akotafi

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Alright… headphones on, volume max. Nighty night ✨❤️

You know what the problem in the fandom is? You know, and you do know already.

It's racism, it's always been about racism.

You'll see white writers ready to die on their hills over certain tropes that cater to the young white masses, but when it's pointed out that the moodboards are mostly thin white women, or that even though it says 'x Reader', you'll find a silky haired, pink cheeked fmc within the writing 9 times out of 10? Crickets. So silent you can hear a pin drop.

If its x Reader, then everyone is supposed to be able to relate, and that doesn't mean blank slate either because that's where the racists can slip in to the role comfortably, blank slate can still be white coded. What does it mean if you come across an 'x Reader' fic that specifically states that reader is BIPOC but you don't read it because you 'can't relate'? You don't have to think too hard about it honestly, because you already know.

So why is it the norm that people think it's okay the other way around? BIPOC readers have had to acclimatize and adapt their way of reading for years in order to be able to absorb themselves in a fic. Accepting it when it states 'readers hair can be put into a messy bun', 'ran his fingers through your hair' 'pink stiffened peaks'. This shouldn't have ever had to happen, but it did and its still happening to this day in the big 2025 when the world is on fire and the governments are dividing people into 'us and them' once again.

This place is supposed to be an escape from all that.

Why can't you relate to an x Reader fic where it clearly states that reader is BIPOC or at least coded as such? Think about it and sit in that discomfort.

Where is the same energy from months ago where people were reblogging anti racism resources and making statements about making their blogs inhospitable to racists? It's gone. You'd rather not upset your white moots and treat your Black and brown moots as disposable, over what? Over fanfiction? Okay then.

It's not 'policing what people can and can't write' that's dismantling the fandom. If you don't like it, don't read it, first and foremost and someone having a differing opinion on a trope isn't censorship or 'bootlicking the patriarchy', by the by.

It's racism, but you already knew that.

strangers | part 4

summary: you never would've snuck out of bed last night if you had known it would lead to this—becoming a pawn in joel's sick, depraved game, playing the role of both victim and accomplice. how can the sparing of your life feel so much like a death sentence? how can you ever forgive yourself when your hands are as soaked in innocent blood as his are? how can the kind, gentle man you thought you loved, turn out to be such a monster?

!!PLEASE READ WARNINGS, THIS IS A VERY DARK FIC!!

I've tried to label this fic as detailed and as boldly as possible. I will not be held responsible or bullied off the internet if you choose to read this potentially upsetting/triggering work of fiction anyway.

warnings: joel miller x f!reader, 18+, smut, age gap (reader is college-aged, joel is mid-50s), no outbreak au, serial killer!joel, dark!joel, !!GRAPHIC!! DESCRIPTION OF MURDER AND BLOOD, NON-CON PIV (gonna say rape just in case, reader does not verbally consent), JOEL IS A SICK FREAK WHO GETS OFF ON KILLING, lying/gaslighting, manipulation, stalking, heavy dose of Joel POV, fingering, pussy slapping, edging, breathplay, degrading language used in an unsexy way, consumption of blood, Joel comes on your face, brief mention of somnophilia, reader has hair long enough to grab, reader can be carried by joel, development of stockholm syndrome, pet names (baby, darlin', babydoll, sweetheart), story inspired by "preacher's daughter" by ethel cain, vaguely set in the 70s, please respectfully let me know if i missed anything and i will rectify the tags

word count: 11.5k

a/n: this is a dark one, folks. if i haven't lost you already, i might lose you after this one. if this is the stop you get off on, i'm okay with that :) thanks for coming along for the ride. we've still got places to go from here, i'll be glad if you do decide to stick around. i feel very fortunate that the conversation around this story has been positive and respectful and i look forward to keeping it that way <3

divider by @saradika

series masterlist/moodboard

read this chapter on ao3

The office looks so different in the daylight.

The key to the room you’ve been staying in is still the only one missing from the corkboard, but the previously empty coffee pot is now half-full of this morning’s brew, and the ominous ticking of the clock is now mostly drowned out by the sounds of an afternoon football game, playing loudly on the television in the little lounge. 

Joel has only let go of your hand twice since you left town—once to help you up into the truck, and once to help you climb back down. Your fingers have remained interlocked otherwise, even while he was driving, even right now, as you stand in front of the desk and wait for somebody to respond to the sharp sound of the little golden bell reverberating throughout the room. Joel hits his fingers against the top of it again, with a little more agitated force this time, but still, no answer.

“I know this ain’t a five star joint or nothin’, but goddamn…” Joel grumbles, leaning around to peer into the room where, by the sounds of it, a touchdown has just been made. “Hey, buddy! Lil’ help in here?” He shouts, and the sudden intensity of his voice makes you jump. The volume of the game diminishes almost immediately, and a scrawny-looking teenage boy emerges from the lounge, wiping Cheeto dust onto his jeans.

“Sorry about that, sir. Eagles game, you know?” the boy tries to jest, but Joel only hums in response. “Anyway, what can I help you guys with?”

“Was wonderin’ if you might know anythin’ about a girl named Chrissy who was workin’ the night shift in here last night?”

“Chrissy? Sure, she’s pretty new around here, but I’ve worked the mornings after her a few times… Why do you ask? Is she in some kinda trouble?”

Not yet, she isn’t. 

“Nah, nah, nothin’ like that,” Joel reassures, then maneuvers you to stand in front of him. “Quite the opposite, actually. She helped my lil’ girl out last night when she wasn’t feelin’ too well. We’re awfully grateful to her, ain’t we, sweetheart?” He prompts, nudging you in the back. 

You nod, but keep your head down, fiddling with the hem of your dress. 

“Oh! That’s right. She, uh, left a note on the coffee table in there, saying something about keeping an eye on the girl staying here, and the, um…” You flick your eyes upwards as the boy’s sentence trails off, and watch him look Joel up and down once, swallowing hard. “Yeah, just the girl. Guess that was you, huh?” You avert your gaze again quickly when he addresses you, feeling your pulse quicken in panic.

“Mhm, sure was,” Joel answers for you. “That was awfully… kind of her, bein’ so concerned like that. Anyway, we just thought we’d stop by, see if she was around so we could give her a proper ‘thank you’, but I take it she ain’t here anymore? Any idea where she might be this time o’ day?”

The boy expels a sigh, tapping his fingers on top of the counter while he thinks. “I mean, I don’t know her too well… But I know she’s got another job at this bar down the road, The Rattler Room. I think she trades her nights between that place and here, wouldn’t be surprised if she’s got a shift there later tonight.”

“Well, how ‘bout that,” Joel says, clapping his hands on either one of your upper arms. “Guess we know what we’re doin’ about dinner tonight, don’t we, sweetheart?” Goosebumps raise on your skin even in the warmth of the office, and a nauseous feeling swirls in the pit of your belly. You feel somewhat fortunate that Joel wasn’t actually looking for a response from you, because if you were to open your mouth right now, you can’t guarantee that the minimal contents of your stomach wouldn’t come spilling out all over the muddy-colored carpeting. You would’ve never gotten out of bed last night, never tiptoed into this suffocating little room and asked the friendly-looking freckle-faced girl for help with your stupid idea—or hers, as Joel seems to think—if you had known that you would be putting more than just your own life at risk. You know what’s coming next, why Joel wants to hunt her down and stalk her like the predator that he is, and it’s all your fault.

“Let’s get goin’ now, baby. Thanks for your help, son, ‘s much appreciated.” Joel grabs hold of your hand again as he leads you out the door, and you nearly trip over the threshold as he tugs you across it.

He has a sick kind of spring in his step as he drags you back to the room, licking his chops and wearing an amused expression as he shucks off his boots and collapses onto the bed with a groan. You stand at the foot of the bed, frozen, as he grabs the remote off the bedside table and flicks the little square television to life. 

“Whaddyou wanna watch, babydoll, huh? Signal’s kinda spotty out here, but one’a these channels has gotta be playin’ an old Western or somethin’...” You just blink at him, dumbfounded, watching him surf through the staticky channels as if the previous five minutes had never happened. Joel had just started the countdown on the remainder of Chrissy’s life right before your eyes, and all he wants to do now is… kick his feet up and watch some fucking TV? 

“What do you mean, ‘what do I wanna watch’?” You ask, unable to hide the disconcerted edge in your voice.

“Baby, it ain’t a difficult question. Gotta kill time somehow, don’t we?” Joel turns his head in your direction as he addresses you, but otherwise keeps his eyes glued to the television screen, which now seems to be stuck on a snowy channel filling the room with loud, unsettling white noise. “God—dammit,” he curses, smacking the remote against the palm of his hand a few times. Your stomach churns both at the way he beats the inanimate object for its disobedience, and at his ironic choice of idiom.

“Kill time until… what?” 

Joel looks up at you from under his lashes, halfway rolling his eyes at you before giving up on his endeavor altogether and clicking the TV screen into darkness again. “Did you think I was just makin’ shit up last night? You’re gonna bring her to me. Not right now, ‘course. Later, when the sun goes down, we’ll head on over to that bar. I’ll buy you some dinner or whatever kinda shitty food they have, but dessert’s on you, you get me?”

Your vision starts to go a little dark around the edges, and you feel unsteady on your feet as the grim reality sets in that he wasn’t just prattling off some depraved fantasy to you last night, he wants to make it real. He wants to spear a hook through your abdomen and cast you out to sea, dangle you in front of something empathetic and pretty and fragile and lure her straight into his gaping jaw. You can hardly live with yourself as it is, the way you’ve already been so consumed with survivor’s guilt for the past twenty four hours that you can feel the physical weight of it on your soul. But actually being responsible for adding another girl to his collection, your hands just as soaked in her blood as his would be? It will fucking break you. It won’t just be the images of the polaroids that will haunt you, it’ll be the shattering sounds of their screams, the metallic scent of their blood, the nauseating visions of their contorted bodies that will be your own tangible memories now, seared onto the backs of your eyelids because you were there. You’ll never get a decent night’s sleep for the rest of your life, and you won’t deserve one.

“But… you—we can’t take her. It can’t be her.”

Joel sits back against the headboard, crossing his arms, like he wants to see where you’re going with this. “No? Why not, babydoll?”

You cross your arms back at him, widening your stance in order to look more sure of yourself. “Well… That kid. He saw our faces, right? When Chrissy doesn’t show up here again tomorrow night, the police will question him, and he’ll tell them that we were asking about her. They’ll know we had something to do with it.” 

Joel scoffs. “Yeah? Well, maybe they will. Then what’re they gonna do about it, hm? Two of us’ll be long gone by the time tomorrow night rolls around.” He knocks down your logic as easily as he would a house of cards, and you can’t think of anything else to say that might be able to convince him not to do this. The thought of it alone is like a drop of blood in the water, and once he’s gotten a whiff of it, there’s nothing you can do to stop the frenzy. 

“B-but—”

“But what, sweetheart? How long d’you think I’ve been doin’ this, hm? Think I don’t know the rules of the game by now?”

He has a point. Joel has managed to evade capture for this long, surely he isn’t going to start slipping up now. He probably has his ritual down to a science, knowing exactly which type of girl to take, the right place to get the job done, and how long he can stick around for afterwards before his face shows up as a crude drawing on the evening news. The only thing on his mind now is the exciting prospect of being able to get his rocks off in just a few hours, while yours is running a mile a minute thinking about the lifetime of trauma and guilt you’ll be setting yourself up for if you do this, how many different ways it can go wrong, and what could happen to you if it does. 

“Here, c’mere, baby,” Joel beckons, spreading his legs and patting his hand on the mattress between them. “You’re thinkin’ too much about this. Lemme show you how easy it’s gonna be, hm?”

He raises his brows at you when you don’t obey immediately, and you reluctantly crawl onto the creaky bed toward where Joel’s toned arms are reaching out to you. He grabs onto your waist when you get close enough and pulls you against him, situating you so that your back is pressed against his front. He wraps his arms around your middle, and rests his scruffy chin on your shoulder.

“You remember passin’ that bar on our way into town today, don’t you, babydoll? Had a big ol’ neon sign out front, a bright green rattlesnake waggin’ its tail back ‘n forth?”

“Um…” You close your eyes, trying your best to sift through the memories of everything you had seen during the drive. But it’s proving difficult, especially with the way one of Joel’s rough hands is sliding down your belly, finding its way underneath your dress and settling overtop of your panties. He begins to circle his middle finger around your clothed bud, and you hate the way it makes your breath hitch.

“C’mon, think for me, sweetheart. You remember, don’t you?” Joel prompts, a condescendingly teasing lilt in his voice.

A blur of neon green streaks across the backs of your eyelids, and you do remember, kind of. A divey looking place with a few motorcycles and pickup trucks parked out front, relatively isolated and unassuming aside from its kitschy signage.

“Mhm,” you hum, and it comes out more like a whimper. “I… I remember.”

Joel’s swirling finger picks up its pace, increasing the pressure against your clit as he continues to quiz you. “Yeah… And a few miles down past it, there was that abandoned lookin’ lil’ neighborhood, right? Houses were ‘bout fallin’ apart, all the yards were real overgrown… You remember?”

This, you can picture more clearly. It had reminded you of your own starved out hometown, every street lined with boxy two-story houses covered in peeling paint and climbing vines. Some of the homes so decrepit-looking, with their crumbling foundations and boarded up windows, and yet still with an assortment of sun-bleached children’s toys littering the front porch, a wind-chime still singing even if nobody was around to hear it anymore.

All you can do is nod in conformation, too afraid to make any more noises that might sound like you’re actually enjoying this, like it feels good, like you want him to keep going. Fuck.

“That’s where we’re gonna do it, baby. So you gotta listen real carefully, okay? Gonna tell you the plan, ‘n I want you to repeat it back to me, alright? Can you do that, babydoll?” Joel tugs your panties to the side as he questions you, exposing your damp core to the air conditioned room. “Fuck, look at that…” He muses, now using two of his fingers to spread your puffy lips apart and admire the way they glisten.

“Uh huh, I… I can,” you confirm breathily. 

Joe’s fingers travel downwards, focusing their ministrations around the rim of your leaky hole instead. “Here’s what we’re gonna do, sweetheart… Gonna head down there, park the truck ‘round the side. I’ll give ya some cash to go sit up at the bar, ‘n I’ll hang around in the back, keep an eye on you… You’re gonna chat up lil’ miss Chrissy, tell her all about how I snatched you up, made you mine, won’t let you leave my side… You’re gonna use your manners all pretty ‘n nice, and ask her to please, please take you back home, help you get away from that big, scary, mean old man who hurts you so bad—“ He presses a thick finger inside your opening, and you can’t help but moan at the burning intrusion. “Just don’t tell her how much you like it, huh, babydoll?” 

“Y-you… You want me to tell h-her… All of that?” You ask, confused that Joel would instruct you to tell her the truth, when so far, he’s been hellbent on hiding from the world who he truly is, only bearing his teeth when provoked, like a caged animal.

“Mhm, want you to tell her the truth, sweetheart, everything. Not like she’ll be able to do anythin’ about it later, hm?” Joel grabs onto your chin with his unoccupied hand, and shakes your head for you. “No, she won’t. Tha’s right, baby…” He laughs darkly, and you understand his intent now—to taunt you with an opportunity to finally be able to ask for help, to force you to pantomime what could be a real chance at escape, knowing that nothing will come of it. Joel begins to piston his finger in and out of you, and he holds you tightly against him as you squirm and sob.

“You’re gonna work your magic on her, and she’ll take such pity on you, sweet lil’ lamb that you are, of course she’ll take you back home… You’re gonna give her directions to that row of houses, have her take you all the way down to the one at the very end of the street, ‘n I’ll be followin’ close behind in the truck the whole time. Two of you’ll get outta the car, and then—” He sinks a second finger into your warmth alongside the other one, and you make a pained little noise at the stretch, arching your back against him. “Then I get to have my fun,” he snarls into your ear.

You didn’t realize how much tension you’d been holding in your body until now, until Joel had begun using his skillful fingers to render it all down, along with any rational thought you’d had left. You want to fight, want to spit and bite and scratch and push yourself away from him and never let him touch you there again, but you can’t. Your limbs feel weaker and weaker as the muscles in your abdomen draw tighter and tighter, and all you can do is melt against him, let him siphon out all that worry and pain and trauma and replace it with pleasure, at least just for a little while. You’ll grapple with yourself about it later.

You can feel the rumble of Joel’s voice against the skin of your neck, but you don’t register what he says, too consumed by your own pleasure to hear him. You just continue to mindlessly buck into the movements of his fingers, until he yanks them free from your walls and issues a sharp slap to your aching cunt.

“I said, repeat it,” Joel hisses, and you yelp at the sting, your hips stuttering as they continue to chase after nothing.

“S-sorry, ‘m sorry, Joel, please—” You pant.

“You want me to keep goin’? You wanna come? Then repeat it back to me, babydoll, all of it, or I ain’t givin’ you shit. Need to know that you understand, that I can send you out there to bring me some fresh meat and you ain’t gonna fuck it up.”

“Okay, okay, okay, um… Fuck—” you curse as Joel slowly reinserts his fingers, resuming their beckoning motion against that spongey spot deep inside that makes you dizzy. “I-I’m gonna… Tell her… About you…”

“Uh huh, tha’s right… What about me, baby?” He encourages, his fingers working their way back up to the pace they had been moving at before he had deprived you of them.

You try to wade through the dense cloud of fog in your mind, your ability to think slowing down as the heel of his palm stimulates your clit with each rhythmic thrust. “T-that you, um… That you took me, you h-hurt me. And I’m gonna ask her to… To take me home—” “Good, good girl…” Joel praises. “Doin’ such a good job, almost there, babydoll. What comes next, hm?”

You take in a shuddering breath, closing your eyes tightly as you force your brain to recall the steps he had just walked you through. “I make her d-drive me to, um… To that house—”

“Which one, baby? Lots’a houses on that street, which one did I say?” Joel stills his movements, holding your pleasure hostage while he waits for your answer. You try desperately to twist around in his hold and continue to chase after your high, but his grip around your jaw remains ironclad. 

“The one on the… The corner?”

Slap.

“Ain’t what I fuckin’ said. You think I want everybody drivin’ by to be able to hear her fuckin’ screams? Try again.”

You cry out, your abused little hole constricting around nothing. You dredge the depths of your short term memory, desperate to come up with the right answer.

“At the end! T-the one at the end,” you shout, and you’re rewarded with the replacement of his fingers, petting against your walls with just the right amount of speed and force that he knows will have you seeing stars with just a few more strokes.

“There we go… And what’s the last thing I said, sweetheart, hm? Last thing I need you to do…”

You draw a blank, your head filled with nothing other than almost there, keep going, please, please, please. You whine, bracing yourself for another swat to your sensitive cunt as you force yourself to admit, “I-I don’t… Don’t remember.”

Slap.

A debauched, animalistic cry leaves your lips, one that you can’t bring yourself to feel embarrassed of at the moment. “Yes you do, baby. Not gonna let you gush all over my fuckin’ fingers ‘less you tell me. Think. Can’t do shit if the two’a you get to the house and just twiddle your thumbs in the car, can I?”

“N-no, I gotta… Get her out of the car… Right? Is that it?” You’re heaving, completely breathless and covered in the dampness of your own sweat and arousal. At this point, you think you’ll say whatever the fuck he wants to hear if it means he’ll reinsert his fingers and finally let you fall over the edge.

“That’s right, sweetheart…” The hand that was gripped onto your jaw migrates downwards, wrapping itself around your neck. He presses his thumb and forefinger into either one of your pulse points, and you feel like you’re floating as he resumes the movements of his soaked fingers, drawing your orgasm closer and closer to the surface again. “One last thing… Tell me what I’m gonna do to her, hm? Then you can come, baby,” Joel growls, and you can feel him pressing his hard length into your back as he does. 

His voice sounds muffled, like it’s coming from underwater, but it resonates clearly enough for you to understand what he’s commanding of you. A whine forces its way through your constricted throat as you plead, “D-don’t make me, please just—” “Say it, or you’re gonna be watchin’ me do it with an achy, unsatisfied cunt leakin’ all over the fuckin’ floor. ‘S that what you want?”

You don’t want to watch him do it at all. A more sensible part of your brain knows that this is all so wrong, that it’s sick and horrifying and completely deplorable, but the pleasure-seeking part of it doesn’t really care right now. Joel is playing with you like a doll, pulling your strings and posing your limbs as he molds you into his perfect victim. He’s breaking you down, slowly but surely, and although you can feel it happening in real time, he’s proven to you time and time again how defenseless you are to his manipulation, how just a few gentle words and swirls of his fingertips can have you falling apart against him, so that he can put you back together just a little bit differently than you were before. 

“N-no,” you whimper ashamedly.

“Then say it.”

You swallow, and you can feel the cartilage at the front of your throat moving against his hand as you do. “You’re gonna… Kill her,” you rasp through half-full lungs, the words hardly meaning anything to you at all with how close your release is, being dangled in front of you just barely out of reach.

“Sure fuckin’ am,” Joel growls through gritted teeth. “Gonna enjoy every second of it, too, ‘s been so goddamn long. ‘M fuckin’ starvin’ for it, babydoll, you got no idea… Can’t wait to watch that lil’ bitch bleed.”

You ignore his perverted rambling to the best of your ability, the rocking of your hips becoming more spastic as the movements of Joel’s fingers increase in intensity, alongside his own excitement.

“C-can I… Please, Joel—” you beg hoarsely, your own voice sounding distorted and far away as you fuck yourself on his hand. 

“Yeah, babydoll, come for me, such a perfect fuckin’ girl…”

Both of Joel’s hands maintain their pressure as the knot in your belly tightens, then unravels all at once. You come undone on his fingers, the motel room filling with the obscene sounds of your wetness and your pathetic mewling as you drench Joel’s hand. He shushes and praises you through your climax, his fingers only ceasing their onslaught once your twitching body finally relaxes and slumps against his broad form. 

Your skin feels cool, tingly all over as the blood rushes back into your head. Joel pulls you into his lap, bending your knees close to your body so that he can cradle you like a child. You must be crying again, because he’s using his knuckle to wipe moisture from underneath your eyes as you shudder against him, reality coming crashing down around you again all at once.

“You’re so good for me, baby, such a good girl… It’s gonna be just fine, you’ll see. It’ll get easier every time we do this, won’t seem so scary anymore…” Joel rubs your back and kisses the top of your head, and you let him believe that you are crying for fear of the brutality you’ll have to bear witness to tonight, and not because you’ve dared to feel pleasure at the hands of the person who will be doing the brutalizing. You feel so fucking ashamed in your post-orgasmic state, but you’re so dehydrated and exhausted that you don’t really have enough energy to scold yourself right now. 

Joel holds you close as he rocks your curled-up form, and you feel too weak to resist the way your eyes begin to flutter closed, the release of tension making way for your poor night’s sleep to finally catch up with you. 

“Get some rest, babydoll, gonna need it. I’ll wake you up when it’s time to go,” is the last thing you hear before you allow yourself to succumb to the temptation of sleep. 

—

You were never supposed to find those polaroids. 

Could Joel have taken the precaution of dumping his box of jerkoff material into a ditch somewhere before you could ever get the chance to find it on your own? Of course. But he didn’t know if he might need it again, if he might someday find himself with another itch that only his little collection of keepsakes could scratch. He had kept them hidden from you for a reason, tried to toss them in the trash and convince you that they weren’t worth getting curious about for a reason—because things were going perfectly well, better than it had gone with any of them. Joel had never planned on adding your photo to the pile.

