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yeyinde · 1 year

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ATROPHY | Joel Miller x F!Reader

》 SUMMARY: It's her, him, and the beats in between. A slow simmer of sex to something more. Something he isn't quite ready for, yet knows he can't let go of. 》 WARNINGS: 18+ SMUT (mild); allusions to death, assault; female gendered reader, female gendered anatomy; minor game spoilers; Joel isn't bad at feelings – he just doesn't want them. Joel is tired™ 》 WORD COUNT: 10,9k

His grief, sorrow, the ones that he tries to shove into a box marked apathy, are worn in the crevasses that line his weathered face. Deep canyons make him look ages older than he is. He wonders if she can see them. If she can peel the divots back and uncover the festering sickness, the rot, that sits in the folds.

It's his own fault, he thinks, for stuffing his grief in the same place he keeps his worry.

》 NOTES: I did something different with my writing. It's still a Reader insert, but. I tried third person instead of the usual second. also, how this ballooned up to nearly 10k is lost to me since it was just supposed to be smut?? I had this clear image of older Joel laying in bed, his guitar leaning against the wall, catching the light of the sun as you slowly rode him, and now? I don't even know. ⤑The gif is mine. Please don't take or repost without permission

MASTERLIST | FAQ | AO3

Complacency is a death sentence in a world like this.

Lazy Sundays spent between the warm, damp sheets. Boredom. Afternoons strumming his guitar on the front porch. Sleeping in. Drinking at a saloon in town. Music. Laughter.

It doesn't exist.

Shouldn't.

And yet—

His guitar sits, abandoned, in the corner of the bedroom. The wood still carries the heat from his thumb this morning when he played a song alone on the porch. Eyes bleary, full of sleep, of rest, as he took in the varicoloured dawn cresting through the indigo sky.

Those same weathered, beaten hands that strummed the chords to Hurt are now occupied again. One perched on her hip, skin sateen soft and plush, full and warm and clean from the shower last night as she bears down on top of him in a quiet cadence, a muted, languid dance. The other cups the swell of her breast in his palm, nipple still damp from his hungry mouth, and flushed red from his teeth.

This should just be a fantasy.

A dirty thing in the recess of his mind when he has a moment to himself breathe. A thought, a whim. Something to needle away at the last vestiges of his consciousness when he sees her in the wild—vibrant, young, and free—and then sullied in the back of his head when he leans against a tree, and thinks of the dirt on her skin, the blood on her delicate hands, and how they'd taste under his tongue.

But this isn't a dream.

When he sleeps, he dreams in black and white. The only colour that bleeds through is red. Blood red. Pulpy and vicious. Ugly. Garish. It splatters across the pavement where he laid Sarah down, where he lost Tess, and everyone else he never promised to save and still couldn't.

He knows this isn't a dream when he blinks his eyes open, and she's there. Sitting atop him in a kaleidoscope of colour, drenched in ochre from the still rising sun. The only red is her blistered lips, the rough burn between her thighs from the scrape of his beard, and that sinful little tongue that slips between her teeth when he slides in deep.

And then—his eyes drop to her side—that ugly wound that cuts her flesh, ripped over the seam of her ribs.

He's awake. Lucid.

She's much too heavy to be something carved from fantasy.

He doesn't say this, of course—Joel isn't stupid, and for someone so considerably smaller than he is, she packs a hefty punch in those slender fingers that curl into a fist barely the size of an apple. The sharp jab of a rusted, blunt knife. Knows where to hit him, too.

He tucks it away, and lets his hands explore, feeling the tangibility of her weight, her presence, under the tips of his bloodied fingers.

(Broken on the same teeth that caused her to hurt.)

The knob of her hip bone juts out through her flesh, and he grazes it with his thumb, feeling the soft curve.

Real, he thinks. Flesh and bone.

He can feel the flutter of her racing pulse under his hand when he kneads her breast in his hand, and lets her nipple graze teasingly over the rough skin of his weathered palm.

The tight clench of her around him—pussy a perfect knot around the base of his cock, all pretty and tied tight like a bow—is another stroke of realism his dreams, nightmares, fantasies, could never imbue.

