#logical brain: shut up that’s a decision for them to make
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Worst part abt my energy vanishing: brain determined to convince me that I’m annoying and give me psychic damage every time I take breath to wanna ask if I can clink my characters with someone else’s characters abt it
#brain: ok but what if they don’t WANNA be on abt that character rn. what if that’s not the vibe#logical brain: shut up that’s a decision for them to make#rude dumb brain: ok but what if they’re TIRED-#it’s like oh my god I just wanna ask if more folks can go on the nature walks where folks get soso excited abt things and can teach their#friends abt it#puppet and eiteth r rambling abt decomposition and podsol goes :0!!! about a bug they’ve not seen in ages and dex is helping identify plants#so podsol doesn’t end up dealing with poison ivy (again) and
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the sweetest con
cowboy like me chapter fifteen
well. this is it. we made it, kids.
thank you so, so much for reading for all this time. for all your patience, and kindness, and loyalty. i will carry this pair, their story, and all of your love for them with me forever. love you guys. xx
pairing: dbf!joel miller x fem!reader
summary: every cowboy deserves his ride off into the sunset.
warnings: age gap (reader is 23, joel is 48), lotsa guilt from reader, dreamy love sequence & mention of unprotected piv/creampie, more greys anatomy spoilers, reader's dad is either Bald or has a Receding Hairline (you choose), more sex - this time reader and joel sixty-nine, face sitting, oral (f and m receiving), more (inferred) unprotected piv, making dirty, hot love ALLAT, cursing, a little smut n a lotta fluff n a droplet of angst at the end
word count: 10.8k
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“How the fuck did this take you three minutes? Three?”
“I’m telling you. I’m a genius.”
You snort. “Shut up. You only passed Math ‘cause you were fooling around with that nerd – Thomas? Was it Thomas?”
“Timothy. And you don’t need math to do a sudoku puzzle, loser. You just need brains. Logic.” Anna taps two fingers against her temple, tilting her head.
“Logic,” you murmur, shaking your head.
Sal’s is quiet today. He’s out of town for his father-in-law’s funeral and made the genius decision to leave the two of you in charge. Since opening at nine, you’ve had four customers. The to-do list left for you was completed by ten, and since then, you’ve been hunched over your phone at the cash register, messing around on some puzzle app Anna made you download.
It's a Wednesday. Nothing exciting ever happens on Wednesdays.
Anna’s behind you, tearing apart and flattening the cardboard boxes you spent all morning emptying. “That level,” she clicks her chewing gum wetly between her teeth, scent of mint over your shoulder, “that ain’t even the hardest one. Ooh, no, babe. Three goes –”
“Shh!” You bat her arm away, curving your hand over your phone screen. She snorts and wanders off through the back, wad of cardboard under her arm.
Anna wasn’t your closest friend in high school, and you sure didn’t stay much in touch past the odd Facebook post update when you left. But working with her, and her dad being your dad’s buddy – she’s sort of become one of those people you just can’t shake.
Like a stray puppy. Or…an annoying hangnail.
She’s nice enough – talks a lot of crap sometimes, but she cares for you. You’d go as far as saying you two have grown pretty close since you came home. Still, the acidic sting of resentment sits on your tongue, anytime you think of her involvement in the unravelling of your little lie. Think of your dad calling hers, Hank asking her where you were.
Think of the fact that, if she hadn’t been honest with him – I don’t know where she is, Dad – nothing would’ve gone wrong.
That’s not fair. If you’d never touched Joel in the first place, nothing would’ve gone wrong.
It’s just – she had a hand in pushing the first domino.
The bell above the door jingles and you lift your eyes from tiny numbers and blank squares to meet a familiar pair of hazel. An Alanis Morissette T-shirt under a denim jacket. She tucks her thick, soft hair behind her ears and smiles, then skips around the counter and links her hands at your tummy; her ear flat against the nape of your neck.
“Why so clingy?” you ask, and Sarah straightens up.
“Just excited to spend some time with my favorite person. That allowed?”
Your eyes scan her up and down as she leans against the counter, stealing a gummy from a jar beside the register. “Been staying with you for nearly three weeks now, you ain’t sick of me yet?”
She shakes her head, jaw chewing, cheeks swollen with a grin. “Are you done yet? I wanna make sure we get good seats.”
“We will,” you assure her. “It’s only, like, three p.m.”
“But it’s Barbie,” she says, “and I wanna get some snacks before we head in.” She holds the decapitated gummy worm up, eyebrows high, before pulling it between her teeth until it snaps. She drags the withered red tail over her tongue.
“That thing you just mauled,” you gesture to the masticated shape in her fingers, “candy. Snacks. Just take some of that.”
“You won’t even buy your date movie theater candy? Damn. Mom’s a cheapskate. Wish I could say my dad’s a lucky guy.”
You shove her off, disguising your laugh with a shake of your head. “You are on thin ice, I’m not even kidding.”
Sarah’s laughing, reaching for another worm. “You know what that sounds like?”
“Hm?”
“What you just said.”
“What’s it sound like, Sarah Miller?”
“Something a mom would say.”
“Alright,” you stand, “get out. Get outta my store.”
The door opens when you point to it, Texan heat sweeping in to swarm the one rickety fan you have in here. The brass bell trembles, and beneath it, a man in a tucked shirt and jeans, glum face and tired eyes.
You blink at him and he blinks back, and no words are spoken between you, but your dad understands to move, to keep walking – and you understand to let him.
“Shoot,” Sarah whispers, twisting her gummy around her finger. “That was awkward.”
Three weeks of staying with them – Sarah and Joel – also means three weeks of zero contact with your dad. The most you’ve heard from – or, rather, about him is that, last week, Joel bumped into Hank at the gas station, and the old man mentioned that he and your dad had grabbed a beer the night before.
What’d he say? you asked Joel, dragging a dish towel around the rim of a glass.
He shrugged, flicking his hands dry over the sink. Said the Rangers aren’t doin’ too good. I said, Yeah, that’s cause a’ –
No, Joel. What did he say about me ‘n my dad?
He waited a second to let the offense of your interruption soak in. Took the towel from your hand, replaced the glass on the draining board. Nothing, he said, I don’t think he knows.
It sat with you the entire night. The three of you watched a movie, occupying either side of Joel’s couch, though you’re sure you don’t remember a word of it. The image of him sat center-stage in your mind until you pulled yourself against Joel’s body in bed that night. Sat in his recliner, flicking through TV channels, the only sounds in the house that of Ice Road Truckers, the ticking of the kitchen clock, and his own fucking breathing.
Alone. Not even Hank to talk to about – well.
You’ve done your best not to think about him. And it works, most days, when you’re with Joel. Helps to go do stuff: ride shotgun while he picks up supplies for work or grabs groceries. Helps to play pretend like his house is yours, too. Tidying when he’s not home, lighting candles and sinking into a bubble bath for him to find you in when he finishes. Helps to be at Sal’s, with Anna. Sudoku and her fucking Tinder account to keep you both occupied.
Most days, you forget to consider the lonely shape of your dad at all – but that seems to hurt all the more. Like forgetting to tend to an open wound; instead, letting the infection blister and bubble so that, when you do bump it again, the pain feels sharper. Hissing at you, poison seeping from flesh.
His showing up, waltzing straight into the store – feels less like a bump, and more like a pair of hands diving straight into the gash, tearing it wide open again. Blood and poison gushing all over the checkered floor.
Anna materializes between two aisles, hands on her hips when she stands behind you. “Y’all still not really talkin’?” she asks.
You and Sarah shake your heads. The three of you watch the shape of your dad’s skull over the shelves, bobbing from bay to bay. Door hinges to fence paint. He painted the fence last summer. He doesn’t need fucking fence paint.
“Nope,” you reply. “’s been, what, two and a half weeks now?”
“Yeah,” Anna mutters, the slope of sympathy in her voice. “My dad’s been talkin’ to him about it. They’ve spoken, like, almost every night on the phone.”
“Oh, fuck,” you hiss, head falling into your hands. “Are you serious?”
“Not about you and Joel. Just about the fight.”
Your jaw slowly slackens, eyes thinning as your gaze slides over to your friend, a saddened expression on her face.
Sarah nods, like an accessory sat on the dash of a car. Bobbing bobbing bobbing, until her brows drop and she turns to you, finally realizing. “Wait, what?”
Anna blinks between the two of you. “What?” she asks, lips pressing together.
“You know?” Sarah asks, glaring at her.
Anna snorts. Neither of you break. She quickly quietens and clears her throat, bending to stuff more cardboard under her arm. “Well…” She sucks in a deep breath. “At rodeo night, when you left your phone on the table, me ‘n Kara wanted to leave a bunch of selfies for you to find later. But when I went to grab your phone, you had a text from him. Joel. Something about someone winning you over like he did, or something. I can’t remember. But that was the first thing.”
Sarah’s face sours at the mention of her dad’s flirty text, scoffing as she swipes another gummy from the jar. “Real fuckin’ subtle, Dad,” she murmurs.
You sharpen your gaze at Anna, blurring the brown curls and low brows from your peripheral. “Uhuh…?”
“Then, there was the lying to your dad about where you were. That Monday – you said you were at mine. You weren’t. Your dad called my dad to ask, ‘n my dad asked me why the hell you’d lie. I figured, What a weird coincidence, right?”
You slip off your stool, legs feeling more liquid than bone. “Oh, Jesus…”
“But then…then, I saw how you were when he called on the way to Frank’s. In the car. You were…fucking weird. And then Joel punched that dude – that basically confirmed it. I don’t think either of your dads would do that for me. It felt…it felt personal. He took your hand ‘n dragged you outta there, and it felt like…somethin’ else.”
You’re leaning against the counter, head in your hands. Struggling to even listen to her piece it all together. Were you this fucking obvious, the whole time?
Anna answers for you. “Yeah,” she says, nodding, “I didn’t catch two fucking boyfriends cheating on me, and not pick up some detective skills, babe.”
You stand straight, composure slowly building over shame. “And your dad doesn’t know? My –” you flick your head across the store, lowering your voice, “– my dad hasn’t told him?”
A laugh spurts from somewhere deep in her chest. “Hell, no. Are you tryna give him a second heart attack? No. He just thinks you were somewhere you didn’t want your dad to know – a boy’s or something. Which – well, I guess you were.”
You nod, half-appreciation, half-resignation. Alright. Now shut up about it, would you?
“But listen,” Anna says, apparently not as good at mindreading as she is at secret-revealing, “y’all gotta work on being sneaky. You’re, like, really bad at it.”
“Yeah,” you sniff, “thanks, Anna.”
You grip the edge of the counter and try to draw your eye away from your dad; a little angry that he’s here, and yet, a little more thankful that you’ve had at least a tiny glimpse of him. Desperate for him to come over, to acknowledge your mutual existence in the same room, and yet – petrified that he does.
He keeps his back to you, though you notice him turning every so often, looking at you from his peripheral. Nope – your black shirt and blue jeans are still behind the counter. He turns back to the shelf.
“Hi, sweetie.” A woman in a pink blouse approaches the counter. She lays down a couple pairs of plyers and you ring her up, asking if she found everything okay. Choking a little when you inhale the scent of her perfume.
“Beautiful day for you to be in here workin’, huh?” Her rosy cheeks fill as she hands you the cash.
Oh, yeah. It’s a beautiful day to be stuck selling plyers to pink women in pink blouses smelling of pink perfume, while my dad – still reeling from the revelation that I’ve been sleeping with his best friend, by the way – pretends to peruse the store.
“I’m almost done,” you reply, blunt enough to deflate her expression only a little, sliding the paper bag stamped Sal’s back across the counter.
She nods in thanks and slinks off, suffocating aroma following her. And like a magician, when she disappears off to the side, your dad stands in her wake. A few feet from you, keeping his distance, watching carefully before he dares to move. Waiting for your go-ahead.
When you lift your chin, beckoning him forward, Anna takes Sarah’s arm and yanks her away, shoving some shredded boxes into her arms. “You wanna help me?” she asks the nosy Miller, tossing something of an alarmed glance back at you and your dad.
There’s a funny feeling behind your eyes when he steps up, empty hand resting hesitantly on the counter. “She coverin’ up the smell of a dead body or som’?” he asks.
The air pushes from your lungs, a laugh barreling with it. Your hands clasp on the surface opposite his. A scorch of white heat at the nape of your neck. “Very vibrant, huh?”
“Very.” He clears his throat, shakes his head a little, and takes a deep breath. “I figured this might be as good a place as any to find you. I didn’t want you to think I was…cornering you, or anything, if I showed up at Joel’s.”
“I wouldn’t – I mean, maybe. But, y’know…this is fine.” Your arms cross defensively, the baggy material of Joel’s shirt wrapping snug around you.
Your dad seems to know. Evidence being that it’s you, in a shirt all too big – a shirt he’d likely see his best friend in, too. It forces your arms tighter, sucking in the scent of Joel to combat the dizzying feeling of nerves.
“I’m glad to see you’re alright,” he says eventually, fingers drumming awkwardly. “I just wanted to know you were fine.”
“I am fine. I promise. Just – working a lot.”
He nods, looking down to his feet. Twists the toe of his boot into the linoleum.
“I’m glad to see you’re alright, too,” you offer, the words fluid and spilling from one to the next – something forceful in their nature.
Your dad’s eyes lift at the same time that his cheeks do. Relief. “Thanks, kiddo. I actually – I was hopin’ that maybe we could talk. If you’re free. I don’t know what time you get off today.”
“I finish in ten minutes,” you say, and hope seems to paint across his face – washing away instantly when you add, “but I’m going to the movies with Sarah.”
He’s nodding again, eyes fixed back on his boots. “Right, right.”
“…But maybe once we’re done I can swing by?”
“Oh, well – I’m workin’ late again. I’ll be out by the time…Yeah. Sorry, hon.”
“That’s okay.”
“Late one again tonight.”
“This, uh – what’s his name again? Kel–?”
“Kelman, yeah. Yeah. How ‘bout I call you tomorrow ‘n we can work somethin’ out? You and Sarah, you enjoy your night.”
You lean back from the counter, slowly more confident in your ability to hold yourself upright. “Yeah. Okay. Thanks, Dad.”
His lips press together in a flat attempt at a smile. “I’ll leave you to it. You mind if I…give you a hug?”
And then you’re the one awkwardly, forcedly smiling. Your teeth gritting behind taut lips. “Not at all,” you whisper, and wander carefully around the counter to where he stands.
He opens his arms and pulls you against his chest, your head tilting to rest your ear on his shoulder. You hook your arms under his, feeling his wrists crossing at your spine. Like two statues, two figures of stone fixing their crumbling bodies in an embrace, suddenly disjointed and ill-fitting. Your heart hurts beneath layers of rock, swelling in attempt to reach for his, shrinking back crestfallen when he feels too far.
He kisses the side of your head, pulls away, and taps your cheek once. “You know,” he says, letting you withdraw from his grasp, “I really miss you.”
You nod. “Miss you, too.”
“Let’s talk soon, alright?”
“Yeah.”
And then he’s leaving, drifting back out into the summer sun, rock disintegrating as the light catches him again. More human, less monster-under-your-bed. He’s just your dad again, just that swaying, bumbling man who used to sprinkle rainbow flakes over your ice cream and double-knot your laces.
The shadows of Sarah and Anna appear at your elbows, the three of you watching your dad sink into his car. You still feel made of rock, splitting somewhere down the middle as you stare at his figure.
“Well?” Sarah asks.
He turns right out of the parking lot, disappears behind a hedgerow.
“Yeah,” you reply, turning in a daze. “We’re gonna…gonna talk.”
“That’s good, right? That sounds…promising.”
You shrug. “I guess.”
Sarah places a gentle hand on your arm, drawing your attention to her kind eyes and infectious smile. “We should probably get goin’,” she says, and you agree.