He had known you were different, that you were the one, from that very first night you’d spent together. You’d been nothing but polite, grateful, and appreciative, even when he’d slid beside you in bed and stolen a taste of all that sweetness you were made of. 

His whole life, Joel has searched for someone like you—someone to submit to him, to rely on him, to need him. That latter trait is the most important one, and the one that all the others seemed to be lacking. They liked feeling cared for and protected, liked bleeding his wallet dry while they spent a few weeks using him as some kind of rebellious experiment to piss off their parents one last time before they moved out of the house. But none of them ever made it very long before they decided that they didn’t really need him after all, that the fling was over, that the spark was gone, that they missed the shitty town he had picked them up from and wanted to be taken back. Ungrateful brats, they all fucking deserved it. And now they never get to go home, they get to rot in the fucking ground where their families will never find them, and he gets to keep their pretty pictures all to himself, asserting his control over them even in death. See how much they fucking need him now, when he is the one thing standing in between a cold case and a funeral.

Joel had known you wouldn’t end up like them, because you do need him. You have nobody, whether you’ll ever be able to admit it to yourself or not. You have no friends, no future, and no family, or at least not any left alive that actually care about you. You have no choice but to rely on him. Who knows what would’ve happened to you if he hadn’t stumbled upon you that night, looking so weak and lost and vulnerable and alone? There are much worse men than Joel out there, men who rape and kill just for the sick pleasure of it alone. At least Joel has some method behind his madness. It’s not like he’d invite a girl into his truck and immediately begin to fantasize about what her windpipe might feel like collapsing underneath his fingers.

Or, he didn’t used to. Not when he first started taking them. 

He’d thought the desire had just disappeared on its own, once he’d found you, his perfect little doll. Joel had meant what he said when he told you that he was going to be done after the last one. But then… Then he’d had you pinned underneath him last night, starving your lungs of air, your eyes red and watery as you’d begged for your life, and he’d realized that he missed it. He craved it. Needed it. The itch was still there after all, demanding to be scratched. But no matter how aggravating and persistent it may get, Joel had decided a long time ago that he’ll never use you to make it go away. It’ll never be you. Even when he’d had his hands wrapped around your throat, he’d never planned on finishing the job. After all, how could he ever live without you when he’d spent so long trying to find you?

And this is the one thing he needs you to understand—that he’s never letting you go. Joel had thought he’d gotten it through to you well enough last night, when he’d given you a taste of the consequences the others had suffered when they’d tried escaping. But you must be stronger than he’s been giving your credit for, judging by the way you still decided to fucking act up today with that dumbass little letter of yours. That’s okay, though. He can handle it. It just means you’ll take a little more effort to break down than he’d previously thought. If he can’t convince you that the only version of your life you were ever destined to live is the one with him in it, then he’ll just have to make you think that it’s your own idea to stay, to submit. He seems to have made some pretty good progress chipping away at your resolve today already. At this rate, he’ll have it whittled down to nothing in no time at all, and you’ll be right back to the pliant little babydoll he fell in love with all that time ago. The one who needs him.

You’ll come back around soon enough, when you finally realize that you don’t have any other choice.

So, maybe Joel is a little glad you found the polaroids. He wouldn’t have ended up here if you hadn’t, skulking around the pool table in the back of the Rattler Room, practically vibrating with anticipation and foaming at the mouth like a rabid dog. He flicks his gaze between the end of his pool cue and where you’re perched at the bar on a cracked leather stool, occasionally catching your eyes when you look back at him nervously. Joel just gives you a nod and a wink every time, and it’s enough to make you turn back around and take another sip of your drink to quell your anxiety. 

You’re probably getting antsy because the two of you have been hanging around here for the better part of an hour, and Chrissy still hasn’t shown yet. But this is just one rule of the game—waiting. Patience. A predator doesn’t go in for the kill the second they lay eyes on their prey, do they? They have to study their movements, make sure they’ve got the little creature right where they want them, with their belly up or their neck exposed or their back turned, and then they pounce. You’ll learn the rules soon enough. With each of these little hunts that you accompany him on, you’ll learn. There may even come a time when you pick out the girls yourself, because you see it as an act of service, of love, satiating his hunger like this. 

The next time you look back at Joel, you move like you’re about to get up from your seat and walk over to him, but he gives you a stern look that says “Stay put.” He jerks his chin upwards, toward where his pretty piece of meat is now emerging from behind the bar. Joel wonders if you believe the web of lies he’d spun about her today, if they were enough to convince you that Chrissy had taken advantage of you, that she’d manipulated you, that she deserves this. He hopes that you do, so that her death might weigh a little less on your conscience, so that you’ll put up a little less fight the next time his itch needs scratching. 

God, that slender neck of hers is just begging for Joel’s blade. His upper lip twitches as he imagines the sight of her deep crimson blood dripping down her ivory-colored skin, her face becoming impossibly paler as her heart flutters out its last few beats before stopping altogether. Joel usually saves his knife for special occasions, when he needs the execution done quick and dirty before her screams wake up the entire fucking neighborhood, or in instances like his last girl, when she just needed to be put out of her fucking misery. But he might use it tonight, just because. Because he’s hungry. Because he’s so fucking hard he doesn’t think he can make himself suffer through the amount of time it takes to strangle a girl. 

Joel watches from the shadows as Chrissy seems to recognize you right away, reaching for your hands across the bar as she says something to you that he can’t make out. Judging by the pitied expression she wears, the way she leans into you, he guesses it’s something like, “I’m so glad to see you. Are you okay? Are you hurt? Do you need help? Do you need me to save you from that big horrible monster who’s making your life so miserable?” Joel rolls his eyes at the imagined conversation. He sets his pool cue back on the rack and takes a seat at a small corner table, keeping his head low as he sips his beer, adjusting himself while he watches the way the tendons in Chrissy’s neck tighten and flex as she speaks. He can practically see her carotid artery pulsing underneath her skin, can already taste the iron on his tongue from the flecks of blood that will inevitably splatter onto his lips when he slices it open.

Calm the fuck down, Miller. It’ll be playtime soon enough.

The two of you talk for another minute or so, and Joel gathers that you must be reciting the lines he’d taken such care to teach you today. Chrissy’s brows furrow, her lips part, and she places one of her small hands over her chest as she listens, as if your rehearsed little sob story is just too much to bear, so tragic and devastating that it’s actually causing her physical pain to hear. She retrieves a paper napkin from underneath the bar, and hands it to you so that you can use it to dab underneath your eyes. Jesus, are you crying? You’re even better at this than he thought you’d be. 

Your shoulders shudder as you finish drying your tears, and Chrissy glances behind her at the clock on the wall, pausing to think for a moment before she turns back to you. Whatever she’s saying, she looks sure of herself, determined, and you nod your head on just about every other word. “Okay?” is the only one he can read on Chrissy’s lips, the last one she says to you before she begins serving the other patrons sitting at the bar. You continue to sip at your drink with your head hung low until she disappears into the back again, and when you swivel around in your stool, Joel is already staring at you. He makes a beckoning motion with two of his fingers, and you hop down from your seat, scurrying over to him as if he were whistling at a dog to come.

“She, um…” You start, checking behind you once to make sure Chrissy is still out of sight. “She said she’ll take her first break early, in an hour or so, and then… Then she’ll drive me home.”

A satisfied grin tugs at the corner of Joel’s mouth. “Alright, ‘nother hour it is, then. That wasn’t so hard, baby, was it?”

You shake your head, avoiding eye contact while you swirl your finger around the condensation from Joel’s beer bottle that’s collected on the lacquered table. You open your mouth like you want to say something else, but close it again quickly, seeming to think better of it.

“What is it, sweetheart, hm?” Joel prompts, curling a rough hand around the back of your bare thigh.

“I just… Wish it didn’t have to be her. She’s really nice.”

So were the rest of them, Joel thinks, until they tossed him aside like a chewed piece of gum. “Nice” doesn’t mean shit to him. Lots of girls are nice. And pretty. But they all fucking sound the same when they’re begging him to stop.

Joel bites his tongue, despite his supply of faux sympathy running dangerously low, and musters up what little there is left of it in order to give you the last little push that you need. “Oh, babydoll… You shouldn’t feel bad about somebody who did you wrong sufferin’ the consequences of their actions. I know she seems nice, but she ain’t a good person, baby, I told you that already—”

“I know, but—”

“But nothin’. It’s already been done, sweetheart, you gotta stop thinkin’ about it so hard. Just get back up there, hm? Be over before you know it.” 

Joel uses his grip on your thigh to spin you around, and sends you back up to the bar with a lewd swat to your ass. He stares at the way it bounces underneath the too-short skirt of your dress, and leans back in his chair as he takes another sip out of his sweating bottle. 

The next “hour or so” passes at such an excruciatingly slow pace, he’s stopped himself nearly a dozen times from flagging down a waitress and requesting another beer. He’ll have to make do with just the one, if he wants to be sharp, present, so that he’ll be able to savor every moment of both the hunt and the slaughter. Joel had forgotten how exhilarating the entire process is, how arousing it is to lurk quietly in the shadows, without the little thing having any idea that he’s there, until it’s too late. 

He bides most of the time by just sitting, staring, thinking. About if Chrissy will be more of a begger or a screamer, if she’ll waste any of her breath trying to plead with him and change his mind, or if she’ll just cry herself hoarse in hopes that somebody will hear her pathetic wailing and come to her rescue. Joel chuckles to himself when he remembers the one who kept insisting that “I have a boyfriend, you know. I bet he’s been looking for me, he’ll be here any minute now and he’ll fucking kill you.” Joel had doubled over laughing as he gestured around to the isolated patch of woods he’d dragged her out to, nearly pitch black and dead silent, save for the pale light of the waning moon and the sounds of her heaving sobs. “Oh, you got a boyfriend, do you? Tight lil’ virgin cunt was tellin’ me otherwise, but nice try, sweetheart,” Joel had taunted. Her photo was one of his favorites—a neck-down view of her kneeling form, featuring her chained together wrists and her filthy hands and knees, dirt-stained from how he’d taken her on the ground one last time.

Well, her first time. Whoops.

He’s got a white-knuckled grip around the neck of his empty bottle by the time he’s pulled out of his trance, the movement of two bodies up at the bar distracting him. Joel’s eyes refocus in time to see Chrissy draping her coat over your shoulders, ushering you out the back door after giving the room a once over. Not a very thorough one, considering she had basically looked right at him and didn’t seem to recognize him, but that’s more situational awareness than he can give most of the others credit for.

Too bad it won’t do her any good.

Joel feels like he’s got an electrical current pulsing through his bloodstream as he gets up from his seat, allowing the two of you a few paces’ head start before following in pursuit. He spots the flame of Chrissy’s red hair as she hurriedly helps you into the passenger side of her shitty Pinto, the door’s rusty hinges squealing loudly into the night. The back parking lot of the bar is poorly lit in contrast to the neon illumination from the rattlesnake out front, allowing Joel to slink behind Chrissy’s car and over to his own truck undetected. He situates himself behind the wheel, making sure to keep an eye on his rearview mirror as he rummages through his backpack and sets the tools he’ll need on the side of the bench seat that you usually occupy—his knife, a length of rope, and his camera.

Just like Joel had promised you earlier, he pulls out of the parking lot just behind the two of you, and keeps a close—but not suspiciously so—distance as he chugs down the poorly paved road, maintaining a speed-limit obeying pace and keeping his headlights off for good measure. He even refrains from having any music playing as he chases after you, the choice partly because he’s too dialed in to bother futzing with the tape player, and partly because he doesn’t want to risk making any noise that would raise even a modicum of suspicion, aiming to disappear into the shadows altogether for the next couple of miles.

Joel is nothing but a ghost, Death himself riding his pale horse into the silent dark, in pursuit of yet another sacrificial lamb to add to his flock. He’s lost count of just how many he has in his possession now, but he never gets tired of the way they bleat and cry and thrash as they struggle to escape his scythe. None of them ever seem to understand that they were each promised to him a long, long time ago, when Joel was already grown but they had only just been conceived. They’d been born onto a path that would eventually lead them directly into his waiting arms, where he would show them love and affection and pleasure and ecstasy and whether they were to reject his offerings or not, Joel would always take what was rightfully his, in the end. 

Joel holds his breath as Chrissy’s car approaches the intersection of the rundown neighborhood, but releases it when she makes the sharp left turn that you must have directed her to take. Good girl. He turns his own wheel more slowly, creeping carefully down the road until he finds a large, overgrown shrub to tuck his truck behind, out of sight from the two little creatures now exiting the Pinto and crushing mounds of dried grass under their tentatively stepping hooves. Joel kills the truck’s engine, his teeth chattering in anticipation as he swipes his tools from the seat beside him and slides himself out from behind the wheel. He reaches behind him to slot his knife underneath his belt, then begins his prowl towards the house with the rope and camera clutched in either hand. 

“No offense, but… You live here? Are you sure?” Joel hears Chrissy ask you, bending over to peer into a hole near the house’s foundation where some of the siding has rotted away. 

That’s right, stay down, just like that.

Joel is only a few paces away now. 

“W-well, it’s um… I h-haven’t really been here in a while, to be honest,” you respond, stuttering your way through the first lie you could think of in order to keep the charade going. You sound like you’re making it up as you say it, but that’s okay. Joel is closing in on his target now, it doesn’t matter if your trembling voice had set off the trap or not. Chrissy is already caught in it.

He’s so close he can smell the redhead’s rosy perfume that she had applied before her shift, can practically see the fine hairs raise on the back of her neck when she hears the snap of a dead tree limb coming from behind her. She lets out a little gasp, and whips her head around just in time to see Joel’s icy expression as he shoves a filthy boot into the back of her knee, making her yelp as she collapses onto all fours. Her hands scramble desperately for purchase in the thicket of dead foliage, but Joel is on her before she can regain her balance.

“Yeah, tha’s right… Down, bitch,” Joel spits, straddling her back and using his weight to push her body flat against the ground. “Hold onto this, babydoll, will ya?” He passes his camera off to you, not taking his eyes off Chrissy’s squirming form as you accept it quietly.

Joel grabs hold of Chrissy’s flailing wrists and wrenches them behind her back, squeezing her abdomen hard between his thighs as he does. “Hold fuckin’ still, ‘less you want me to break some bones while I’m at it,” he barks, but it does nothing to deter her futile efforts. She kicks and bucks and thrashes underneath him, making pathetic struggling noises as he winds the length of rope around her wrists, binding them together. 

“Get the fuck off me! Help me, get him off!” She pleads with you as she yanks against the rope and writhes around in the dirt. All you do is look at her with wide, watery eyes, your chest heaving as you clutch his camera in both of your small, shaking hands. “Are you with him or something? What the fuck is this? Help me, please!” Chrissy shouts, her voice terrified and guttural. 

“Yeah, somethin’ like that,” Joel growls into her ear, before pushing himself up off the ground and using his grip around the rope to pull her up with him. He wraps one arm tightly around Chrissy’s middle, and clamps the hand of the other one over her mouth. “She ain’t gonna help you, she knows better ‘n that... Did such a good job for me, sweetheart, such a good fuckin’ girl… Open the door for me so I can get her inside, now.” Joel watches the muscles in your throat constrict as you swallow hard, your eyes shifting from Chrissy’s terror-stricken ones up to Joel’s as you process his command. He smirks to himself when you do obey, the ribbons in your hair fluttering behind you as you scuttle up the stairs and wrench the door open. 

Chrissy is still shrieking incessantly into the meat of Joel’s hand as he shoves her up the creaking steps, and he supposes that he has the answer now to the pondering he was doing back at the bar—screamer it is. They piss him the fuck off the most, are probably most of the reason why his hearing isn’t as good as it used to be, and why he ends up using his knife more often than he’d like. Strangling is his preferred method—it’s more intimate, more hands on in nature, and makes less of a mess—but sometimes the cleanup is worth it if it means he can get them to shut the fuck up and quit shattering his eardrums with all their annoying fucking screeching that they know won’t do them any good. He’d made a good choice, sharpening his knife earlier while you were still asleep back at the motel this afternoon. Joel wonders when you’ll notice that you’re wearing a different pair of panties than the ones he’d made you come in, having tested the sharpness of his blade by slicing them off of you before cleaning up the mess you’d made with his tongue. 

Joel wrestles Chrissy inside the house, kicking broken glass and sloughed off sheets of yellowed wallpaper out of his path as he walks her into the living room. He turns his head as he instructs you to shut the door, and Chrissy uses the opportunity to bite into Joel’s palm and slam the back of her skull into his temple, hard enough to break the skin.

“Ah!—Fuckin’ bitch,” Joel hisses, forcibly shoving her onto the decaying hardwood floor. Chrissy tries to get up, but he presses the tread of his boot into her chest, keeping her down. He touches a finger to the side of his head, bringing it in front of his eyes to examine the droplet of blood that came with it, along with the indents in the flesh of his hand that are beginning to sprout little crimson beads. “Just fuckin’ askin’ for it, ain’t you?”

Joel looks over at you again, to where you’re standing with your back against the door and wearing the same deer-in-the-headlights expression as when he’d handed the camera to you. You have it clutched against your heaving chest, your eyes impossibly wide as you stare at the scene unfolding before you. He can practically see the gears turning in your brain as it cycles through the options of fight, flight, fight, flight, seeming to have landed on freeze instead. Joel observes you for a couple of seconds, waiting to see if one of your shaking hands will eventually snake its way back to the doorknob, but it doesn’t. Since you know what’s good for you, and all.

“C’mere, babydoll, where I can see you,” Joel orders, jerking his head into the room. Your eyes flutter out a few rapid blinks as you seem to shake yourself free of your petrified state, but your feet remain planted firmly underneath you. You’re standing so rigidly, with your knees locked in place, Joel is surprised you haven’t passed out yet.

“Can’t I just… wait in the truck or something? I’ll stay right there, I promise—”

“You know damn well I can’t take you up on any of your lil’ promises anymore, sweetheart. Besides, seemed awfully interested in how I do things last night, why the sudden change of heart, hm?”

You shift your weight, trying to come up with some excuse while you watch Chrissy try and fail to wriggle herself out from underneath the weight of Joel’s boot compressing her ribcage. “Just don’t do very well around b-blood, is all,” you squeak out pitifully.

Joel rolls his eyes, frustrated at the precious seconds you’re wasting by suddenly complaining about being a little squeamish. 

“Well frankly, baby, I don’t really fuckin’ care. You’re gonna have to learn to get the fuck used to it, I ain’t doin’ this with you every time. Get in here. You can face the goddamn wall, but you’re stayin’ put until this is over, are we clear?”

“Y-yes, Joel, thank you,” you concede shakily. Joel’s eyes follow you as you flit across the room, nearly tripping over chunks of fallen drywall before tucking yourself into a little alcove behind the fireplace and hugging your knees to your chest. 

“Alright… Where was I?” Joel ponders aloud, removing his foot from Chrissy’s chest and crouching down to her level. He grabs a fistful of her shirt collar and yanks her back up to a sitting position, looking down at his bleeding hand and sighing before harshly slapping Chrissy across the face with it. Her head whips to the side from the impact, and he grips onto her bloodied face with his injured hand to turn it back towards him again. “Y’know, I don’t take too fuckin’ kindly to feisty things like you who don’t know their goddamn place. Ain't so gentle with bratty lil’ cunts who think it’s a good idea to fight back, leave their marks on me. Am I, babydoll?” He says the latter part a little louder than the rest, brushing the forefinger of his unoccupied hand across the scar on the bridge of his nose as he speaks. You don’t respond, but he can tell that you hear him, that you know what—who—he’s referring to. “Yeah, she knows… One of her lil’ friends gave me this pretty thing, can you believe that? Suppose she gave me that pretty thing, too.” Joel chuckles to himself at his own double entendre, gesturing to where you’re cowering in the corner. “Poor thing had a friend go missin’ a while back, never knew what’d happened to her. Trail was cold, but she decided to follow it anyway. And Lord, am I glad she did, ‘cause it led her straight to me…”

Joel turns Chrissy’s head this way and that in his grip, enjoying the way she squeezes her eyes tight and flinches as she braces for another impact. She whines and whimpers as his fingernails dig into her freckled cheeks, now smeared with his orange-red fingerprints. “W-why me, then? Why not h-her, how come she gets to live? J-just take her, let me go, I won’t tell anyone,” Chrissy sobs through her teeth, hardly able to move her jaw in Joel’s firm hold. He reaches behind himself and slides his blade out from under his belt, raising it up in front of her face. Her eyes go wide as she lets out a horrified noise, thrashing against him and crying while he examines the way the sharp edge glints in the moonlight coming in from the broken windows.

“Oh, sweetheart…” Joel muses, turning over the blade in his hand a few times before looking up at Chrissy’s terrified face, his expression shifting from something wistful to something sinister, cold. “It ain’t ever gonna be her.”

Joel cranks her jaw upwards and slides his knife across her throat before she can even expel an entire scream from her lungs, the piercing tone of her voice becoming wet and garbled in just a few seconds as she chokes on her own blood. It sprays through the slit in her skin, some of it splattering across Joel’s face and landing on his lips, before coming out as a steadier stream that spills down her pale neck and dribbles from the corners of her mouth. Joel watches on as she convulses and gags, her eyes rolling back into her skull before becoming dead weight in Joel’s grip, and she collapses onto her side when he finally lets go of her jaw, still agape with a silent wail. Her muscles spasm as she bleeds out, the ruby-colored liquid pooling underneath her head and saturating the ends of her auburn hair. Joel licks his lips clean as her wound pulses in time with the beating of her heart, the rhythm becoming slower and slower before fizzling out altogether. It only takes a minute or so for her body to still completely, her gurgling breaths eventually morphing into the death rattle that he’s come to recognize so well. Joel swipes his bloodied blade across his tongue before sheathing it under his belt again, glancing over to where you’re now rocking back and forth, your spine hitting against the fireplace’s stone structure with dull little thumps.

He stalks over to you, ignoring the startled yelp you make as he grips onto your upper arm and drags you to where Chrissy’s cooling corpse is lying in the center of the room. Just like he had done to her earlier, he pushes you onto your stomach and straddles your hips. Only this time, he rucks up the skirt of your dress and yanks your panties to the side, swiftly freeing his painfully hard cock from the confines of his jeans and slotting into you with nothing more than a mouthful of his own saliva to help him ease inside. “Oh, f-fuck, Jesus fuckin’ Christ,” he moans, gripping one hand onto your hip and using the other—the one with a still-bleeding bite mark—to press the side of your head into the filthy hardwood, so that you’re facing Chrissy’s glazed-over expression while he takes and takes and takes. He doesn’t have it in him to be gentle with you, blinded by adrenaline and arousal as he uses you to get himself off. 

“God, you’re so fuckin’ tight when you’re scared,” Joel snarls, snapping his hips into your backside with such force that the clap of skin-on-skin echoes loudly throughout the empty house, nearly drowning out the sounds of your cries. You’ve got your hands splayed out on either side of your head, having dropped Joel’s camera when he’d forced you into a prone position. You make a disgusted gagging noise when the expanding pool of Chrissy’s blood reaches your fingertips, but you can’t pull away with Joel’s body weight holding you in place. You shut your eyes tightly as you sputter and sob, but Joel won’t allow that. He pulls you up onto your knees, pressing you against him and prying your eyes open as he holds your head up by a fistful of your hair. “No, no hidin’ from this, babydoll. You fuckin’ look at her… I do this for you, baby, you see? So that it won’t be you. I just get so fuckin’ hungry, I can’t help myself. I can’t fuckin’ stop. But as long as I live, I swear it’ll never be you. That’s why it’s them instead. You understand, sweetheart? I love you, babydoll, I love you so fuckin’ much.” Joel mumbles the last bit into the supple skin of your neck, sloppily kissing and biting into your flesh, until he isn’t sure to whom the iron taste that fills his mouth belongs anymore.

