe he’ll become one of the regulars you know things about.
And if you have a crush on him? 
No harm done. He’s nice to look at.
And he tips well.
__
Joel stops by again. 
And again. 
And again.
He comes in every morning – sometimes at lunch – and orders the same thing. You learn the rumble of his truck by ear alone, the crunch of his boots on the gravel. Sometimes people in line say hi to him and a smile works its way onto your face on instinct when his voice reaches your ear. It’s never slow enough to have a proper conversation but he smiles at you, tells you he likes the flowers, your new apron. 
All of it is flirting but maybe not flirting. 
Maybe he’s just being polite.
Also, he keeps overpaying. 
One day, almost a month since you first saw him, he doesn’t come in the morning.  When you don’t see him in line at lunch, either, you’re a little disappointed. The weather is perfect – not too hot, not too cold, the sun shining – and you want to see him in the sunlight.
The day crowd is long gone and you’re only an hour or two from closing when his truck pulls up.
“I was getting worried,” you call as he walks over. Usually, he’s got some kind of dust or paint or something on them – Joel is a contractor, you’ve learned through your brief encounters, not a farmer – but today his clothes are clean and un-ripped. 
“I’m honored,” he says. 
You have his cup ready by the time he reaches the window. 
“I’m just surprised you can get through the day without a cup of coffee.”
He snorts and hands you his cash. 
“I can’t,” he says. “Had shitty home brew this morning.”
He takes a sip of your coffee and sighs. Your heart picks up and you don’t hide your grin.
“What’s with the schedule change?” you ask. 
He smirks. “Miss me?” 
You scoff and cross your arms. Heat rises in your chest and you feel almost giddy. 
“Just curious,” you say. “Don’t let it go to your head, but you’re my favorite customer.”
Joel laughs and scratches the back of his neck. 
“Reckon that’s the tip.”
“Actually, ordering a cup of black coffee is the way to any barista’s heart.”
Joel’s eyebrows climb up his forehead. 
“Ah,” he says. He takes another sip, his eyes dancing with mirth. “‘Course.”
“Nah,” you say with a teasing smile. “I’d never be so shallow.”
There’s no line behind him but you expect him to go back to his truck, anyway. But here he is. Talking to you.
You grab a rag and wipe down the counter to keep your hands busy. 
“I’m, uh. Meetin’ one of my kids here,” Joel says. The sudden shyness that accompanies his admission is a surprise. 
Your eyes dart to his hand but you see no ring, nor the pale shadow of one. 
“Both of ‘em moved to the city recently. Ellie – she’s comin’ up for the night.”
“I’ll bet you miss them,” you offer. You’re not sure why he’d want to bring his daughter to your coffee shack, but you’re not complaining.
Joel smiles at you. It’s a sad smile but still a good one. The affection in his eyes is raw. 
“Sure do,” he says. He tucks one hand in his pocket and takes another sip of his coffee. “But it’s good for them. Sarah – she’s a little older – is in school and Ellie is workin’ on her music and whatever else she’s into these days.” The pride in his voice is clear. 
“Well, I’m honored you want to bring her here.” You gesture to your slightly sad sitting area and the empty lot behind him. 
Joel looks ready to argue with you when a faded, older version of his truck pulls up. Music leaks from the open windows and the driver bops her head to the beat a few times before shutting it off and hoping out, thumbs flying on the screen of her phone. 
“That’ll be her,” he says drily. “Hey, kiddo.”
Ellie looks up from her hands, tucks her phone in her back pocket, and grins at Joel.
She doesn’t look a thing like him, but the connection is obvious. She moves like him, her shoulders set like she’s ready for a challenge at any moment. Joel sets his coffee down at the window and meets her halfway for a hug.
You look away and busy yourself with restocking whatever you can get your hands on.
“Dude, you come here every day?” Ellie asks. “Joel, this is so far from –”
Joel talks over her.
“Drive go okay? Sarah said they’re doin’ shit on the 35 –”
Ellie huffs.
“Yeah, yeah, some traffic getting out of the city ‘cause of the fucking lane closure, but otherwise fine.”
“Good.”
You turn to face them, a genuine smile firmly in place. 
“Hi,” you say. Joel picks up his coffee again, which Ellie eyes with a scowl. You introduce yourself to her. “You’re Ellie, right? I’ve heard a lot about you.” 
Ellie frowns. Behind her, Joel’s mouth twitches but he says nothing. It’s a lie, obviously, but something tells you he doesn’t mind and she believes it.