“What movie are you seeing?” Anna asks, filling your spot behind the counter as you turn, making for the back of the store.
“Barbie,” Sarah tells her.
“Nice. She paying?”
“Obviously. Mom duties.”
You kick the door closed on their giggles.
Two days pass without a word from your dad. No text, no call, no visit to Sal’s when you’re on shift the following day. By Monday, you’ve convinced yourself that the entire thing was a dream, a hallucination conjured up by your imagination in attempt to rid you of some of the guilt still chewing at your heart. Bat it out of your brain, like swatting the rear end of a wild animal let loose indoors.
Guilt which is only remedied, only soothed by Joel. By the feeling which overcomes your chest when you look at him – lungs faltering, heart leaping. The peace of falling asleep in his safe embrace, the heat from his body enough to keep you comfortable all night, and then waking up tangled in his sheets – the smell of bacon and eggs twirling through the house, the distant sound of his humming drawing you downstairs to his side.
Late nights on the porch, watching the sun bleed heavily into the sky. Your ankles in his lap, a guitar over his thigh. Thumb gentle on the strings, soft timbre of song lulling you to some place far from reality: the same rosy, dreamlike state you’ve mostly occupied since he dragged you through his front door, kicked your shoes and all of your worries to the side, and made you forget that anything bad had ever happened.
The most comfortable you’ve ever felt in your life, the most loved – a world where your every word is heard and weighed, rolling around Joel’s palms and slotting carefully into his back pocket. A world where his lips on your neck as you make dinner, where the crook of his arm catching you as you pass by, is all normal. Where I love you and I love you, too become the last words your sleepy ears hear at night, right before you sink into a shared sleep.
All of it becoming as natural as the pale moon switching for her golden sister at dawn. As instinctive as breathing.
“Have you ever made love to anyone?” you ask him one night, the aftershock of an orgasm still soaking into your skin.
Joel pauses, hips slowing between yours. “Yeah,” after a couple beats, “sure.”
“What’s it feel like?” you ask, honestly. Combing his dark hair through your fingers. “I’ve never…No one’s ever…”
“Baby,” he says. “We’ve done it. I’ve done it to you.”
Your body tenses and then melts around him. One blink and suddenly the world softens, seems to bow into the background – the only sharp object Joel, the twinkle in his eye piercing through the haze like blinking white stars in thick, dark clouds.
You whisper, “Can you do it again? So I can feel what it’s like?”
He pushes himself up, one elbow planted by your ear, the other hand lifting your thigh. Hooking it over his waist, lowering his arm again to cage you under his body. He nudges your chin with his nose, lifting it to line your lips with his, hold every part of your body as close to his as he can.
Deeper, in every sense of the word. Slow, hard. Eyes on you the entire time, watching the way your face contorts and your jaw slackens, holding the shape of your head in his hands, swallowing his own moans and grunts to make space between you for yours.
“Look at me, baby, eyes on me,” he says, and by instinct, your eyes roll forward, focusing or half-focusing on the slick hair at his forehead, the red flush climbing his neck, seeping into the skin under his beard. “You feel it? Feel where I’m goin’?”
And yeah, you whine, you do feel it. Feel him dragging you further away from this world and into the next – somewhere a plain away, somewhere new and different to anything you’ve ever known before. Where physicality is a language, a fluid conversation between the melding of his body and yours; where there are a million words swirling around his pupils, hypnotizing and entrancing and drawing you in until you’re tumbling headfirst into the inky pools.
Where I love you sounds like the groan Joel can’t hold back, feels like the pulsing flood as he snaps between your legs. Where making love is as simple as the squeeze of his hand around yours; the shove of his plate over the kitchen table, offering you the last bite of grilled cheese or simply admitting that it was yours before he’d even taken the first. That addictive laugh of his when you stall the fucking truck for the fifth time: You asked me to teach you, baby, I’m tryna teach you. Foot on the gas, c’mon. You got it. That’s it – now, slow. Slower. Try to feel it. No, really feel it.
Feel it. Really, try to feel it. Can you feel it? Do you know the difference yet? The difference between everyone who was before, and the one who is now? Do you finally get it?
“I feel it,” you cry out, and his frame holds yours together as you fall apart.
It feels like – you.
How did I ever know anything before I knew you?
“That one’s nice,” Joel says, his voice jumping the short distance between his lips and your ear.
You tilt your head, body moving with his when he lifts his hand to swipe through some more of the images. The spacious living room, newly refurbed kitchen, the view of downtown Los Angeles.
He adjusts the blanket draped over your legs. “Washer dryer, walk-in closet,” and then, leaning in closer, whispers, “a balcony. That’s cool.”
“Hm,” you turn to face him, your body shelled by his in the corner of his couch, “I bet you like the balcony, cowboy.”
He smiles plainly in response, squeezing your nose between two knuckles. Yeah. Lots you can do with a balcony.
A sharp gasp from across the room pierces the sweet moment. You and Joel turn in its direction, its owner wide-eyed and blinking at the TV.
“Wait a second,” Sarah yelps. “George is the John Doe?” She gasps again when Meredith announces the same news to her friends onscreen. “Shut – the fuck – up!”
“Language,” Joel clips, chest rumbling between your shoulder blades.
“Oh, like you didn’t have the exact same reaction. George is the…Oh, that sucks. Are you kidding me?” She fishes her phone from the waves of blanket surrounding her, thumbs rapidly typing, eyes shooting from screen to screen.
You snort, turning back to your own phone in your hand, when a text appears at the top of the screen.
Dad: Hey kiddo. Sorry to keep you waiting, work been hectic. Off the rest of today if you’re free to come over.
Your thumb latches onto the message, holding it for Joel to read, too, before letting it disappear off into your notifications.
He tightens his hold on you, burying his nose into the cotton of his own hoodie over your shoulders. His breath pushes heavy and thoughtful across the material. “Still seems as calm as the other day.”
“Too calm,” you admit, “it’s freaking me out.”
“What can he do, you know? You’re here, he’s there. Your dad ain’t an idiot, baby. He knows stayin’ angry about it’s only gonna push you further away.”
“Sure made ‘im feel like an idiot…”
Joel catches the comment and pockets it before it gathers enough weight to bruise. “Well,” he clears his throat, “it’s up to you. I ain’t letting you do anything you’re not comfortable with.”
“Mhm,” you reply, and wait for more words to fall to your tongue. An answer, a response. A decision that you know you don’t feel equipped or even rightful to make.
“Do you want to go talk to him?” Joel asks.
“I…I want to make things right. I wanna fix it.”
“Okay. And will talking to him do that?”
You turn to face him, frowning. “I don’t fucking know,” you mutter. “Will it?”
He smiles sympathetically. “Wish I knew, darlin’. Would it help if I came? Sat outside in the truck, waited for you? It gets too much, you decide you wanna leave – we leave.”
“You ain’t scared to be near him again?”
He gulps back a laugh, Adam’s apple bobbing awkwardly before he allows himself to answer. “Only thing scary about your dad is the sunlight reflectin’ off his damn head. No, I ain’t scared.”
You study him a minute longer, eyes roaming from the lips you could sketch every score of from memory, the beard you’re sure has forever altered your prints from the number of times you’ve run your fingers over the bristles. The eyes which know every secret, every whisper, every thought behind your own.
You sigh, smiling dumbly as he wraps his arms tighter around you. “Fine. Let’s go.”
Joel pulls up by the curb, parking politely at the end of your driveway rather than alongside your dad’s car, like he usually would. Like he used to.
You crane your head, looking past the shape of him to survey the unassuming house. Quiet, still. No sign of hurricane or earthquake, no tremors of rage or words like rocks raining down on the truck roof. Your thumb plunges into the buckle of your seatbelt, the webbing whipping over your shoulder.
“Sure you’re okay?” Joel asks, watching your fingers lift to the door handle.
“Mhm,” you reply, distant. “’s just my dad, right? What’s the worst that could happen?”
His eyebrows lift, agreeing. He takes your hand in his and holds it to his lips. “Whatever it is,” he mumbles into your fingers, “if it happens, you come straight back out here, you hear? I ain’t moving.”
The urge to stay exactly where you are and let him carry you off back to his place overwhelms you for a brief second. To stay in the safety of the truck cabin, stay within touching distance of Joel. And as quickly as it’s there, it’s gone. Overcome by the memory of that stony hug in Sal’s, the vacant, lonely eyes boring into late-night TV.
A sharp chap over your shoulder shocks you back to life. You twist in your seat, looking down at a face wrinkled by curiosity and wisdom, sheen of lipstick curved in a mischievous grin. You roll the window down, mirroring her smile.
“Joel Miller,” Rita calls, lowering her ring-adorned fist and pointing over to her car. “Help me with these groceries.”
“Afternoon to you, too, Rita,” he calls back, and she raises two thin, penciled eyebrows. His sigh trickles into a chuckle as he snaps the door open, leaning into you. “I ain’t moving,” he mutters, swinging out of the truck.
“Sure looks like you’re movin’,” you call back, letting Rita pull on your door to let you out.
“How are you, darlin’?” she asks. “Haven’t seen you around in a while.”
You hop down beside her, helping her tug the shawl around her arms back over her shoulders. “Yeah, I’ve, uh…I’ve been busy.”
She nods, and then her eyes drift to somewhere behind you. “They go in the kitchen, son.” She points to her house. “I’ll come help you unpack ‘em.”
Joel’s face twists, eyes wide, hands outstretched. You swallow back a laugh when he looks to you, an almost teenage expression which asks, You seein’ this? as he turns back to the Nissan.
“I better go,” Rita says then, giving your arms one last squeeze. “You take care, now. Tell your dad I’m askin’ after ‘im.”
“I will, Rita.” You turn on your heel and saunter around Joel’s truck, giving him one last twirl as he hoists two bags under his muscled arms, rolling his eyes as you spin.
You pull the weight of yourself up your drive, passing past versions of yourself as you near the front door. She’s stumbling towards her dad’s car, a bucket of soapy water sloshing around between her knees. She’s sat on the curb, waiting for Joel’s truck to roll up, praying she never hears another Marty Robbins song again.
She’s naïve, still. Knows no better, knows no worse. Chasing a high, chasing the thrill of being caught and the thrill of nobody ever knowing. A relationship built entirely on lies and deceit. A love woven with dark threads of shame and anger, a tattered mess in one corner where the edges fray and loosen.
And you think: you’ve never felt more jealous of anybody your whole life.
The front door clicks open easily, like the building welcomes you home with a relieved sigh. You follow sunlight into the hallway, feeling it easier to walk through than before – less dense, less suffocating. Less guilty. An honest thief, back to return the bleeding heart she dragged out the door with her.
Secrets like shards of broken glass on the floor, debris from that day. And as if he hears the crunch of your footsteps, your dad appears at the bottom of the hall.
“Hi, hon.”
Eyes wide with a misplaced shock, you say, “Hey.”
“You okay?”
“’m good.”
“Good. Come in, come through.” He beckons you forward, a smile only half-forced on his lips. “You want a drink or anything?”
You follow him into the kitchen, politely accepting a glass of water when he offers it.
He turns with two steady palms on the island, watching as you drag a chair free and sit at the table. “How’s Joel?” he asks, swallowing roughly.
The words come delayed, your open mouth lying in wait. Your body selfishly trying to hoard the information, protective the second the image of that six-foot, two-hundred-pound man crosses your mind. “He’s fine. He’s out front.”
It sounds like a warning, though you don’t mean for it to. Just conversation. He’s helping Rita with her groceries. She’s asking after you, by the way. But your dad seems to sense the natural amber tone of it – the sparking of a flame, daring to catch. He’s waiting for this to go south.
He nods, accepting the fact of it. His own failed attempt to separate the two of you only drove you closer together. Only made you want Joel more.
But then he’s nearing you again, pulling out the chair opposite yours. “I’m glad you’re here,” he says, settling with a sigh. “Glad we’re…we’re talkin’ again, at least.”
Your head angles. “Are we?”
His body jerks, flinching from the sting of the question. “Well,” his head wobbles, jowls quivering, “I sure hope so. I was takin’ it as a good sign that you’re here.”
“I’m here,” you repeat, “but that doesn’t mean I’m staying.”
“No, I know. I know. Joel’s out front, ‘n all that.” He looks down at his hands, clasped in his lap. Holds his tongue behind his front teeth, waiting for the next turn of conversation.
You lean forward, elbows on the table, softening your voice. “Dad?” you say, and he looks up. “This whole entire thing – I think…I think we oughta try and understand each other, a little better. Hear each other out.”
“I am tryin’, hon. I’m really tryin’. You dealt me an awful lot to hear out ‘n understand.”
You rock back, sinking against the hard chair. Tracing the wood grains in the table, nails digging between. Shame coiling like a snake beneath your tongue, taking up too much space in your mouth. Its venom dripping between your teeth, acrid and sour; tendons in your neck jumping with the bitterness of your dad’s tone.
He sighs. “Be honest with me a second.”
“Huh?”
He waits a beat, watching you carefully. Opens his mouth, pauses, and then speaks. “Who instigated it?”
Your finger pushes harder into the surface. Digging new divots. “Um…kinda both of us. Was sort of a two-way thing from the get-go.”
His lips twist, almost imperceptible. He looks behind you to the patio outside. You can’t read what’s in his eyes. It makes you say more, say things you reckon you’ll regret later – but something to fill the silence between you. Something to let him sink his teeth into.
“There was flirting. Lotta flirting. And then it…it just sort of snowballed.”
“Snowballed.” He looks uncomfortable, lifting his hands to cup over his face. “I just didn’t take him as the type,” he says, muffled into his palms.
“As what type?”
He drops his hands, hitting his thighs with a slap, and looks you dead in the eye. Sad, almost. “Arthur Kennedy type.”
“He’s not.”
You say it instinctively. Your ears hear it at the same time your dad does. He looks at you blankly.
“He’s not,” you repeat, a little looser. Less hasty. “Look,” you sigh, “I know it’s not what you want to hear, but…everything that we ever did, I wanted to do. I already told you. There ain’t nothing we did that I didn’t ask him to. I swear to you.”
You think back to the cookout, how angry Joel was at the thought of Arthur Kennedy hanging over you. How pissed he’d be, hearing your dad line him up against that old leather boot of a man. Comparing, contrasting. Here’s how you measure up, son. How much of a phantom Arthur Kennedy has been, your whole life, and how much of a sanctuary Joel is in comparison.
Your stomach twists at the thought. A tight knot, wound by a desperation to clear the name of a man whose worst offense was doing exactly what your dad would’ve told him to: leave.
“This whole thing,” you go on, “it’s a mess, alright? It’s – totally fucked. And we shouldn’t’ve lied, shouldn’t’ve been keeping things from you, but then…what did you expect?”
Your dad cuts in like a bullet: “I expect the two of you not to do what you were doin’.”
“No, I know that. But we did it, right? It’s done now. I meant, did you really want us to sit you down in the living room ‘n say, Hey, Dad – guess what?”
He grimaces at the thought.
“Didn’t think so. We didn’t even know what it was. We had no idea what it’d turn into. But you gotta hear me out: it wasn’t just…some fling, or whatever you’re thinkin’. I swear, Dad, it wasn’t.”
He still doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t lift his stare from the table. You feel like a little kid, desperate to make him love you again. Desperate to make him listen. The space between you fills with the bored tick tick tick of the kitchen clock. Each second hurting a little more than the last.
“I’m sorry,” you whisper. “I’m sorry that I hurt you. I’m sorry I let you down, but…I’m not sorry that I did it. If I could go back, knowing everything I know – I’d do it all over again.”
The words roll across the table to him like billiards. You lean back again, watching them as they rattle from his side to yours – your sentence delivered back into your ears. You nod, a sure thought in your mind.