He gropes and grabs all over your pliant body, grunting curses into your wet skin while he uses your tight, warm hole like a toy. He’s practically been edging himself for the past several hours, starting from when he’d rubbed circles around your swollen clit and used the reward of your own pleasure to manipulate you into doing his dirty work. Joel is surprised he didn’t cream his jeans before now, the release of finally pouncing on his prey and the taste of her blood on his tongue almost enough to make him come untouched. His hips begin to stutter only a handful of thrusts later, but instead of allowing himself to spill inside you like he had last night, he slides himself free of your walls and maneuvers you onto your back, reaching for his camera.

“Smile pretty for me, babydoll,” Joel says, holding the viewfinder up to his eye while he jerks himself off over your used body, his knees planted on either side of your ribcage. The dazed expression you wear looks enough like a smile to satisfy him, and he snaps a photo as he paints your face with his come. Thick white ropes splatter against your skin, already smeared with the blood from his hand and the filth from the neglected floorboards, and you look like the most gorgeous fucking thing he’s ever seen—his perfect doll, his fallen angel, his most precious and favorite lamb, the love of his fucking life. “Startin’ a new collection today, darlin’, since I got rid of the other one… This’ll be the perfect one to start it out.” Joel removes the blank polaroid from the slot, and sets it back down along with the camera to give the image time to develop. He sits back on his haunches as he catches his breath, running his bloodied hands through his damp hair and zipping his spent cock back inside his jeans. Joel stares down at you while you blink slowly, looking ruined with your tangled hair spread out on the floor and your hands resting up by your ears in surrender. Your breathing is slow, shallow, and he trusts that he can leave you there to come back into yourself while he takes care of Chrissy’s body. 

Joel pushes himself back up to his feet with a groan, his knees cracking and aching in protest, and he walks around the first level of the house, peeking into different rooms until he finds one that used to function as a bedroom. There isn’t much left inside, but the wrought iron bed frame still has a moldy sheet draped haphazardly over the mattress. He yanks it free and bunches it up in his arms, carrying it back into the living room and spreading it out on the ground beside the corpse. Joel rips the top hem of the bedsheet from its seams, and wraps it around his injured hand before tying it off with his teeth. He rolls Chrissy’s stiffening figure onto the now-frayed edge of the fabric, tucking it under one of her arms to hold it in place before tumbling her down the remaining length of the linen. He performs the task monotonously and with little strain, as if he’s done so a dozen times, because he has. It doesn’t take very much effort to lift her onto his shoulder; she was already a wisp of a thing to begin with, weighing even less now that nearly her entire blood volume is soaking into the wood beneath where she had been laying.

Joel navigates to the back door of the house, kicking it open with his boot and letting it slam behind him. He walks several yards into the overgrowth behind the house, dodging low-hanging branches and stepping over fallen logs until he reaches a small clearing. He deposits Chrissy’s body onto an area of dried, yellowing grass, before returning to the backyard where he had noticed a dilapidated shed, nearly completely fallen over from several years’ worth of dry rot. Joel grunts as he pries the doors open, and yanks on a rusted metal chain hanging from the ceiling. A single light bulb illuminates the contents of the shed—a decades-old lawn mower, a few bags of grass seed, and some basic gardening tools, including exactly the one he was looking for. He brushes several thick spiderwebs out of the way before grabbing hold of the shovel, and lets it drag behind him as he treks back to Chrissy’s soon-to-be makeshift burial site. Joel digs a shallow grave, not wanting to take the time to complete the entire six feet with you still on your own inside the house, and uses his boot to send her cloth-wrapped body tumbling into the hole, where it lands with a dull thud. He stares down at her bloodied chrysalis, exhaling a shuddering breath as he revels in the final stage of his ritual.

Over the course of his life, Joel has done a lot of thinking about what exactly it is about the slaughter that he finds so titillating. On a particularly sleepless night several years ago, he’d finally landed on the transformation being what arouses him so. Taking a life is not unlike the procedure of sex, he’d realized—there is a start and an end, a before and an after, and an intangible, in between state, where the soul of the other person is slightly separated from their body, placed into the palms of his hands to do with as he pleases. There’s a reason the French came up with that clever little phrase—la petite mort—because sex and death are inexplicably intertwined, at least for Joel. He experiences such a rush, such a release, from taking part in the gruesome metamorphosis in which a girl is transformed into a body, that he can’t help but chase that high again and again and again, even though he always seems to forget that as much as there is the before and the during, there is also the after. 

That troublesome, uncomfortable after.

Joel shakes himself out of his stupor, tossing the shovel in after the body and doing a half-assed job of kicking the dirt he’d excavated back inside the pit. He scatters some fistfuls of grass and a few dead branches on top of the pile for extra camouflage, and then trudges his way back through the woods.

When Joel returns to the house, you’re in the exact same position he’d left you in, just as he’d thought you’d be. He approaches you slowly, crouching beside you and brushing some of your knotted hair away from your soiled face. Your eyes are frozen, as if still looking into Chrissy’s own glassy ones, and you don’t even so much as twitch when Joel pulls a rag from his back pocket and uses it to wipe his arousal and as much of the blood as he can manage off of your skin. 

“You okay, sweetheart? You with me?” Joel asks you, his voice barely above a whisper, as if trying not to spook a small animal. You look almost… shell shocked. Traumatized. Out of your own body. “Talk to me, babydoll, please.” He rakes his fingers through your hair for another silent minute or so, during which time you continue to lie perfectly still. Unblinking. Unflinching. A husk of a girl.

Joel sighs, reaching across your body to grab his camera and the now-developed polaroid. He shoves the latter into his jacket pocket, deciding that he’ll examine the image later, once he reconciles with the unfamiliar feeling in the pit of his stomach—something like remorse, he thinks. 

He slides his hands underneath your body, cradling you in his arms and carrying you bridal style across the living room, over the threshold, down the steps, and along the stretch of fractured asphalt until he reaches the truck. Joel sets you down on your feet so that he can open the passenger-side door, but your knees buckle underneath you almost immediately, requiring him to support your weight while he fumbles with the handle. He lifts you up onto your seat once he gets it open and buckles you in, and you don’t look anywhere except directly in front of you the entire time. Joel smooths out the skirt of your dress, now stained with dirt and blood, and shoves his camera into the backpack sitting at your feet before shutting you in. He crosses in front of the hood and retakes his place behind the wheel, taking a long look at where you sit nearly comatose beside him. You’re here, but you’re not. He doesn’t know where you are, or how to pull you back from it, back to him.

Joel fidgets with his keys, jingling them in his hand in an effort to fill the cabin with something other than a silence so loud it’s making his ears ring. “It’ll feel better in the mornin’. You’ll get used to it, after a few more of ‘em, I promise.” He places his linen-wrapped hand on the side of your head, pulling you closer to him so that he can plant a whiskery kiss in your hair. Joel lets his eyes flutter closed as he breathes in your scent, inhaling a stuttering breath. If remorse is truly what he feels, then that would warrant an apology, he supposes. But it would also require taking action to rectify the wrongdoing that warranted the apology in the first place, to make sure that it never happens again. And that, he cannot promise.

He pulls away from you, licking his thumb once to wipe a dried smear of blood from your temple. “You wanna get that old map outta the glovebox, babydoll? Decide where we’re headed to next?” Joel prompts.

Silence.

“I’ll take you anywhere you want, darlin’. Long as they got hot coffee and color TV,” he chuckles.

Stillness.

“Well… Alright, then. Next state over it is.” Joel sniffles, feeling around in the dark for the truck’s ignition cylinder, the engine finally sputtering to life after a few misses of the key. Your head falls against the window as the tires begin to rumble over the uneven pavement, and you don’t bother to reposition yourself, even though the sensation of your skull rattling against the glass must be uncomfortable.

Joel doesn’t steer the truck in any particular direction, just away. Away from here, toward the life together in California that he’d promised you, hoping that he can collect all your broken pieces and put you back together along the way.

As it turns out, there are two things that Joel needs you to understand—that he’s never letting you go, and that he will never be able to stop himself. As instinctually as Joel needs to blink, breathe, sleep, he needs to kill. He needs to spill blood and feel it underneath his fingernails and taste it on his tongue, needs to bite into the soft pink skin beneath white wool and feel the precise moment when a creature becomes nothing more than flesh and fur.

And he needs you. Joel cannot live without either one, he’s decided, and so he must be in possession of both.

He regrets the way in which he’s broken you tonight, but not the way that you will be reassembled in his image. 

Transformed.

tag list: @beefrobeefcal @iamasaddie @rebel-held @dilfgestivo @joeldjarin @kamcrazy123 @hellowoolf @rexamongthestars @stevie75 @luxurychristmaspudding @noisynightmarepoetry @mewantpeepaw @pedritoferg @evolnoomym @annoyingmarvelreader @joelsdagger @natalieispunk @mermaidgirl30 @untamedheart81 @galway-girlatwork @pinkiec6-rubi @wand-erer5 @arminsbf @shivispunk @gigistorm @theoreticalfreak @vinceelser @always-andromeda @path0logicalpeoplepleaser @old-logan-and-old-joels-slut @atjlovverr @zliteraturehoe @k1l4ni @hjzghi-blog @xkyxkyxxlylcylulucuflfluclu @kay1805 @alex-does-art-things (if your name is crossed out, it won’t let me tag you!!)

the show was intentional

and yet people  keep acting like certain things aren’t canon. 

Lets lay it out:

They chose to give Robby a love interest. Not just a random hookup or a throwaway arc. No, they made her work with him. They made her someone he sees almost every shift. Someone he longs for during said shifts, casting her those heart-wrenching glances across the ER floor. And they didn’t stop there.

They gave them a backstory. One full of tension, complicated choices, heartbreak. We’re talking an abortion. A breakup. A one-sided breakup. You don’t write that unless you’re trying to say something.

If the show didn’t want to position Heather Collins as a central figure in Robby’s life, they would’ve just… not done all that? But they did. They crafted her with care. They wove her into the very fabric of his storyline, and into the rhythm of the show.

And yet… fandom and media refuses to see it.

Heather is more than “Robby’s love interest.” She’s pivotal on her own. She’s competent, compassionate, layered. A Black woman in medicine with her own trauma, her own ambitions, and yes, a deep, complicated love for a man who still looks at her like she hung the damn moon.

Stop overlooking her.

Stop pretending she doesn’t matter.

Because the writers made it very clear: she does.

And Robby knows it.

We know it.

It’s time fandom and the media caught up.

my girl 🩷🩷

Dominique Thorne as Riri Williams/Ironheart

dir. Sam Bailey and Angela Barnes | Ironheart (2025)

his teeth are so straight, i find that slightly off putting. maybe he isn't perfect 🤔

but that makes him sexier(?) somehow

this is something very personal to me

strangers masterlist

pairing: dark!serial killer!joel x f!reader

summary: after you run away from home, you meet a handsome stranger who offers you a ride, a meal, and a bed. but you know what they say—don’t talk to strangers, or you might fall in love. and this particular stranger has a very dark secret, one you might not be able to escape the consequences of discovering.

overall warnings (please also see individual chapter warnings): 18+, smut, DDDNE, age gap (reader is college-aged, joel is mid-50s), no outbreak au, no use of y/n, graphic talk of death/murder and blood, mommy & daddy issues, brief talk of domestic violence, lying, gaslighting, coercion, manipulation, f-receiving non-con groping/breathplay/fingering/sex, being held captive, degrading language toward victims/victim blaming, joel is implied to fantasize that you're dead while fucking you, development of stockholm syndrome, pet names (baby, darlin', sweetheart, babydoll, etc), some joel pov, no ellie/sarah but tommy has an unnamed daughter, somewhat inspired by "preacher's daughter" by ethel cain, vaguely set in the 70s/80s

read it on ao3

part 1

part 2

part 3

part 4

part 5

EXTRAS

babydoll's letter

it feels like my heart got ripped out of my chest and then put back 😭😭😭

𝐍𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐋𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐌𝐚𝐲𝐡𝐞𝐦

𝙍𝙤𝙗𝙚𝙧𝙩 “𝘽𝙤𝙗” 𝙍𝙚𝙮𝙣𝙤𝙡𝙙𝙨 𝙭 𝘾𝙞𝙫𝙞𝙡𝙡𝙞𝙖𝙣!𝙁𝙚𝙢!𝙍𝙚𝙖𝙙𝙚𝙧

𝙎𝙪𝙢𝙢𝙖𝙧𝙮 – 𝙏𝙝𝙚𝙮 𝙨𝙖𝙮 𝙘𝙖𝙩𝙨 𝙝𝙖𝙫𝙚 𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙚 𝙡𝙞𝙫𝙚𝙨. 𝙈𝙖𝙮𝙗𝙚 𝙞𝙩’𝙨 𝙩𝙧𝙪𝙚. 𝘽𝙪𝙩 𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙢, 𝙞𝙩’𝙨 𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙚 𝙢𝙤𝙣𝙩𝙝𝙨—𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙩’𝙨 𝙖𝙡𝙡 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙮 𝙜𝙚𝙩. 𝙎𝙝𝙚 𝙞𝙨 𝙙𝙮𝙞𝙣𝙜, 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙨𝙝𝙚 𝙙𝙤𝙚𝙨𝙣’𝙩 𝙬𝙖𝙣𝙩 𝙩𝙤 𝙙𝙧𝙖𝙜 𝙝𝙞𝙢 𝙬𝙞𝙩𝙝 𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙩𝙝𝙧𝙤𝙪𝙜𝙝 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙨𝙡𝙤𝙬, 𝙥𝙖𝙞𝙣𝙛𝙪𝙡 𝙜𝙤𝙤𝙙𝙗𝙮𝙚. 𝙃𝙚 𝙞𝙣𝙨𝙞𝙨𝙩𝙨 𝙤𝙣 𝙨𝙩𝙖𝙮𝙞𝙣𝙜, 𝙙𝙚𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙢𝙞𝙣𝙚𝙙 𝙩𝙤 𝙨𝙝𝙤𝙬 𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙣 𝙖𝙩 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙚𝙣𝙙, 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙧𝙚 𝙘𝙖𝙣 𝙨𝙩𝙞𝙡𝙡 𝙗𝙚 𝙖 𝙗𝙚𝙜𝙞𝙣𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜.

𝙒.𝘾. – 7.5𝙆

𝙂𝙚𝙣𝙧𝙚 – 𝙎𝙡𝙤𝙬 𝙗𝙪𝙧𝙣 𝙖𝙩 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙗𝙚𝙜𝙞𝙣𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜, 𝙨𝙩𝙧𝙖𝙣𝙜𝙚𝙧𝙨 𝙩𝙤 𝙡𝙤𝙫𝙚𝙧𝙨, 𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙢𝙞𝙣𝙖𝙡 𝙧𝙤𝙢𝙖𝙣𝙘𝙚, 𝙩𝙧𝙖𝙜𝙞𝙘 𝙧𝙤𝙢𝙖𝙣𝙘𝙚, 𝙝𝙪𝙧𝙩/𝙘𝙤𝙢𝙛𝙤𝙧𝙩, 𝙛𝙤𝙪𝙣𝙙 𝙛𝙖𝙢𝙞𝙡𝙮, 𝙥𝙨𝙮𝙘𝙝𝙤𝙡𝙤𝙜𝙞𝙘𝙖𝙡 𝙙𝙧𝙖𝙢𝙖, 𝙙𝙤𝙢𝙚𝙨𝙩𝙞𝙘 𝙞𝙣𝙩𝙞𝙢𝙖𝙘𝙮, 𝙨𝙡𝙞𝙘𝙚 𝙤𝙛 𝙡𝙞𝙛𝙚.

𝙒𝙖𝙧𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜𝙨 – 𝙏𝙚𝙧𝙢𝙞𝙣𝙖𝙡 𝙞𝙡𝙡𝙣𝙚𝙨𝙨 (𝙩𝙧𝙞𝙥𝙡𝙚-𝙣𝙚𝙜𝙖𝙩𝙞𝙫𝙚 𝙢𝙚𝙩𝙖𝙨𝙩𝙖𝙩𝙞𝙘 𝙗𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙨𝙩 𝙘𝙖𝙣𝙘𝙚𝙧), angst, 𝙨𝙢𝙪𝙩 (𝙘𝙤𝙣𝙨𝙚𝙣𝙨𝙪𝙖𝙡, 𝙜𝙚𝙣𝙩𝙡𝙚, 𝙚𝙢𝙤𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣𝙖𝙡𝙡𝙮 𝙘𝙝𝙖𝙧𝙜𝙚𝙙), fluff, 𝙢𝙚𝙙𝙞𝙘𝙖𝙡 𝙧𝙚𝙛𝙚𝙧𝙚𝙣𝙘𝙚𝙨 (𝙨𝙮𝙢𝙥𝙩𝙤𝙢𝙨, 𝙩𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙩𝙢𝙚𝙣𝙩 𝙧𝙚𝙛𝙪𝙨𝙖𝙡, 𝙚𝙣𝙙-𝙤𝙛-𝙡𝙞𝙛𝙚 𝙘𝙖𝙧𝙚), 𝙢𝙚𝙣𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣𝙨 𝙤𝙛 𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙑𝙤𝙞𝙙, 𝙜𝙧𝙞𝙚𝙛 𝙖𝙣𝙙 possible 𝙙𝙚𝙖𝙩𝙝 𝙤𝙛 𝙖 𝙢𝙖𝙞𝙣 𝙘𝙝𝙖𝙧𝙖𝙘𝙩𝙚𝙧, 𝙢𝙚𝙣𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣𝙨 𝙤𝙛 𝙥𝙖𝙨𝙩 𝙖𝙙𝙙𝙞𝙘𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙩𝙧𝙖𝙪𝙢𝙖, 𝙖𝙙𝙙𝙞𝙘𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣 𝙧𝙚𝙘𝙤𝙫𝙚𝙧𝙮, 𝙚𝙢𝙤𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣𝙖𝙡 𝙫𝙪𝙡𝙣𝙚𝙧𝙖𝙗𝙞𝙡𝙞𝙩𝙮, 𝙧𝙚𝙛𝙚𝙧𝙚𝙣𝙘𝙚𝙨 𝙩𝙤 𝙋𝙏𝙎𝘿 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙢𝙚𝙣𝙩𝙖𝙡 𝙝𝙚𝙖𝙡𝙩𝙝 𝙨𝙩𝙧𝙪𝙜𝙜𝙡𝙚𝙨 (𝙞𝙣𝙘𝙡𝙪𝙙𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝘽𝙤𝙗’𝙨), 𝙧𝙚𝙛𝙚𝙧𝙚𝙣𝙘𝙚𝙨 𝙩𝙤 𝙝𝙤𝙨𝙥𝙞𝙘𝙚 𝙘𝙖𝙧𝙚, 𝙖𝙛𝙛𝙚𝙘𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣𝙖𝙩𝙚 𝙥𝙧𝙤𝙛𝙖𝙣𝙞𝙩𝙮, 𝙦𝙪𝙞𝙚𝙩 𝙘𝙤𝙥𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙬𝙞𝙩𝙝 𝙜𝙧𝙞𝙚𝙛, 𝙠𝙞𝙩𝙩𝙚𝙣 𝙨𝙝𝙚𝙣𝙖𝙣𝙞𝙜𝙖𝙣𝙨, 𝙗𝙞𝙩𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙨𝙬𝙚𝙚𝙩 𝙩𝙤𝙣𝙚.

𝘼/𝙉 - 𝙏𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙨𝙩𝙤𝙧𝙮 𝙬𝙧𝙚𝙘𝙠𝙚𝙙 𝙢𝙚 𝙞𝙣 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙬𝙧𝙞𝙩𝙞𝙣𝙜—𝙄 𝙝𝙤𝙥𝙚 𝙞𝙩 𝙝𝙤𝙡𝙙𝙨 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙜𝙚𝙣𝙩𝙡𝙮 𝙞𝙣 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙙𝙞𝙣𝙜. 𝙁𝙤𝙧 𝙖𝙣𝙮𝙤𝙣𝙚 𝙬𝙝𝙤’𝙨 𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙧 𝙡𝙤𝙫𝙚𝙙 𝙩𝙝𝙧𝙤𝙪𝙜𝙝 𝙜𝙧𝙞𝙚𝙛, 𝙤𝙧 𝙛𝙤𝙪𝙣𝙙 𝙝𝙤𝙢𝙚 𝙞𝙣 𝙨𝙤𝙢𝙚𝙤𝙣𝙚 𝙣𝙤𝙩 𝙢𝙚𝙖𝙣𝙩 𝙩𝙤 𝙨𝙩𝙖𝙮.

This one is for you, babes @asxgard 🫵🏻👀❤️‍🩹

The folding chairs in the community room at St. Margaret’s Recovery Center were mismatched and creaky, and the fluorescent lights hummed overhead in a way that made Bob Reynolds’ skin itch. But he sat anyway, long limbs tucked in uncomfortably, a cup of instant coffee cooling in his hands.

He was here for them. The others.

A man named Luis was shakily recounting the time he stole a car stereo to buy fentanyl, his voice cracking when he mentioned how he hadn’t seen his daughter in five years. The room stayed quiet and kind. No one judged. That’s why Bob came. It wasn’t always about what he said—it was about the fact that he showed up at all.

The door opened mid-share, a breeze of cold air cutting in.

“Sorry, sorry,” a woman whispered as she ducked in, clutching a canvas tote and a pet carrier, with a dark furball sleeping in it. She looked like she hadn’t slept well, wrapped in a threadbare gray hoodie and baggy jeans. She didn’t smell like perfume—more like laundry detergent and the faintest trace of cat.

Bob looked up briefly, then down again. Something about her felt like gravity.

She sat at the back, exchanging a quiet nod with one of the staff. Her friend, Bob assumed.

After the circle broke and people began to gather in twos and threes—plastic cups refilled, someone passed around store-bought cookies—Bob drifted toward the coffee table. So did she.

They reached for the same sugar packet at the same time. Their fingers brushed.

What a fucking cliché.

“Oh—sorry,” she said, a small smile flickering across her lips. “I’m not actually in the group. I just came with Jules—she works here,” she blurted, as she played with a sugar pocket. “She invited me to come—well, more like she forced me. To leave the house.”

Bob looked at her, really looked this time.

“That’s okay,” he said. “I’m just here to listen.”

She tilted her head. “You volunteer?”

“I guess. You could say that.” He paused. “It helps me stay grounded.”

She nodded as if that made perfect sense. “For-former nursing student,” she offered after a beat. “Used to volunteer, then work nights in a nursing home. Gave good sponge baths, terrible coffee. Dreams of truly becoming a nurse.” She glanced away. “Had to… shelve that.”

Bob’s brow furrowed just slightly. “Why?”

She shrugged, a gesture so simple it hurt. “Life,” she said. “And a body that didn’t keep up.”

A pause stretched between them.

Bob opened his mouth to say something—anything—but her friend Jules called her over. “Hey! We’ve got to be out in five!”