It's a present he's sullied more times than he can count, each touch another tally to the neverending number of sins that pile higher than the hollow skyscrapers in Boston.

Joel feels each breath that leaves her heaving chest. Each gasping hiccup of his name when she raises her full hips up, and then slide back down the length of him in a slow, languorous roll until he nudges against the seal of her womb, and steals the air in her lungs.

It's real.

A paradox, then.

One of those things that shouldn't happen, but is. Like her, and him, and everything else in between.

He knows what the others in town say when they see her—pretty and soft with a ginger touch and a sweet curl of a voice when she whispers his name. It doesn't make sense for her to be all wrapped up in him, following along behind like a shadow to a man who's cut from ashlar, and reeking of rot. Ruin.

He's calamity in ageing grey, and she's the ripe, forbidden fruit he's not allowed to bite. Poisoned apple. Cherry sweet.

(He wonders if they'd recoil once they saw that her insides were gnarled; acrid and sour; bitter melon. Lemon drops.

That she is far more like him than they could ever dream.)

They glare at him from the corner of their eyes when she swells like a lighthouse in the midnight gloam at the sight of him wandering back from patrol, eyes all bright and beaming, and beautiful—Christ.

She's a picture, he thinks.

One of those pinup girls he'd find in dirty magazines as a kid. When he and Tommy would sneak a peek behind the barn, away from prying eyes. A portrait of lust. Desire in high gloss.

A classical beauty—the type that would make men drown themselves at sea. A starlet in the golden age back when it mattered.

Writers' muse, maybe: she would have been the girl everyone talked about—the one that eluded the tortured artist, made him pine.

Hemingway would call her brutal.

Cat in the Rain.

(She liked his old, heavy face and big hands.)

He doesn't know much about poetry but he knows she's the type who could make a man want to stain his fingers in ink just to capture the curve of her lips when she smiled.

A vixen. Hellion. Lilith.

Her voice is a song when she says his name. A hymn.

Dangerous.

He doesn't know when this started.

Maybe, when they brought her in with the rest of the group she was travelling with. Beaten down, hungry. Clinging to life with frostbitten fingers.

Her eyes were flat; a stagnant pond. Lips a grim, blue line. Placid. Gone. She'd been out there for too long to ever find comfort behind walls, and he knows the feeling of trying to crawl out of your own skin when people stand too close.

She scoffed at the idea of this place, of sanctuary. Resentful and derisive. He could see the distrust in her clenched jaw, balled fists. This world was a whim—evanescent—and what they gathered from the rest of the group, survival hadn't been easy outside of safe zones.

Wall after wall fell, she said, tone flat. Blank. Haunted by ghosts still lingering in the canyons of her eyes. Stopped believing in stuff like this after a while.

Her eyes were stained—jaundiced and red, filled with burst blood vessels—and raw from how hard the edges of her knuckles had dug into the flesh of her eyelids. They spoke of sleepless nights. Ones interrupted by her own sense of survival, hyperarousal.

He knows the feeling of jerking awake whenever his brain starts to lull, to slip into that dangerous facsimile of security.

Pipe dreams. She wears her fatigue like its armour, wielding the brunt of her exhaustion like a shield.

(Sleep often feels like a bad habit for people like her, like him.)

But like him, it waned slowly.

The chips in her veneer cracked, split, and he saw the incipient filament start to seep in. Complacency. Comfort.

A few months in, she stopped being so defensive when they invited her out for drinks, and when they talked about dinner parties, and birthday celebrations. Derision was still a heavy weight in her distant gaze, clutched in bleached knuckles like a claymore, when she looked at them, a touch incredulous.

Joel understands the feeling.

The itch in your guts, the discomfort in your chest. It festers, doesn't it?

Children play close to the fences, making up games of tag, and hide and seek, as if those things with broken, pustulous faces weren't skulking within arm's reach just a breath away.

This whole place is a vacuum. The interior is covered in thick molasses; stuck in stasis. They pretend that birthdays and holidays matter. Dance around the saloon at night with drinks in hand. Pale ale. Old booze.