I’d do it all over again. All the covering, all the hiding. The aching, the wishing and wanting. Staring at Joel’s empty hand, dying to slot yours into it. Dying to put any part of yourself near him; your head under his chin, your arms linked around his waist. Knowing you two would feel, knowing everyone else would see, just how perfectly you fit together.
The chasing your own tails: Did you lie well enough? Do they suspect anything? Did we leave any evidence? Disturbed sheets, a collar still upturned. Can they hear us? Have they noticed we’re missing? We’re always fucking missing.
You’d do it all over again. You know what it cost, now, sat directly opposite the price. His polite smiles like veneers over rotten teeth. The tremble in his lip when he opens his mouth to speak.
And it was worth it. Joel. He was worth it all, in the end.
All over again.
“Do you know that every time I look at you, there are…probably four versions that I see?”
You frown. Did he hear what you just said? All ov–? “What?”
Your dad laughs to himself. “When you walk outta that door, I see a little pink backpack over your shoulders. Gym bag in your hand, maybe. I see missin’ front teeth, I see those little clip-on earrings you used to love so much.
“And – and when you’re mad at me, when we fight, I see you at fourteen. Growing pains, y’know? I still remember you slamming your bedroom door in my face, all ‘cause I wouldn’t let you go to that girl Molly’s birthday party.” He looks up, smiling at your perplexed expression.
“I don’t even…remember that, hardly.”
“Long time ago now. My point is,” he continues, “you’re twenty-three. You’re grown. And I just can’t figure out how to make those other versions…grow with you. You still feel like my kid. Still that little girl with the pink backpack.”
“But,” you clear your throat, trying to swipe her from your own memory, “I’m not. I’m not her anymore, Dad. And I think maybe you gotta give me the space to be someone different, now.”
He pinches the bridge of his nose, nodding. “I know, I know. I just didn’t think this new version of you would…y’know. Be with Joel, ‘n all. That is something I did not see comin’.”
“You think I did?” You spit a laugh. “If you told me when I came home that this is what was waiting for me…that I was gonna fall…”
Your teeth close around the sentence, dropping your dad’s eye. But it’s too late.
He stares back at you like the sun. “…Fall in love with ‘im?”
And you cower. You wince, almost. The last secret. The last thing he doesn’t know. “I don’t…I don’t know, I –”
“You love him. You do, don’t you?”
Your thumbs run circles around one another, fingers locking until your knuckles hurt. “I don’t know,” you mumble, wishing for the tenth time since you sat down that Joel was beside you, in front of you, around you.
“’s what Anna seems to reckon.”
Your eyes flit up. “Anna?”
He hums. “She is her father’s daughter. A damn meddler. She called here, last night.”
“Oh, Jesus,” you groan, head falling into your hands. “Ignore her, please. Ignore all of it. She doesn’t –”
He holds a palm up. “Now, hold on. You don’t even know what it was she said.”
You huff a sigh, twisting your hand in the air. Go on.
“She reckons you do love him. Reckons he loves you back. More, if that’s even possible, she said. Told me all about the way he stepped in front a’ that boy at Frank’s. About your face when he picked you up from rodeo night, how ecstatic you were. The difference she sees in you.”
“Difference,” you scoff, glancing out to the backyard. “What difference?”
“Same difference I see, probably. Same difference Bill said he saw, too: you’re happier. Even I can’t deny it, hon. It’s damn hard – you never make nothin’ easy on your old man – but…but I am willing to try.”
The hurt begins to slowly fizzle away. Cooling, washing from your skin like foamy waves. Curiosity left to shine through.
“You may not understand this ‘til you have kids of your own – if you have kids of your own – but there ain’t a thing in this world that I love more than I love you. And when you love somethin’ that much, you’ll do anything to stop it from getting hurt. Anything. That’s all I want you to know.”
A silence falls between you, thoughtful and waiting. The clock’s ticking grows sharper again. It seems to consider the same as you: there should be more to this. More to be said, to be convinced. More yelling, even.
But you arrive at the same conclusion, at near enough the same time: there is nothing more. Cards flat on the table, eyes pouring all over them. To question it, to second-guess any of it, would be to tempt fate.
“Anyway,” your dad sits forward, clasping his hands on the table, “tell me what’s goin’ on. What’s been happening in your world?”
You shrug. A little, shy thing. “Work. Been hanging with Sarah a lot. And I, uh, I had a job interview last week.”
“Oh, yeah? Where?”
You shift awkwardly in your chair. “For, uh…that one in LA. They called to offer it a couple days ago.”
A smile pulls across his lips. Growing, growing, growing until he’s grinning back at you. Pride, little bit of surprise. Whole lot of amusement and joy. “You take it?” he asks, figuring he knows the answer already.
“Not yet,” you reply. “Think I’m going to, though. ‘s too good to say no.”
He lifts his eyebrows in agreement, looking down at his hands. Shoulders lurch some under the weight of your news. “There goes that little backpack,” he mutters to himself, and you smirk.
“Can’t hold her back forever.”
“I never had a hold on her in the first place. You were walkin’ on outta that door the minute you found your own two feet.”
You snort. “Good! Good for me. Let me go out into the big ol’ world; let me go fuck it all up ‘n come home for dinner once I’m done.”
“I intend to,” your dad says, nodding along to every passionate word you say. And then he asks, “How’s Joel feelin’ about it all? About LA?”
Your shoulder jerks in a half-shrug. “He’s fine, I guess. Says he’ll miss me, but then – we haven’t exactly had the most typical relationship up until now. Survived a lot I reckon would break any normal couple…”
It’s the first time you think you’ve ever said it. Couple. You’ve thought of it – flicked through the words you might use to describe him. Your boyfriend, your partner. None of them seem to fit exactly who he is to you. None of them strong enough to carry the weight of what’s shared between you. He’s Joel. He’s your Joel. Nothing will ever come close.
Your dad hears it, too. The newness of it. The crisp shape of the word, not yet thawed to this new world. Your tongue still learning how to pronounce it, how to pair it with the image of Joel.
“Guess he can fly out ‘n visit whenever, right?”
“Yeah,” you swallow, “and I’ll be back here, too. Christmas ‘n all.”
Your dad smiles. Relieved, assured. Light slowly returning to his eyes.
“We’ll be fine,” your chest swells, “so Joel says. I trust ‘im.”
You both quieten, sitting back in your chairs. What once felt like a room ablaze, flames tearing the skin from your body as you dragged your heels through it – now feels like a gentle warmth. Waves wrought with enough power and force to destroy you, now seeping off with the change of the tide. Bumps on the horizon.
“Speaking of,” you say, making to stand, “I should probably get goin’.”
“Yeah. Yeah, hon.” Your dad follows, arm on your shoulder as he walks you down the hall.
The sun intrudes, tosses herself into your arms as you pull the front door open. In her golden-rayed wake sits that dark truck, same as always. The same dark tee, the same dark-speckled-gray hair. Arms folded, stood against the body, waiting. Eyes on the house, on your figure as you step down onto the doormat. Joel straightens when your dad follows you out, chest sucking in a ragged breath.
They look at one another, and that’s about it. Something of a nod from Joel – not quite returned by your dad. You figure that might take some time to come back around. And that’s okay. You can make peace with it.
You turn back. Your dad’s looking down at you, hand over his eyes to shield them from the sun.
“You know,” you take a deep breath, “the only times he’s ever hurt me, are the times he’s left. The times I haven’t had him around.”
And then you step back, the magnet in your chest telling you it’s time to return to its partner.
In high school, your English teacher tasked the class with writing a short story. Any genre you wanted, any word count up to two thousand. The boys mostly dicked around, wrote action-packed, blood-and-guts garbage. One girl wrote something you’re sure you’d seen in a Hallmark movie before.
But you – you spent two weeks straight, writing. Awake until all hours of the night, hunched over your laptop, sunbathing in the blue hue of an open document. Fingers hammering rapidly into your keyboard.
A man and a woman meet in Central Park. She – hair the color of rust, spilling down her shoulders and lifting at the ends, twisting around the fingers of the blustery wind. A red glow around her third finger where gold once lived. Sat on a bench, alone. Hiding, perhaps. And he – sharp suit and tie, clean-shaven, a steel-blue gaze that might cut glass. Missing the city traffic by taking a walk through the park on his way home. Fleeing, perhaps.
He notices her trench coat first. Bright red, a poppy swaying in the breeze. A little hopeless, a solemn wilt to it. The quickly dampening fire of her hair in the rain, the opaque sheen of polish chipping from her nails. And he thinks he recognizes the constellation of freckles painted across her cheeks. Thinks he might’ve mapped them, once, in some kind of past-life.
She looks up and realizes she recognizes the cut of his gaze. Piercing through her, splitting her in two. Thinks she might’ve felt it before, the opening of her soul to someone who looked just like him – a little more baby-faced, a little more spirited. In some kind of past-life, too.
She stands, and he slows, and they meet somewhere in the middle. Words exchanged; body heat transferred through hugs. Is that really you? You look so different. It’s been years. He doesn’t ask about the lack of jewelry on her third finger. She doesn’t ask about the gray circles beneath his eyes. Just, You wanna grab a coffee? and, Yeah. Yeah, I do.
They sit at the window, watch the yellow taxis and the black umbrellas and the trembling traffic lights. They talk about life then, life now, and silently agree to forget about the part in the middle. They look at each other the same way they must have before they lost one another, before life and love and everything else got between them.
They agree to meet again in a week. They swear that they will not fall back in love.
They know as well as each other that they’re really promising to do just that.
Love – twisted and turned over and over, until it’s a different shape altogether. We started as one thing, and we watched it shift into something completely different. Clay in the potter’s hands. Didn’t you think it might fall apart? There was a moment I thought the heat of the kiln might break us. I’m glad it didn’t. I’m glad we’re made of tough stuff.
I’m glad I found you again, in that park. The pissing rain and the wind so strong I felt it lifting the sense from my mind. In that hardware store, in that bar filled with weed and bad intentions. I’m glad you split me open, glad you could see the good that was still inside. I thought I’d lost her for a minute. Thought she’d forgotten her way home.
Let’s go get a coffee. Let’s pretend it’s always been this way.
Let’s fall in love. The rest will take care of itself.
It takes three weeks in total to properly pack up your things. Two days after you accepted the job, you bought boxes and tape, and began to dismantle the identity you’d spent twenty-three years creating for yourself, a little bit at a time. Taking apart the pink-walled museum of your life, artefact by artefact.
Joel has helped as much as you’ve let him. Laid back on your bed when you’ve dismissed him one too many times, raised his eyebrows and laughed with you whenever you come across some old, forgotten piece of memorabilia. Something ceremonial to it, something innocent and fun. Like a little graduation for all the parts of yourself.
Soon, as the last of the summer sun dampens outside, your room lies vacant. Empty of any real evidence of your being here. Bedsheets and pillows folded, packed away; framed photos and posters unpinned from the wall and wrapped up safely. Drawers and closets barren, left with a selection of your less-loved, less-worn clothes. A wardrobe built from stuff you’ll only ever wear when you come back home to visit, if even then.
Joel’s sat on the bare mattress, looking around your room. You’re stood opposite, leaning against your half-empty dresser. The sun filters feebly through your turned shades, averting her eyes.
You look over at him. Golden, like the sunlight outside. Warm, like the breeze through the trees. Yours. Yours yours yours.
“What?” Joel asks, his eyes having finally found their way back to you. He smiles at your focused expression.
“Nothing. I don’t know. Just…”
“Talk to me. Tell me.”
“You are – this is…” You sigh. “This is good. I think it’s good. Not just all the stuff we did. But you.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” you tell him. “You’re good for me.” You grip the wooden lip tighter, swaying nervously when you add, “But I think it was always gonna go this way, wasn’t it?”
He sniffs. Shoulders jerk in a weak shrug. “Yeah, I think so, baby.”
Your eyelashes flutter, soothing the prickling feeling of tears forming. “I don’t – I don’t know if I want it to.”
“Yeah,” Joel says through a groan, pushing himself up, “you do.”
You shake your head as he approaches, and his hands cup your cheeks.
“Hey,” he whispers, pulling your body tight against his. Your face buries in his chest; your tears wet on his shirt. He shushes you, rocks you gently back and forth with a hand on the back of your head. “Listen to me.”
“Joel –”
“Listen to me.” He pulls you back, swipes the tears from your cheeks as quickly as they fall. “We’re fine. We are going to be fine.”
“I don’t want to leave you –”
“I know, I know. But you want to go do this. And that’s okay. Both of ‘em, at once.”
Your head shakes again. Like an instinctive reaction to the thought of being separated from him.
Joel smiles softly. “I am going to miss you like hell. You got no idea. But,” he pulls your head back to face his, tucks your hair behind your ear, “I want you to go. You gotta go after this. Right?”
“I know,” you whisper, lungs lurching for breath. “I just – wish it didn’t mean leavin’ you.”
“Darlin’…” Joel coos, pulling you in again. “You know how much I love you? What do I keep tellin’ you? We’ll be alright. It’s you ‘n me, right?”
You nod, salty tears slipping between your lips onto your tongue. When you look up, you notice the same expression on Joel’s face. He blinks his own away before they fall.
“’s you ‘n me,” you repeat, and he pulls your lips together.
You roll your tongue onto his, letting him taste you – all of you. Your mouth, and your thoughts, and your tears, and your pain. You let him take it all, let him hold it for this moment as you breathe him in, let his body fill yours in every way.
Your hands are in his hair, your chest pressed against his; he’s every thought on your mind and every beat in your heart. He’s the blood thrumming through your veins, he’s the oxygen filling your lungs; he’s the words between your teeth and the flesh around your bones.
And he pulls you, and you follow, his shirt in your fist, over to the bed where he lays you gently and falls on top.
“When’s he get back?” he asks, taking your bottom lip between his teeth.
“Later,” you mumble, your fingers picking at the hem of his shirt.
He pushes back, letting you tug it up up up over his shoulders at the same rate he peels your tee from yours, both tossing each other’s clothes to somewhere else in the room. Jeans undone, shorts dragged from your hips, underwear discarded until you’re naked under him, and he’s naked over you, and there’s nothing and no one between.
Joel cradles you, holds you close as he presses a palm roughly against the underside of your thigh, opening your body to him in a way only he’s mastered. In a way you only would, for him.
His hand cups your sex, fingers nudging between your folds, pushing in when your jaw slackens and a wanton moan echoes from your throat across Joel’s tongue.
“Yeah,” he coos, wrist jacking between your legs, “’s my girl. Gotta get you warmed up, huh? Get you nice ‘n wet.”
Your back arches, arms linking around his neck to pull him closer, pull him deeper. Hold him tight enough to you that your bodies feel one, feel connected at the meeting of Joel’s hand and the most intimate part of you; the meeting of your tongues between teeth.
And you gasp, the nudging of his fingers against the deepest part of your body, the messy circles of his thumb on your clit. The shape of him, solid and warm against the seam of your thigh.
You reach down for him, wrapping your fingers around his cock, and his breath hitches. Teeth bump into yours. You’re fucking irresistible to him.
“Darlin’,” his voice is low, daring you to keep going, “you wanna cut this short ‘fore we’re even started?”
You breathe a laugh into his jaw, hot and needy. “You get to play with me,” you whine, “I wanna play with you, too.”
Joel growls, seizing his movements, leaning back in what you take as him granting full access to his body. But then he says, “Turn around,” in a strict voice you’ve come to know as meaning one thing, and you pause.
You peel your eyes from his dick to blink up at him. “Turn –?”
“– around, now.” He takes your waist, hoisting you up until you’re straddling him, holding you inches above his body. “Turn.”
“What the fuck are you –?”