“Duty calls,” she said with a breath of humor. She turned to go, then glanced over her shoulder. “Take care, Bob-the-volunteer.”

He blinked. “Wait—I didn’t catch your name.”

“I guess you didn’t,” she said with a grin.

Then she was gone.

────୨ৎ────

A few weeks later, Bob was standing in line at a small neighborhood pet store near the New Avengers’ Watchtower, holding a giant bag of salmon-flavored kibble that Alpine—Bucky’s very opinionated cat—had decided was the only food she’d touch while Bucky was away on mission. He had offered to take care of her, since of almost all the members of the group, she felt most attached to him after Buck.

As he reached the front, he heard a familiar voice ahead of him at the counter.

“No, not the chicken pâté, the one with the little pumpkin blend. Mayhem gets picky when she’s stressed.”

Bob looked up. And there she was.

She turned, startled, as if she could sense him.

“Oh my god,” she said, grinning. “Salmon man,” she pointed out to the bag of kibble.

He raised an eyebrow. “You again.”

She laughed softly, then noticed what he was carrying. “So you’re cat-sitting?”

“Alpine,” he said. “My friend’s cat. She has opinions.”

“Mayhem’s the same. She’s one of my latest fosters.” She gestured to the small carrier at her feet. A pair of tiny black ears and vivid green eyes peered out from the shadows.

“Foster?” Bob asked.

“I don’t work anymore. So I take care of kittens for the shelter. Temporary residents at my place.” She looked down, brushing imaginary lint off her sleeve. “Figured if I can’t save people, maybe I can save hairballs, with no thoughts behind those striking eyes.”

The way she said it—like it wasn’t meant to sound sad, but it kind of was—knocked something loose in Bob’s chest.

“I never got your name,” he said.

She tilted her head. “Nope. Still haven’t.”

He laughed. “I’m Bob.”

“I know, Bob-the-volunteer.” She smiled at him before telling him her name.

There was a pause. Bob swallowed.

“Would you want to grab dinner sometime?” he asked. “I mean, if you’re not busy saving kittens.”

Her smile softened. “That’s kind of you. But, I… don’t date. Not anymore.”

His face fell slightly, but he nodded. “Okay. Just thought I’d ask.”

They paid, made small talk. She loaded the kitten into a cloth sling at her chest like a sleepy baby. Big green eyes looking around.

As she turned to leave, she hesitated.

“If we ever run into each other here again,” she said, voice low, “maybe we could get that dinner. One dinner. Just so it’s not awkward. T-the hypothetical next time we bump into each other?”

Bob smiled. “Deal.”

He couldn’t stop thinking about her, not until, they did, in fact, bump into each other again four days later.

Their ‘one dinner’ was at a quiet Lebanese place tucked between a laundromat and a bodega. Low lighting, cracked leather booths, and music so soft it barely registered. She picked it because it was close to her apartment and she knew the servers—they gave her free tea when she brought the kittens in to visit.

Bob showed up with his hands in his jacket pockets and an awkward, quiet sort of hope in his eyes.

She wore a simple black cardigan, a bit of color on her lips, and a hesitation that hovered between every breath.

“No flowers?” she joked gently, eyeing his empty hands.

“I figured you wouldn’t want the cliché,” he said, lips twitching. “Besides, I read somewhere lilies are for funerals.”

Her brow lifted. “Morbid.”

“You started it.”

And just like that, the tension cracked.

They ordered too much food. She stole falafel off his plate; he didn’t even pretend to protest. They talked about cats. About movies they loved. About stupid jobs they’d had as teenagers. She told him about the time she had to chase down a dementia patient, while volunteering at the home, who escaped in a hospital gown and fuzzy slippers. He told her about working at Alfredo's Bail Bonds, wearing a chicken suit as the restaurant's mascot.

But near the end, as the check came and the plates sat nearly empty, her smile faltered.

“I need to be honest,” she said, tracing the rim of her glass.

He looked up immediately, attentive.

“I wasn’t joking, that day. About my body not keeping up.”

His posture shifted, ever so slightly. “Okay.”

“I have metastatic breast cancer,” she said plainly. “Triple-negative. Aggressive. It’s already spread. They gave me a timeline.”

Silence settled around the table like dust.

“I’m not in treatment,” she went on. “I tried once. Chemo nearly killed me faster than the cancer. It came back anyway. I decided not to do it again. So—what I’m saying is—I’m dying. And I don’t want pity, or a savior. I don’t want to be someone’s heartbreak project. I want to focus on Mayhem, find her a good family.”

Bob’s face didn’t change in the way she expected. No flinch. No sharp intake of breath. Just quiet understanding. Deep. Anchored.

“You thought that would scare me off,” he said gently.

She met his gaze. “Wouldn’t it scare you? Come on, I've just practically dropped a bomb on you.”

He didn’t answer right away. Then: “I’ve lived through a lot of endings. But I don’t think I’ve ever really lived through love.”

“To drop the word 'love' to a person you've seen only a handful of times, that's intense stuff, Bob."

“Friendship, then. Maybe?”

A pause.

“You don’t have to give me forever,” he said. “Just give me now.”

She looked at him, long and hard. “You say that now. But when I’m in pain, when I’m not able to walk far, or eat, or breathe without help… You’ll wish you hadn’t.”

“Maybe,” he said honestly. “But I’ll still want to be there.”

She didn’t answer. But when they stepped outside into the cold night air, she didn’t pull away when his hand brushed hers.

────୨ৎ────

They began to see each other once or twice a week. Always her place—small, second floor, plants in the windowsill, and a kitten in various states of chaos. Mayhem, claimed Bob’s lap immediately.

They built rituals.

Tea with honey every evening she had energy. Rooibos for her. Chamomile for him.

Late-night walks, slow ones. She got winded easily, so he adjusted his pace without her ever asking.

Rooftop stargazing on the crumbling building above her apartment. She brought a threadbare blanket. He brought the good thermos. Sometimes they didn’t speak at all.

He never pushed.

He stayed even when she warned him again, softly, that she was already slipping. “The decline starts slow,” she said one night. “You’ll notice the tiredness before anything else. Then the brain fog, the forgetting, when this thing gets to my already mushy brain. I’ll start losing my grip on the good days.”

Bob listened. Always. Quietly.

One night, they sat on her couch, her head on his shoulder. Mayhem curled up between them.

“Why don’t you run?” she asked suddenly.

“Because running never got me anywhere good,” he replied. “And because I don’t want to.”

“I’m not your redemption story, you know?”

“I don’t need you to be.”

She looked at him, eyes burning.

“You’re going to love me, and I’m going to die. How is that fair to you?”

Bob’s voice was quiet. “How is it fair to anyone, ever, to love someone and lose them? But we still do it. Because the loving part matters. The caring for someone does.”

And then—frustrated, scared, aching—she said, “You should go. You should find someone whole. Someone—“

He didn’t move.

“Dammit, Bob. Don’t you get it!?” Her voice cracked. “I didn’t want this. I didn’t want you to matter.”

He looked at her—soft, steady.

“You didn’t want to matter either,” he said. “But you do, woman.”

And in the silence that followed, she kissed him. Fierce, trembling, like trying to stop the tide with her hands.

He kissed her back like she was something sacred.

When she pulled away, she muttered, “You’re so idiotic—so damn stupid for doing this.”

“Maybe,” he whispered. “But I’m here.”

────୨ৎ────

She didn’t say “I love you.”

She thought it sometimes. Quietly. When he curled around her at night like he could guard her from what was coming. When he hummed to Mayhem in the kitchen while scooping kibble into a bowl. When he kissed her wrist instead of her mouth on the days her breath was short and her mouth tasted like metal. She thought it when he stayed past midnight cleaning up after a nosebleed, never flinching. Never backing away.

But she didn’t say it.

Saying it felt like handing him the knife and asking him to hold it to his own chest.

It wasn’t fair. It would never be.

So instead, she said things like “I like you being here,” and “I sleep better when you’re around.”

Bob understood. He didn’t push.

He just stayed.

────୨ৎ────

The first time she collapsed, it was a Tuesday.

She was walking from the kitchen to the bedroom with a mug of tea in hand, and then she wasn’t. She was on the floor, blinking up at the ceiling, breath shallow and mug shattered beside her.

Bob had been in the bathroom trimming his beard. He ran to her like the floor had opened beneath him.

“No—hey, hey, I’ve got you, it’s okay, it’s okay.”

She was shaking. Disoriented. Embarrassed.

“Blood pressure,” she whispered. “Too low, again. It’s happened before, nothing new.”

He carried her to the couch, got her a cool cloth, and knelt beside her like a soldier kneeling before his commander.

When she was lucid again, she found his hands trembling. His eyes red-rimmed.

“You shouldn’t have to see this,” she said, voice hoarse.

“I want to see it,” he said. “I want to be here for all of it. The good and the shit. You don’t get to push me out just because it’s scary.”

She reached up and touched his cheek, thumb swiping the faint trace of moisture.

“I’m not scared for me,” she said. “I’m scared for you. This is not fair, Robby.”

Robby.

He leaned forward until their foreheads touched.

“I’ve survived worse,” he whispered. “But I won’t survive walking away.”

After that, he started staying over more often.

At first, she called it “a couple nights a week.”

Then it became most nights.

He never made a big deal of it. He brought his favorite hoodie and a spare toothbrush, quietly folded his missions around her appointments, slipped into her world like he’d always belonged.

It became their home.

On good days, they walked to the little corner market together. On really good days, they danced in the kitchen to Nina Simone and Otis Redding while Mayhem batted at their feet—she was so chaotic and mischievous, such a little demon, that requests to adopt her were almost conspicuous by their absence.

On bad days, he read to her—his voice low and calm—even when she couldn’t keep her eyes open. On worse days, he held her hair back while she vomited into the sink and said, “You’re okay. I’ve got you,” over and over like a prayer.

And sometimes—just sometimes—when his hands started to tremble, or his vision narrowed, or a news headline triggered something in him he couldn’t name, she would pull him down into her lap and run her fingers through his hair, slow and steady, until the shaking stopped.

They carried each other like sacred things.

────୨ৎ────

The first time they made love was on a soft night in early spring.

The window was cracked open just enough to let in the cool breeze, and the smell of rain that had passed through earlier still clung faintly to the world outside. The sky was that deep blue right before dusk settles into true night, and in the kitchen, warm light pooled around her as she plated dinner—just pasta and roasted vegetables, simple and comforting, the only kind of cooking she felt up for lately. She wore a soft sweater that slipped off one shoulder and a pair of threadbare leggings. The scent of basil and garlic clung to her skin.

Bob arrived just as she was lighting a candle for the table—unnecessary, but it made the room feel gentler, like time had slowed. He carried a bundle of fresh lavender tied up with kitchen string, and a tiny paper bag from the bakery she loved, the one with the lemon cookies dusted in sugar.

“You’re spoiling me,” she said, smiling.

“I like watching you smile,” he said simply. “Figured I’d give myself a gift.”

He looked tired. There were shadows under his eyes, the kind that didn’t just come from sleep deprivation. A faint bruise bloomed near his collarbone, just above the neckline of his shirt—he’d been on a mission the day before, one that had gone sideways, he said, but it was fine now, nothing to worry about. Still, his eyes lingered on her like she was the only soft place left in a world made of sharp edges. She caught him staring at her once, halfway through dinner, and he didn’t look away.

“You okay?” she asked.

“Now I am,” he murmured, and reached for her hand across the table.

Later, in bed, the hush between them was reverent, like the air before a storm or a cathedral at dusk.

They kissed for a long time first, half-under the covers, half-tangled in each other’s limbs. The kind of kissing that made the world drop away—slow and searching, a conversation of mouths and sighs. His hand cupped her jaw, thumb brushing lightly across her cheekbone, grounding her. She curled her fingers into his shirt, then under it, dragging her nails across his back in a silent ask.

He groaned, quiet and breathy, like he didn’t mean to let it out.

When they undressed each other, it wasn’t rushed—there was no tearing or frantic fumbling. Just gentle discovery. Reverence. Her sweater caught at her elbow and he helped her out of it, kissing the bare skin of her shoulder as it was revealed. She pushed his shirt up slowly and pressed her lips to the bruise just below his collarbone, lingering there like she could kiss the pain away.

“You sure?” she asked again, barely above a whisper, searching his face.

“I want everything,” he said, voice low and steady. “I want you. You have no idea how fucking much.” He almost whimpered, shaking in need now.

“Did you just whimpered—? Fuck, that was hot.” She pulled him down to her again.

Their bodies met in slow, tender rhythm, the kind that built not from urgency but from knowing. He started above her, hands braced on either side of her head, his forehead resting against hers as they moved together, breath synced. Her legs curled around his waist and she arched up into him, gasping when he filled her—stretching and grounding her in equal measure. Her nails dug lightly into the backs of his shoulders, not from pain, but from the sheer feeling of it.

He kissed her through every shiver and sigh. Her mouth, her jaw, the spot just beneath her ear that made her whimper. She bit his shoulder once, playful and unthinking, and he huffed a soft laugh before groaning, grinding deeper into her like it undid him.

“Damn, you’re gonna kill me,” he murmured against her throat.

“Good—well, maybe not.” she breathed, smiling, and kissed him hard.

At some point, she rolled him onto his back, straddling his hips, bracing herself on his chest. Her hair spilled over her shoulder and tickled his face. He looked up at her like she was a miracle. Like he couldn’t believe she was real and here and choosing him.

“God, you’re beautiful,” he said, running his hands over her thighs, up her waist. His thumbs traced the curve of her hipbones like they were holy.

“Right back at you, cowboy.”

She rode him slow, their movements fluid and unhurried, more about closeness than climax. He sat up halfway to meet her, one hand splayed across her lower back, holding her to him as he kissed her again—deep and aching.

Then, they increased their pace, making it a bit messy and rough, but not too much.

When she gasped, he caught it with his mouth. When she moaned, he kissed it into something sacred. His fingers found the back of her neck, the curve of her lower spine, the soft place where her pulse fluttered.

She leaned forward, and he caught her lower lip between his fingers, caressing it with a gentleness that nearly undid her. His thumb brushed across it, then he leaned up and kissed her again—tender at first, then deeper, nibbling gently until she gasped against his tongue.

They moved again—sideways this time, shifting instinctively into something even softer. She lay on her side, back to his chest, and he curled around her like a shelter, one arm under her head, the other cupping her hip, guiding her with slow, rolling thrusts that made her tremble and whisper his name like it was a secret.

Tears slipped from her eyes—she didn’t even know why. Maybe because it felt too good. Too real. Too much like something she’d never get to keep.

Bob kissed them away, murmuring against her skin, “I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

When they finally fell apart together, it wasn’t fireworks—it was warmth and stillness, a kind of peaceful unraveling. She pressed her forehead to his and breathed with him until everything settled.

Afterward, they lay tangled in the sheets, her head on his chest, their legs still knotted. His fingers traced circles on her bare shoulder, and she played lazily with the ends of his hair. Her skin felt tender, loved. So did her heart.

“I wish we had more time,” she whispered into the silence.

Bob didn’t lie. He never did. He just kissed her temple and whispered, “Then let’s live the hell out of the time we do have.”

She nodded against his chest, a soft hum of agreement.

And in that quiet, candlelit room, under the hush of spring, it felt—for a moment—like time had finally decided to wait for them.

────୨ৎ────

It was in the way her hands trembled while trying to stir the honey into her tea.

How she missed words sometimes, reaching mid-sentence into silence with furrowed brows and a quiet, “What was I saying?”

It was in the bruises that bloomed easier, darker, as if her skin was giving up secrets before her lips did.

Her body betrayed her first.

And she tried to keep it quiet at first—playing it down, calling the fatigue a “bad day,” brushing off the coughing fits and the bruises, the slurred words, the fall she swore “was nothing.”

But Bob saw it. He saw it all.

One night she collapsed in the hallway between the bathroom and the bedroom. He heard the soft thump—barely audible, like a pillow hitting the floor—but his instincts kicked in like a lightning bolt.

He was on his knees beside her in seconds.

“I’m fine,” she gasped, flushed, breath short, one wrist already swelling. “I just got dizzy. I—”

“You’re not fine,” he said, voice breaking. “And it’s okay.”

He held her close. She cried into his shoulder.

He carried her to bed, and stayed up watching her chest rise and fall all night long, counting every breath like a sacred vow.

The hospital stays began after that.

Short ones at first. A few nights for dehydration, an infection that wouldn’t clear, a chemo-related complication even though she wasn’t on chemo anymore. Then there was a seizure scare—brain metastases, they said gently, words wrapped in sterile white light and soft voices.

Bob hated hospitals. He hated the smell, the sounds, the memories. The taste of too many days lost in places just like this.

But he sat by her side every time. Brought Mayhem’s favorite blanket. Taped a drawing she made on the IV pole—a stick figure of a black kitten with heart that said, “still here.”

He read to her when she was too tired to talk. He played music on his phone, soft old jazz, classic rock, movies soundtracks, warm indie folk. He made bad jokes about hospital food and wonky bed remotes. He brought chamomile tea from home because she swore hospital tea tasted like regret and piss.

When she was lucid, they talked.

Really talked.

About death. About what came after. About what didn’t.

“I’m not scared of dying,” she said one night, voice fragile in the hospital dark. “I’m scared of leaving too little behind. About leaving you behind, Robby.”

Bob took her hand, thumb grazing her wrist.

“You’ve already left more than most people ever do,” he whispered. “You made me want to live, darling.”

At home, she wrote letters.

One for Bob. One for Mayhem: “To be read by your next forever mom or dad, you rascal”, it said. One for her friend Jules, who dragged her to that recovery center meeting where she met him. A few for other patients she’d met during her own cancer journey—notes of hope, humor, brutal honesty.

The one for Bob took the longest.

She kept it in a small envelope, hidden inside a book she knew he would read after—the one they read aloud together some nights, alternating pages, voices low and tender.

She never told him she was writing them.

He found out later. Much later.

────୨ৎ────

The night she said “I love you,” it came out of a dream.

She woke up gasping, hand clenched in the sheets, tears wet on her cheeks.

Bob sat up instantly, heart hammering, reaching for her.

“I’m here. I’m here.”

She blinked at him, disoriented. Scared.

“I was… I was gone. And you were still looking for me.”

He held her face gently, thumbs brushing her temples.

“I’ll never stop looking for you,” he whispered, pressing his forehead against hers.

And then she said it. “I love you.”

It wasn’t a whisper. It was fragile and clear and raw, like cracked porcelain cradled between them.

Bob leaned in and kissed her forehead, “I love you,” he replied, voice thick. “Since the pet store. Since the first night you gave me your favorite mug and told me to not drop it.”

She laughed a little, hiccupping, and pulled him down until they lay curled around each other like the world might break but this moment wouldn’t.

────୨ৎ────

He didn’t propose marriage. He proposed presence.

It was one evening, while they sat on the rooftop wrapped in layers of blankets, stars blurry through light pollution but still there.

She was thinner now. Color draining from her skin, as the days went by. Her voice came and went, rough and hoarse. But her fingers were warm when he held them.

“I know you’re still trying to protect me,” he said, quiet, without accusation. “But it’s not about sparing me. It’s about what I want, too.”

She looked at him, tired but still sharp.

“And what do you want?”

“You,” he said. “To the end.”

He didn’t need a ceremony or rings. Just permission.

After a long pause, she nodded. “You already have me,” she said. “But okay. You can stay. Even when it gets really bad.”

He kissed her knuckles.

“It’s already really bad,” he said softly. “But it’s also the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

They lived the hell out of the time they had left.

He held her when she cried. She steadied him when his mind frayed. They watched stars when she could, and on the nights she couldn’t leave the bed, he pointed out constellations from memory on the ceiling with his fingers, drawing them in the air. Sometimes he would make them up.

She told him once that she didn’t think she could ever feel lucky again.

Then she looked at him: “But then you walked in.”

“And I stayed, which has been the greatest honor of my life.”

────୨ৎ────

The day before she died was a good day.

The kind of day that had become rare—precious. She woke up without nausea. Her hands trembled, but not so badly she couldn’t hold a spoon. Bob made tea and toast while Mayhem patrolled the windowsills like a sleepy little gremlin, her mews grumpy and loud.

“Ekekek-“ she would chirp as she watched with frustration a bird in the other side of the window.

They watched an old movie—one she loved and half-quoted even though her voice was slower now, her sentences softer, occasionally trailing into silence when fatigue crept in. Bob didn’t mind. He filled in the lines when she forgot them.

They danced again. Barely more than swaying, her arms around his waist, face tucked against his chest.

“I don’t want it to end yet,” she murmured, her voice nearly inaudible beneath the low hum of the record spinning in the corner. The soft crackle of vinyl filled the space between words like breath between heartbeats. “I know I don’t have much time left.”

Bob held her tighter, arms wrapped fully around her as they swayed gently in the living room. Her cheek was pressed to his chest, right over his heart.

“Then don’t go,” he said, his voice attempting levity—but it cracked slightly at the edges.

She laughed against his shirt, a quiet exhale that sounded like surrender and affection and inevitability all braided into one.

That night, she reached for his hand as he cleared the mugs from their late tea. Her fingers curled around his, tugging him toward the bedroom. “Come to bed early,” she said softly.

He tilted his head, a gentle smile tugging at his mouth. “Tired?”

She shook her head. “Not because I’m tired,” she murmured, and something flickered in her eyes—mischief, desire, memory. “Because I want you. Like that. How can I not? I mean—have you seen yourself lately? That stubble of yours is driving me crazy, my love.”

Bob chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “You like that, huh?”

She leaned up on her toes, brushing her lips against the scratch of his jaw. “I love it,” she whispered. “And I need to feel… me. Just for a little while. Not sick. Not dying. Just a woman who wants her man.”

And he understood. God, he understood. She wanted to reclaim her body, her desires. To feel like herself again—not the version disappearing by inches, but the one who still craved closeness, who still chose him. Not as her nurse, or guardian, or someone just waiting for the end—but as her partner. Her love.

Their lovemaking that night was quiet. Reverent. Like a prayer whispered beneath blankets, made of skin and breath and memory.

He touched her slowly, taking his time with every inch of her. Not out of caution—but out of reverence. His fingertips traced the curve of her shoulder, down her arm, across her ribs—delicate, yes, but still her. Still strong. Still alive. When his hand moved over her stomach and down between her legs, he watched her face the entire time, gauging every flutter of her breath.

“You okay?” he murmured, voice deep and low, hoarse with emotion. “We can stop.”

She shook her head immediately, voice trembling but sure. “Don’t stop,” she whispered. “Please—don’t you dare.”

Bob nodded, kissing the corner of her mouth. “Okay. I won’t.”

He undressed her gently, peeling away fabric like it was woven from moonlight. Her body had changed—softer in some places, thinner in others—but she was still breathtaking. Her eyes locked onto his as she undid his shirt, her hands slow and certain, brushing over his chest, down the trail of hair toward his waistband. He caught her lower lip between his fingers, tracing it once with his thumb, then leaned in and kissed her—first sweet, then deeper, until she sighed into him, her hands rising to cradle his face.

Their bodies moved together slowly, wrapped in soft linens, her legs around his hips, her hands tangled in his hair. She arched under him with a quiet gasp when he entered her, her mouth falling open. He kissed her then, deeper, his fingers laced with hers as he moved in rhythm with her breath, with the ache between them. She bit his neck once, playfully, and he groaned softly, grinning into the kiss. He bit her lip once again, in the same way.

“I missed this,” she whispered. “I missed you like this, Robby.”