It's rigid in its structure: patrols that span the entirety of a day—from dusk to dusk in three shift increments—and daily checks of the fences, the gates. Trading with other communities. Rules. Regulations.

It gives the idea of safety. Of security.

(But the bruises on his hands and the gash in her side are proof that it's sometimes not enough.)

Slowly, though, as the days wore on and the fences stood proud and tall and secure, she softened. Tucked it away with a smile, and started saying, I'll think about it instead of clipped jerks of her chin, or nothing at all.

Joel doesn't know if she ever really did think about it like she said she would.

Broken promises carry a distinct sound. One he knows all too well.

She never showed up despite the invitations. Never came to celebrate.

She stood by the fence, and looked out, eyes wide, mouth flat. The coil in her shoulders, the tremble in her hands, reminded him of a trapped animal. Cornered, and tense.

She'll bite someone eventually.

(He just never expected it to be him.)

The tension didn't flee the crease of her eyes, but she tried to integrate herself into the fold, the community. Slowly. Slowly.

He took stock of her in the same measure he does everyone new who wanders in. Assessing. Watching. Cautious.

He could tell right away that she was a wildcard. A lit match slowly burning down the wick in a sea of gasoline.

Pretty, he finds, despite himself. Drawn in by her allure; a coruscating light in the middle of endless, unfathomable grey.

He catches sight of the weathered face that blinks back at him from the frosted windows, hazy and thick with condensation that make the grey in his hair, his beard, look startlingly whiter than it was ten seconds ago. It's a jarring reminder of who he is. What he's done.

It's not insecurity that keeps him from seeking her out, but self-preservation. Some people, he finds, just have this magnetism about them. A beacon. A light. A gravitational pull that drags you closer and closer.

And hers is purely primal. Animalistic. She smells of sex and sin and makes him think of object permanence when everything around him had been clouded in the sharp shade of ephemeral grey.

She's a fractured mirror. Medusa in the making.

Joel's always avoided broken glass.

(Ladders. Black cats. Cracks in the pavement. Pretty girls who swallow everything like a black hole—)

Too sweet, he finds. Forbidden fruit. Tart, ripe, and sugar dipped.

(He never had much of a sweet tooth, anyway.)

Through his observations—necessary, he tells Tommy when he catches the way Joel's gaze follows her around when she moves; limbs ballerina lithe, swan songs after dark: just because we let them in, doesn't mean we can trust them—he finds out everything he needs to know.

A rusted sign on the side of the road says, stay away. Danger in dulcet. Soft and sweet. A perfunctory bow in battle before the deadly blows come.

He oscillates between finding her both too soft and too hard, and it's the unknown that makes him wary.

She's a caged animal. Everyone is just kidding themselves if they think she's domesticated.

Somewhere in the throng of people milling about, drinking and dancing like the world wasn't in shambles, she finds his gaze, matches his stare.

Most people looked away.

But she's not most people, is she?

No, she's dangerous. Pretty in a way that's entirely too ethereal for the broken remnants of what remains. Left behind. Mouldering until death claims its victims. Until the spores released from the earth itself burrow in the rucked lines of your head, sprouting up like flowering buds.

She makes men want.

And while the pickings might have been slim, Joel knows there are several (and maybe a little more) above him in terms of desirability. He's older. Gruff. Rough around the edges without any whim of changing, or scouring himself down so that his jagged pieces don't pop something as tender and sweet as her.

He doesn't put himself in the same bracket. Despite Maria's insistence, Tommy's needling, he isn't a bachelor.

Hasn't made himself available.

And he isn't.

Not since Tess. Not since—

None of that matters. He's too old to think about romance, about skin and sex, and warmth. And more.

The thought of it all leaves something sour twisting in the gnarled rot of what remains inside his chest.

Despite that, or maybe in spite of it, she comes to him.

(Somehow. Somehow.)

She asks him to dance, and the breathy tone of her voice tastes like a lit cigarette; it plumes nicotine in the air. Second-hand smoke. A contact high.