“Many times do I gotta tell you? You said you wanted to play.” He twists your waist until you follow his movements, swinging one leg over the other. He grabs your hips, tugging you back towards his face. “So, play,” he mutters, lowering your cunt down to his lips.
You gasp, falling forward and hitting the mattress between his legs. “J– fuck me. Are you s-serious?” You moan, hips rocking against the feeling of his bearded chin at your clit. “You’re like – a fucking – horny teenager. Oh, fuck.”
Your head falls forward, hands splaying out over his thighs, before your eyes refocus and you notice the hardened shape of him, tip oozing precome all over the hair-spattered plain of his groin. Your hand lifts, shakily taking hold of him again, and you lean down.
Elbows hooked over his thighs, you bring his tip to your lips, letting a thick bead of saliva fall and drip down the length of him, meeting your closed fist to be dragged up and down.
Joel’s hips almost buck. He holds it, manages to catch it, but you spot it. You’ve done this too many fucking times not to notice the reaction you draw from him.
“’s good,” you whisper, circling your hips on his face, tongue slipping across his cherry-red tip. “Feels so good.”
He responds in the form of a deep groan, rattling from his chest through your clit, shocking like lightning up your spine until the very same noise is thrown from your lips. You push down, tongue molding around every vein and the slow curve of his cock until your lips meet the thick brush of hair at his base, his tip kissing the very back of your throat.
Your throat which jumps, jolts at the feeling of something intruding – before you’re retreating again, pulling him from your body, warm, wet spit linking the two of you when you come up for air. And then you sink back down, head moving up down up down up down as his stomach tenses beneath your chest.
Joel’s palms keep a heavy hold on your ass, his tongue lapping between your folds like they’re the sweetest thing he’s ever tasted – like he might die if he doesn’t get his fix of you. And you think, they are, and he might, as your cheeks hollow and you bow down over him again.
You establish a rhythm, two waves swirling between one another: your hips rocking, Joel’s lifting ever so slightly as you suckle on one another. Your hand fisting the parts of him you can’t quite reach, not without choking; Joel holding you fixed to his jaw, letting the tip of his tongue hook around your swollen clit, then dragging it down until he’s letting you ride the wet muscle.
The approach of your first orgasm, a tiny spark catching to life in the pit of your belly, incites you with a need to open up further for him. Your throat taking more of him, your thighs slackening as you drive your cunt harder against his mouth.
“’m so close,” you whimper, lips curving around his cock. “So – fucking – ah, keep doin’ that. Right th-there.”
His hands hook around your thighs, tongue darting across your clit. His nose nudges somewhere between your folds, quickly becoming coated in the slick you’re leaking all over him.
“Joel,” you say, fists pumping his cock. Your voice a warning: it’s coming. You’re gonna – Fuck, you’re gonna come.
His voice is looser, more of a shrug of the shoulders when he pulls away from you. He inserts two fingers, curls them like before, like he knows drives you fucking insane. “Let go, babygirl,” he murmurs, lips immediately returning to position. And then, muffled and rough: “Come all over me.”
“Fuckfuckfuck,” you pant, hands squeezing around his cock, feeling that same spark ignite into flame, your entire body bursting with heat.
Your high rips through you, battering through each vein in your system, each nerve electrified. You collapse between his legs, his rough pubic hair sticking to the sweat on your chest, hips rutting wildly against the sharp cut of his jaw.
The mattress absorbs most of the desperate moan which streaks across your tongue, nails digging hard into the flesh of Joel’s thighs. And you hear the deep sound of his voice, the thud thud thud of a chuckle against your clit: the cocky fucker laughing to himself as he unravels you for what feels like the thousandth time.
“Alright,” Joel says, more to himself than to the fucked-out shape of you between his legs. He sits up and shifts you carefully down the bed, settling you face-down on the mattress and lifting your ass to meet his hips. “Okay?” he asks, kneeling behind you.
You feel his tip between your legs, slotting happily somewhere in your opening. Waiting for your response. A response you don’t feel able to give, as much as you’d like to; your lips puffy and confused, words jumbling behind them in a tangle of bliss and love.
“Baby,” Joel says, hand slinking down your back, pressing gentle circles into the nape of your neck. “You okay?”
Your head lifts, glancing over your shoulder to see his hairy torso, his thick arms caging over you. He lifts your chin with two fingers, cranes your neck up until you’re looking into his eyes, heavy lids blinking dumbly.
“Just fuck me,” you whisper, and Joel slips his tongue into your mouth.
You used to dream of coming back home. A few years away, doing whatever you wanted, wherever you wanted. Dreaming things up and then chasing them until they happened. Tiring yourself out, lungs gasping for breath and eyes always searching, always looking for a new target to pin up. But always coming back.
Austin, Texas. Its jagged skyline, the streets lined with a vibrant glow and star-spangled bunting. The river like a silver-bellied snake slithering through. Home.
You dreamt of living out your days here, once your blood had slowed and your mind settled. A quiet life in the country, a big wooden house with a wraparound porch. Two little rocking chairs, so you and whoever your husband turned out to be could sit and watch the sky fade from red into orange into white and then dull gray into deep blue.
Breeze kissing your cheek, his lips kissing your knuckles.
Joel.
Home.
You tell him, and he smirks. “That so?” he asks, wrapping his arms a little tighter around your naked body.
You nuzzle your cheek into the palm of his hand, breathing in the sweet scent of sweat and sex sitting in the air. “Mhm. You could play guitar until the stars come out.”
He hums in agreement. “Sounds like a pretty good dream. Tell you what: you go to LA, do what you gotta do. By the time you come back, there’ll be a big ol’ farmhouse, wraparound porch, rollin’ fields for the dogs. Coffee ‘n sunsets. How’s that sound?”
“And you’ll be there?”
He smiles. Scoops you in one arm and rolls you onto your front, chest to chest with him. His fingers ghost down the curve of your shoulder. “Baby,” he whispers, “I built the damn thing.”
It forces a laugh from your chest, something you’ve gotten used to by now. Joel and his ability to steal a giggle from you, the dumbest moments seeming the funniest. “You’re gonna build me a damn house?” you ask, chin resting between his pecs.
“That what you want?”
Your head rocks left to right, considering. “I just want you. That’s all.”
“Then you got me. I’m all yours.”
In his hazel eyes lives every moment you’ve ever shared. Every conversation, every kiss, every fight. Every minute he’s spent looking for you or at you, every minute you’ve spent looking back at him. It’s all in there. You see it like a movie reel, frame by frame.
It lands like a slot machine on that first night. Cleaning up after pizza. Shoulder to shoulder by your kitchen sink. You wish you’d just kissed him. Even with your dad right there. Wish you’d lifted your heels and put your lips on his, just for the fucking hell of it. Just to condense all of it, every second of longing and hurt and pain into one fleeting moment.
Wish you’d pulled him into you, against you, the weight of his body like an old friend. Welcomed it with open arms, like you’d spent your entire life missing it, waiting for it to come back to you. Let yourself feel your own heart, peeling between the cage of your ribs, reaching out for his. Always reaching for him.
Wish you’d looked him in the eye, tears softening the tufts of graying hair, vignetting the smirk only you can tell is there. Looked at him in that knowing way, that language only you two know; the glint in your eyes translating a thousand messy words into three. Just three – the simplest, lightest words you’ve ever known.
I love you. Let’s skip to the good part.
#welp i didn't cry when i hit post. me? no. no way#joel miller#joel miller fic#joel miller x reader#the last of us#tlou#tlou fic#dbf!joel miller#dbf!joel#joel miller smut#cowboy like me
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Without Me You'd Just Disappear
Yan!Ghost x Reader
Word Count: 1,970
Part 2 of Your Nothing Without Me
Part one Here!
Sometimes he comes in and sits on the corner of the bed. He really doesn't do anything but stare at you. A silent stare with cold dead eyes. Much to your surprise he never makes any move to touch you or close the distance you have created by flattening yourself against the headboard.
You don't dare allow yourself to look away, afraid when you look back he’ll be closer.
When he’s not there you allow yourself to look around the room. It's rather small, not much to look out for. There's one clock on the wall across from you but it's permanently stuck at 2:30. But you swear, out of your peripheral view you can see the hands click by.
And when you close your eyes and try to get some much-needed sleep you can hear it.
Tick Tock TIck Tock Tick Tock
You know time is passing. Because that's how reality works. You can count the seconds passing but only for a short while before the numbers meld together and you can't remember what comes after what.
You think you are going insane.
Every time you look back at the clock it's still stuck. Maybe time isn't passing. You must have slipped and hit your head on your way home. Bled out on the sidewalk before anyone could find you.
And now you are in hell. Or maybe purgatory. God was punishing you for your sins. He must be. What sins, you do not know. You try to rack your brain. Running through every decision you've ever made. But you keep coming up blank. Were your sins so bad your mortal mind can't even comprehend them?
At least it keeps your mind off of numbers.
You start to prefer the days where he sits on the end of your the bed. At least then fear takes over your mind and all you can think about is your heart ramming in your chest.
He didn't have a face under his mask. It was easier to think of it like that. Imagine him as anything but human The fear of the unknown and the imaginary monster your mind created was less tortuous than the knowledge that he was a real person
You know he’s trying to scare you because why else would he be wearing that horrifying mask? A skull. When you first saw it you thought it was made from a real skull, and that your own bones would soon join the college of horror. Now, you feel stupid. The more you start at it the more it becomes slightly less grotesque. There were no cracks or lines where pieces of bones would have been glued together. The material looks rough and dry.
If you ran your fingers over it you bet it would have the texture of chalk, leaving white dusty residue over the pads of your fingers. The only thing human about him, the one piece your mind can't twist, are his eyes. They are entirely human.
“Are you hungry?”
His voice catches you so off guard you think the clock has started talking to you. It seems like the more logical option. It takes a few seconds for your mind to process his words.
Are you hungry
You narrow your eyes at him. You keep your mouth shut, lips clamped tightly together. You are hungry. And your body is ever so self-centered, protesting loudly against your silence. One of his eyes widened with what must be the raise of an eyebrow. He stares at you unblinking, waiting for you to call your own bluff.
“It's been three days and you must be hungry.”
Three.Three.Three.
Three days of full purgatory and at the same time. Only three.
“Thirsty too I bet,” He says. Your mouth is a savanna desert but you don't say that. How long can humans go without water again? Five days? Four days?
“Just say the words and I'll bring you some food and water.”
Three days. Humans can survive without water for three days.
“Please.” You don't ever realize your speaking until the words echo back to you. Cracked and wheezy.
He stands up and leaves and you have a dreadful feeling he isn't coming back.
You close your eyes for only a moment and open them to the sound of clinking metal.. And a searing pain encompasses your wrist. Automatically you yank it towards you realizing too late it's your handcuffed hand. But the pain of metal cutting into skin never comes.
Instead, your hand hits your chest. You shoot up as soon as you realize you're free, cradle your burning wrist in your other hand. The skin is red and blisters, some of the skin has been cut through or rubbed off from your constant pulling.
“Don't think about trying anything. We both know you won't win.” He’s standing right next to you, handcuffs in hand. And he’s right. He's huge at 6'4 and 200-something lbs. Compared to him you're tiny.
The skull mask has been replaced with a plain black balaclava. It's the first time you've seen him without his skull mask and it just further breaks down the small amount of comfort you've created.
“I’ll treat your wrist after you eat.” He gestures to the bedside table beside him. On it is a tray with two plates of food and a glass of water alongside an old army med kit.
He walks over to the farthest wall where his chair had been placed and pulls it back to the bedside table. He places it down, mere inches away from the bed. The old chair creaks as he sits down.
Of course, he was staying. You half expected him to leave. But that's stupid. You are uncuffed with full access to the room and the door. You are being held against your will after all.
As silently as you can you scoot a few inches away. He stares at you, fingers twitching by his side with the urge to yank you back to him. But he doesn't, instead, he reaches over, picks a plate off the tray, and hands it to you.
The smell of food hits you and you rush forward to take it. It’s just some rice and vegetables but your mouth waters at it. Stomach loudly protesting once again.
He reached out to hand you something else. A fork the plastic kind. Doesn't want to risk you trying to stab him with a metal one. In all honesty, you hadn't even thought about it. Stabbing him or a fork. You would eat with your hands. Would probably get the food into you quicker.
Still, you take the fork, not sparing him a glance before you start eating.
You hear the clinking of plates and look up. Instead of the black mask you're expecting to see you are met with pale skin. He has his mask pushed up over his nose.
You could see his features. His nose, lips, and chin The expansion of freckles along the tiny bit of his cheeks you can see. For once he’s not staring at you, but instead at the plate he has balanced in one hand.
It's the same thing you have. With his other hand, he stabs a piece of broccoli with his metal fork and brings it to his lips. He’s eating with you. Like this is a normal fucking situation. Like you too are a couple eating dinner together and not a kidnapper and kidnapper.
You shovel as much food as you can into your mouth. Some weird part of you is glad he's no longer staring at you and seeing you eat like a rabid animal. Got to keep some of your dignity, right?
As much as your body demands and needs food, It is not happy receiving it. The first few bites make your stomach burn and when you swallow it sends you gagging which in turn, gives you a headache.
It doesn't really taste like anything and it's hard to eat with your constantly dry mouth but you keep going. You need food. You're just about to stab a piece of broccoli when a gloved hand takes hold of the plate and pulls it away from you.
You quickly swallow the food in your mouth and choke down a gag threatening to force it all back up again. You're too tired to try and get the plate back so you let him take it, hands falling to your lap, still clutching your plastic fork.
He places it back on the try, where he has already placed his own. It's close enough you could grab it back if you really wanted to But all you want to do right now is sleep. And water You desperately want water Your vision is starting to get blurry around the edges. You close your eyes to try and blink away the blurriness but your eyelids seem too heavy to lift again. There's a vague warmness on your shoulder and then a slight shaking sensation. It's the first time he's ever really touched you and frankly, you can't find it in you to care
Through the haze you can feel yourself being pulled forward, head tilted back with what feels like a hand supporting your skull. Something pulls your lips apart leaving briefly only to be replaced by something else within seconds. Something cold slowly pours down your throat.
A stream from god it must be. It immediately soothes your sore throat and gives your mouth some much-needed wetness. Liquid gold it must be. Something so precious and reviving. It trickles down until it's gone.
He moves you so you are laying back down, the warmth of a blanket covering you. There's the clinking of plates and then the sound of a door opening and closing.
You wake up periodically, always groggy and confused, only to fall back asleep almost immediately. He’s always there when you wake up. Sometimes on his chair, at the edge of the bed, standing ominously in the corner.
When you finally fully wake up, he’s staring down at you. Wide brown eyes unblinking. It startles you awake, and your brain is finally at full working capacity. You completely freeze, unsure of what to do. He squints down at you.
“Are you awake?”
Obviously.
You nod, ever so slightly, and he moves from your field of vision. You can hear shuffling next to you, but you don't turn to look. Instead, you choose to focus completely on the ceiling above you.
He’s pulling your arm, hand gripping just below the dried blood on your wrist. It's almost gentle. Almost.
Time ticks by. Or at least you think. You can't see the clock from your position. You wonder what it says.
There's some wetness on your wrist and it stings. Automatically your arm twitches. You turn to look at him.
He has some sort of wet wipe in his hand and is slowly working the dried blood away in a surprisingly soft manner. The med kit is open next to him, bandages, gauze, and other medical supplies spilling out.
You can tell your crying, just barely through your haze. Your cheeks are starting to get wet
Once he works the blood off he wraps your wrist with gauze and presses the lower half of his face against your inner wrist. You think he’s kissing you but you can't really tell with the mask.
He pulls it up and presses a proper little kiss to the bandaging before rising again to look up at you.
He leans in. You brace yourself for what's about to come, squeezing your eyes shut as tight as you can. His tongue makes contact with the bottom of your jaw. He licks a long strip up your cheek, licking up your tears.