“I’m right here,” he said, voice thick. “I never left.”

She kissed him again, deeper now—urgent, not desperate. Her fingers traced his jaw, moved across his chest, down his back like she was trying to memorize every inch of him all over again. Her body trembled beneath his, but it was strength, not weakness. Willpower. Want.

When he whispered, “I love you,” into her mouth, she didn’t answer in words. Her eyes brimmed with tears instead, her lips pressing harder against his like she could pour the truth back into him without speaking.

After, they lay tangled in the quiet, their skin warm from shared breath, her head nestled against his chest. Bob’s fingers moved slowly down the curve of her spine, over the small of her back. Every few moments, he leaned down to kiss her hair, just to prove to himself she was still there.

“I’m not scared tonight,” she whispered eventually, voice feather-soft.

He swallowed. His throat was tight. “I am,” he admitted into her hair.

She tilted her face up, eyes dark and tender, and pressed a kiss to his chin. “Then stay close,” she said.

And he did.

He held her as she drifted into sleep, her breathing slow and steady against his ribs. His arms wrapped around her completely, like if he held tight enough, the dawn might forget to come. And in that quiet, dark room, the only thing that existed was the warmth of her against him, and the fragile, sacred gift of still being here.

He didn’t sleep right away. Just watched her. Counted each slow rise of her chest. As if unconsciously he knew the end was near.

Didn’t expect that near.

It was Mayhem who told him something was wrong.

Bob woke to her frantic meows, paws nudging at his side, climbing over the blanket. At first, he thought she was being her usual chaos demon, demanding breakfast. She was relentless—pacing, pouncing, crying louder now.

He reached a hand across the bed. Her side was cool.

The light was strange. Early. Pale. Still.

Her body—still. Too still.

He turned.

She was facing him. Eyes closed. One hand curled loosely over his chest where it had been when she fell asleep.

Her lips parted. No breath.

“Hey,” he whispered. “Hey—baby, wake up. Darling?”

He touched her cheek. It was cold.

Her hand slipped from his chest like a leaf falling from a branch.

He didn’t cry. Not at first, but the will to do so was there.

He sat there, silent. A slow-motion fracture through the middle of his ribs.

He smoothed her hair back, kissed her temple, her forehead, the corner of her mouth. He rested his forehead against hers, as her head was resting on his pillow.

“I love you,” he whispered. Again. And again. And again. “Thank you. I love you. I love you. I-I love you, darling. Oh, baby.”

Mayhem settled beside her, tiny purring rumbling low and constant, a feline vigil.

Bob didn’t move her. He just stayed and clung to her as much as possible, to her naked, now cold form.

The sun rose. He didn’t notice. He didn’t care.

She was gone, and his gravitational axis, thrown completely off balance. Because of that small detail.

She was gone, truly gone.

────୨ৎ────

The funeral was small. Quiet. Her friend, Jules, gave the eulogy. Bob stood beside the casket, but he didn’t speak. Didn’t trust himself to. His teammates joined him, to support and care for him.

He moved part-time back into the Watchtower after. The apartment felt like walking barefoot across broken glass. Her slippers still tucked by the bed. Her favorite mug on the windowsill. The book she never finished halfway open on the coffee table.

Mayhem was his shadow. Always following him around.

One week later, the now adolescent cat, knocked down a stack of books from the nightstand, batting them one by one onto the floor with feral delight.

Bob sighed, kneeling to pick them up.

"You won't give a day's truce, eh, you little devil?"

A small, battered book they have half read together, slipped out and landed face down. Inside, tucked between the pages, was a folded letter.

His name in her handwriting.

He sat there for a long time, hands shaking, just staring at the curve of each letter.

He opened it.

“Hi, Bob. Robby, my love, lover boy, sweetheart, my darling.

If you’re reading this, then I guess Mayhem finally completed her villain origin story and brought down a bookshelf. Good for her. I hope she didn’t eat the corners of this letter. She tried once. I saw her. I told her no. She blinked at me and did it anyway. Absolute chaos. She’s your cat now. Sorry.

Also—yeah, I left this where I knew she’d eventually find it. Figured if anyone could make you laugh on a day like this, it’d be her.

So… hi. Deep breath. You, not me. I’m—you know. Past breathing now.

I’m sorry. I wish I could’ve said goodbye better. I hope I held on long enough that you weren’t alone. I hope you weren’t scared. I hope it was peaceful. I hope you know I didn’t want to go—not from you. Not from this.

I’ve been thinking about this letter for a long time, and still… no words feel big enough. Not for what we had. Not for what you gave me. But I need to try, so here it goes.

I love you.

God, I love you.

I loved you in a way that terrified me. In a way that healed me. In a way that made me feel more alive than any scan or countdown ever could. You didn’t look at me like I was dying. You looked at me like I was still here. Like I was worth staying for.

You gave me more than comfort, Bob.

You gave me days.

Real days. Golden, messy, stubbled, kitten-clawed days. Days with tea and laughter and record players and forehead kisses. You gave me mornings I wanted to wake up for. Nights I didn’t want to end. You gave me time that felt like living, not waiting. Not surviving. Just being. And loving. And being loved.

You never ran. Not when it got hard. Not when I got scared or small or angry or hollowed out by the chemo. You stayed. You chose me, over and over, even when I couldn’t have blamed you for needing to look away.

Especially then.

If you’re hurting now—and I know you are—it’s only because it was real. Because we were. And I hate that I’m the reason your chest aches right now, but… if it means we got to have this? I wouldn’t change a thing. Not for more time. Not even forever could make me trade what I had with you.

But I need to ask you something. One last thing.

Stay.

Stay here. Stay soft. Stay kind. Stay messy and honest and you.

Don’t shut yourself down just because this ended. Don’t pull away from love just because it hurts. Let it in. Let it hurt. Let it heal.

You carry light and ache in equal measure, Bob, and the world needs people like you. The world needs you.

Broken and trying. Soft and brave. Still showing up.

Cry when you need to. Laugh when it surprises you. Keep stargazing from rooftops. Put honey in your tea. Dance in the kitchen. Let someone hold your hand someday. Let them see you.

And take care of Mayhem, please.

She’s a menace, but she loves you.

She’ll sleep on your chest again. You’ll wake up to claws in your ribs and fur in your mouth and know she’s watching over you in her gremlin little way. Feed her the expensive treats. Not too often. She’ll get ideas.

And when it gets too quiet—play the records I liked. Even the sappy ones.

Especially the sappy ones.

You were the last good thing I got to love.

The best part of my last chapter.

And if there’s more after this—for me, for you—I hope we find each other again.

I’ll be looking.

Thank you for loving me.

Thank you for letting me love you.

Thank you for making it all count.

I love you, my darling.

Always,

Yours.

Me

P.S. I love you. I love you.”

He laughed. It broke into a sob halfway out. He folded the letter against his heart and sobbed.

Something inside him cracked. And softened.

“Fucking hell…”

────୨ৎ────

Grieving was a funny thing. Unpredictable. Cruel. Soft. Sometimes it came in like a scream and other times like silence that wrapped around your throat.

But still—

He started showing up again.

It didn’t happen all at once. He didn’t wake up one morning and feel whole. But the ache didn’t stop him from moving, either. He just started.

First, it was the recovery center. Quiet mornings, soft hellos. He told stories now—not about gods or galaxies or things that shattered, but about people. About love that arrived like lightning and stayed like breath. About grief that cracked you open without warning. About the way someone’s laugh could still echo in your bones long after they were gone.

He never spoke her name to the group, but somehow everyone knew she existed.

He began visiting the oncology ward, too. Not for answers—he wasn’t that naïve anymore—but just to be. He brought warm things: fleece socks, old paperbacks, little packets of herbal tea she’d once loved. He didn’t try to fix anyone. He didn’t promise miracles. He sat by hospital beds, held hands when asked, and listened when silence was all there was to offer. Sometimes he’d hum under his breath. Sometimes he’d let them talk about the fear. Other times, they’d just breathe in tandem for a while.

Presence. That was enough.

He kept fostering kittens. More than he meant to. Sometimes naming them after her favorite old movies—one little tuxedo cat was dubbed “Ripley” and refused to sleep anywhere but on his back. Sometimes he let Mayhem decide. She was choosy, with opinions like firecrackers. If a kitten made it past her glare, it was a keeper.

He stayed in the apartment less. Too many ghosts in the shadows. Too many memories clinging to the mug she’d chipped, the blanket she’d wrapped around both of them, the spot on the floor where she’d once slow-danced him through tears.

Mayhem and Alpine struck an uneasy truce at the Watchtower. Alpine, regal and disdainful, ruled from the bookshelf with the air of a monarch. Mayhem, all teeth and chaos, played the part of court jester with far too much enthusiasm. They would never admit they liked each other. But more than once, Bob walked in to find them curled up together in a patch of sun, like the war between them had been forgotten for a few sacred hours.

And when it got too heavy—when the weight of her absence pressed in until he could barely breathe—he’d take out her letter. The paper was soft at the creases now, well-worn, well-loved. He knew every line by heart. Still, he’d read it again. Her voice rose in his mind like a tether, grounding him, keeping him from vanishing into the hollow places.

Stay, she had said.

So he did.

Some time passed. Weeks? Months? Grief made time slippery.

It was dusk when it happened—one of those golden, velvet evenings that stretched slow and soft. The light outside melted across the walls like spilled honey.

Bob sat cross-legged on the hardwood floor, sorting through a shoebox labeled with her name in his blocky handwriting. Mayhem snoozed on the back of the couch, curled into a comma of contentment, tail twitching in her sleep. Alpine lounged on the armrest like a sphinx, judging everything in the room with half-lidded eyes.

He pulled out a photo—creased in the corner, a little blurry. She was laughing, mid-sentence, Mayhem tucked under one arm like a wriggling gremlin. Her hair was a little messy, sunlight caught in the strands, her smile so full it hurt to look at.

He smiled back at her.

“You’d yell at me for keeping your cracked mug,” he murmured, brushing his thumb over the edge of the photo. “But I can’t toss it. Feels like tossing you.”

A soft chirp interrupted him. Mayhem stretched, yawned with drama, then launched herself like a missile under the table.

“Mayhem—don’t—don’t even think about chewing that cord—”

A crash. A thud. The wobble of something precious trying not to fall.

Bob groaned. “Mayhem, you diabolical little thing, the lights are on but no one’s home, huh?” He ducked under the table just in time to see her batting at a cable like it had personally insulted her. She blinked up at him, wide-eyed, unrepentant. “Hey—don’t bite me—”

He laughed. It broke out of him unguarded, warm and aching. “You’re a menace,” he said, scooping her up. She flailed briefly in protest before settling, purring like a tiny engine against his chest.

He stood there for a moment, arms around her, the photo still in his other hand. The light outside was soft, stained gold and blue. A plane passed overhead. Someone two floors down was playing a familiar song through their open window—one of hers. A quiet ache curled around his ribs, but it didn’t hollow him out this time. It held him.

He looked toward the window.

“Thank you,” he said softly.

Not to the cat.

To her.

Always to her.

Then he tucked the photo back into the box, flicked on the lights, and carried Mayhem into the kitchen.

It was time for dinner.

And he was still here. Still staying. Still loving.

Just like she asked.

He didn’t know the storm that was coming.

Didn’t know the name Victor Von Doom.

Didn’t know the sky would split again, and this time, it might take him too. Maybe, then, she would welcome him.

But for now—

There was light. There was a cat.There was dinner.

And there was still time.

Just enough. Almost.

So about that ending—I’m sorry? 😃

@sarcazzzum @cupid4prez @qardasngan @kmc1989 @trelaney

Ride or Die (Santiago "Pope" Garcia x fem!reader): Series Masterlist & Warnings

Posting schedule and Series Masterlist

This is a COMPLETED SERIES. All chapters are queued.

Chapter One: POSTED

Chapter Two: POSTED

Chapter Three: POSTED

Chapter Four: POSTED

Chapter Five: POSTED

Chapter Six: POSTED

Chapter Seven: POSTED

Chapter Eight: POSTED

Chapter Nine: POSTED

Chapter Ten: POSTED

Chapter Eleven: POSTED

BONUS content: PLAYLIST (TBC)

Series Warnings (below the cut):

To avoid chapter by chapter spoilers, this time I'm providing general, series-level warnings of the main themes covered throughout. This may also mean the list is non-exhaustive. If you need more information in order to safely avoid a trigger/topic, or to enhance your reading experience, you are welcome to DM me / send in an ask. Also, if you spot something I missed that you think should be included here to aid other readers, hmu!

Please note, the whole series is NSFW, MDNI (18+). Minors or ageless blogs interacting will be blocked.

Smut: EXPLICIT, CORE THEME e.g. fingering, unprotected sex, rough sex, casual sex with other non-pairing partners implied off-screen.

Angst: A CORE THEME. Relationship angst. A lot of arguing / yelling (not trying to romanticise this at all!). Some toxic jealousy. Conflicts with friends. Abandonment fears. As well as this central relationship conflict, side characters are dealing with individual issues, such as those referenced in canon (divorce, prior violence, drug misuse etc.). 

Drugs / alcohol mentions: reader participates in casual social drinking throughout, some heavier drinking in one chapter (party context). Smoking (one chapter). Brief mentions of drug use (cocaine).

Food mentions: casual, frequent. 

Mentions typical of canon / e.g. wartime, US army, bullet wounds, car crash, injury, fear of mortality, violence (no graphic descriptions).

Mental health: implied past trauma typical of canon. Brief mentions of nightmares, possible PTSD.

Reader descriptions: fem!AFAB reader. Uses she/her pronouns. Reader’s hair is described a couple of times as being e.g. “pulled”. No hair texture / colour / style / other details specified or implied. Reader has a family who appear in a couple of chapters (sister and nephews). No physical descriptions of them are supplied. Mentioned that reader grew up with her sister, though not specified whether biological / adoptive / found family.

Spanish language: reader understands / speaks Spanish, though not specified what her first language is (or isn’t). I have avoided lengthy Spanish translations / text as I am not a native speaker. Some Spanish language is included, limited to terms of endearment and the like. I am always happy to be corrected. I research, but some mistakes are likely.

Sexual health / pregnancy: mentions of reader using birth control, including mentions of emergency contraceptives / slip-ups. Not a core theme. 

Religion: mentions of Catholicism.

Other: contains significant Tom. It’s pre-canon, I’m so sorry. 

Superman desperately scanning the street during a fight to find the most morally acceptable car to throw at his opponent, knowing that not everybody has insurance, and loss of transportation can ruin a life -

A wave of incredible relief washes over him as he spots the hard geometric lines and silver paintless sheen of a Cybertruck.

“ncuti wanted to go it’s not Russell’s fault”

okay, so he wanted to leave and end his run, that’s not the fucking point. the point is instead of giving the first black queer doctor in history a monumental final arc to match the monumental performance you center white characters, white storylines, and blow a kiss to the side of the fandom that didn’t want ncuti in the first place.

you tucked your racist fans into bed with a story about a white boy getting everything he ever wanted and a nice rose colored glass of nostalgia in case they get thirsty. they don’t have to worry, there’s no black man hiding under the bed, he’s gone, they’re finally safe.

so no, it doesn’t matter if ncuti told rtd he was leaving two minutes after they wrapped, he deserved dignity and respect and that was not present.

Also something I’ve had on my mind for a while is the idea of Pope finding love while he’s in jail. Like maybe he gets into a fight with another inmate or guard and he’s sent to see the medic at the jail and she’s this super cute gal who’s just so nice and gentle with him and he can’t help but do something everytime he knows she’s gonna be working just so he can be taken to go see her. OMG sometimes I let my mind wander and add some more details to it and like imagine she was like his childhood neighbor that he had a crush on but moved away and now she’s like an emergency medicine PA or nurse and she only works at the jail like once a month for some extra cash while she’s trying to pay off student loans or something and he’d def make some sort of anonymous donation or something to pay off her school. Idk just a cute idea that I love for him.

this is such an incredible idea!!! childhood neighbor reader who used to patch up pope after he got roughed up by the bullies at school and then eventually tussles with his brothers and the jobs that smurf made them do. he would sneak out and meet you by your fence and maybe you had parents who did not want you talking with those cody boys and their crazy mom so you just patch him up using the light from the moon and the christmas lights your parents never took down. bring a flashlight incase it's really bad and you need to stitch him up. maybe he brings you tiny things from their jobs—a bracelet here and a pretty necklace there. and then you leave for school years later and it's like, of course, he always knew you were smart and he thinks you'll be a great nurse and maybe on your last day he comes to say goodbye at your fence and you tell him how he was your first patient and ..... sappy sad goodbye. maybe you come back for breaks but he's not there all the time and your parents downsize and move away or pass and you finish school and start working. maybe he hears from smurf about how that neighbor girl just graduated and he thinks it's a test, like if he does something and sends you flowers or goes to visit you smurf will know what he felt towards you and could use you against him and he definitely can't have that. at the very least he needs to protect you the way you helped him for so many years. so he doesn't do anything.

and you, well it's not easy making an honest living. folsom is very far from oceanside but maybe you live in between or maybe not. but there's extra money for those willing to work a weekend shift in the prison ward. it's just helping the doctor patch up and the guards never leave your sight so it's not really even that dangerous. so you do it every once in a while and maybe andrew hears whispers about the pretty nurse in the infirmary and maybe some jokes about hurting themselves to go have a look. but then he actually does get hurt, by accident, and has to go down there and it's just very. oh. it's you. it's always been you!!! still wearing the jewelry he gave you years and years ago. maybe while you're patching him you make a joke about how it's so much easier with light and how it's just like old times. and then maybe you go one step further and go visit him during your breaks like using his visitation hours. and maybe it goes on like that for a while and he tells you that you really shouldn't be doing this job because it's not safe and he doesn't want to tell you what he's heard but he really doesn't want you here. and you tell him you have a lot of loans and your parents didn't leave you much and you can't just leave but. you know what i bet he'd say he'll take care of it when he gets released if you'll just please stop working here. and maybe stupidly you listen because you've always believed and trusted him. just very. shows up on your doorstep a little bit after he's released with a letter saying your loans are paid off and asks if he can actually come inside now and just :-) im emotional

can’t pretend

pairing: Jack Abbot x resident!reader summary: He is puzzled with you first, then vexed, and he can’t understand his feelings. In an attempt to get to know you better (or maybe to get you out of his head), Abbot accidentally crosses the line. (or, alternatively: what if Jack met someone similar to him in many ways. traumatic past included)

warnings: <rivals> to friends to lovers, slow burn, mentions of blood and injuries / I’m hinting at the age gap but you can ignore it / some complicated feelings and a LOT of Jack’s thoughts (his poor therapist will need a raise); assault. ANGST. / words: 7K author’s note: this is my first fic for “The Pitt”. I binge-watched the show in 2 days and didn’t plan on writing anything but my inspiration decided otherwise. I’ve never had a beta reader in my life, please be kind. ♡

Early at dawn, the sky is just the right color — the darkness slowly dissipates, deep purple at the edges, black fading into blue. If he squints and looks above the roofs, he can pretend he’s looking at the ocean. He’s been toying with the idea for some time but it’s more of a dream, a comforting mirage: him getting a small house by the beach, waves crashing softly in the distance, clean blue water blending into the bright blue sky. He’d wake up to the sunrise, take lugs full of cooling salty air, walk in the sand that glistens under the foaming swash. He’d probably adopt a dog — someone to pass his days with, just so the silence doesn’t get too heavy, doesn’t weigh on him when he can’t sleep at night.

A passing car honks down the street, loud and sudden, and Jack flinches, opening his eyes. That’s when the perfect image always falls apart. He is afraid he will get lonely with just a dog and with nothing to do, he will be going up the walls, bored out of his mind. But he doesn’t know how not to be alone. And some days he wishes that he did.

The air in Pittsburgh doesn’t carry any scents at this morning hour, and Jack’s gaze wanders down to the tree leaves writhing in the wind. He absentmindedly rubs his wrists when he hears the door creaking behind him.

“You know, security is getting worried about you,” Robby chuckles, his steps slow. “I heard the guys making bets on how many times a week you’ll come here.”

“Says the man who likes to brood in my spot,” Jack huffs without looking at him.

“Me, brooding? No idea what you are talking about.”

Robby gets to the roof edge but stays behind the railing, leans on it and slowly stretches his arms. His tone lets empathy in when he speaks up:

“Tough night?”

The sky is overcast, a mush of white and grey clouds the blue barely peeks through, and Jack sighs as he turns away. “Remember you told me about the kid who OD’d on Xanax laced with fentanyl? The parents sat by his bed hoping he’d wake up by some miracle,” Robby only nods when Jack throws him a glance. “I’m dealing with one of those.”

They both lost patients before, and both know that it doesn’t get easier with time. You have to tuck your grief away to walk into the room with their loved ones, offer apologies that carry little meaning, take even more grief in because this isn’t about you and this loss is not for you to carry. But they do carry it — Robby memorizes lifeless faces, Jack never forgets the names of everyone he couldn’t save.

“Brain dead?”

“Yep,” Jack drawls, hands gripping the metal rails. “He’s got three sisters, and all three were begging me. And I stood there feeling absolutely useless.”

Robby watches as his friend’s knuckles turn white. “If you couldn’t do anything then there was nothing that could’ve been done. And I’m really sorry.”

If only words could bring people back from the dead, Jack thinks bitterly but doesn’t say it out loud. He doesn’t want to sour Robby’s mood. And he can’t help but notice — it used to bother him way more, it sometimes would eat him alive; now Jack is mostly numb.

“I’ll sleep it off,” he mumbles.

“Not staying for the welcoming party?”

It takes a few seconds for the reminder to pop up in Jack’s head: a new senior resident, today is her first day. After Collins took maternity leave, Robby spent hours on the phone, glasses pressed to the bridge of his nose as he flipped through the applications, always unsure, never satisfied. And then he got a call and drove across the city to another hospital to meet her in person — he came back beaming. Jack must’ve zoned out so he didn’t catch the details.

“Don’t think I have a very welcoming face.”

“Should’ve seen the guys she worked with. I thought her chief of surgery would literally fist-fight me after I offered her the job,” Robby cackles.

It stirs Jack’s curiosity a bit. “She’s that good?”

“I believe she is. Skilled, confident, haven’t heard a single bad thing about her,” and even though his voice is certain, Robby dithers, bringing a hand to the back of his neck.

“But... ? I sense a but coming.”

“No-no, she’s great, really, and I made up my mind. It’s just that… She comes off as quite stubborn, and I feel like she is used to flying solo,” his eyes dart to Jack. “Reminds me of someone I know,” a smile grazes his lips, an unvoiced comparison he can’t help but draw.

Jack doesn’t see it, his gaze set somewhere on the horizon. “We all have to be team players here, that’s how it works,” he says dismissively. “I’m sure she’ll learn.”

The streets are getting busy, filling with people talking, rushing, making endless calls — and with more honking and more sounds that all merge into one unpleasant noise. And Jack is getting really tired.

“I should go back. Don’t want anyone to scare her off,” Robby puts a hand on Jack’s shoulder, a friendly but firm grip. “I’d also rather not waste my time on scraping your frail body off the pavement. Let me walk you out.”

“Frail body? You are three years older, you bag of bones,” Jack quips, and they share a laugh, and it warms up his heart a little.