He finds it disarming when she laughs after he says no. Firm. Hard. Dismissive.

Not in your lifetime, sweetheart.

The unspoken stay away rang clearer than the echo of her laughter.

And that was that.

But she came back.

("If not a dance, then how about a drink?"

"Wastin' your time, sweetheart."

She grins, then, soft and coy. "Not much else to do with it these days besides chatting up a handsome stranger."

He pretends she didn't make him choke on his drink, and eyes her warily instead. Dangerous, he thinks. The type that just doesn't quit. One who is just small and malleable enough to slip inside the tiniest splinter.

Just like a raspberry, she'd rot fast. Festering. Clouded white and infectious. Worse, in many ways, than the parasites outside of the walls.

"Just don't get your hopes up." He settles on after a moment, a lull, that makes her blood-red lips curl up like the curve of those stupid hearts dangling overhead.

And hates that he doesn't really know if he's still just talking to her or the wandering eyes in his own skull when he says it.)

He doesn't know why she takes a liking to him of all people. Of all men. He might be out of touch with the reality they live in now, always on the fringes of waiting for things to buckle at the knee, and collapse into ash, but he isn't stupid. Oblivious.

Joel sees the way she stares at him. Open, wanting. Curious.

She shouldn't be. There's nothing in him—nothing left. His insides are polluted, gnarled. Ugly. A gurgling cesspit that doesn't know how to fix, only dissolve. Consume. He's acidic. Caustic.

Bad for anyone's health.

He can't keep anyone safe, and all he knows how to do anymore is push people away, and lie (and, lately, make Ellie so incensed with anger, she cuts him to the core and spills his choleric blood out onto the pavement where it hisses and sounds just like Tess).

He's a patchwork mess of a man sewn together with a churlish hand. The broken pieces are borrowed and maligned, but they sometimes feel like they fit when he shifts, and spits enough contempt to keep everyone else from getting too close, and—

It's enough.

(He likes it that way.)

But she—

His hands grip her tight sometimes—too tight—and the stains he leaves on her skin set his teeth on edge. It's too much like ownership. Possession.

(And he finds the colour that blooms on her flesh to be too fucking pretty to ever sit comfortably in the gnarled pit of his guts.)

"Don't worry, Joel," she whispers when she catches him staring at the marks he left behind. Dark and ugly. Contrition tastes of old nickels. "You won't break me that easily."

It's a bad decision.

But he was never known for his good choices, and when she fluttered her eyes at him, hand pressed to his chest like she were allowed to touch him, he crumbled.

She didn't give him much of a choice to fight back when all she asked for nothing but the warmth of his skin, and the taste of him on her tongue.

Pleasures of the flesh. It's easy. Simple. He fucks her behind the saloon, rough and dirty, and swallows the sounds she makes against the brick like they're just for him. He takes her home, and knows that when he's nestled between her thighs, it's as close to heaven as a man like him will ever get.

And then—it's over. She leaves. He pretends to sleep.

Rinse. Repeat.

It carries on this way for nearly two years. Distant, cold. He can't remember the last time he had anyone warm his bed, but it takes the edge off, the stress and pain of Ellie's distance, her mistrust, and hatred, and she asks for nothing.

She lets him grab her when he wants. Lets him bend her body into whichever shape suits him best, and says nothing about the fingerprints that he leaves behind, the astringent tang of rot when she slides out of his bed, his hands, and out the door.

He lays back, the same hand he used to grip the back of her neck when he fucked her into the mattress now resting under his head, and he pretends doesn't feel colder now than he did before.

There is no promise of forever. There's no promise of exclusivity, or monogamy, but he knows that she hasn't fucked anyone else since she got here, that those pretty thighs only ever parted for him, and he's too worn down to entice anyone else who wasn't looking for a sleazy fuck against a tree into his bed, anyway.

Complacency begets comfort, security, wants.

They settle down in their borrowed homes, in their borrowed beds, and think about making the most of their borrowed time.

In that, they yearn. Family. Togetherness. Everything they had before they tried to drag into the now. Forcing a square through a round hole. A mismatched puzzle piece into the slot it wasn't made for.