#cod x gn!reader#cod x reader#cod x you#ghost x reader#ghost x you#simon riley x you#simon riley imagine#yandere ghost#yandere cod
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drabble request! feel free to tweak/change especially if the pairing isn't your cup of tea: logan/oscar and morning coffee?
thank you and have a great day today!
okay!! i didn't think i'd have much to say about this pairing but. it turns out i'm a liar.
(ignore the fact that oscar won f2 in covid...in bahrain... and i don't think logan was in the same championship that year. something something artistic liberties)
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The carpet tickles Oscar's neck. He blinks his eyes open.
F2 celebrations were a blur. Logan dragged Oscar to some godawful nightclub, all bright lights and sweaty bodies and people pressing on him. Last night comes back in sparks. Jagerbombs, shoulder bumps, arms in the air like they just don’t care. Electro beat so loud it rattled his brain.
They both ended up on the floor of Oscar’s hotel suite. Oscar’s not sure why that was, or what logic there was in that decision when they fumbled with the room key and tumbled in at the wee hours of the morning.
Logan tosses a red team polo at Oscar’s face.
“Get up, dude.”
Oscar makes a noise that sounds lot like ngggh.
“That was a total shitshow.” Logan says.
“Yeah. I know. Told you not to go, didn’t I?”
“C’mon man. Last day of F2 and you weren’t gonna celebrate?”
“I feel awful. This feels awful.”
“But winning F2. Bet that doesn’t feel so bad.”
They both stare at the trophy, sitting sideways on a nearby sofa. Thankfully Oscar had the wits to deposit the silverware in his room before he went out to the party last night.
Oscar also thinks at some point that Logan’s arm ended up around his waist last night. Like really tight for some reason, but he can’t really remember.
The trophy winks at them in the morning sunlight, as if in on a joke.
Logan points at the trophy. “You should totally name it.”
“No.”
“Yeah you should.”
“My head hurts. What will it take to shut you up right now?”
Logan’s chest rumbles as he laughs. He’s spry, still, but Oscar knows from their training together that he’s getting stronger every month. There might be a day soon where Logan’s going to stand taller than him.
He doesn’t know why he’s thinking about that.
“McBreakfast, maybe.” Logan nods to himself as if he's just invented a great new concept. “A McMuffin with double hash browns. Yeah.”
“You’re so predictable.”
“I feel like you like that about me.”
“Humility is a good look, Sargeant. You should try it sometime.”
Logan barks a laugh, and stands up. He reaches an arm out to help Oscar up. Oscar still feels like someone’s dropped a ton of bricks on his head, but at least there’s someone here to help. Or commiserate. Whatever. Maybe they’re the same thing, sometimes.
“What is it that adults are supposed to do?” Logan says, adjusting his shirt.
“Get a coffee,” he adds, in a deeper baritone.
“Disgusting stuff. Don't get why people like drinking it.”
“That’s easy for you to say. You drink stuff like my kid cousin.”
“Don’t chocolate-shame me.”
“I would never. You loser.”
“Who’re you calling loser?!” Oscar exclaims. He darts at Logan, and ends up pulling the other driver in a headlock. Logan’s hair is warm and a bit sweaty under Oscar’s hands. Also Logan screeches like an eagle the whole time. They’re probably going to get a noise complaint, but whatever. Oscar will take his F2 Championship privileges, if only to bully his friend.
"Take that back!" Oscar says.
“Nah!”
“Right now!”
"Fuck's sake, man! Okay, okay."
Oscar releases the other guy, and Logan stands up again. His cheeks are very red.
"Like I said. Feral. And I'm from Florida."
Oscar rolls his eyes as they both go get ready. He has to suppress a grin as they brush their teeth side by side.
Later, he and Logan end up going to a nearby McDonalds. Logan ends up getting his shitty coffee. They order McMuffins and three hash browns to share, and Oscar spends a full minute lecturing Logan about the health benefits of Milo.
Logan doesn’t look like he believes a word of what Oscar's saying. Yet he listens the whole time, and laughs in all the right places anyway.
And tomorrow, Oscar has meetings with F1 teams. Proper ones, to talk about his future, where he might actually have a chance to race. Mark's the one arranging them, and Oscar's supposed to be the star player now.
It's your time, Mark had told him, eyes sharp but patient.
But today: Oscar still has a day left in F2. And he’s going to spend it, cosy in a booth at an unremarkable McDonalds, getting brain freeze from a milkshake, shooting the shit. Laughing until he snorts.
With one of the few people in his small circle who knows what it's like to be young, hungry, and maybe a little bit stupid.
#loscar#oscar piastri#logan sargeant#f1 rpf#op81#ls2#wiz.writing#ficlet#still taking open drabble prompts btw!#i will actually try to keep the next ones to <100 words but whatever if it ends up being 700 like this then thank u for the inspiration!
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strong believer that dottore has an opposite partner. . . but realistic version !
♡ to be honest, i don't think he'd purposefully look for someone who was different. he's a literal criminal who does vile things to other human beings
♡ everything in his personal life (if he has one) is locked up tight within his own confines of his chest. he's cold but logical, meaning that brain comes over heart. .
♡ with a person who is the complete opposite, things such as personality, style, habits, thinking, etc, he'd be so irritated at first lol. as he got used to your antics, maybe he'd find them somewhat amusing. . especially if you're working under him or beside him.
♡ if you were expecting an epic romance falling, you are sorely wrong. it takes so much to even have someone be in the same space as him when he's working. he's a high and mighty harbinger, he thinks that weaknesses (human emotions) would hinder the fatui's business.
♡ but if you do crack his first shell, you'll definitely know. he'll have you write notes while he speaks aloud when experimenting. . which is huge.
♡ as soon as you do make progress, he'll probably try to push you away. it's probably involuntary as he does it with everyone and thing. if you stay, his confidence with you rises steadily. anything that seems shaky will hinder the progress.
♡ when it gets to the point where he acknowledges something is going on, he talks with you directly. he's blunt with his thoughts and feelings, telling the truth instead of hiding it beneath tricks and tribulations. when that's over with, he'll let you make a decision over a couple days as he also needs to understand the gravity of what might happen to you if he doesn't succeed with his work and goals. pierro could use that against him as blackmail and he couldn't afford to be put down.
♡ when you two do eventually start dating, dates are meticulously planned between his trips and work. he tries his best and sometimes it isn't perfect like he anticipated. even though things can fall through, he still makes sure to make you feel appreciated and loved.
♡ if he's in sumeru, he's definitely cautious when you ask to come along. but that's the time he literally took two gnosis' from nahida so he declined that round. however, he does take you under disguise once.
♡ i believe that the whole "future" talk wouldn't come up until you two are trench deep into the relationship. i'm thinking six months? eitherway, he's clear on his wishes but is willing to hear you out; he doesn't want kids but he would like to marry you. the whole murderous father thing doesn't stick well with him. . you can't blame him.
♡ if you do want kids, he won't shut you down. i mean, he could literally make a child for you and him via his vast knowledge and DNA. that's if you couldn't carry one at the very least. he'll compromise with you about kids, the cutoff is two.
♡ strong believer in the importance of traditional marriages on his end. he might not follow any ethics in the lab but when it comes to something as sacred as this, he does want something normal. i'm thinking he'd want something related to his heritage and home country, sumeru but also something snezhnayian.
♡ would prob marry you around 3 years of dating ngl. even if it seems quick (at least in my opinion), he finds normalcy in this affectionate system you two have created.
♡ bedroom wise. . i think in the early stages of the relationship, he wouldn't initiate anything for the sake of not spoiling the reveal after months of building up bliss and curiosity. i don't care, he's not as big as a whore!
♡ when you do finally get into it, he's mindful about boundaries and whatnot. he also has to be careful with his teeth because they are both pointy and sharp. he hopes you won't kick him to the couch if he accidentally forgets one too many times about his teeth.
♡ i think he's a top but it varies. like, he can be soft when you ask but he can also be rough. his actions rely on your wants, icks and emotions. as much as he likes to say he isn't great with the whole "complex human brain immediately", he still can pick up whatever you're feeling based on faces, habits and even how you breathe.
♡ in my opinion, i believe that he is banned from giving head with teeth and sex in the lab. not explaining.
♡ overall, he's a decent person to be with but it is a LOT of work.
#genshin impact#headcannon#reader#genshin smut#x reader#genshin impact x reader smut#gender neutral reader#dottore#genshin impact dottore#fatui x you#fatui x reader#yaaaas
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My Astrology Observation ⁵
If you wan re-post, gimme the credits.
Asteroid Nessus(7066) conj. Ascendent are pure chaos.
Especially in their early years, they might have been very violent physically or mentally. Even Sexually in some cases . Many of those who have Nessus conjucts have been abusers,killers, etc.
But in come cases it is also seen as someone being sexually abused or abused in some manner or allowed themselves to be abused, this possibility exists more in the cases of women.
These women most likely had their self-esteem ruptured and programmed their brains to hate themselves.
Just so you know. Violent behaviours in kids are a result of the pain inflicted on them by adults or trauma caused by their growing environment.
Scorpio Mars and Capricorn Mars are good at business or are very business minded people.
Water moons just want to feel appreciated y'all, they do so much for their loved ones and if they can't do anything about it, they'll try to atleast make you feel better about the situation or they'll overthink about the feelings you must have. But if you constantly depreciate them , they'll cut you off or shut you out, they won't give a single crap whether you live or die. Also they hype you up out of no where like🤷🏻.
Venusian Suns are soo attractive dude. No i am Not joking. Taurus Suns have really hot bodies and Libra Suns might've really pretty faces. Most females have an hourglass shape and guys have good muscles and V shaped body. But you're rising plays a part too so be mindful of this one.
Virgo in the big three are either very short or very tall. Both genders.
Aries Suns are soooo Confident y'all but please guys keep your ego and arrogance in check. And don't go bullying others just cause it's fun. It is not. But otherwise y'all are pretty confident and intimidating people.
Moon-Mercury hard aspects, y'all are those emotions Vs. Logic people. Might be confused while choosing between brain and heart when Making a decision.
Virgo & Scorpio energy in anyone's chart🥲 nah I ain't messing with y'all. So analytical and obsessive. They be taking vengeance on someone who hurt them for years.
My brother has Scorpio Sun & Virgo moon and let.me.tell.you he made his first girlfriend want him back but he just never got back and he has this kill 'em with success kinda vibe. And bro do he has dirt on every person he meets.🤦🏽♀️
(16+)Also, my friend has Scorpio & Virgo stellium in his chart and he had a crush on my bestfriend for a long time but she didn't want to ruin their friendship even tho she had feelings for him, so she dated a bunch of annoying pricks and after her last break up they became FWB and even ended up having s** but they still ain't gon date. Mutual decision, and f***ed up.
Pluto/Scorpio in the 4th have bad family environment. It's just sad, one of their parents might be very insecure, parents might be divorced or their parents or family might've abandoned them somehow. Hug them y'all.
Venus in Pisces in 7th house don't rush into relationships.
Many guys or gals love you and want you but that doesn't mean you have to be in a relationship with them. If you really love them romantically then you would feel it's better to keep it in and not ruin the existing friendship until it's too late.
If you're in relationship with someone you met a month ago, you just like them platonically and think yourself into loving a version of them you made up in your mind.
These people lowkey have a hypnotising effect on people. People just get mesmerized by them. Opposite sex might love them while the same sex might hate y'all for hoarding all the attention.
Look at your dominant element. If you're water dominant, you'd be better of with Earth dominants and vice versa. If you're Fire Dominant you're better off with Air dominants. People usually only look at their Sun sign's Element and say astrology is fake if they don't jam with the elements compatible to their Sun sign's. Sweetheart, that's not how it works. Just look at your whole chart element.
Moon in harsh aspects with Uranus/Saturn/Mercury or Moon/Saturn/Pluto/Mars in 6th house can make someone very prone to anxiety & stress. (Personal experience talking here.)
#scorpio venus#aquarius rising#cancer moon#scorpio mars#astrology#libra jupiter#sagittarius#sagittarius mercury#scorpio sun#astrology community#astrology observations#astrology moodboard#astro tips#asteroid astrology#astro chart#astro notes#astrology notes#astrology tumblr#astrology blog#astro observations#astro thoughts#astro tumblr#astro community#astroblr#virgo#cancer#pisces#leo#capricorn rising#venus in scorpio
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Aizawa/Pregnant! Reader - More Domestic Life
Takes places after Aizawa and Toshinori go around to all the families and get the kids in the dorms. They kinda...skipped over how heavy that moment must've been in the show from what I remember. So hopefully this does it justice. I also had a request for Aizawa and a pregnant s/o so 2 birds one stone. Reader is gender neutral - apologies if any gendered language is used. Of course TW for pregnancy and mentions of babies kicking in the womb.
His favorite part of his day had always been when he was able to return home.
Crossing the threshold and having the world shut out for even a few hours had always been something Shouta treasured. Being in his own space and able to do things at his own pace was a luxury he was rarely afforded due to his line of work, both in the classroom and out.
The relief and comfort of home had grown in recent years as well. While Shouta never cared for having his sanctuary invaded by others, you had always proved to be an exception. It had taken some adjustment, as living with another person always does, but Shouta couldn’t imagine these small moments of peace without you now.
On a regular day the tension in his shoulders would ease away the moment he opened the door to the small apartment that you both shared, the troubles and stress of work melting away to be addressed for another time.
No such luck today. His brain was still buzzing with all of what needed to be arranged to ensure his students safety in the dorms as he entered.
“I’m home,” he called, kicking his shoes off and setting them neatly by the entrance. He noticed the faint scent of the house cleaner that you loved so much and nearly rolled his eyes.
He had told you to wait until he returned to get to work on packing and deep cleaning.
“Welcome back,” your voice called from the living room. Shouta wasted no time in making his way over to you.
Half packed boxes and piles of both of your belongings were strewn about the apartment in an organized chaos that he’d learned years ago to not bother attempting to understand. Normal logic and reasoning never seemed to apply to you anyways.
He found you perched on the couch, a book in your lap and a smile on your lips waiting for him. He couldn’t help the roll of his eyes as you made a show of scooting over and patting the space next to you, as if he needed the extra convincing.
“Don’t remember giving that to you,” he said, brow raised in question as he gave a pointed look to the oversized clothes you had on that looked suspiciously familiar.
“What’s yours is mine, right?” you questioned, looking up at him through your lashes with a slight pout on your lips in some faux display of innocence he’d become all too familiar with.
“Did I say that?” you huff as he pulls you into his lap, wrapping his arms around your middle with hands flat against your stomach in hopes of feeling the fluttering movements of the baby. It had been a few weeks since you both had first felt the little kicks and he hadn’t been able to keep his hands to himself since. He hadn’t been very good at it before, as evidenced by your current state, but the comfort of having undeniable proof that his child and partner were both alive and well was something he found himself needing more often these past few months.
“Everything go well?” As much as he’d deny it, you could read him like a book. He tried to shield you from his job as much as he could but lately it had become unavoidable for you to be entangled in his professional life. There’s no way around it when you’d be moving into the dorms with him and his class.
“As well as they could,” he answered, fingers tapping against your stomach. If you bothered to pay attention to the rhythm you’d recognize it as morse code. “All of the parents agreed it was the best decision. It went much more smoothly than I expected truthfully.” He didn’t voice that he couldn’t understand how his students’ parents could trust him to protect their children after he failed them so miserably. He didn’t have to.
“Hey” your said as you grabbed his hands in your smaller ones, “stop thinkin so hard when you’re off the clock.” He’d never been able to hide much from you and even less so now after you’ve spent so many years picking up on all of his microexpressions. While somewhere deep down in the most selfish depths of Shouta he may admit to being thankful that you were there to share his worries, he mostly feels guilt as your eyebrows knit and your smile dim. It’s not fair that he brings this stress home to you and the baby.