But the warmth fades as they get inside, into the weave of corridors, into the crowd of nurses and other doctors pacing, the lighting bright and harsh, the smell of antiseptics clinging to the walls like mold. And it is not as overwhelming as it’s tiresome; once he is out on the street, Jack takes a few deep breaths. It’s hardly a relief.

As he passes by the park, exhaustion already on his heels, he suddenly picks up a sound, something between a whine and a small woof. Jack looks around to find the source peeping out from behind the bushes — brown eyes, wet nose, grey fluffy ears, one marked with a white spot. When Jack takes a step closer, the stray puppy immediately runs off.

On his way home he gets some dog treats and throws them in his bag. He tries thinking of pet names but nothing comes to mind. And when he falls into his cold bed, thick curtains not letting any light reach him, he dreams of standing on a long road framed with grass, a murmuring of waves heard through the mist. But he can’t see the ocean.

It keeps raining, and they have to close the roof — “Merely a precaution, sir, we don’t want anyone to slip. I heard the weather is supposed to clear up in a few days,” one of the guards assures Jack. His mood these days is just as gloomy as the sky. But he’s a man of habit, so every time Jack wants to get out to the roof, he instead gets more cases, drinks more coffee, barely a few words squeezed in between that aren’t work-related.

At first, he only catches glimpses of you.

On the days when your shifts overlap, he sees you tearing along the hallways, your hair up and your face focused, removing gowns to quickly put on fresh ones, your hands either in gloves or carrying the charts. You don’t speak much, and very few times Jack gets to walk past you, he is slightly puzzled by this combination of quiet and fast-paced.

Your first week is nearing its end when Dana prompts Jack to make a proper introduction. She calls him uncooperative and calls for you herself when she sees you leaving trauma#1. You swiftly come by the nurses' station and glance up at the board — and then you finally face Jack, your gaze so piercing, it catches him off guard. He clears his throat and manages a greeting, a bit coolly.

“Nice to meet you, Dr. Abbot,” you tell him calmly, offering a hand. And you don’t look away, and your handshake is firmer than he would expect. The next thing you are holding is another chart, eyes following the lines of words and numbers as you step away, Whitaker barely keeping up.

“She is so fast, she’s almost flying. Beautiful,” Princess notes approvingly, and Perlah hums in agreement.

Their voices snap him back into reality, and Jack inhales sharply, only now realizing his gaze is still on you. He looks down, pretending he needs to fix his watch. “What is this, a fan club?”

“Aw, no need to be so jealous. You will always be our favorite old white doctor,” Princess teases.

Perlah gives her a side-eye. “I thought Dr. Robby was our favorite.”

“Well, yes. But I have a soft spot for men in existential crisis,” Princess winks at him.

Perlah rolls her eyes. “They are all in existential crisis.”

“And I wonder why,” Jack deadpans, then picks a case just so he’s got an excuse to leave. And maybe an excuse to pass by the room you’re in, your gloved hands already stained with crimson.

He starts watching you more often, an impulse he can’t necessarily explain.

He’s careful, he’s not staring, but his hazel eyes always pick you out from the crowd. He’s taking mental notes: you lean on doors with your right shoulder when you rush in, you scan the injured head to toe in every case, hands moving quickly in tandem with your gaze. You never raise your voice but you keep eye contact — with the interns when you give instructions and with the patients to make sure they understand what’s going on. You are efficient with your work-ups, you’re the first one to come in and you stay late to turn your patients over to the night shift. You are meticulous and disciplined in a way he finds relatable; in three weeks' time there’s a foundation laid for him to grow respectful. But sometimes Jack can’t stop the thought: he is yet to see your smile. He is also yet to see you slip up, and that is bound to happen because no doctor is without fault.

A month in, he thinks you finally come close to failure.

A patient is wheeled in on a gurney, gesticulating, red in the face from how displeased or pained he is (probably both); still, as you talk to him, he makes pauses to listen. There’s blood on his chest and his speech is slurring, and Jack’s gaze follows you. From where he’s standing, he can see you clearly, so he can’t help but glance up a few times from his computer screen. It’s all the same routine and it seems to be working smoothly — but when he takes another peek, he sees you frozen.

Jack instantly draws near, alert and observing through the glass: the man is intubated, his shirt cut and chest bared — and with a nail sticking right out of where his heart should be. The monitors go off as the blood pressure drops. When Whitaker makes eye contact with him, Jack takes that as an invitation to come in.

“What do we got here?”

Whitaker looks half worried, half relieved. “Um-m, 41 years old male, nail to the chest, intracardiac. Prepped for the thoracotomy. Cardio is tied up with another surgery, and it’s at least 15 more minutes until we can get an O.R.”

Jack knows the patient doesn’t have that long. His gaze flickers to you but you do not meet it, and he can’t tell what you are looking at. There is no time to guess — if you’ve never cracked into someone’s chest, he’ll gladly guide you. And his guidance is assertive, if a little cocky.

“It’s not every day that you get to do a thoracotomy. And it can be daunting — also, pretty risky if you ask me—”

“Then it’s a good thing I’m not asking,” you retort abruptly without even sparing him a glance.

And then you pick the scalpel and make the first incision, your hands steady and never hesitating, the confidence of a tsunami sweeping rocks away.

Jack has to take a step back because it would be childish to argue when someone’s life is hanging by a thread. And all his doubts are crushed before his very eyes the way ribs are under the pressure of a steel retractor you are holding, the metal sinking into flesh and blood to give you access to the heart. After the nail is out — long but intact, you deal with excess fluid and with the bleeding — and you are more nimble than he is, than he’s ever seen the other doctors be.

“Well, call me impressed,” Jack says earnestly.

The silence is a little awkward — a couple of seconds before you give reply: “Thank you, Dr. Abbot.”

He wonders if maybe his compliment might’ve come as patronizing. What he knows for sure is that you do not need his help. But when he backs away, he sees a glint out of the corner of his eye — dog tags left in the pile of the man’s belongings on the floor. Jack has the same tags hanging on a chain around his neck. He almost doesn’t feel the weight of them but the memories they bring are heavy — sometimes an image flashing through his mind, sometimes a nightmare stirring him awake. And mostly it’s the latter.

But today, as his shift goes on, he isn’t thinking of torn limbs and collapsing buildings and bombings that looked like firecrackers in the night. Those weren’t the reasons he kept going back — he never once craved violence, never really cared about the money. For him, it was the roar of the adrenaline and the belief that even amidst the death and ruins, he could make a change. He hasn’t felt that for a while: the rush, the determination, the power held in your hands when you are cutting into someone’s body, fixing the organs and sewing the skin together, bringing the life back in. He lacks that spark, he misses it, he wants to get it back. To prove to himself that he still can do that — or maybe not only to himself.

So now he isn’t watching you but studying, with a diligence of a man who once had to learn how to walk again.

He starts work earlier just so he can get more patients — but also to listen in on your case reports and trail your steps, peek into trauma rooms you run in and out of. He often finds himself holding back the questions: damn, how did you do that? How come you easily catch things others take so long to figure out? You take on complicated cases: a feeble woman who can’t hold her food down, her arms marked with a red rash; a young jogger who keeps fainting, short of breath; a man whose neck hurts, the pain radiating to his chest. And you examine them and pick the clues to solve the tangle of the symptoms — it’s Celiac disease, it’s kidney failure, it’s spondylodiscitis and you know exactly how to treat it. But Jack knows all these answers too. And even if they don’t click in his mind as quickly as they do in yours, it’s still a victory: he’s not as rusty as he thought he was, he is enjoying this. He can’t believe he almost let himself forget.

When he decides to try a day shift for a change, he’s met with Dana’s worried face, her wondering out loud if he feels okay. She then proceeds to ask the same question two more times, just to make sure.

“You on day shifts may be the thing that saves Robby from a heart attack, you know,” her face softens.

“Are you saying you guys get way more action than us night owls?”

Dana grins. “What, you are already reconsidering your choices?”

“Like hell I am,” one corner of his mouth hints at a smirk.

The day is busy, and he can barely catch a break, but it isn’t a chore: he’s equally enthusiastic about a road accident that left a guy with a skull fracture, an appendectomy, a stoned teenage with a knife stuck in his thigh, a street worker with a leg broken in two places. An hour before his shift ends, they get a lacrosse team of middle schoolers, and the staff shares an exasperated sigh; but not Jack. He fixes broken noses and split eyebrows and some nasty shoulder dislocations, then goes to talk to their coach — a woman in her fifties, robust and perhaps too loud with her scolding. But her blaring voice cracks as soon as the kids are out of her sight. At some point, Jack finds himself holding her hand in reassurance, and she jokes that she’d gladly marry him if only she didn’t have a wife. She also promises that all the kids' parents will give the hospital the highest ranking. And they do.

Jack clocks out when the sky is colored orange, the shadows bleeding on the pavement, and his limbs hum but this weariness is pleasant. He is content, he’s almost joyous — the almost comes from you having a day off. He got to work with so many people, why would your presence make a difference? Jack persuades himself it’s not the reason he takes a few more mornings.

But when he comes back the next time, and you’re already there, there is this weird feeling in his ribcage — a spill of heat, a flutter of his heart. He blames it on the caffeine. You stand with your eyes glued to the chart while Princess lets out a big yawn.

“If another lacrosse team comes in today, I might actually quit,” she laments.

“Send them my way,” you say with ease, without missing a beat.

“That’s ten people,” she punctuates, incredulous. “We got lucky they were just kids. Grown-up men who slam into each other while voluntarily chasing a ball scare me.”

“I’m not easily scared,” you carefully tap on the screen, scrolling through some case report, someone’s illnesses broken into signs and terms; but you do pay attention to what she’s saying. You glance up at the nurse, your voice kind: “If you ever need help, please don’t hesitate to ask.”

And then you look over your shoulder as if you can feel him watching — and it’s the same as the first time: your gaze startles him, like would a fire eruption or a ball lightning. But Jack’s greeting stays rooted in his mouth because Mateo sprints in:

“Hey, there’s something wrong with my patient’s veins, can someone take a look?”

And you are by his side and following him out of the hall in what feels like barely a second.

“I’m so grateful for you!” Princess calls after you. Then she spots Jack too, her face expression turning smug. “Oh, hello there, boss,” and she grins like she knows a secret Jack wasn’t let in on.

Turns out, Robby showed his gratitude by taking a sick leave, the first in three years (Jack would’ve sent him home himself if he heard Robby’s muffled coughing one more time). And it left Jack with way more shifts to cover. He readily gulps coffee from his to-go mug as he skims through the list of patients. The others join him soon: Mel smiles at everyone, the ever-optimistic one, Whitaker looks like hasn’t slept in months, and Santos teases him about something Jack doesn’t care to listen to. McKay is running late. Langton walks briskly to the nurses' station, taps on the tabletop right next to Jack.

“Ready to get back in the game?”

“I’ve been in the game for more years than you can count on your fingers,” Jack gives him a cold stare.

Frank sighs, his fingers drumming on the wooden surface, although he sounds barely concerned. “Love the positive attitude. Dr Robby surely won’t be missed.”

“As if you are such a pleasure to work with,” Dana cuts in, hands on her hips. “You guys should redirect that buzzing testosterone into your work. No one is getting paid for whining.”

“Preach,” Jack huffs as he steps away.

He stops himself from immediately going to check up on you. And twenty minutes later, he is glad that he did — you walk back, unruffled as you always are, Matteo tagging after you. His patient is an old lady with thrombocytopenia she probably ignored until it got too bad: there are bruises sprinkled on her arms and legs, a splotch of dried blood under her nose from how often it’s been bleeding. You gave her a platelet transfusion but you suspect it’s cancer; you order more blood tests and bring her a blanket before she even asks for it. Her eyes well up, voice shaking with heartfelt gratitude. And Jack has to remind himself that he can’t pick any favorites, he isn’t in it for the long run; but if he was to pick, it would’ve been an easy choice. And no one lags behind today — he’s got a well-coordinated team, like gears interlocking in a clock, the harmony built out of weeks of practice. They make jokes, share work stories and snacks; but every time Jack’s eyes get back to you, he can’t catch even a ghost of a smile.

He finds that you are very hard to read. And it unnerves him, maybe just a little.

He tries for his attempts to look brief and nonchalant — a kind word here and there, a quick approving look, a dry joke — and you offer nothing in return. As thorough as you are with diagnosing, you take no part in other conversations, you rarely take breaks or stand around. By the time the noon rolls in, Jack is fighting the urge to grab you by the shoulders: hey, take a seat and have something to eat. And tell me how can I cadge a laugh out of you, just one will be enough.

Dana waves a hand before his face, the phone up to her ear. “There’s been some gang fight at the North Side. Four victims coming in, two critical — one shot in the stomach, the other has his head smashed in. Don’t think they both will make it.”

Jack’s bet is on the first guy but it’s the head injury that’s fatal — the victim is pronounced dead, face so disfigured they’ll need a DNA test. Mel looks away in shock, and Santos frowns. Your stare is blank and unimpressed. You volunteer to take the third guy with a pelvic wound — he’s rambling incoherently, the tight bandage over his hip already soaked; you press your hand to it on the way to trauma. Jack leaves the worst case to himself.

“Who’s down for an ex-lap?”

“Can I run the bowel? I’ve never done it,” Santos asks, hopeful.

“Sure. Once we open the abdomen and remove the bullet, you can have your fun,” he offers, and she runs along with joy.

Although Jack can’t imagine a procedure less joyful. Yet, he is fueled by his new-found appreciation for his job so he walks her through the steps: identify the entry wound and cut in, look for the bleeding and what the bullet might’ve hit. It missed the liver by an inch; but to confirm the damage they need to evaluate the area by hand.

Perlah peeks into the room. “Is he stable?”

“Well, unless Dr. Santos gets too excited and makes a bow out of his intestines,” her hands stop, and Jack breathes out a chuckle. “I’m just joking, keep going. I’d say, his vitals do look promising.”

“Then you can keep him down here for a bit. We have a guy with a balloon in his aorta, he’s gotta go up first.”

Jack blinks at her once, twice, the meaning of her words settling in. “Did someone do a REBOA?”

“You bet she did. And it was awesome,” the nurse then scrunches her nose. “Apart from the amount of blood. And by the way, the fourth one only has a broken rib, so no miraculous procedures needed.”

He doesn’t find it funny and he can’t find the word for it: it’s something in between confusion and offence. As soon as Santos’s done with stitches, he strides out to find you.

His turmoil momentarily recedes when he sees one of the cubicle curtains stained, the deep red lurking through. Jack pulls at the material and barges in — and then he’s silenced at the sight. The area looks horrifying: bright streaks of blood left on the floor, the anesthesia trolley, the table with the instruments that you are now collecting, a few droplets smudged over your cheek. Before he’s even angry, there is another feeling — a thought, a pull: if only he could brush that splatter off your face, a few brief seconds for one briefest touch. Of course, he doesn’t.

Jack keeps his hands behind his back. “You didn’t think you should consult with anyone first before doing a damn REBOA?”

“Why would I?” your eyes are on the tools.

“Because it’s dangerous as hell and since I am the attending—”

“I do know protocol. But I also know how fast a human can bleed out. It was a truncal hemorrhage, and you were hands deep in someone’s abdomen. Was I supposed to wait?”

He wishes you were meaner, rougher, anything that would give him an excuse to snap. But you aren’t doing this to show off — your tone is measured and your reasoning is simple: a man was dying and you knew how to save him. Jack realizes it is the same logic he often uses. And he can’t tell what is it that bothers him so much. If Whitaker pulled off something like that, Jack would’ve chosen to commend him. The same goes for Santos, Javadi or King, for any other intern or resident that he can think of... Except, they would’ve asked for his opinion or his help. You didn’t even think to.

Well, Robby warned him you’d be stubborn.

“I want to be informed about any life-altering decisions. At least give me a heads-up so I am not blindsided when a nurse gushes over it in passing,” Jack insists, head tilted slightly so he can catch your gaze.

What he really wants is for you to look at him. You grant him that one wish.

“Will do,” you tell him simply.

But your eyes are still unreadable, a book written in a foreign language, a manuscript he doesn’t know how to decrypt.

And either out of incomprehension or rejection, his brain makes an assumption: maybe you believe that you are better, maybe you think the rules weren’t made for you. You never really gave him cause for rivalry — you are in your final year of residency, and Jack is put in charge. But you are so bluntly independent and reserved, his every try to understand you feels like leaping in the dark. Later that day he can’t help but glimpse into your file — there’s hardly anything of interest: you previously trained in a small clinic, in a nice neighborhood, your letters of recommendation all consist of praises.

What adds to his moroseness is that you fit really well with literally everybody else. Langdon tones down his sarcasm, listens to you like he only does to Robby. Santos discreetly brings you cases she needs advice on, McKay and Mel enjoy your company when you get a free minute. Whitaker seems to be your favorite although Jack isn’t sure why — he deems him soft and insecure; but Dennis does a better job under your guidance. On rare occasions when he’s got a day off, Javadi always takes his place.

Jack figures out everyone’s relationships by his fourth morning shift; he hasn’t gotten any closer to figuring you out. He’s fighting the grimace at how bitter his coffee is when Javadi pops out in the hall and you follow suit. He catches scraps of your conversation: something about a teen with a gashed forehead. Javadi rambles — until you ask her nonchalantly, unprompted. “You don’t like the sight of blood?”

“What? Oh no, it’s fine! I’m totally fine,” Victoria stumbles over the words, but her denial is too meek.

From how nervous she is, Jack guesses that she’s lying. He almost wants to laugh — before a thought comes to his mind: how come he never noticed her fear of blood?

“It’s just a little disturbing sometimes... But I only passed out, like, once or twice.”

“I used to be like that. Fainted many times during blood tests,” you tell her quietly while entering some data.

Jack is so caught in disbelief, he can’t help a glance in your direction. But your sincerity doesn’t seem feigned. Javadi gapes at you.

“And how did you... what did you do to overcome it?”

“I found myself in a situation where someone needed help and there was no one else around to help him,” you shrug. And Jack discerns the subtle reticence behind your tone.

It only spurs Javadi’s interest. “Was there a lot of blood? Like, a heavy bleeding, a deep wound?”

Your fingers freeze over the tablet screen, your facial profile not betraying your true feelings. But Jack swears he can see the tension crawling down your body. You don’t give the answer right away, you weigh the words carefully before you say them.

“A drug overdose, he still had a needle in his arm and I must’ve missed it. Took barely a minute of chest compressions for the needle to fly out across the room. It was a lot of blood to me.”

Javadi’s hopefulness grows dim. “Yeah, I don’t like needles too. I tried drawing blood a few times but the process kinda makes me nauseous, and I can’t force myself to —”

“It’s different when it’s someone you care about.”

Your comment slips out involuntarily — and immediately you look like you want to take it back. But you get it together and meet her eyes, your voice carrying just the right amount of firmness.

“Listen, I’m not suggesting you should torture your family members. But you may not always have attendings by your side or someone else to take your place in case you feel like fainting. If you fall, you can hurt your head, you can hurt a patient, you can disrupt a surgery when every minute counts. I think you have a good head on your shoulders, and I don’t want to downplay your efforts. But please, figure it out. Otherwise, you won’t make for a good surgeon.”

You reassure her you won’t tell anyone her secret. Javadi manages a small smile, a hushed “thank you”. It is a sweet moment, a heart-to-heart chat you bond over; it’s also three times more words than you’ve spoken to Jack in weeks.

But he accepts your silence — as a challenge.

Jack keeps an eye on you, now critical, resisting the gravitation that’s been attracting him to you. Although it’s hard to find the reasons to be hard on you. Whenever he has questions — or more so when he can come up with some, you give detailed replies, and he’s left with nothing to complain about. Your patient satisfaction score is high, you are never facile or reckless with your judgment; with how smart you are, you can give odds to many doctors, him included. And Jack knows he is older, with years of experience under his belt — but he can’t in good faith wish for anyone to go through the same things he did to gain the same knowledge.

On his second week of day shifts he is still clueless about what to make of you. And Jack tells himself that he is simply looking for a connection — except, all his attempts look like he is trying to pick a fight.

“This is a teaching hospital. You are supposed to teach them things,” he grumbles as he meets you outside the trauma room. You got a guy who came in spitting blood — post-tonsillectomy hemorrhage, and things went south pretty quickly. He started choking, crashed, his airways flooded with liquid; you had to intubate him blindly. Whitaker spent an hour by your side, his questions endless — to which you did give answers, barely ever breaking focus, but you only allowed him to use suction.

“He’ll learn plenty if he is attentive enough,” you say, throwing away the gown, trying to put some distance in between you.

Jack doesn’t like it, he keeps pace with you. “Whitaker needs more practice, as much as he can get. He’s not supposed to stand there like some deer who wandered into the yard.”

You whirl around, so fast that Jack comes to a stop when you are separated by merely an inch. And your gaze burns, like lava seeping through the mountain’s restrain.

“And I needed the patient not to die on the table,” you bite back, then breathe in — and then add more coolly. “Dennis will get his chance to shine.”

“And when exactly is that gonna happen?”

“That’s for me to decide,” you state, like you would do a fact that can’t be questioned. “Thank you for your input, Dr. Abbot, but I have to get back to work.”

You turn your back to him and leave him standing there, and Jack almost feels helpless. And that’s the feeling he can’t stand. It simmers in him, it must be the reason his cheeks suddenly feel hot.

Dana tsks as she comes near, her brows furrowed and face visibly concerned.

“You know how I’ve been calling Robby a sad boy? I’m gonna start calling you a pissy boy.”

“Not the worst thing I’ve been called,” he dismisses, a humorless escape attempt. But her fingers grab at his elbow, and he pauses with an annoyed exhale.

“I’ve been watching you hammering away at her for days,” Dana makes sure to lower her voice. “If she was a student, I’d maybe let it slide, but she is a resident, a senior one. And nothing I am seeing suggests she isn’t doing well.”

His eyes dart to her hand; then he glares stubbornly at her. She looks unfazed.

“Jack, you will take it too far one day — and you will regret it,” Dana tries to reason. “She is a good kid and she’s really good at her job. Just let her be.”

“Thank you for your input, Evans. I’d prefer to get back to work,” he frees his arm, and she allows it. But Jack can feel her worried gaze as he walks away.

He doesn’t come home until the twilight hugs the sky, until he feels like he’ll pass out on the next step. Jack wastes hours on attempts to wear himself out: he walks the entire park three times, peeping about in case the puppy comes again. It doesn’t. He stops by the bar he hasn’t been to in a few weeks, orders a beer and sips on it, his musings soon drowned out by the blasting music. The alcohol tastes weird, and the bass guitar gives him a pounding headache. He takes a walk instead of taking a bus home, two miles on foot in hopes he falls asleep as soon as his head hits the pillow.

But the thought of you cuts into his mind as easily as a nail does into a human body, and it stays there, vexing and robbing him of whatever little peace he’s had.

He barely gets any sleep.

And his nights are dreamless.

It’s just another Friday, and these bring in a lot of drunks — from parties and family gatherings, from business meetings that ran late and tense until someone reached for whiskey. Jack stays behind for paperwork, a tedious pastime that keeps him pinned to an uncomfortable chair. He briefly takes eyes off the screen, stretching his neck — and then a noise catches his attention. It’s someone talking in a raised voice, someone who sounds too wasted to be reasoned with. Which sounds like a problem.

Jack finds the source with ease — the nurses all glance in the direction of the trauma room, and in support of their agitation Mateo all but flies out, his face hardened at the edges. Jack gets up and gets closer, his ears open and eyes watchful.