“Really?” She throws him a glare and then rolls her eyes. “You gotta stop telling strangers about me, man.”
“Someone’s gotta warn ‘em,” he says. 
She laughs. “Hey, fuck you!”
“Only good stuff,” you say. You like her. “Joel says you’re working on your music?”
Ellie’s eyes light up. “Oh, yeah,” she says. “I’ve got an audition next week.” She turns to Joel. “I brought my guitar ‘cause I have a fuck ton of songs to play for you.”
He puts a hand on her shoulder and she settles a little.
“I bet they’re real good.”
Ellie flushes and rolls her eyes. “Yeah, well. You have to hear them first.”
You feel a little off-balance again, like you’re on the fringes of something you shouldn’t be seeing. The love on Joel’s face is clear as day. 
“Do you want some coffee?” you ask her.
Joel winces. Ellie gags. 
“No offense,” she starts, eyes darting between you and Joel. “I know Joel is fifty percent coffee on a good day, but it’s not my thing.” She looks at the menu and narrows her eyes. “I had a mocha the other day and didn’t hate it. Do you make those?”
“Look at that,” Joel says. “You’re convertin’.”
“Am not,” Ellie says. “It’s got chocolate in it, dude. No shit, I like it.”
“Yeah, give me a few minutes,” you laugh. “I’ll put lots of chocolate in it.”
They sit at one of your tables and you hear their laughter in the background as you make her drink.
It’s strange to see Joel like this – to build up on the man you’ve imagined him to be in your mind. Father never occurred to you. It makes sense, though, like a missing piece of him slotted into place. But it also makes the crush feel a little more real. Now that he’s more than your favorite regular customer. Now that you know a piece of him, of who he really is. 
It makes you want to know more.
You finish her drink and call Ellie’s name. They both stand and Joel digs in his wallet again.
“Don’t you dare pay me, Joel,” you say. You direct your next words at Ellie. “Really. I’m just honored you stopped by.”
She eyes Joel and he eyes her right back with the same look. She must have learned it from him.
“Yeah,” she says. “Me too.” She grins at you with all of her teeth. “Joel loves this place. Talks about it all the time.”
She takes a sip of her mocha and her eyes go wide.
“Wait, this is fucking good. Man, I see why you drive –”
Joel clears his throat.
“We’re off,” he says. “Thank you, as always.” He sounds softer than usual as if being nice to his daughter is the best thing you could do for him.
You suppose it is.
“You’re welcome, as always.” 
Ellie knocks her shoulder with Joel’s as they head back to their trucks. She must be whispering something to him because he swats her away with a groan and she cackles. 
They both wave at you as they drive away. 
__
Joel keeps coming in the mornings, and your conversations return to their fleeting cadence. Even so, it’s hard to deny that your crush on him has kicked into high gear.
You try not to let your gaze linger on his lips, on his throat. On his hands when he takes the cup from you, how your skin brushes and it makes you warm all over. You think about how he laughed, how relaxed he was around Ellie. You want to know what he’s like outside of your small daily interaction. You want to know what he eats for dinner, how he spends his weekends, what he listens to on the radio.
You want him.
Business is busy, which helps. A kid from a few towns over – Jesse, he’s called – signs on to work part-time, mostly for the second half of the day. He’s been a barista before so the training is minimal, but it still changes the flow of things. He’s a charming guy and the regulars take to him easy enough.
It’s you who is distracted. 
One morning, Joel comes in as expected. Jesse is working, too, trying to clock some extra hours this week.
Joel is on the phone in line, his attention somewhere else. He’s frowning, a deep crease between his brows as he waits in line. All it would take to smooth it away is the press of your thumb. 
You try not to stare and probably fail, but manage to take and make the orders ahead of him without making any mistakes, though your whole body feels alight.
He hangs up right as he gets to the window and sighs, giving you a tired smile.
“Howdy,” he says. You set his coffee down in front of him and he pulls out a ten-dollar bill instead of a five.
“Joel –” you say, but he interrupts you.
“My brother called and said he needs breakfast,” Joel grumbles. “Y’got any of Tess’s bear claws?”
Right, they work together, you remember. He’s mentioned Tommy in passing. 
“I think so, just hold on a sec.”
“Take your time,” Joel says. It sounds like he means it, even though there’s a line behind him and he probably needs to get to work. 
You do find a few bear claws in the box Tess gave you early this morning when you stopped by the bakery.
“You’re in luck,” you say, putting it in a paper bag. “Well, Tommy is.”