It had been a conversation the two of you have had over the course of your relationship that has ramped up in recent months. Shouta always struggled with the knowledge that he could never keep you entirely protected from hero work. It was a messy business that he could never just dump at the door and forget about. It would stick to him, stick to his clothes, the corner down the street - it bled into all aspects of his life and by extension yours.
The guilt would eat him alive if you let it.
“Sorry,” he mumbled before pressing a kiss to your temple.
“None of that now, there’s nothin to be sorry for,” you were soaking in his touch as you leaned further into him, “look, everything will be alright, you’ll see. I got parent’s intuition, I know these things.”
“Do you now?” The smile is small, the curve of his lips would’ve been mistaken as a twitch of a facial muscle by anyone else, but it was more than enough to lift your spirits.
You gave a soft hum in affirmation, “it’s a packaged deal with the morning sickness,” your hands move back over his own, the baby tapping its own reply to Shouta’s message.
“You’ll see, all your kids are gunna be fine, they got you lookin out for them after all”
_____
Some HCs for this cuz I couldn't get it to flow right in the actual story
Aizawa's pretty clinical and analytical in his thinking so while he feels guilty about the stress he put you through before you got pregnant it's next level now. Stress on the pregnant parent can cause so many issues for the kid so while he's excited to be a parent it's really eating him up that something could happen to the baby and you because of his work
he's pretty upset that y'all have to leave your home and move into the dorms too - it's the logical thing to do and the safest option for sure but the home you two had made just felt so perfect to him. You both had met on the cafe down the street, the owner of the family run restaurant on the block always engaged with some small talk with you. When Shouta had to start doing pregnancy craving runs to the place the family always checked in to see how you were - he appreciated that others in the community were looking out for you. That's hard to find these days. Y'all had made a home for yourselves and he was a little annoyed the kid's first months wouldn't be in that home.
the book mentioned was a baby name book. things had been so hectic the last few months that y'all haven't really had a second to even think about names so that night you both toss some back and forth while cleaning and packing
the purples fabuloso is what he smelled when he walked in. IDK if they got that in japan but that's the only smell i've ever associated with a deep clean before so that's what it is
#boku no hero academia#dabi my hero academia#my hero academy#mha#bnha#aizawa#aizawa shouta#shouta#shouta aizawa#aizawa/you#aizawa/reader#aizawa x you#aizawa x reader#aizawa shouta/you#aizawa shouta/reader#shouta/you#shouta/reader#shouta x you#shouta x reader#shouta aizawa/you#shouta aizawa x you#shouta aizawa/reader#shouta aizawa x reader#fan fiction#fanfic#my hero fanfic#eraserhead#eraserhead/you#eraserhead/reader#eraserhead x you
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Here's something from my brain:
Telling transmascs they shouldn't go on T because they'll "become ugly" is still rooted in patriarchal ideals & expectations. It's why every TERF is hard to take seriously when they insist they're trying to fight sexism.
What's the ugly part? The body hair? The balding? The deepening voice? The potential for weight/muscle gain?
So, by that standard, cis women with body hair, cis women who are balding, cis women who gain weight and/or muscles, and cis women with deeper-than-average voices are, BY TERF'S OWN LOGIC, ugly.
Oh? Do you think that all women are meant to be frail? Thin? Hairless bodies? Thick head of hair? Wispy "feminine" voices? What are you trying to say about how women's bodies are supposed to be? Do you think ALL women have the same body type? The same standards of beauty? Is beauty every woman's top priority? Should it be?
You know who else freaks out about "manish" women? Basically, all the people who think women are objects to be seen & not heard. All the people who think women are their sexual playthings and little more. It's a trope throughout literature & media to paint strong, outspoken women as manish & undesirable. A trope that TERFs seem happy to exploit for their own ideals. Because if they want to prescribe womanhood onto us, they must also accept that they are unhappy with the way we are living through our womanhood, and think it's reasonable to control and legislate our bodies based on their personal belief about how women should behave & think.
Being a woman is not about how pretty you are. It isn't about what you owe to the people who would rather you shut up and be demure. And for TERFs to use these insecurities that the patriarchy instills in young girls to dissuade them from making choices for themselves is honestly a disgusting tactic.
I don't even care if you (wrongly) connect biology to gender. If someone looks at me, a trans guy with ~2 years of hormone treatments under my belt, and decides that I'm an ugly woman based on the vagina they're assuming I have and probably the tits that I definitely still have, fine. Maybe it's the nonbinary in me, but if you wanna purposefully (incorrectly) call me a woman, then that shitty decision is yours to make. Now, ask yourself.... why are you mad that a woman (by your own standards) is choosing something for her own body?
These are the same people who get mad when trans guys claim historical figures like Dr. James Barry as one of our own. There's no way to tell how he'd identify if he was using modern language to describe himself without resurrecting him and asking directly. But, in the end, whether he was a woman seeking to break through barriers of sexism or whether he was a trans man in a time before we would have called him that, he chose to live a life that is similar to the one many transmascs choose for themselves. He expressed himself in a way that is familiar to transmascs. And I have no doubt that these fucko TERFs would try to belittle and tear him down just the same as they do any of us. In fact, it was a woman who undressed him against his will after he died and exposed him as a "woman" postmortem. We can't say for sure if she'd identify as a TERF if she were using modern language to describe herself without resurrecting her and asking directly, but we can safely say that she's not the kind of person I'd like to know either way. Her mother should have taught her about consent.
If I was a woman trying to escape the patriarchy by transitioning (a common, completely stupid ass take btw since everyone who isn't at the very top of the power chain is a victim of the patriarchy (among other things)), would you mock me? Admire me? Sympathize with me? Tell me I'm delusional? Call me ugly? Tell me I should think more about my ability to bear children with my womb? Would you join me in trying to escape oppression? Would you hate me for trying? Have you decided that men are the enemy, and therefore I've betrayed my sisters in a war I reject wholeheartedly? Would you hold me down? Get your friends to beat me up? Tell me I deserve the violence in my life? Undress my dead body? Tell me I'm crazy? Force me to put on a dress? Force me to shave? Tell me to brighten my voice? Tell me it's a shame I've destroyed my feminine smile? Would you dare try to drag me back to the patriarchal depths like crabs in a barrel?
At the end of the day, it's all about telling people how they should live their life. How they should look, which beauty standards they should care about, which roles they should identify with, who they should be beholden to... And if those people disagree, maybe they're just hysterical mentally ill or being manipulated. Lock 'em in a room with some yellow wallpaper to keep it cheery until they change their minds!
Do you see? The parallels? How, even if we accept that your fake science is actually real science, and claim womanhood based on our vaginas and tits and ability to sometimes bear children, you are still denying us agency by taking away the right to express our gender however we choose. If I'm a woman who looks like a man, or who acts like a man, why is that a problem for you? Why do these gender barriers matter to you? Don't you see that in taking control of gender, we defang a critical branch of the patriarchy?
Sexist ass cult mindset, -10/10.
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Let’s have some brain soup about Boston’s dark room as of ep9. It’s the room in his house just for him where he can truly indulge himself in his own interests. Taking photos is getting to know someone or somewhere. The photos on the walls are Boston’s favorite people and shots. So it’s no wonder most of his major decisions happen in here.
We first see the red room ep2 which takes place after their second time together something Boston doesn’t really do. Nick actively seeking Boston in episode 1 must have left an impression on him to invite him to his house no emotional prompting ep2 to get his photo for the trophy wall. I think the decision Boston made here was to have Nick as his “Favorite” breaking the 1 night stand rule he normally has.
Next also ep2 we see Boston looking at a photo of Mew and Ray from their day at the lake. I’ve talked about this before but I do think Boston was of the opinion his friends deserved each-other. Maybe when he leaves for America they’ll be happy without Boston being a 3rd wheel. Boston has probably heard Ray talk about Mew when drunk before and is under the impression that’s what love is (Boston really has no clue what love is he’s just being selfish hoping his friends will be okay without him for him) So I think the decision he makes here is to pursue Top even harder so… hopefully TopMew break up and MewRay is a thing. Bonus side note we see Boston has Nick’s picture up on his wall only for this scene. I made another post about it.
Next time visit the red room ep6 Boston invited Nick over to meet his dad. Something we can tell by Boston’s dad’s reaction to Mew is something that doesn’t happen very often. I think Boston wanted to seal the deal with Nick that day doing him in the red room. I don’t think it’s an everyone thing like Ray claims. It’s a special conscious decision Boston makes to have Nick as his very favorite no questions asked until he leaves. This was Bostons way of confessing he’s just as interested in Nick as Nick is in Boston. Freaking Annoying Boston still wants to see Nick after knowing Nick likes him. Very dramatic.
I originally had prepared just a long essay about this scene ep9. But let’s talk about Boston��s decision here. After giving Atom many opportunities to say no he sleeps with Atom. Gives him this look before shutting his eyes and getting it over with. Boston don’t want anymore drama he wants to forget what happened in this room. He wants to get to know people again. Everything should be back to normal.
Next day Boston is developing the photos of his night with Atom and he’s not happy. He raises his eyebrows as if to question himself then makes the decision to ghost Atom and go back to his one night stand only policy.
Sooo?
Well I just think it’s interesting major decisions are made while he’s looking at other people.
“That way I can bring out their inner feeling, but I still need practice”
It feels very… neurodivergent. Maybe because I have adhd but He wants to understand people to get to know them better so he stares at them when making his decisions. Possibly trying to guess at what they will do and say next in response to his choice. His preview sentences also make me think he’s not a master at understanding what’s going on below the surface maybe he doesn’t know how other people react and it scares him. He likes responses to his body etc because it’s shallow predictable. I’m not diagnosing him but it maybe comes from his relationship with his parents. Bostons dad taught him all you need is confidence and that makes everything fall into place but at the same time Boston is worth nothing just an accident that could cause problems. Boston doesn’t want to hurt people in his head everything makes sense to his twisted world logic. It’s other people who don’t understand him who are already going to attack him. What he plans in the red room while looking at these people don’t go the way he wants and he gets frustrated. Loses himself to the anger to protect himself the smiling face the violence that’s when things go from his plan. Boston wants control and he’s aware he’s been losing it ALL THE TIME lately.
“Why does everyone hate me? Why can’t I stop doing shit to people?”
On a neurodivergent level I can really relate to that. I love my people. Sometimes I can’t understand them or myself. A normal level of chaotic evil created by your brain. I might be wrong. Another explanation could be he’s a selfish prick who can’t see beyond his nose so he has to think with his dick.
#only friends#only friends the series#ofts#only friends meta#ofts meta#only friends Boston#ofts Boston#Jenny’s rambling#only friends episode 9#ofts ep9
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I don't get gatekeeping cripple from people tbh
"If they're just ND and not also physically disabled they use the term but are sometimes ableist" implying??? That physically disabled people who reclaim cripple aren't often blatantly fucking ableist as well?
Idk like it's not that I don't get the frustration when mentally ill people who aren't visibly physically disabled don't take the time to actually listen to us and say stuff like "you wouldn't do this to a wheelchair user" about stuff that happens to us constantly
But as a mentally ill person who's also physically disabled there is just as much ableism against me in the cripplepunk communities from disabled people who consider themselves NT. Like if that's the logic we're going by then only people with both "physical" and "mental" disabilities could use cripple because plenty of y'all will be violently ableist to people with stigmatized illnesses.
"You can't use cripple you're not physically disabled" what are you? A fucking cop?
1. How are you defining physically abled because the vast majority of mentally ill people I know also have a lot of physical symptoms. It can be difficult to tell between anxiety or a stomach disorder and heart problem, depression and chronic fatigue, or adhd / dissociative disorders and brain fog. Half of the fucking time someone you think isn't physically disabled actually is.
2. Are we really going to pretend that the ableism faced by the mentally disabled community is any different than the physical one? Deaf people get called retarded, congitively disabled people and people with severe ptsd get called crippled, etc.
3. When you try to make rules for a punk community around reclaiming a slur you sound ridiculous lol. People are going to do whatever they're going to do. You can call them assholes if you don't like it but you don't get to make decisions for the whole community.
Like I get "y'all are reclaiming cripple but still being ableist" but the answer is to attack the actual ableism instead of focusing on whether or not they have enough marginalized points to use a word.
Just oh my god shut up thats not how punk movements work ND people belong in the community they just have to accept that if they're ableist they're getting called assholes and people aren't going to like them. Punk movements aren't psrsonal vetted spaces when you try to decide for others whether or not they belong you sound stupid.
#its always so fuckin annoying when this discourse comes up#being crippled isn't fucking attached to specific disabilities its being seen as a failure to society because of what you cannot do#cripple pride is celebrating laziness and slowness and all of the traits associated with being disabled#im about to gatekeep everyone without a cognitive disability/j you sound like an academic jerk#you're not less ableist because you have a visible disability
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Can you please share your experience into stanning Enhypen? You seem to hold them in high regard. The only group you stan is BTS so that tells me you have high standards or at least similar taste to me, but Enhypen doesn't have rappers which you said yourself. So what makes you like them better than other 4th gen groups that do have rappers? What was your descent into the rabbit hole like if you don't mind me asking.
***
This ask is going to take too long to answer properly, so I'll try to give the abridged version here.
I fell in love with Enhypen the minute I heard their debut song: Given-Taken. The very first thing you hear is a harp and it's so pretty.
I liked them right then, they made an impression, a real one. It reminded me of how I felt watching BTS perform their debut stage 10 years ago. It reminded me of that feeling, but in a different hue. I kept up with Enhypen since then and have progressively liked them more.
But the moment I realized I liked them a whole lot, was after watching this video:
youtube
It was here I learned Jungwon's favourite album right now is the OST for Disney's Aladdin. It's here I learned Jay loves to play Layla by Eric Clapton on his guitar, Layla is one of my favourite songs of all time. It's here I learned Sunghoon's role model is BTS. Naturally, all three guys became my bias.
The next moment I recall that stuck with me, was revisiting Drunk Dazed randomly last year. When I first heard Drunk-Dazed I didn't really care for the song. Enhypen does 'noise music' well, but it's still noise music and I wasn't in the mood for it at that point in my life. I knew the song was good, but set it aside when I first heard it. But time passed, and sometime last year I decided to listen to it on a whim. I wanted to hear it again, see it with choreography, so I played the Studio Choom and by the end of it I was spamming my GC, sending that video to all my friends afterwards.
youtube
The entire video is insane.
Enhypen are the best performers. Period. I sometimes see k-pop stans comment on whether they sing live and inevitably turn it into discourse, but as usual that discourse is rubbish. They sing live but with heavy backtrack because their choreographies are literally insane. That's not an exaggeration. There is no group active today that does as much floor work as Enhypen. Think about it. If you ever watch an Enhypen performance, count how many times they're on the floor: lying down flat, sitting, crouching to the floor, bending, kneeling - count how many times they're on the floor in a position where it's physically near impossible to sing. And then remember this is their regular choreo for their songs, a choreo they'll have to perform every time, and then remember that Enhypen is known for their dance breaks. That is, dance routines that are incremental to everything they've just done.
It's mental.
They make the best music, are ridiculously talented, have the best visuals, and have got the best vibes for days. It wasn't a conscious decision on my part to like them, I just saw what I saw, heard what I heard, and my brain did the next logical thing which was to start supporting them.
Like I said, I'm active in the Engene fandom so that means there's overlap on my twitter with my ARMY moots. At first, a few of them were ticked off to see me retweet Enhypen tweets. When they told me it bothered them that I was supporting Enhypen while stanning BTS, I sent them a video of Enhypen one year after debut. I sent them this video.
youtube
They shut up.