“Should we call security?” Dana asks warily.

Mateo brushes the suggestion off. “No, it’s fine,” — but it sounds like it’s not. “I just need a short break.”

“What’s wrong?” Jack interrupts.

And it isn’t a question but a demand for explanation Mateo can’t reject. He lets out a tired sigh.

“The guy got drunk and couldn’t hold his liquor, some passersby saw him sprawled out in an alley and called the ambulance. Came in with a nasty arm fracture. He’ll live though,” Mateo looks back at the room with obvious disdain. “Unfortunately.”

Jack promptly moves forward. “I will deal with it.”

“Hold on, Rambo,” Dana interjects. And she keeps her eyes on him while she talks to Mateo. “Did he get physical?”

“Nah, he’s too inebriated. Keeps trying to get up from the gurney but mostly he’s all talk.”

More can be heard from where they are standing — it’s some drunken yelling, a disarticulated chain of curse words. And then they hear something break, a dull sound of an object hitting a wall.

In a few seconds comes another one.

“I can’t just let him trash all of our equipment,” Jack gives Dana a pointed look.

She clucks her tongue at his persistence. “It’s not the equipment that I fear for.”

“Rest assured, Evans, I won’t give him another arm fracture.”

“I didn’t think you would, but now that you suggested it so easily—”

“Finally someone decided to take action instead of all this talking,” Perlah remarks, her gaze isn’t on either one of them. And Jack turns to follow it just in time to catch you running right into the room.

His heart falls. Why the hell are you even still here?

And it’s barely three heartbeats before a realization strikes: you can’t go there alone. He can’t let you.

Jack bolts to you without waiting for anyone’s permission. He comes in just in time to see you dodge the trolley the patient pushed at you — it slams into the wall and rolls over, the instruments scattering loudly across the floor. You don’t seem scared, but you are all tensed up, gaze fixed on the guy who’s screaming his lungs out.

“You won’t trick me! I won’t let you experiment on me!”

And you don’t look away once but you must’ve noticed Jack; your voice comes out low. “I think he’s having an episode. He needs benzodiazepines but I can’t get close to administer them.”

“And you should not,” Jack retorts, eyeing the guy with discontent. “You absolutely shouldn’t deal with him on your own. Not when he’s flapping around and yelling like a fucking psycho.”

“Silently watching him wreck the room didn’t seem like a good tactic either.”

In an instant Jack’s gaze is drawn to you, pulse racing as he is struggling to bite down his emotions: why would you put yourself in danger, why can’t you ever back down, why can’t he stay away? And unexpectedly you look at him, and your gaze isn’t a puzzle or a dare but an explanation: you can’t be mad at me for the thing you would’ve done yourself. I know you would have.

The room goes quiet but only for a moment — before another cry comes, and the patient lunges straight at you. Jack’s eye catches the movement, and at the very last second, he moves to stand in the guy’s way.

The drunkard crashes into him, hands swatting at the air, too uncoordinated to land a proper punch. And then all of a sudden he headbutts Jack. The pain is sharp, shooting toward his nose, but Jack manages to stay upright. He can’t see you stopping cold or the security approaching in a hurry and in worry.

Because Jack is only seeing red.

He breathes in through the mouth and grabs the man with both hands, rough and unflinching. Jack pushes him back to the gurney, then throws him on it, face flat against the pillow; his angry cries tone down to weak whimpers.

“Shut the fuck up. Stop moving,” Jack hisses into his ear.

He can taste the blood that oozed down to his lips and he can hear the sound of footsteps in the room. But he doesn’t let go.

Jack feels a hand on his shoulder — he turns to see one of the guards, Ahmad. “Man, let us handle this. C’mon, step away.”

Begrudgingly, Jack does. Ahmad quickly takes his place, he and two other guards strapping the patient down; Mateo wriggles in the middle to sedate the guy. He dozes off, a dark purple bruise already blooming on his forehead, drool at the corner of his mouth.

You are still standing at the exact same spot, but then your eyes land on Jack’s blooded nose, and you immediately fall out of the stupor. You rummage through the nearest drawer and get a few clean cloths, then call for Dana to bring an ice pack. The guards leave but Mateo hangs back; he pulls up a chair for Jack to sit on.

“Are you okay? Any headache or dizziness or—”

“I’m fine, no need to coddle me,” Jack waves off his concerns crankily. Mateo looks at you for some support.

“He needs a head CT,” you say, gaze glued to Jack. “Ask the radiology if they can squeeze him in.”

Mateo nods and takes off with no other questions asked. The silence is now laced with tension, and while Jack’s pain gradually subsides, his anger doesn’t. He’s not the one for chit-chats, and it’s not a 'thank you' that he wants — but an admission: he was right, and you were careless, and maybe this is the one time you can agree with him.

You lean over wordlessly and wipe the dried-up blood, pushing his head back to examine his nose. Your touch is light, fleeting, but his skin heats up under your hands. You take a penlight to check for septal hematoma; then your thumbs move from his cheekbones to his nostrils. Jack doesn’t wince or look away, eyes dark and boring into you, unblinking. You put a finger to his nose and move it slowly from side to side, watching closely as his gaze follows it.

And then you pull away, and something cracks in him, a line formed on the ocean floor after it’s shaken by an earthquake, a force that pushes waves to crash onto the shore. And all his feelings surge up, unstoppable like a tsunami.

You look for more cloths, and only with your back to him, you finally decide to speak:

“Doesn’t look like a fracture but—”

“Are you out of your mind?!” Jack bursts out, the stridency of his voice barely contained.

Your hands flinch at the sound. Jack misses it or maybe chooses to ignore it, too adamant in his displeasure, too wrapped up in it.

“Do you realize how dangerous it was for you to go here alone? What could’ve happened to you if security came late? Or do you just assume it’s not a big deal if you get hurt? Can you for at least a second consider the consequences of your relentlessness, can you imagine how dire they might be? And what it’s like for someone else to throw themselves between danger and you?”

But then you turn to him, and his tirade breaks off, the anger ebbing instantly as he sees your face expression.

It would be easy to assume he must’ve hit a nerve. Except, it looks way worse than that.

Your gaze is swept with pain, eyes wide and bright with tears you are holding back. An inhale quivers at your lips, chest heaving like you are scarcely managing to curb your feelings. Like there’s been a wall you’ve built meticulously over the years, and he didn’t just put a crack in it — no, he tore it down completely, drove through it with a bulldozer, only a mess of rubble left behind. And he knows that’s not something an apology will fix.

Jack feels the guilt already swirling in his chest as he sits straighter, eyes not leaving yours.

“Listen, I didn’t—”

“I heard you loud and clear, Dr. Abbot,” your voice is lacerating, a blade you’ve armed yourself with, steel that cuts him deep. “If my company displeases you so much, I will make sure to limit our interactions. Apologies for any inconvenience.”

You turn away, and when he sees you wipe your cheeks with one quick motion, Jack knows he is the only one to blame. But you don’t let him see your tears nor do you wait for him to talk again. You rush out of the doors, and the words he catches aren’t meant for him:

“Dana, please help Dr. Abbot with the ice pack.”

He hears her coming in and he’s almost ashamed to look — Dana meets his gaze with arms crossed over her chest, shaking her head in disapproval. She doesn’t say a thing and puts ice on his nose with a face that looks like she would rather punch him. Jack doesn’t even try to come up with excuses — he knows that he has none.

He fails to find you after the shift ends: you must’ve sneaked out to avoid him, and he can’t say that he’s surprised. Jack walks home in the rain, not bothering to open the umbrella, the street lights drowning in the puddles underfoot, the wind biting his wet face. He can barely feel it. And in the privacy of his apartment — a cold, half-empty space, walls void of any color — a thought that has been lurking in his mind finally takes shape:

Jack loathes being alone.

And he messed up so badly.

🎵 the title is a quote from Tom Odell’s “Can’t pretend” (the song is just so Jack-coded to me! highly recommend you give it a listen. the small part from 1:29 to 1:49 gives me heart palpitations and is very fitting for this chapter lol).

by “rivals” I meant it’s all in Jack’s head, he’s silly like that 😩 you’ll learn about the reader’s past in the next chapter!

I didn’t specify how big the age gap is exactly. google search told me you get into residency when you are in your 30s, and Abbot is def over 40. but some like to imagine the reader younger, so I didn’t want to ruin that for you.

there are definitely some medical inaccuracies (pretty sure ex-lap isn’t performed in the ER) but I am begging you to ignore that.

dividers by me & plum98.

» I plan on writing 3 parts in total (a prayer circle for my inspiration to stay with me, PLEASE). of course, there will be smut... they just have to learn how to talk to each other first. » read on AO3 » English is not my first language, so feel free to message me if you spot any major mistakes. reblogs and comments are very appreciated! tell me if you want to be tagged ♡

We all know what erectile dysfunction is but literally no one is ever taught what vaginismus is and it can cause people to feel extremely lost, broken, and cause people to take their own lives. Raise. Awareness.

WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS

WHO IS USING THIS

AN APP??? THEY HAVE A FUNCTIONING WEBSITE

THE LAST FUNCTIONING WEBSITE

Yall... i know its nice to use gifs on your fanfics, but if youre not using the gif extension that is provided by tumblr, maybe please mention/credit the user who made the gifs? Like i dont mind people using my gifs but i HATE when people repost them without asking or giving any credit.

And you know whats worse? When other people use the gif extension, and my gif appears, but its from the user who reposted my gif...

So please, for the love of god.... Credit. The. Gif. Maker.

I am tired fam...

just yes. yes to everything about this

by the grit of sandpaper {first impressions}

Pairing: Jackson! Joel Miller x Patrol Partner! Reader

Summary: The town is in a tizzy as Joel Miller returns and you finally meet the man everyone is gossiping about.

Word Count: 2.3k

Warnings: canon typical violence, canon typical language, joel a little mean in this, patrol partnership, use of guns, one infected encounter, lots of feelings, angst, hurt and comfort, mentions of blood (brief), reader has a commonly used nickname but no assigned name, reader has anxiety, reader has a stutter, reader gets overwhelmed, lemme know if i missed anything! SET BRIEFLY BEFORE THE FIRST CHAPTER

A/N: jackson joel holds my entire heart. so here's this little thing that's been in my drafts for some time now. it was nice to write for these two again ♡

ao3 link || series masterlist || navigation || ko-fi

It was silent, the only hint of your whereabouts was the clop clop clop of hooves on the hard ground outside the settlement walls. It was the perimeter patrol, your normal route. But what wasn’t normal was the broad man sitting astride a horse beside you. The first time you and him are beyond the walls together and you’d be the first to say it’s completely out of your comfort zone.

He was intimidating, to say the least. He had rolled into town one day last year, in the middle of winter with a snarky, lively teenage girl in tow. Tommy had come to you that evening, confiding in you that it was his brother, the one Maria had been worried about keeping in contact with. Having known Maria longer than him, you trusted her judgement at the time. Even if you and Tommy were friendly enough on your own, the rapport built over time. But the confliction of Tommy saying to you that his silence worried his brother to the point of trekking across the country for a glimpse of him admittedly softened your heart for both men.

Your heart had stuttered through the entire first exchange you had with the man. He had been short, like he wasn’t sure how to interact with people anymore. The rumors flying about him returning with a more subdued Ellie half shielded behind him. Whispered words of the things he had done before his time here and how it had been a long debate on what his contributions would be from the council.

It was a quiet morning, you were sitting in the mess hall after a particularly hectic shift. Something had gotten into the supplies the night before, dwindling down the stock enough to affect the meal plan you had drawn up for this week’s menu. But you had managed to get enough breakfast stuff made for those who relied on the mess hall for their meals. Sighing, you settled at a small table underneath a window in the kitchen, coffee steaming from a mug in front of you as you looked over the list of remaining supplies and tried to adjust your plan until the next batch.

“Joel, I wanted to formally introduce you to someone.” Tommy’s voice was…different as it flowed through the open space. Was he…nervous? His normally calm voice edged with a twang was a little higher pitched than normal. “Now, I want you to just keep an open mind, yeah?”

“Mind’s open.” A gruff voice that was similar in accent, but it was one you’ve never heard this close before.

“Honey?” Tommy’s voice projected as his eyes roved over the empty mess hall, over the chairs and cleaned tables until they landed on you bent over your notebook and an outline of the community garden. There was also a map of the town taking up the rest of the table, the walls outlined in a thick red marker and you were outlining sections in green and yellow. Tommy’s furrowed brow relaxing when he came up to the empty side and faced you head on, but not by much. “I wanted you to meet my brother. Would you prefer-“

“Oh! Olive is okay, you know that Tommy.” You don’t look up from the line you’re making on the larger map, but once you cap the marker and look up, your eyes widen just a bit at the image of the two brothers standing beside each other.

“Just wanted to make sure, the nickname is kinda my thing. Not that your actual name isn’t just as pretty as you are.” Lips quirked, he winked at you. His light-hearted teasing and harmless flirting nothing new for you, but Joel didn’t seem amused with the casual air between you both. His mouth was a firm line and the tension in his shoulders put you on edge- he looked ready to storm off.

“You’re married, aren’t you?” Before Tommy could turn around to motion to him, the man doubled down, letting you both know where his thoughts were. “With a baby on the way.”

“It’s har-harmmless, I swear. I wouldn’t even think of doing an-anything to interfere with him and Maria, they make the most darling couple!” You defended, feeling heat bloom in your chest at the insinuation there was anything more than friendship between you and Tommy. Maria was your friend and you wouldn’t dare betray her or anyone like that.

“Joel, this is Olive. My friend.” Tommy emphasized, your heart fluttering at the label. You knew you were friendly with both him and Maria, but to hear it said so plainly made you happy in a way that was bittersweet.  Like a stone in your middle, both filling and overwhelming.

“You do this everyday?” Joel’s hand waved over the maps. “What exactly is this?”

“O-oh, I’m outlining possible crop locations. I help out here in the kitchen and garden, b-but I al-also-“

“You patrol?” His words stung, like he didn’t believe for a second that you were capable, that you had the know how to properly pull your weight for the town. And he just got here. Shame and guilt flare, making you duck your head and begin to gather up everything sprawled over the table top.

“Menial work.” He states clearly, eyes clocking the book on plants you have stacked beside your notebook. It sounds like a judgement, like he’s reminding you that it’s all you’re worthy of doing, even if you’re just meeting him for the first time. His thoughts are already so aligned with the rest of the town, it’s obvious how useless you are- even to a complete stranger. “Seems more your speed.”

“E-everyday I’m not on patrol, yes.”

“’s a lotta work.”

“It is, but it’s where I’m needed so-so, um, I don’t mind.”

“Hmm.” It doesn’t sound like he likes the thought of you out beyond the gate, like he can’t see the reason for it if you’ve got the knowledge for the crops. As you get everything shoved into your bag, you hear Tommy say Joel’s name like a warning. But you walk away from them both while they seem to silently communicate with a shared hard look.

The memory hurts, no more words spoken between you two. His eyes moved down the paper you handed him with the information he needed- the patrol rotation, the walkie system that was still being worked out and not completely reliable yet as there weren’t enough for everyone, the check points, the horses that were available and the ones that weren’t. It was better than stumbling through explaining it to him out loud, even if he might already know the general ropes of the task at hand.

You were cautious, slightly paranoid, but definitely just wanted to help. Written words were better, despite the risk of someone getting their hands on it. Your stutter getting worse the more you shut yourself into your home and the kitchen, the gardens, kept to yourself. And he made you nervous, to be honest- it felt like he didn’t like you but you knew realistically that you probably weren’t even on his radar and in his thoughts.

They had settled on patrol and aiding Tommy and the handful of people with construction knowledge to help repair and build the town. Something the man had leaned into, taking on any projects he could to earn his keep. It was admirable, the way he devoted himself to the preservation and expansion of the settlement. His skills seemingly endless as he outlined new buildings, repaired damaged ones, mended leaking or broken pipelines and so much more while acclimating not only himself but Ellie to the new environment.

“You can relax a little, Mr. Miller, I’m not going to ask you any questions.” You internally commended yourself for not stuttering as you tried to console the brooding man just behind you. The horses were quiet, their heavy breathing and the hush of the leaves against their legs the only sounds between you since the gates closed behind you both.

“Ain’t no mister.”

“Okay…well rest assured I’m not going to force small talk if you don’t want it.” You aimed a small smile at him from your own horse, a beautiful appaloosa named Lowry, not wanting him to wait with bated breath for the questions you wouldn’t be bothering him with. He dealt with that from the rest of the town as he settled in and found his place among them. He had done his patrols with Tommy until this point. A handful of them, but Maria was nearing the end of her pregnancy and Tommy had approached you about becoming his partner until things calmed down.

“Jus’ want to focus on the task at hand, no need for talk when we should be surveying the land.”

“O-okay.”

You feel his eyes on you, heavy and hard. But you do your best to ignore it as you take point and gently lead your horse through the trail hidden in the trees. You reach to tug your wide brimmed hat lower, over the back of your head, tilting it to keep your eyesight clear. That’s when you hear it, a faint sound that had nothing to do with the nature surrounding you. A strangled voice.

He doesn’t seem to catch the echo of the sound off to your right. You hold up a hand, palm closed signaling him to stop just as you pull on the reigns in your hand to do the same. A flash of faint orange between the green foliage has you quietly slinging your shotgun around to your front.

Before either of you could take a full breath, you’re lining up your shot gun and firing it. The screech of an Infected echoes all around, the horrifying sound bouncing off of the thick bark of every tree. The horses stop their hooves, and you pat a comforting hand over Lowry’s neck as you strain your ears for any other signs of life.

When there’s no more movement, you reset your gun and sling it back over your shoulder. His eyes are heavy on you and you swear you can sense his distaste for your actions. The lack of communication you exhibited. You dare a glance back at him and he’s frowning, his brow furrowed. The twitch of his jaw is enough to have you turn forward again, clicking your tongue to get Lowry to continue on the path.

He doesn’t say anything, either positive or negative. As if he’s stewing in his thoughts. You’re on high alert, focused as you both guide your horses through the rest of the trail. The sun beats down on you both, oppressive in the way it’s starting to become hot as the day progresses, taking you closer to the summer season with each hour.

“I can tell Tommy to put you with someone else.” The words are flat, polite despite the way your chest aches and your jaw aches from clenching the entire ride back. The horses are back in their stables and you both step back out into the sunshine. His boots plant firmly, and he turns to you with a frown.

“Why would you do that?” He seems…taken aback by your words. Well, what little his brows raise makes it seem so.

“Because you don’t trust me, a-and, and that’s okay.” You don’t look at him, you can’t. You don’t want to see the distrust that is surely there. For acting without proper communication, for giving him the paper rather than talking over the protocols, for…being the one he was stuck with when he obviously doesn’t think you’re suitable for the task.

“Don’t wanna patrol with someone else.” Your head flies up and his eyes connect with yours. He’s standing in front of you now, directly but not blocking. Your breath catches in your throat as your own flicker between both of his, searching. They haven’t softened, there’s something behind them, but it strikes you still all the same. Because you don’t know him.

“Mr. Miller, you obviously have a problem with…me. With my skills. So it’s okay, no hard feelings.” You dip your gaze as you feel heat build up behind your cheeks, at the back of your neck. Nerves lighting up and making your fingers tingle as you feel exposed.

“Hey,” His hand reaches for you and you step back quickly, heart racing. He raises them both in front of him, palms open in a signal that he realizes the mistake of going to touch you. “Okay, okay. Not gonna- not gonna hurt you, I swear.”

“Tommy can find someone better suited for you.” Vision tunneling, you know you’re overwhelmed. A flash of memories swarm you- blood splatter, a deafening gunshot, the weight of a body going slack in your arms. The loss hits you all over again, like slamming into a wall and you swear your lungs aren’t capable of working anymore.

“You suit me just fine.” And oh, his voice is so soft. It’s like a flip is switched when his face focuses through the haze of emotions and suddenly you can breathe again. He’s crouched down a little, his palms over your shoulders and he’s looking at you like he knows exactly what just happened. He urges you to breathe along with him as he inhales deeply, holds it, and then slowly lets it out. You match him a few times before your body feels like your own again. “I trust you, you heard that stalker before I even knew it was on our tail.”

The smile he offers you is a little firm, but it means so much more than he can ever know.

“Now let’s go sign out of patrol, put down the trail was cleared. That’s the final step on your list, right?”

chapter one

taglist: @mari-positas @morning-star-joy @sawymredfox @pascalpvnk

@littlemisspascal @merz-8 @orcasoul @sabmat @dreamingofleon @keylimebeag

@picassopedro @tuquoquebrute @alejaa-a @jessthebaker @joeloverture

@joelscruff @swiftispunk @tightjeansjavi @undercoverpena @corazondebeskar

@honeyedmiller @novas-dreamworld @slugz-writes-shit @hiroikegawa @dugiioh

@persephone-girl @furiousmushroom @copperhalfcent @lizlil @hiddenbabynyc

@part2joelmiller @formulafun @noisynightmarepoetry @sofiparallel

@blueberrylemon7 @maryrhodalouandted @joelsdagger @fluff-lover

@communism-bitches @slugz-writes-shit @mosssbawls @vie-is-punk

@ohhellotherebumblebee @koshkaj-blog @amyispxnk @wand-erer5 @jessthebaker

omg this is excellent

From Each According to Their Ability

Jackson!Joel x gn!reader

Masterlists being updating under the new renovation. I went from romanarose to cosmickid-inmotion!!! I have to fix everything up before I add masterlists etc

Summary: You're fully deaf, and you're begining to feel frustrated with not being seen as a productive human with your own capabilities.

Warnings: Covert ablism. Nothing extreme but just to be fair. Reader lost their hearing in a explosion. Mention of meth. That's it i think, lmk if I missed anything!

Disability Visability event OPEN THROUGH THE END OF MAY!

A note on disability and employment after the fic.

Based on an ask I got by @goodbyetothenight! Back in October I said i was done writing Joel due to constant abuse from the fandom. However, in the spirit of an inclusive enviorment for people of all kinds I decided to write this piece. I took a intro to disability class where one of my big projects was on disability and employment, and i have a good friend who used to do dead/HOH advocacy so I feel pretty comfortable with this subject. As many of you know, for a long time i suffered hearing loss due to what i know know was a mass in my ear. I got it removed and hear much better now, but it was bad enough it caused problems for me. Still, if I said anything offensive please let me know!!

Dividers by @bernardsbendystraws

1.7k words

(I changed it to gn reader so if theres accidentally anything indicating gender other than the 50s housewife joke which i think works either way, lmk!!)

To each according to their need, from each according to their ability.

That was the communist manifesto, wasn’t it? Honestly you don't remember anymore, college was so long ago, and you’d have enough brain trauma. Of course your memory wasn’t what it once was. 

What you did remember was Maria saying, “Everyone has their place”

The accident was how they’d found you; how Joel had found you, actually. No, you weren’t making meth in Wyoming after the world had gone to shit, but you might have been known to… do some trade running is all. Imagine your surprise when you came to a supplier, were having a chat, when his entire lab blew up… and all the explosives he’d stored in the next room. 

You laid there in the rubble, making peace with your ending when and angel appeared in flannel.

You didn’t hear a word he’d said, the ringing in your ears far too loud, but after he’d taken the parts of the house that’d fallen on you and shortly before passing out, you were certain you could read his lips.

I got you.

You had lost all your hearing. This made you hesitant to join the community Joel had brought you too, but what choice did you have now? Maria, in conversing through writing, had assured you that there would be work for you and you’d be provided for in return.