“Savin’ my ass,” he tells you when you hand it to him. “Thanks, sweetheart.”
The word sends a jolt of lightning through your whole body. He doesn’t even seem to realize he’s said it but your world shifts slightly on its axis. Sweetheart.
He turns on his heel before you can give him change for his cash, his phone ringing.
“Jesus, Tommy, I said I’d –”
You let him fade into the distance and smile at your next customer.
“How can I help you?”
A few orders later you end up next to Jesse making some lattes.
“Was that Joel Miller?” Jesse asks. “Before. The guy with the black coffee and bear claw?”
You startle. “Um. It was. How do you –”
“I didn’t know he was a customer here,” Jesse says. “Does he come in a lot?”
You unpack a few more cinnamon buns that Tess gave you this morning. “Yeah, every day.”
“Damn,” he says. “He must really like your coffee.”
“Are you trying to say it’s bad coffee, Jesse?”
He huffs a laugh. “No, boss, ‘course not.” He grinds beans for a few seconds but continues once he’s done, steady hands tamping down the results. “I just know he lives like, a half-hour away. And that there are plenty of coffee shops there, too.”
You narrow your eyes. “How do you know him, Jesse?”
“His daughter, Ellie, is a friend of mine,” he shrugs. “Went over to their house plenty of times in high school.”
“Well. He’s a contractor, right? I bet he has a job out here.”
Jesse clips the espresso into the machine and starts on some milk. 
“I’m not saying he doesn’t,” he muses. “I am saying that it takes at least 30 minutes to get here from where he lives.”
It’s silly. You’re half-flattered, half-confused. Yeah, you like Joel, and yeah, you’re pretty sure you’ve been flirting every day for over a month. But you figure it’s convenient for him. Coffee and an ego boost all in one. 
But if he’s going out of his way to come to The Zone? Well, maybe it’s not just for the coffee.
“Your coffee is good,” Jesse stresses, seeing the gears in your mind turning. It looks like he’s trying to hide a grin. You need to stop hiring young people who have keen eyes and big mouths.
“I think the ice needs a refill,” you say, snapping back into focus. 
“He might be here for something else, too -”
“Go refill the ice.”
He throws up his hands with a smirk. “I’m going!”
__
7:24 am. You’re on your own again and you’re fucked. 
The espresso machine is working perfectly and the early rush has ended. The weather is beyond shitty. Rain falls in sheets and the sky is so dark it feels like the sun didn’t bother to rise. It pounds on the roof and blows in the window every time you open it. The awning does nothing to shield customers as they shout their orders over the wind at you. Your fingers are going numb and your front is damp enough to set your teeth chattering. 
Joel’s truck pulls up and – well. You’re fucked. And he’s why.
You’re fucked because you can’t stop thinking about him. You can’t stop thinking about what Jesse said. What Joel said. Sweetheart.
A harmless crush turned into something more intense, something heavy in your stomach. You want him earnestly, fully, with every piece of you. 
And you still barely know him. But you want to. 
Maybe it’s the weather, maybe it’s the fact that you’re damp and cold and frustrated with your own heart and brain. But you see his truck and you decide to do something about this stupid crush.
You write your phone number on a cup with steady hands and set it aside for Joel. You scrawl on it as neatly as you can: Want to get a drink somewhere else sometime? 
It’s a bit of a coward’s way out. You should just ask him, say how you feel to his face. He’d probably like that better, anyway. But, well, this just feels safer. He could ignore it, he could throw it out, he could see it and decide to never come back. 
Sweetheart.
Somehow you don’t think he’ll do any of those.
The rain lashes against the window so hard you don’t open it until you see the lonely figure approach. The morning rush has been a morning trickle, a few brave souls venturing out for something from you.
Joel, it seems, is one.
You open the window and are greeted with a spray of mist.
“Gimme a sec,” you tell him. It’s so windy he leans in close to hear you. He’s wearing a jacket that’s ill-suited for the rain, his hair plastered to his forehead. Your fingers twitch with the need to brush it back. 
You quickly fill the cup you’ve set aside and pass it to him with two hands so it doesn’t blow over.
“Brave of you,” you say. He’s in the rain and you’re both getting soaked but you want to talk to him desperately. It’s a buzzing need at the front of your brain. “Thought the weather would get you, too.”
“Told you,” he all but yells over the wind with a flash of white teeth. “Shitty coffee at home.”