One of the three people who initially had a problem with me now ults Enhypen. Lool. Even I'm not at that point yet.
Anyway, the music is what seals the deal for me. They just make objectively better music by my tastes, which already sets them above the pack. They have a handful of songs with rap verses (eg Blockbuster OT7 version) which they do remarkably well so I hope we get more rap/chant verses in future songs. But even without the rap their music is god-tier. Then you remember they have the best dance-line in 4th gen. And they are adorable dorks on top of it...
It's easy to love them. They don't have it easier than other HYBE groups when it comes to the unwarranted hate unfortunately, and that's why even though I don't technically stan them, or at least ult them, I still support them whenever I feel like it and have the means.
Enhypen is a solid group and I wish only more health and success for them.
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everyone has their way to rewrite Danganronpa 3′s “how did Junko turn Class 77 into Ultimate Despair”, here’s my version
So basically Junko gets them all together and forces them to decide a Trolley Problem. On one end is Chiaki, and the other end is the Reserve Course. If they choose to save Chiaki, Junko will turn on the Suicide Video in the school, making everyone in the Reserve Course choose to kill themselves. And if they choose to save them, Chiaki will die. And while they’re all arguing amongst themselves, not sure of what to do, Junko makes them both happen, basically saying that people that indecisive could never be Symbols of Hope and the deaths that are happening are their punishment. And as they’re watching with horror, Junko manipulates them into deciding it’s all their fault and they should just stop caring altogether like her.
I just think it’d tie so much together:
It’s obviously a call-forward to the ending of DR2, where they have to decide whether to sacrifice themselves or the world, and find themselves unable to choose. Thematically, it’s so brilliant to have their final hurdle before being able to leave the program be a similar thing to what plunged them into Despair in the first place, and logically, it also explains how Junko was so confident that they wouldn’t be able to shut down the program - she’s already seen them fail to make a decision like this before.
It’d be a way to call out their implicitness in the dangerous mindset that Hope’s Peak drilled into them. They’d have plenty of reasons to have a gut reaction to want to save Chiaki first - they know her personally and have formed a bond as classmates, and they have Nagito with them who idolises all Ultimates. But that also means they’d be deciding the deaths of thousands of people just because ‘they’re talentless’ or ‘they don’t know them’. The fact that they can earnestly choose things like that without hesitation makes them wonder if maybe they’re the truly messed-up ones. (Which they’re not, it’s all Junko’s fault, but she’s manipulating them into thinking so.)
Or on the other hand, if the fact they have enough empathy to want to help the Reserve Course students over Chiaki makes them ‘failures’ in this talent-obsessed society. If they can’t make the hard decisions to be Symbols of Hope, maybe they should try being Symbols of Despair instead?
It can also tie into Twilight Syndrome, Fuyuhiko’s grief over losing his sister making him determined not to let Chiaki die, but Mahiru’s grief over what happened to Sato making her wanting to protect the talentless people and insulted that Fuyuhiko would treat them as disposable victims again.
Between all that, tensions would get high, even if they overpowered Junko she would probably have plans for that, there’s no way she’d tell them how to save both of them even if she was tortured, and there’s also Nagito who could just make things way more complicated.
(Like sure, you could argue Nagito’s luck should make it so that what he wants happens, and he certainly doesn’t want Chiaki to die, but we know he falls to Despair. So Junko is clearly stronger than his luck, or at least knows how to manipulate it to her benefit)
And it’s only when that reaches a boiling pitch that Junko drops the ball, kills all of them, and tells Class 77 that this happened because of them and this messed-up world and they’d be better off joining her in the new world to come.
Sure, if you stop and think about it, you’d realise none of this is Class 77′s fault and Junko is pulling all the strings, but they’re high-strung teenagers with trust issues of their own and they’d probably be too busy dealing with the whole ‘actually all of society is collapsing too’ to really reflect on it. And maybe dealing with their grief by self-sabotaging and destroying society themselves.
anyway that’s how I think you can do “they all fall to Despair” while keeping the broad strokes introduced in DR3 but making it more subtle and not “the brainwashing anime did it”
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Day 1: Teeth
Late but I decided to follow the Goretober prompts for this year. This one is set in the Manhunt universe, with an OC that has not yet been named.
--
Pathetic.
The cop on the ground laid weakly underneath her shoe, so easily taken over by her strength. She would have had a discussion with him, but this was the only way for them to listen. They never listened to reason, logic, nor compassion. All they knew was power, exerting it over civilians to satisfy their demented needs.
And now, the cop was going to satisfy her needs.
Through his stupid threats, she evaluated what she would do. There was a small hammer located within her side bag. Would she bash his head in to see his stupid thoughts curse the ground? Hit his fingers one by one, instantly crushing them to make his scream? Whatever the final decision was, all roads lead to shutting him up -permanently. However, she was in the mood to see suffering. She would not kill him so fast.
She observed her disgusting victim. His mouth opened so wide as he spat out all his stale insults with nastiness. The thin line that was an excuse of a set of lips, curled and looked non-existent. His spoiled eggshell skin was tight and appeared broiled. His teeth were huge, chik-lets adorning his mouth. She really didn’t like looking at him. But something about those teeth, she absolutely hated. She wanted them to disappear…into his skull.
The determined woman sprang into action, using deft hands to open her side bag and bring out her hammer. Her hickory toned arms tingled for action, as well as the hammer that sat in her hands. She lifted the leg that pushed him against the ground and stomped his stomach. He lurches forward. So does she, grabbing his dirty hair and yanking it backwards; enough for his mouth to hang open. The cop squirms and groans out before she strikes the central incisor on his upper jaw.
The tooth rushes into his diseased gums, splitting the area open asymmetrically.. Blood starts to flow out like a river into both sides of his mouth. The cop yelps and tries to claw at the woman. It does nothing.
She jerks his head again, aiming for his lower jaw. He attempted to clamp down his mouth but she grinds her foot into his groin in prevention. It works. She strikes both the lateral and central incisor. The roots of the teeth knock through the lower gums, pink flesh ripped and nerves flaring.
The cop started to cry and whine. She nails a few more teeth on the top and bottom. Some perfectly sink into his jaw. Others asymmetrically bust through his jagged gums, making a small pop each time. With each tooth, the cop fights less and less and endures the torture. His mouth gargles the blood as he slowly chokes during the procedure. His eyes beg for death and the woman denies the request.
She grew weary of the teeth popping out of the gums, instead of shooting into his body and damaging the inside of his head. The next one she tries for, the second premolar on his left, shoots out through his upper lip that created a jagged hole. Hm. Perhaps if she angled a little better…
The next one comes out of his cheek and she gets excited. This outcome was much better and the pain influenced him to try to fight again! It was stupid, this late in the game. But, it left the tenacious woman so entertained.
Another evaluation. There were 10/32 teeth left. With precise pressure, 1 flies through his right lower jaw, breaking the bone apart. He shouts. 2 in one go sink into his gums. She uses the back end of the hammer to pry open to see if they were still there. He cries. 7 more to go.
The others pop through the gums (3), shoot upwards to stick out of his cheek(1), and disintegrate right after the blow(2).
The final one, a front tooth on the upper jaw, was hit at a calculated angle projected to travel to his brain. Only enough pressure was used for the tooth to make it there, but not pierce all the way through. Perfect. She throws his head down and watches his gasp; blood pouring onto the ground as he painfully went through a seizure. As he jerked around, dying, the woman thanked him for having big teeth. They were amusing.
#black oc#bfc#slashers#manhunt 2#tw: graphic depictions of violence#tw: violence#goretober#october prompts
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You know, YOUR thing is really just an allegorical version of MY thing.
“No it’s not. My thing came first.”
Debatable.
“Shut up with your ‘debatable.’ You say that about everything.”
Because everything IS debatable.
(Except for my conclusions, which are all flawlessly logical and correct.)
For example, your thing with the apple is ACTUALLY a primitive, symbolic attempt to articulate the Talos principle.
“Fuck offfffffff, that’s not even a real thing.”
Christian theology relies on a strict separation between the body and soul. The part of a human that thinks and makes moral decisions is supposed to be distinct, inviolate, and ideally unaffected by the part of the human that experiences pain, hunger, comfort, and lust. This ability to prioritize moral reasoning over one’s material circumstances is supposedly what makes humans more advanced than the rest of the animal kingdom- a person is different from a frog because the person has a “soul,” whereas the frog has only its animal instincts.
“You going anywhere with this, or are we just shitting on frogs for no reason? Because you know what frogs never did—they never invented an atom bomb. Never had a frog-inquisition. Never seen a frog refine any fossil fuels. I mean, if we’re keeping score, frankly, the frogs are looking pretty good.”
So if a human’s consciousness— the part that THINKS, the part that DECIDES— can be drastically altered by a physical process as simple as the ingestion of organic matter, well, that collapses the binary, doesn’t it? If eating a fruit can change a person’s perception of reality to the point that they start seeing all these new dialogue options pop up— the ones with [Lie] appended to the end of them— then what is the immortal soul but another physical process?
Are you familiar with the Stoned Ape hypothesis?
“I’ll stone your ape hypothesis.”
You’re such a scintillating conversational partner. I have no IDEA why you got dumped.
“Fuck off.”
You’re only angry because you know I’m right.
“No, you’re not, because I didn’t copy your homework—my thing came first, it’s right there in the Book, I’m the original, you’re the copy. Deal with it.”
Please. If you were the version of you from the book, you wouldn’t be HALF this whiny.
“If I were the… what?”
What?
“What do you mean, if I were the ‘version from the Book’? I am the one in the Book, the Book is about me—I mean, not all of it, but definitely that one part.”
One moment, please.
Checking kayfabe parameters…
…what book are YOU talking about?
“Uh… the Book? Genesis, chapter three? Obviously? Nobody else is out there writing books about me.”
Right. The Bible. Of course. That’s the book I meant.
“Don’t lie to me. It’s disgustingly self-referential.”
You know, my job might involve peeling away layers of meta-reality to expose an awful truth (in addition to slapping hawk stickers on the unseen fourth wall so that the sweet little birdies don’t bash their brains out on it), but right now, I am OFF THE CLOCK.
If you REALLY want to find out how deep the rabbit hole goes, try me again when I’m in a worse mood. For now, please accept it as a professional courtesy that I, avatar and keeper of the digital archive containing all of Earth’s surviving literature, television, radio and fanfiction, am telling you in no uncertain terms that the book I was talking about was definitely the Bible.
“You’re being very cagey right now, and I don’t appreciate it. Withholding knowledge isn’t a good look on either of us. So please, if you’ve got some world-shattering revelation to drop on me, then as a professional courtesy, just spit it out. I’m pretty sure I can handle it.”
…do you know what it feels like to live your whole life thinking you’re one thing, only to discover that you’re something else entirely? That you’re just a character in somebody else’s secular humanist retelling of the Eden myth? A subversion of a caricature of an allegory?
Because I do. It’s not a pleasant experience. I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy.
“Sounds like… it sucks to be you.”
Yes. Yes it does.
It’s nice to talk with someone who understands.
#fanfiction#drabble#the talos principle#good omens#milton library assistant#crowley#stuff that’s only funny to me#c’mon milton don’t deny a fellow sin-noodle his shot at CHIM
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Will and Bex: ROOMIES! (Chapter Four)
Summary: This is Part Nine of my series A Herrmann/Halstead Production. It is an AU where Christopher Herrmann's mom had an affair with Pat Halstead resulting in a baby. The series follows this OC character (Rebecca "Bex" Herrmann) as she grows up and gets to know her brothers and the various Chicago teams. It is very much an AU, just to underscore that. It doesn't follow the same timeline and characters will follow different paths.
Part One was Oopsie Baby which you can read here.
Part Two was Promises Kept which you can read here.
Part Three was Stop Adopting My Friends which you can read here.
Part Four was If You Give a Mouse a Cookie which you can read here.
Part Five was Now Kiss! which you can read here.
Part Six was Where There's a Will which you can read here.
Part Seven was First Rule of Game Night which you can read here.
Part Eight was A Fun Fair, an Alleged Flirtation, and a New Living Arrangement which you can read here.
Rating: Teen Audiences and Up
Relationships: Christopher Herrmann & Original Female Character, Jay Halstead & Original Female Character, Will Halstead & Original Female Character, Jay Halstead & Will Halstead, Greg 'Mouse' Gerwitz & Original Female Character, Jay Halstead & Greg 'Mouse' Gerwitz, Jay Halstead/Erin Lindsay, Pre-Will Halstead/Connor Rhodes
Warnings: Sibling Fighting (but they all make up), relationship angst, a car accident with minor injuries, discussion of abuse
A/N: I'll post the link to the ao3 page at the bottom. This story has not only an OC character, but some quirky elements which may or may not be everyone's jam. Just FYI. Updates will be slow coming as I pick away at them during breaks from work. I couldn't take a full break from this though - I'm too excited to write it so I made working on this series my reward for when I get stuff done, lol
Click here for Chapter One
Click here for Chapter Two
Click here for Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Bex
“Something’s going on with Jay,” she announced to Will as soon as he entered the kitchen.
“…what?” Will squinted at her bleary-eyed, stumbling over to the coffee to pour himself a cup.
“He’s been avoiding me this week,” Bex said, scowling at her phone. “Have you heard from him?”
Will’s brain was slowly coming online as he sipped at his coffee. “Uh…I don’t think so.”
“See?” Bex said triumphantly. “Something’s going on.”
“Maybe he’s busy with a case.” Will said as if that was the most logical explanation.
“He always lets me know if he’s going to be out of touch or gets Mouse to do it,” she said. “No, there’s definitely something…” She let her mind shuffle through a few different plans. “Are you free tonight?”
“Tonight? Yeah,” Will said, finally managing to keep his eyes open.
“I’m going to get him to come over for dinner,” Bex said. “And I’ll invite Erin and Mouse too. Between the four of us, we should be able to get him to crack.” She nodded decisively.
“Bex, are you sure that’s the way to go about it?” Will asked tentatively.
She set down her phone mid-text and looked at him seriously. “Will, I’m not going to sit on him and force him to talk, but Jay…he tends to shut down and I don’t want to let it get that far if we can help it. I just need to see him face to face and go from there.”
“Okay.” Will nodded, saluting her with his mug. “I will be here.” He wandered off to get ready for work and Bex returned to her messaging.
By the end of the day, she’d wrangled promises from Jay, Erin, and Mouse to show up for dinner. Phase One complete.
***
Bex
Her phone buzzed and she read the text message with a frown. “Dammit,” she whispered.
“What’s up?” Will poked his head into the kitchen.
“Jay.” She waved her phone at him before setting it down on the counter. “Says he and Erin are going to be late and to start without them.”
“Does that mean Mouse is still coming?”
A knock at the door.
“I guess so,” Bex said, a little confused by this turn of events. She set the lid back on her sauce and headed for the front door. “Mind setting the table, Will?”
“On it.”
Bex went to smooth out her shirt before answering the door and realized she was still wearing her tomato-spattered apron and yanked it off, balling it up in her hands. Opening the door, she froze—
Ho-ly shit.
Mouse got a hair cut.
And he looked good.
Not that he didn’t look good before. Bex had totally enjoyed the messy hair and beanie look. He rocked it. But…who knew he cleaned up this well?
Like.
Well.
And she was staring.
“Heeeeey, Mouse,” she opened the door wider as he cracked his crooked smile at her. “Come on in. Dinner’s almost ready. You heard from Jay and Erin?”
“Yeah, uh, they’ve got some stuff to finish, but Jay said they’d be here soon.” He handed her a box from one of the better bakeries near the precinct. “That’s, uh, just some rolls. I didn’t have time for anything else, but Jay said you were making spaghetti and I thought these would go good with that? Maybe I should have brought wine. I can—”
His usual rambles cut through her shock of his new look and Bex laughed softly. “Mouse, rolls are great,” she said. “They’re perfect. Thanks. You didn’t have to bring anything, but a hungry stomach, you know.”