Sometimes, they get lucky and it slips through. It distorts itself into something different, and new, just to fit through the preconstructed crack.

Joel doesn't think about then. He thinks about now. A broken world no closer to resolution, absolution, than it was thirteen, fourteen years ago. There is no roseate veil over his eyes; everyone else can see it.

He isn't the type of man someone brings home. The one you push and push until he fits through the front door, and back into normalcy. Stagnancy.

And she's not the type of woman who'd ever try.

He likes that about her.

Poisoned candy apple. Pretty on the outside and rotted within.

There is no future outside of the way he fits inside of her, and this is as permanent as the blemishes he leaves on her pretty skin.

Then he dreams, and it's of her.

Lifeless, blue. The way her head splits open is beautiful in that macabre sort of way horrible things sometimes are. Flowers burst behind her eyes, petals budding out of the hollowed space that once made his chest stutter when the sun caught the crevasse of black that split from her pupil and bled into her iris. A small stream of ink.

The canyons of gradient colours are now filled with blooms of enoki. Red amanita curls out from her ears.

Where he once laid his palm over her chest is now a gaping hole flowering with a pulsing mass of candlesnuff and staghorn.

Death cap where her heart once beat.

Beautiful, he thinks, even as he howls her name.

He wakes up drenched in a cold sweat, and the curve of her name heavy on his tongue. His knuckles pop when he fists the damp sheets between his trembling fingers, but the ache feels good. The sting reminds him he's alive. Whole.

He's awake, but the nightmare doesn't end. The sight of her body lingers in the back of his head when he strums his guitar and plays a song for the demons within. He thinks of her when he forks over the expired box of condoms he found on a run, and listens to Jesse ramble about how Ellie is doing in exchange for the loot.

It's her he sees.

She blinks at him, eyes that same shade that sometimes makes his breath hiss between his teeth, and then her crown caves in. Forehead splits down the middle. One half stands where it was as the other falls over on her shoulder.

Fractals spill from the plumule that was once her brain stem until the two halves are bleached white like dead corals on a ruined reef.

The flowering toadstool quivers. What was once her—wit, charm; that uncanny ability to make him feel like the ground beneath his feet was crumbling—is a mass of spores. Polluted. Rotted.

Where she once stood is a puppet. Dead. Gone.

Her head tips. Ink spills from the putrefying blood vessels, congealing in the air. It spools into a circle. A black hole.

He lifts the gun, and feels nothing at all.

Everything he could have felt, feels, is syphoned into the needlepoint of no return, the place where she once looked at him, and said, I don't want anything from you, Joel. I just want you.

He wakes before he can see the aftermath of pulling the trigger.

A fluke, maybe. But it happens each night after that.

He knows, then, that there's no turning back.

Permanence doesn't belong in this borrowed home, but she somehow drags it through the foyer and into his bed, anyway.

She stayed over last night.

Joel doesn't think he tried to let go when he collapsed into the bed beside her, arms woven around her sweat-slicked back, locked tight like a pair of shackles that mean about as much as a prison or the law these days.

It was cold. Late. He didn't want her to walk back in the snow all alone.

That's all.

But Joel isn't a gentleman, and despite how much he wishes he wasn't, he's egregiously self-aware.

He knows he's in trouble when it just makes sense to keep her close. When it's easier to have her within arm's reach than it is to meet at the front door, and let her in.

(When he sleeps better if he can feel her burning skin on his.)

"You're thinking too much," she gasps, eyes lidded and heavy. Drinking him in.

Joel doesn't know what a pretty thing like her sees in a man like him.

He can't offer her anything except the cold comfort of a warm body, but even that is null. He knows there are younger men prowling outside her door, just itching for an opportunity to make her look their way.

(She never does.)

"Yeah," he rasps, the word sticking to his teeth. "Never been much of a thinker."

"Really? Ain't that a surprise."

His hand slips from her hip, palm swatting at the soft flesh of her ass. The sting makes her tighten around him like a vice.

"Watch your mouth."