“Drive safe, Joel,” you tell him. He nods at you and jogs back to the truck, cup in hand. You won’t be able to see if he reads it from here, but you hope so. All you have to do is wait.
And wait.
And wait.
The rain stops.
You’re still waiting, phone silent.
Sunshine peeks through the clouds with a slightly surreal post-storm glow. A few more folks have made their way to The Zone but today has been slow. The clock ticks slowly towards 3 pm and your phone does not ring.
“Don’t be stupid,” you mutter. “He’s working.” 
You step out of the shack and into the slightly humid air, the gravel under your feet shifting wetly. The tables you’d set out this morning are, mercifully, still there, though they’re spattered with rain. You might as well close up now.
You’re bent over the last of the chairs, wiping them down with an old rag. You’re focused, so much so that you don’t pay much attention to the hum of an engine and the crunch of tires behind you.
A door slams but you don’t turn around.
“Sorry,” you call over your shoulder. “We just closed.”
“Shame,” he says. 
You whip around and find Joel, hands in his pockets. He’s in a different shirt than this morning and his jeans don’t look soaked. You’re still damp, water stains on your pants and shirt.
“Oh,” you breathe. “Hi, Joel.”
He smirks. “Don’t think I’ve ever seen you outside of that window,” he says, before jutting his chin towards the tables. “Can I help?”
You’re very aware of your whole body all at once. He’s looking at you, drinking you in like you’re his morning cup of coffee.
“Uh, sure,” you say. You want to ask why he’s here but the words won’t come. “They go in there, in the little closet on the right.” You point to the open door to the shack.
He dips his chin low just once and then crosses the distance between you in three big strides. He grabs the chair closest to you. The t-shirt he’s wearing shows his arms and you feel what he’s just said – it’s weird to be in the same space like this. You’re outside but he feels so big.
Joel’s arms flex and you swallow, following him with another chair. He stacks his in the right place and holds a hand out for yours.
“What did you write on it?” he asks, casually. 
The words don’t totally register. “What?”
He doesn’t answer. His arms are crossed, brow furrowed. Your mouth goes dry.
“On my cup. This mornin’.” He keeps his gaze on yours and for some reason, you can’t look away.
“Oh – you, you didn’t see?” 
He shakes his head. “Was rainin’, remember? Got smudged before I got in my truck.”
“Right.” 
You tear yourself away and leave him standing there. Maybe you should just lie.
But then you think about the way his eyes crinkle at the corners when you make him laugh, and how he asks you how you are and how he brought his daughter here and how he tips and how he drives all this way for your – for you.
Joel waits, his footsteps the only indication he’s followed you.
You turn around.
“I wrote my phone number,” you say. “And I asked you on a date.”
The corner of his mouth pulls up and you think he’s…blushing?
He rubs a hand over his beard and you hope he’s hiding a smile. Your heart is in your throat, beating so loud you worry that he can hear it. All of your bravado sinks into the damp ground at your feet. Maybe you’ve read this totally wrong. Maybe he’s just a nice guy, maybe your coffee is just really good and your employees are fucking with you. He’s here to let you down easy, to tell you he’s not even available, not interested, not –
“Alright,” Joel says. He walks towards you and tugs his phone from his back pocket. “I’ll take that number.”
Oh.
He hands it over and you type it in, heart jackhammering in your chest. But you watch his face, see the quirk of his mouth and his blush and it makes you brave.
“And the date?” you ask, giving it back. Your fingers brush and your heart keeps pounding but your nerves take a sharp turn away from doubt and towards excitement.
“Well, you gonna ask again?”
You both seem to have found your footing with whatever this is. The flirt in him is back full force, and he’s looking at you in that way of his. You want to know all of his expressions. There is so much to learn.
“Are you going to say yes?”
“S’why I came back,” he admits. “Figured you’d be closin’. Hoped you’d be free.”
“So you could read the cup?”
Joel takes the other two chairs and heads for the door again. You trail him. God, his arms are distracting. 
“Most of it,” he says. “Couldn’t make out the last few numbers, though.”
“Well, once we’re done here, I’m free. If you wanted to go on a date with me.”
Joel turns and you’re in the small space at the same time, your chests almost pressed together. You must smell like sweat and stale coffee but you watch as Joel inhales, eyes on yours.
“I do,” he says. 
It would be so easy to kiss him, a quick, chaste press of your lips to see what he tastes like.
His pupils dilate and you sway into him for a breath before you realize what you’re doing and step back outside.
You take a deep breath of fresh air. “Great.”