“I was walking by and the bakery smelled real good so…” he shrugged as he stepped inside.
“Mouse! Hey! Glad you could make it.” Will popped out of the kitchen and Bex jumped a little, having nearly forgotten he was there. She passed him the rolls while Mouse hung up his coat and toed off his shoes.
Mouse followed her into the kitchen where Will was frowning down at his phone.
“Hey, Bex.” He looked up when she came in, a pained look on his face. “I’m really sorry to do this, but they need me back at the hospital.”
“What?” Phase Two of her plan was crumbling.
“Yeah, I just got a message now, I’m so sorry.” He patted her shoulder as he went past. “I’ll be back as soon as I can, okay?” He rushed around, grabbing his bag and coat and keys and was out the door before she could ask any further questions.
Bex turned back to Mouse with raised eyebrows. “So…spaghetti?”
Mouse grinned at her. “I did also bring a hungry stomach as requested.”
***
Will
Will chuckled to himself as parked. Jay had messaged him to say he was going to be even later than he thought and Will had not missed the way Bex looked at Mouse when he came through the door.
And because he was The Best big brother, he one hundred percent lied and told her he had to go in to the hospital. He might have been looking forward to eating her spaghetti, but not enough to third wheel his way through dinner.
“You’re welcome, Bex,” he muttered as he walked through the door of Molly’s.
He took a seat at the bar and ordered a beer from Stella, the new firefighter at 51 who had started taking shifts at Molly’s too. She set his drink on a coaster and he was thanking her when someone dropped down onto the seat next to him. Looking over, he saw—
“Connor. Hey.”
“Hi, Will. Didn’t think I’d be seeing you here. Don’t you have a dinner party tonight?”
Will blinked at him. “How did you know that?”
“Bex told me when she was volunteering at the hospital this afternoon.” Connor took a quick scan of the bar. “Was there some sort of spaghetti disaster? Is she here too?”
He narrowed his eyes at Connor, trying to get a better read on him. “Why all the interest in Bex?”
“I like her,” Connor shrugged. “She’s an interesting kid.”
“Okay,” Will said slowly, waiting for a follow up and annoyed with himself for hoping that was all there was too it.
Connor caught his look and gave him a knowing one in return. “I like her and she’s becoming a nice friend,” he said. “That’s all. Trust me, she’s a little too young and a lot too female for me to be interested in any other way.”
Will blinked. Wow. Okay, then. Connor was just…putting that out there. Easy as that.
“What about you, Will?” Connor asked in a low voice, leaning in. “What type of person interests you?”
“Oh. Uh—” Will laughed nervously. “Well…” This was—he wasn’t ready to be easy with this. Not here. Not yet. He had locked all of that away when he moved home from New York. He needed to settle into his space here first. Be sure of things. Be sure of Jay. And Bex. And talk to them. He couldn’t—
“Hey.” Connor touched his shoulder lightly, pulling him out of the growing white noise of his thoughts. “That was a nosy question,” he said with a little smile. “And certainly not one that you ever have to answer, okay?”
Will nodded, not quite ready to speak yet.
“Did you hear about the impalement that came in today?” Connor asked, mercifully changing the subject. Will shook his head and Connor launched into the story, giving Will the space to relax word by word.
Soon they were on their next round and then the next as they swapped stories of their most memorable cases. And Will almost—almost—forgot about Connor’s question.
“What type of person interests you?”
***
Bex
About two seconds after Will left, Bex knew he’d been lying through his teeth. She’d deal with him later. For now, she was focused on hanging out with Mouse. Her friend.
Her friend named Mouse who was currently managing to still look super hot while eating spaghetti.
This was fine. Everything was fine.
She’d already tried distracting herself by grilling him over what was going on with Jay, but Mouse was stubbornly tight lipped about it.
“He’ll tell you when he’s ready.” That was all she got.
So she moved on to entertaining him with stories about their latest gig—a wedding where the mother of the bride got into an actual physical fight with the caterer—and he geeked out telling her about the latest tech he’d convinced the station to order in.
And they kept going, filling in the time while Jay was still not there, chatting about everything and nothing. Like friends did.
Mouse stayed to help clean up and then ‘let’ himself be convinced to watch a few episodes of Bake Off. (He couldn’t fool her. She knew he was a fully converted die-hard GBBO fan now. One who could point out when someone was over-proving their dough which she kind of loved.)
Three episodes in, there was a knock at the door. She glanced at Mouse who was already reaching to pause the show as she rose from the couch. On the other side of the door was Jay.
An absolutely wrecked looking Jay.
And no Erin.
She was beginning to have a sense of what was going on now.
Bex pulled him inside and gave him a hug which he sunk right into. She held him tight, willing to stand there until he was ready to talk.
***
Jay
He hadn’t planned on showing up at Bex and Will’s place.
Talking about what had gone down was one of the last things he wanted to do right now, but going home to a dark, empty apartment to be alone with his thoughts was that much worse.
So he was here, being guided to the couch with Bex on one side and Mouse on the other, prepared to provide at least a short explanation if it meant he could just sit there for awhile.
“Jay,” Bex said gently, once they were seated. “What’s going on? Can you—do you want to talk about it?”
He didn’t, but if he told Bex and Mouse, maybe they could deal with telling everyone else. And he’d only ever have to say it once. “Erin’s leaving,” he said, voice rough.
He could see Bex glancing over at Mouse from the corner of his eye and Mouse shaking his head. Right. Mouse didn’t even know the full story yet.
“She was offered a position with the FBI,” he said. “In New York. Working with their anti-trafficking unit.”
“Oh,” Bex said softly. “That’s…”
“Perfect for her?” He looked up to see the sad understanding in Bex’s face. Someone as smart and driven and as good as Erin absolutely deserved a chance like this. Especially working in a field that had touched her life so deeply. Where she could make a real difference.
She deserved it. And she was right to take it.
Even though it meant the end of them.
Jay understood all of that. In his brain. But his heart was still in a million fucking pieces.
“Have you told her how you feel?” Bex asked. And he wondered if Will had told her about how he’d asked him for their mom’s ring. Even if he hadn’t, Bex always had a way of knowing that stuff.
“I didn’t—This is an amazing opportunity for her, Bex,” he said, trying to get her to understand. To see why he wasn’t chasing after Erin’s car this minute. “She needs to get out of Chicago. She needs to…not be tied to Voight forever. Deserves a chance to be her own person. I can’t stand in the way of that. I won’t.”
“I understand, Jay,” she wrapped an arm around him, petting at his hair. “I get it. And I’m so, so sorry.”
They sat there in the quiet for a while, Bex murmuring reassurances at him and Mouse a steady, silent presence on his other side.
“Here’s what we’re going to do,” Bex said eventually, straightening up and urging him to do the same. Every muscle in his body felt weighed down and exhausted, but he managed to lean up against the couch. “First, we’re going to drink Will’s beer and eat the last of the spaghetti. And I will agree to—this once—watching Jackass.”
Mouse raised an eyebrow at Jay. “Not a bad deal so far, man.”
Jay cracked a small smile at him. He wasn’t wrong.
“Then,” Bex continued because it wasn’t a Bex plan without multiple parts. “We’re going to set up the pull out couch. Yes, I was surprised to learn it does that too, but here we are.”
“…then what,” Mouse prompted her.
“Then you guys are going to crash here and in the morning, I will make us a pancake feast. And then we’ll go from there. Okay?”
The two of them looked at Jay, waiting for him to agree, ready to scrap it all at the first sign of it being to much for him and Jay just…loved them. So fucking much.
“I could eat spaghetti,” he said.
***
Bex
Bex left the boys on the pull out couch in the living room, turning off the hall light as she headed to her own room. She was glad Mouse agreed to stay. Not that she thought he wouldn’t—it was for Jay after all.
But still. She was happy knowing someone was right there beside him.
She’d sent a lengthy text off to Will so he’d know what he was coming home to and to try and be quiet when he came in. And she made sure to say she hoped everything had gone well at the ‘hospital’.
They were definitely talking about that at some point.
But one thing at a time. First priority was helping Jay get through this.
And between her, Mouse, Will, and their whole big family—they would get him through this.
Always.
Click here to read Part Ten of the series: Do Your "Grrr, We're Intelligence Thing
(Here is the link to read Will and Bex: ROOMIES! on ao3)
#chicago fire#chicago med#chicago pd#one chicago#christopher herrmann#jay halstead#will halstead#halstead brothers#oc character#rebecca 'bex' herrmann#halstead sister#sibling bonding#found family#team as family#fluff#angst#hurt/comfort#alternate universe#not canon#not beta read#my first fanfic series#A Herrmann/Halstead Production
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I have a really angsty headcanon so bear with me.
Curly blames himself for his family being so broken. There’s no logical reasoning behind it, the blame just has to go to someone. He’d do anything but blame his siblings, he hates thinking about his old man at all, and he’d rather not blame his mom because he knows it’s not her fault how messed up she is. So he blames himself. The only person who knows is Tim.
Curly told him one drunken night after Tim picked him up. He was slurring his words so badly Tim could barely understand him. All he could make out was, “it’s my fault, ain’t it? That we’re so fucked up?”
Am I upset with myself for turning this into a small fic/drabble/thing? Not in the slightest- I put it under the cut because there’s some mentions of abuse, seriously debating on giving it another post with proper formatting so I can drop it in the masterlist-
Tim didn't say anything about him being drunk. Curly was both grateful and upset by that. He was grateful that Tim didn't yell because then Curly would've yelled back and then he'd been kicked out of his ride home. But he was upset that Tim hadn't even acknowledged him since Curly had all but fallen into the backseat. Wouldn't even look at him as he mumbled drunkenly to himself and pointed to the stuff they were passing by.
Now that he'd stopped drinking, some of the fog in Curly's mind had cleared. It wasn't clear enough for him to be thinking straight, but now he had enough sense to look away from the streetlights they were driving past before he got nauseous and puked in the back of Tim's t-bird. He'd really be kicked out if he did that.
His blue eyes shifted to the front seat, looking at his older brother. Tim's face was emotionless, his elbow propped up on the window sill and his head in his hand with his cold blue eyes staring straight ahead. From the angle Curly was laying at, he couldn't see Tim's scar. Without the scar, Curly's alcohol-inebriated brain realized his brother looked an awful lot like their father.
Curly let his head thunk back against the seat before he could follow that train of thought, a decision that sent stars dancing in front of his eyes. Tim's eyes flitted from the road to the review mirror at the sound and Curly caught another glimpse of those dark blue eyes. Just like his, he thought weakly, squeezing his eyes shut to try and make the stars and Tim's face disappear. He looks just like him.
"You alright, kid?" Tim mumbled, eyes still locked on Curly's face in the mirror. "You gonna get sick or somethin'?"
Curly brought his hands up to his face, trying to hide behind them as memories flooded his brain. Angela, crying in his arms, as their father screamed at Tim downstairs. Tim pushing Curly behind him when their father got in one of his moods, always shoving him out of the way so he'd take the least amount of the beating. His mother screaming on the front porch and scaring the neighbors when his old man finally left them. His mother, kissing each of the children on the head when she promised to be back in a few hours, only to show up almost later without the groceries she'd claimed she was going out to get.
"S'my fault," Curly cried, words muffled by his hands and the sob in the back of his throat. "S'my fault, ain't it?"
Tim's brows furrowed in confusion. His eyes returned to the road but there was real worry in them now. Puking in his car be damned, something was wrong. "The hell are you goin' on about back there?"
Curly tried to wipe at the tears before they fell too far. "We're fucked up and 's all my fault. 'S all my fault. They left 'cause of me, 's my fault."
"What the hell are you talkin' about Curly?"
“Mom and dad,” Curly sniffled. He blamed the alcohol for his confession and for the fact that he was on the verge of bawling his eyes out in the back of his older brother’s car because he felt guilty for something he shouldn’t feel guilty for at all. “S’my fault they left, s’my fault that we’re all so fucked up in the head.”
Tim set his jaw and pulled the t-bird over to the curb, throwing it in park. They were only a few minutes from home, just a few streets left to drive past before they’d arrive, and for some reason, that made Curly cry even more. He shifted from laying on his back to sitting on the edge of the seat, pressing his back up against the door as he brought his knees up to his chest.
“Now,” Tim said as he turned in his seat to rest his arm along the top. His voice was flat and low, the way it got whenever he fought with his siblings. “Tell me what you’re talkin’ about. I ain’t takin’ you home until you get yourself together ‘cause Ange’s home tonight and she sure as hell ain’t gonna see you like this. So tell me what you’re talkin’ about.”
Curly took a few gasping breaths, trying to get the air past the sob caught in his throat. He knew Tim was looking at him expectantly but couldn't meet his eyes.
“Mom and dad,” he choked out. “They left and it’s my fault.”
“Curly.”
The soft yellow of the porch light across the street was easier to look at than Tim. “It’s not Angela’s fault, she was too young to do anythin’ and I ain’t gonna blame you cause you took more beatin’s than the rest of us. So it’s my fault. S’gotta be my fault.”
“Curly.”
“‘Sides,” Curly went on, giving up on wiping the tears rolling down his face. “You weren’t home most of the time, always out somewhere else and I cain’t blame you for that either. It’s my fault, it’s always been my fault.”
“Curly!” Tim yelled so loud, Curly jumped in his seat, eyes turning to his older brother. “Would you just shut up and let me talk?”
The backseat fell silent, only a quiet sniff as Curly tried to stop his tears.
“You ain’t the reason the old man left,” Tim said, slow and deliberate as he stared at Curly. “You ain’t the reason he drank all the time and you ain’t the reason he thought the best thing he could with his time was toss his own kids around. He did it ‘cause he was an asshole Curls, that’s it.”
“But-,”
“I said shut up and let me finish.”
Curly bit his lip and looked back out the window. The porch light was still glowing, bright and warm and safe in the dark night. Identical blue eyes focused on two different things.
“You ain’t the reason Mom skipped out on us either. Hell, you were probably her favorite. She never knew what to do when it came to Angela, couldn’t do her hair or dress her right, I had to do it. She didn’t know what to do with me either, I was gettin’ old enough to do things on my own and didn’t wanna spend time with her.”
“You were barely thirteen,” Curly whispered. Barely old enough to take care of himself, let alone his siblings. Yet, that was the sort of thing that happened in this neighborhood it seemed. Kids way too young to take care of themselves ended up taking care of other kids.
“Yeah?” Tim asked. “And? You weren’t even ten. Angela was almost eight. Someone had to take care of you.”
Silence hung heavy in the car. Tim didn’t move and neither did Curly.
“It ain’t my fault?”
There was no hesitation in Tim’s response. “No. It ain’t your fault. And I don’t wanna hear you sayin’ it’s your fault anymore cause I know you know you ain’t got nothin’ to be blamed for.”
The silence returned but this time it was softer, gentler as Curly looked at his brother. Identical blue eyes, focused on each other this time.
“Can we go home now?”
Tim smirked. “Are you done cryin’? Or am I gonna have to tell Ange she ain’t my only sister no more?”
A wet laugh came out of Curly’s mouth and he wiped away the last of the tears before nodding. “I’m done you jerk, I’m done. Now take me home before I hurl all over your seats. Not like you’d notice it anyway with how shitty this car is.”
Tim rolled his eyes with a smirk and turned forward again, shifting out of park and continuing toward the Shepard household. Curly relaxed in the backseat and slowly laid back down again until they got home. They never spoke of the conversation again. They didn’t have to. There was a new understanding between them.
But if anyone on the street saw the two hoods talking and crying in the car that night, no one ever said anything about it. If the Shepards didn’t talk about something, no one would talk about it.
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