“Not everyone does patrol.”

But you couldn’t do a whole lot you used to do either. Anything that involved needing to be very aware of surroundings was a no. No construction, for obvious reasons. None of the farm work: if there was a clicker or a siren went off, what if you were too far out and no one got you? No teaching, the kids, no large animals, not even cooking because you couldn’t hear when someone said ‘behind!’ or ‘sharp knife!’ or ‘oven open!’

Yeah, you did work. You did a lot of sewing, mostly. Sometimes you could watch the young children in the nursery, just not alone. You did what you could but sometimes you felt useless. It’d been a year now, and you struggled to feel yourself all the time. The world kinda being over meant not much for options like hearing aids, but your deafness was so profound you weren’t sure anything could have fixed it.

Sign language wasn’t happening. You’d learned some things because some people in Jackson knew a little but there was no one really an expert. Besides, at this point it was hard to learn something new. You counted your blessings. You could read lips pretty well, and you could talk, so most communication face to face was fine… unless people were weird.

Maria and her husband, Tommy, were nice and acted normal. They invited you over quite a bit and always spoke clearly, so you could read. Not that thing a lot of people did where they spoke slowly or over-enunciated. That didn’t help anything. The over enunciating was almost worse than the mumbling, but often the mumbling was mixed with people who wouldn’t even look at you.

Ellie was awkward sometimes but honestly, that was just Ellie. Jesse spoke like a boy scout and was overly formal, but you were pretty sure he was just like that too. He enunciated.

But then there was Joel. Your Joel, as he came to be over the months you’d been here in Jackson. Joel took such care to speak clearly, but also let his personality shine, that smile you loved to see. The teeth so close to perfect, you’d known before you ever explored his mouth he had to have a wire retainer on the back of his teeth. The night it all exploded and he closed the gap between you, you’d slipped your tongue behind the bone and felt the wiring yourself. 

It wasn’t long before you’d moved into Joel’s house, opting to free up a new house for the people kept fleeing to Jackson and finding comfort in the safety of him. You weren’t scared of existing in a house, no, not at all. But there were times you worried you wouldn’t hear a siren or a warning call. Now, even though you would be home alone for hours you knew that there were people that would come for you. Joel would know where you were. Joel would find you.

He always made sure to come from the side or the front where you could see him. Since you couldn’t hear when he came home, sometimes he caught you off guard, but after a few jumpscares living together Joel learned how to enter your vision without giving you damn near a heart attack. Ellie hadn’t quite learned the skill, but she was trying.

Joel’s deep green flannel peaked the corner of your eye as you sewed, and when you looked up, he came into vision. When you can clearly see his face, Joel grins at you. Maria said she’s never seen Joel this happy.

“Hey darl’n,” Joel always tried to stifle the accent to make things easier to lip-read, but it came out in certain words. “How was the day?”

You put down the sewing in a huff, pouting up at him. “I’m tired of this. I want to be useful.”

Concern seeped into his aging face, those two deep lines between his brows coming out to say hello. “What do you mean?” Joel came to sit on the couch with you, and you two turned to face each other.

“I mean, I’m useless, Joel. It’s frustrating! I used to be feared, did you know that? No Tony Soprano or anything, but my god people knew my name some places. I was taken seriously. And now?” You hold up what you were working on. “I’m fixing Eugene’s jeans. His You-jeans, if you will.”

Joel was clearly trying to stifle his smile at your joke, unsure of what tone you needed. “Baby,” He gets out through a laugh. “I promise, you’re valued here. Everyone has a role to play.”

“And mine is nothing better than a 50’s housewife. And I don’t even get to be high and balls on valium while I do it.”

Joel sighed, thinking. “If I could get you valium, I would.”

“I know.”

“Used to be able to. I ever tell you I ran drugs?”

Your ears perk up at that. “Before?”

His eyes go wide. “No, no not… not while I had Sarah. That was Tommy’s scene, if I’m being honest. I mean in Boston. I was a big tough guy, running underground trades. Anyone that crossed me got fucked up. People feared me too.”

It was hard to imagine your sweet old man a fear drug runner… but everyone had a second life before Jackson. “I didn’t know that.”

“Used to be a fist of fury. Now it’s just a hand.” he spread his fingers and grinned. Joel was happy in his new life, you understood. He liked this domesticity.

You give him a smile, but you don’t feel better. “It’s not the same, Joel. You get to use your skills. I’m not even that good at sewing!”

Something in Joel’s expression shifted, he could pick up that this was actually bothering you, not just a mild inconvenience.

You continued, softer. “I wouldn’t have an issue if all I was good for is sewing. I understand everyone has their place, everyone is important. But I feel like I’m not being used to my fullest. I’m not a child just because I’m disabled.”

He looked you, those two lines thick with thought before he sighed again. “When I… when I lost some of my hearing, it was confusing. I mean, it was a confusing time in general but navigating everything while dealing with the fact I was never going to hear the same wasn’t easy. I thought, how can I protect Tommy like this? Sarah was dead, all I had left was Tommy. I thought okay, you only have one fucking job left and it’s keeping him safe. It was like we were teenagers again.” That flicker of sadness across his face, the look of a man who was nearing 60 but still shivered at the thought of his father. He shakes the thoughts away. “I had to figure it out, but I would be damned if I let Tommy help me. I hated that shit; I still do.”

You nod a little. “I get that.”

“I know, and darl’n,” His eyes flittered away, and his lips didn’t move enough. “I feel protective of you-”

“What’s that? You’re mumbling.”

Joel snaps back to look at you, eyes apologetic. “Shit, Sorry,” He was clear now. “I just mean, i feel protective of you, but maybe instead of protecting, I should be advocating.”

Your heart clenches, feeling nothing but love for you sweet, still-fresh boyfriend. “I love that you like protecting me. I love when you got your arm wrapped around me when we talk in the tipsy bison… We met because you were protective, even of a complete stranger.” You give Joel a peck on the lips. “But could we talk to Maria about figuring something else out? I can work with my hands Joel, I can be productive for more than Sewing. AND I’LL SEW!” You raise your hands in defense, and Joel chuckles. “I’ll sew too, don’t get me wrong, just… please. I need more.”

He nods. “Yeah baby. I know we can figure something out.”

And you trusted him.

Later that day, you and Joel sat down with Tommy and Maria and explained how you felt. Maria emphasized safety, including yours. You knew she meant well, but I felt frustrated. Joel stepped in. 

It wasn’t long before you joined the construction crew. Not on the field, not climbing around where constant spatial awareness and knowing where everyone was was necessary, no. But a corner of the shop was set up just for you, a space people could only enter with express verbal permission from you, a space you could work with your hands and saw and cut and nail and wire. 

And yeah, sometimes you still sewed, but you don't mind it as much now. Not when you finally felt fulfilled.

Disability and employement.

For a long time, disabled people were often given menial labour jobs, like putting caps on pens, for pennies. Many people thought all disabled people could do was barely contribute to society. This seems to be RFK's thought process to.

LET ME BE CLEAR. You do not need to work to be valuable. Some poeple can't work, and they contribute in other ways. Some people simple cannot work. Everyones life is important and disabled people deserved dignity no matter what. You don't need to be paying taxes to be worth something. Human value is innate.

BUT, just because one is disabled does not mean they cannot work. Many, like myself, WANT to work, meaningful work we feel proud in. I'm lucky to have a job that works well with my disabilities. In this story, we briefly explore the reasonable accommodation. In the past, my emplyers have not had to give an accomidation but I've had costumers be extremely rude with my hearing loss.

Maria is not mean to be the bad guy here. She cares for reader, wants reader to be happy and safe and keep those around them safe, but she wasn't thinking outside the box. Joel gave reader the chance to speak, then helped advocate for them like a good partner.

I want to leave you with this fact I learned from my disability and employment project.

Did you know? Disabled people hired very rarely need much accomidation, and the accomidation is usually pretty cheap if anything. In return, disabled people have much lower turnover rates, which saves the company money. This is a purely capitalist arguement, but unfortunetly we live in a capitalist society. Next time someone wants to say something negative about the ADA or requiring accomidations at work, remember that disabled people are very valuable in a job.

Thanks guys!

@my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction @copperhalfcent @miraclesabound @quiet-night-sky-writers-blog @missdictatorme

ill get a proper tag list going i swear sorry if yall arent interested

cute

Shameless Enjoyment

platonic Bucky Barnes x Alpine!reader

part of Companion Animal (see previous or series)

Image found on Pinterest by @ellethespaceunicorn who thought of Bucky bonding with his new kitty 😻 so OBVIOUSLY I had to run with it...

No warnings, just floofy fluff! Enjoy 😘 WC 625

It's because he has nightmares that he suddenly pops up to burn off unprovoked, fight-or-flight energy. Shirtless, metal arm whirring in strain, covered in sickly sweat, Bucky just goes and goes.

Hundreds of sit ups. Hundreds of pull ups. Hundreds of push ups until his muscles finally fail, and he can (maybe) go back to sleep.

You've watched with your own breed of fear and sadness a few times before, but not tonight. You need him to not feel alone, to notice there's someone (or something) here to help. You need to ease his pain in some small, tiny, probably insignificant way, but you have to try.

So you prop yourself up on his knees during the sit ups, you jump for his rising, crossed ankles during the pull ups, and you shimmy across the floor by the sleek hairs of you back, positioning yourself beneath his head during the push ups.

His eyes are glassy, unseeing of you, his face bobbing closer then farther on and on.

His dog tags clink on the floorboards only an inch away, but Bucky still notices absolutely nothing.

Well, you know how it goes, right? Hear a tink, tink, tink enough times (dozens and dozens so far), and we're all like to be driven a bit bonkers.

You attack them, pinching the flat steel between your paws and bunny-kicking the swinging string, deeply annoyed that you have no thumbs to grab them properly and rip them right off his neck.

Ok. Maybe you're tired and he did wake you from a proper sleep this time.

You bite at the tags, intent on making your own mark on the stamped metal.

Bucky stops, but you only notice when his body remains lowered to yours for longer than the regular beat.

You, in turn, stop mid-thrash.

"Pretty girl..." he growls playfully, though you are anything but 'pretty' with your fangs hammering an unyielding surface, your wide eyes angry and lopsided, and your body twisted to gain the leverage of one-twentieth Bucky's own size.

You pause then growl in kind.

"Are you mad at me? Did I disturb you?"

A back leg whacks at the chain again in defiance.

He chuckles, the harsh lines above his serious brow relaxing as he pushes up, dragging the necklace almost out of your reach.

The smooth plates slip from your paws, and it makes you furious, batting wildly to regain your hold of them.

Bucky seems very pleased with that reaction.

"There ya go, doll. Almost got it--" he lowers again "--yay! What about--" he pushes as far as his elbows will straighten "--now?"

A wet huff escapes your throat when the string goes entirely beyond the extension of your own fury limbs.

"Uh oh! Little higher, Alpine. You can do it," he coos.

Your screech is from genuine irritation, but it amuses Bucky to the point you wriggle some more...just for show.

"Okay, okay, here ya go." Bucky lowers the tags carefully to your chest, delighted by the feral display of savagery he sometimes wishes to impart on the symbols, too. You're sure he doesn't realize he says these things out loud, but you take his confessions as seriously as a priest.

You'll take on his burdens like a golem if that's what helps him sleep through the night.

A few hundred secrets. Let him push them out. And then let him dream of better things. Fluffier, pure white, happy things. If he lets you, you'll fight all the demons and fly from room to room scaring all the ghosts of his past away.

He can do this routine without shame. He's simply playing with his cat. Bucky's just enjoying his time with you...at any and all hours of the day.

[Next Part: 'Babygirl']

[Main Masterlist; Bucky Barnes Masterlist]

A/N: yes, Lexi's got zero chill. What of it? You all knew that!

@hisredheadedgoddess28 @irishhappiness @fallenxjas @ilovetaquitosmmmm @venunsgirl @fries11 @lovinglimerence @navs-bhat @creat0r-cat @yenzys-lucky-charm @bitchy-bi-trash @supraveng @patzammit @whiskeytangofoxtrot555 @yiiiikesmish @ashesofblackroses @jaqui-has-a-conspiracy-theory @brandycranby @buckysprettybaby @ellethespaceunicorn @late-to-the-party-81 @bigtreefest @mistressmkay @astheskycries @veryprairieberry

meow?! MEOW?!!!

I am screaming!!! Jack Abbot the man that you are!!!

my husband is so cutieful

Sam Wilson's Smile 🥰

i think the reason a lot of men are screaming, puking, and crying about this is bc it forces them to acknowledge that the reason they can’t get women to like them is not actually bc of their physique but bc of their shitty personality

You’re not depressed. You just need $250,000 in your bank account.

Disney, you will crumble. 😭😭😭 look what they took from us (i know he still looks hot but i miss scruffy soft looking pedro)

The yin yang of horny

I could use some 💪 luck

will i go back to watching chicago pd just for him?... i might

SHAWN HATOSY as DEPUTY CHIEF CHARLIE REID Chicago P.D. | Open Casket (12.21)

Words for Skin Tone | How to Describe Skin Color

We discussed the issues describing People of Color by means of food in Part I of this guide, which brought rise to even more questions, mostly along the lines of “So, if food’s not an option, what can I use?” Well, I was just getting to that!

This final portion focuses on describing skin tone, with photo and passage examples provided throughout. I hope to cover everything from the use of straight-forward description to the more creatively-inclined, keeping in mind the questions we’ve received on this topic.

Standard Description

Basic Colors

Pictured above: Black, Brown, Beige, White, Pink.

“She had brown skin.”

This is a perfectly fine description that, while not providing the most detail, works well and will never become cliché.

Describing characters’ skin as simply brown or beige works on its own, though it’s not particularly telling just from the range in brown alone.

Complex Colors

These are more rarely used words that actually “mean” their color. Some of these have multiple meanings, so you’ll want to look into those to determine what other associations a word might have.

Pictured above: Umber, Sepia, Ochre, Russet, Terra-cotta, Gold, Tawny, Taupe, Khaki, Fawn.

Complex colors work well alone, though often pair well with a basic color in regards to narrowing down shade/tone.

For example: Golden brown, russet brown, tawny beige…

As some of these are on the “rare” side, sliding in a definition of the word within the sentence itself may help readers who are unfamiliar with the term visualize the color without seeking a dictionary.

“He was tall and slim, his skin a russet, reddish-brown.”

Comparisons to familiar colors or visuals are also helpful:

“His skin was an ochre color, much like the mellow-brown light that bathed the forest.”

Modifiers

Modifiers, often adjectives, make partial changes to a word.The following words are descriptors in reference to skin tone.

Dark - Deep - Rich - Cool

Warm - Medium - Tan

Fair - Light - Pale

Rich Black, Dark brown, Warm beige, Pale pink…

If you’re looking to get more specific than “brown,” modifiers narrow down shade further.

Keep in mind that these modifiers are not exactly colors.

As an already brown-skinned person, I get tan from a lot of sun and resultingly become a darker, deeper brown. I turn a pale, more yellow-brown in the winter.

While best used in combination with a color, I suppose words like “tan” “fair” and “light” do work alone; just note that tan is less likely to be taken for “naturally tan” and much more likely a tanned White person.

Calling someone “dark” as description on its own is offensive to some and also ambiguous. (See: Describing Skin as Dark)

Undertones

Undertones are the colors beneath the skin, seeing as skin isn’t just one even color but has more subdued tones within the dominating palette.

pictured above: warm / earth undertones: yellow, golden, copper, olive, bronze, orange, orange-red, coral | cool / jewel undertones: pink, red, blue, blue-red, rose, magenta, sapphire, silver. 

Mentioning the undertones within a character’s skin is an even more precise way to denote skin tone.

As shown, there’s a difference between say, brown skin with warm orange-red undertones (Kelly Rowland) and brown skin with cool, jewel undertones (Rutina Wesley).

“A dazzling smile revealed the bronze glow at her cheeks.”

“He always looked as if he’d ran a mile, a constant tinge of pink under his tawny skin.”

Standard Description Passage

“Farah’s skin, always fawn, had burned and freckled under the summer’s sun. Even at the cusp of autumn, an uneven tan clung to her skin like burrs. So unlike the smooth, red-brown ochre of her mother, which the sun had richened to a blessing.”

-From my story “Where Summer Ends” featured in Strange Little Girls

Here the state of skin also gives insight on character.

Note my use of “fawn” in regards to multiple meaning and association. While fawn is a color, it’s also a small, timid deer, which describes this very traumatized character of mine perfectly.

Though I use standard descriptions of skin tone more in my writing, at the same time I’m no stranger to creative descriptions, and do enjoy the occasional artsy detail of a character.

Creative Description

Whether compared to night-cast rivers or day’s first light…I actually enjoy seeing Characters of Colors dressed in artful detail.

I’ve read loads of descriptions in my day of white characters and their “smooth rose-tinged ivory skin”, while the PoC, if there, are reduced to something from a candy bowl or a Starbucks drink, so to actually read of PoC described in lavish detail can be somewhat of a treat.

Still, be mindful when you get creative with your character descriptions. Too many frills can become purple-prose-like, so do what feels right for your writing when and where. Not every character or scene warrants a creative description, either. Especially if they’re not even a secondary character.

Using a combination of color descriptions from standard to creative is probably a better method than straight creative. But again, do what’s good for your tale.

Natural Settings - Sky

Pictured above: Harvest Moon -Twilight, Fall/Autumn Leaves, Clay, Desert/Sahara, Sunlight - Sunrise - Sunset - Afterglow - Dawn- Day- Daybreak, Field - Prairie - Wheat, Mountain/Cliff, Beach/Sand/Straw/Hay.

Now before you run off to compare your heroine’s skin to the harvest moon or a cliff side, think about the associations to your words.

When I think cliff, I think of jagged, perilous, rough. I hear sand and picture grainy, yet smooth. Calm. mellow.

So consider your character and what you see fit to compare them to.

Also consider whose perspective you’re describing them from. Someone describing a person they revere or admire may have a more pleasant, loftier description than someone who can’t stand the person.

“Her face was like the fire-gold glow of dawn, lifting my gaze, drawing me in.”

“She had a sandy complexion, smooth and tawny.”

Even creative descriptions tend to draw help from your standard words.

Flowers

Pictured above: Calla lilies, Western Coneflower, Hazel Fay, Hibiscus, Freesia, Rose

It was a bit difficult to find flowers to my liking that didn’t have a 20 character name or wasn’t called something like “chocolate silk” so these are the finalists. 

You’ll definitely want to avoid purple-prose here.

Also be aware of flowers that most might’ve never heard of. Roses are easy, as most know the look and coloring(s) of this plant. But Western coneflowers? Calla lilies? Maybe not so much.

“He entered the cottage in a huff, cheeks a blushing brown like the flowers Nana planted right under my window. Hazel Fay she called them, was it?”

Assorted Plants & Nature

Pictured above: Cattails, Seashell, Driftwood, Pinecone, Acorn, Amber

These ones are kinda odd. Perhaps because I’ve never seen these in comparison to skin tone, With the exception of amber.

At least they’re common enough that most may have an idea what you’re talking about at the mention of “pinecone.“ 

I suggest reading out your sentences aloud to get a better feel of how it’ll sounds.

“Auburn hair swept past pointed ears, set around a face like an acorn both in shape and shade.”

I pictured some tree-dwelling being or person from a fantasy world in this example, which makes the comparison more appropriate.

I don’t suggest using a comparison just “cuz you can” but actually being thoughtful about what you’re comparing your character to and how it applies to your character and/or setting.

Wood

Pictured above: Mahogany, Walnut, Chestnut, Golden Oak, Ash

Wood can be an iffy description for skin tone. Not only due to several of them having “foody” terminology within their names, but again, associations.

Some people would prefer not to compare/be compared to wood at all, so get opinions, try it aloud, and make sure it’s appropriate to the character if you do use it.

“The old warlock’s skin was a deep shade of mahogany, his stare serious and firm as it held mine.”

Metals

Pictured above: Platinum, Copper, Brass, Gold, Bronze

Copper skin, brass-colored skin, golden skin…

I’ve even heard variations of these used before by comparison to an object of the same properties/coloring, such as penny for copper.

These also work well with modifiers.

“The dress of fine white silks popped against the deep bronze of her skin.”

Gemstones - Minerals

Pictured above: Onyx, Obsidian, Sard, Topaz, Carnelian, Smoky Quartz, Rutile, Pyrite, Citrine, Gypsum

These are trickier to use. As with some complex colors, the writer will have to get us to understand what most of these look like.

If you use these, or any more rare description, consider if it actually “fits” the book or scene.

Even if you’re able to get us to picture what “rutile” looks like, why are you using this description as opposed to something else? Have that answer for yourself.

“His skin reminded her of the topaz ring her father wore at his finger, a gleaming stone of brown, mellow facades.” 

Physical Description

Physical character description can be more than skin tone.

Show us hair, eyes, noses, mouth, hands…body posture, body shape, skin texture… though not necessarily all of those nor at once.

Describing features also helps indicate race, especially if your character has some traits common within the race they are, such as afro hair to a Black character.

How comprehensive you decide to get is up to you. I wouldn’t overdo it and get specific to every mole and birthmark. Noting defining characteristics is good, though, like slightly spaced front teeth, curls that stay flopping in their face, hands freckled with sunspots…

General Tips

Indicate Race Early: I suggest indicators of race be made at the earliest convenience within the writing, with more hints threaded throughout here and there.

Get Creative On Your Own: Obviously, I couldn’t cover every proper color or comparison in which has been “approved” to use for your characters’ skin color, so it’s up to you to use discretion when seeking other ways and shades to describe skin tone.

Skin Color May Not Be Enough: Describing skin tone isn’t always enough to indicate someone’s ethnicity. As timeless cases with readers equating brown to “dark white” or something, more indicators of race may be needed.

Describe White characters and PoC Alike: You should describe the race and/or skin tone of your white characters just as you do your Characters of Color. If you don’t, you risk implying that White is the default human being and PoC are the “Other”).

PSA: Don’t use “Colored.” Based on some asks we’ve received using this word, I’d like to say that unless you or your character is a racist grandmama from the 1960s, do not call People of Color “colored” please. 

Not Sure Where to Start? You really can’t go wrong using basic colors for your skin descriptions. It’s actually what many people prefer and works best for most writing. Personally, I tend to describe my characters using a combo of basic colors + modifiers, with mentions of undertones at times. I do like to veer into more creative descriptions on occasion.

Want some alternatives to “skin” or “skin color”? Try: Appearance, blend, blush, cast, coloring, complexion, flush, glow, hue, overtone, palette, pigmentation, rinse, shade, sheen, spectrum, tinge, tint, tone, undertone, value, wash.

Skin Tone Resources

List of Color Names

The Color Thesaurus

Skin Undertone & Color Matching

Tips and Words on Describing Skin

Photos: Undertones Described (Modifiers included)

Online Thesaurus (try colors, such as “red” & “brown”)

Don’t Call me Pastries: Creative Skin Tones w/ pics I 

Writing & Description Guides

WWC Featured Description Posts

WWC Guide: Words to Describe Hair

Writing with Color: Description & Skin Color Tags

7 Offensive Mistakes Well-intentioned Writers Make

I tried to be as comprehensive as possible with this guide, but if you have a question regarding describing skin color that hasn’t been answered within part I or II of this guide, or have more questions after reading this post, feel free to ask!

~ Mod Colette

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