He rubs the back of his neck with one hand and you head for the tables. 
“Y’know,” he says. “Ellie’s been on my ass about this.”
You laugh, high and bright. “Has she?”
“That girl ain’t capable of missin’ an opportunity to stick her nose in,” he grumbles, but it’s affectionate. 
“Well, I think she’s smart,” you goad. 
“Yeah,” he agrees. “Reckon she is.”
Joel’s brows furrow and he takes a few quick steps into your space, so close the tips of your shoes almost touch.
“Oh,” you breathe. “Hi.”
“Hold still,” he says. He reaches for your face slowly, slow enough that you could pull away but you don’t. He brushes something from your cheek with the pad of his thumb.
“Grounds.” His voice is a little hoarse.
“Thanks,” you breathe. 
He smirks but the flush creeping up his neck tells you he’s not wholly unaffected. It makes you feel…it just makes you feel. 
Joel Miller likes you.
“Well, don’t just stand there,” you say.
His eyes widen slightly and he leans in just a little but you slide out of his space with a grin.
“The sooner we finish up the sooner I can buy you a drink.”
Joel laughs, loud and full. “Oh, how generous of you.”
“You’re very lucky,” you say.
“I agree,” he drawls. He taps your chin with one knuckle.
His eyes sparkle and he smiles, looking luminous in the post-storm sunshine. You see a flash of a future – watching him drink coffee in a kitchen instead of through the window of The Zone. Your hands meeting over a shared table, fingers tangling, that smile directed at you in the morning light. 
Giddiness rises in your throat and spills out of you in a delighted laugh of your own. Joel just grins.
“So,” he says. “Where’re you takin’ me?”
thank you for reading <3 reblog, send feedback, general masterlist here!
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New idea: instead of writing the fic, you come over to my house and I tell you the entire plot while I pace my tiny kitchen. There’s a cup of tea, warm in your hands. The words don’t stop and the affection never leaves your expression.
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familyvideostevie · 2 days
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Alright hear me out for a second -
"It's ok to enjoy and find meaning in flawed media because art is subjective and human creation is never perfect" and "We need to arm ourselves with media literacy, criticize media and not fall prey to blind consumerism that big companies want to lure us into" are statements that can and should co-exist.
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familyvideostevie · 3 days
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they diagnosed me with i love you and it’s incurable
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familyvideostevie · 4 days
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apologist? not necessarily. explainer? perhaps. understander? intimately. enjoyer? greatly. sexualizer? frequently,
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familyvideostevie · 5 days
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at least there’s fucking friends. at least there’s people who love you in this godforsaken world
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familyvideostevie · 6 days
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dm'ing a mutual you've never interacted with one-on-one is so embarrassing like. hi.... im sorry. you can kill me if you want... can i have your discord..... if not.. feel free to shoot me down where i stand... im sorry.. i'll leave..
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familyvideostevie · 7 days
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i like mine unfriendly to everyone but me
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familyvideostevie · 8 days
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"You should be at the club" Direct exposure to the club would kill me instantly
"You should be at bar trivia night" This I cannot deny
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familyvideostevie · 9 days
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i admit i want to be loved religiously and i don’t know what to do with my hands
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familyvideostevie · 10 days
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every time i start to feel cringe for being too deep in the hyperfixation i remember the intense depression i have waded through and have to remind myself that enjoyment is fleeting (so grab it with both hands), and life is for loving (so hold that love close), and if anyone thinks i’m cringe they must not be having a very good time (and i hope they can find a good time soon).
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familyvideostevie · 11 days
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i swear if someone referred to me as “my love” i’d prolly die on the spot
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familyvideostevie · 12 days
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🔹 Someone else's fiction cannot cause you physical harm.
🔹If someone else's fiction is causing you emotional or psychological harm, or distress, you can put it down and not read/watch it.
🔹Your emotional well-being is not the responsibility of fiction writers.
🔹Someone else's fiction is not about your personal trauma.
🔹When reading or watching fiction, you always have the power. You can always stop. You are never reading fiction without your own consent.
🔹Fiction writers are not responsible for other people's mental health.
🔹The content of a piece of fiction does not reflect on the morality of its author.
🔹Just because someone writes about bad things happening, doesn't mean they want those things to happen.
🔹Don't like? Don't read.
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familyvideostevie · 13 days
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normalize being out of the loop...... like what is even going on lol
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familyvideostevie · 14 days
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true but i dont agree
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familyvideostevie · 15 days
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engage earnestly with the world or die
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