The way she gasps his name, breathy and aching, makes him stifle a groan between clenched teeth, her voice rolling over him like warm sea breeze.

She's a lot, he thinks, and yet—she asks for nothing.

(Nothing but him. One of the things he can't give her. Won't.)

Still.

Her nails press into his damp chest, catching on the smoked dusted patch of coarse charcoal hair. Bracing herself against the swell of his ribs, and slowly rocked back into him, taking him deeper and deeper into her soaked, tight cunt.

The pulse in his neck throbs out of his skin, a tick she likes to press the flat of her tongue against and drink up the briny droplets of his sweat. He can see the want in her eyes when he catches her staring at the column of his throat, the way she bites her lip like it's a substitute for how badly she wants to sink those same teeth into his flesh. Mark him as her own.

Possession. Ownership.

Sometimes, he catches the glossy, rotund image of himself in the inky puddles of her pupils, blown wide with feverish desire, and he can see the same expression, the mien, captured in her startling hue.

Mutual want.

It's easier to give in sometimes. To let go.

He can't, though, and selfishly, he knows she'll never ask. She will bite your lip, the inside of her cheeks, and your tongue until it's raw and bloody before she lets the words slip through the gap of her teeth.

(He feels the rough, chewed ridges on velveteen flesh when he rolls his tongue between her ivory teeth, swiping over the insides of her cheeks; broken skin split and metallic—a testament to her own selfless desires.

He tastes it on his tongue long after she's gone. Wet pennies. Dandelion sour.)

It knots inside of him. She'd ruin herself before she asked him for more.

Maybe somewhere in his avoidance, his distance, she knows he's ruining himself by just giving her this much. Nothing, and yet—

Everything to him.

An impasse, then. Uncrossable when he's already two feet out the door.

"Joel—"

"I know, sweetheart," he murmurs, low. Rucked gravel. Falling rocks. It jars him how easily he responds to her. She says his name, and he'll drop anything in his hands to get to her quickly enough. "I know."

The wound on her side pulls taut when she moves. It draws his eye like a beacon. Makes him grind his teeth together until it sparks pain down his jaw, the enamel sawed to the raw nerve.

His hand slides over her molten flesh, trailing over the soft curve of her waist, until his thumb brushes the seam that keeps her insides from spilling out. The swollen, bruised skin is warmer than the rest of her body. Glossy where it tugs against the black threads keeping her whole.

Joel didn't go with her on this particular trade. She went with some new kid they'd picked up, all varsity grins and clean hands. He seemed so damned eager to get her attention in the pub. Her age, too.

Made a pretty couple, Ron said. Fucking loud mouth Ron.

He was supposed to go, but when the kid caught him in the corner, nursing a beer that sat in his guts like a stomach ache, and said, hey, man, can I take your spot? he didn't know how he was supposed to say no and still cling to the degrees of separation he wedged between himself and the world.

So, he raised his mug to his mouth, and forced himself to drink, to nod.

Knock yourself out.

The flash of sadness that flickered over her face meant nothing at all—nothing—but he felt something churn inside of his rotted guts. Atrophy, he thinks. He isn't meant for this. Doesn't want it. Need it.

She's a bigger liability the closer she gets. A slow-moving black hole consuming all of the counterscarps he dug until nothing is left but crossable rubble.

It's better, then, to cut it at the root before it infects the rest.

So, he does.

Maybe, he expected something different. For her to call this thing what it was, and then demand more of him, yell and scream and beg for the things he wouldn't give her—if only so he could break her heart into pieces, and force her to let go. To stop.

Force himself to do the same.

But she doesn't

It's a quiet acquiesce; a little more than a nod, and a grim line of her pretty mouth. Okay, it says. If that's what you want.

And that's what she always says, isn't it? If that's what you want, Joel. Whatever you say, Joel. Sure, Joel. Okay, Joel.

A spitfire in ochre. A bright lighthouse in the middle of the grey sea.

(The only person she dims for is him.)

Joel doesn't see her off. Doesn't say be careful or come back safe because words like those don't fit between his teeth. They aren't meant for the nothing between them. The chasm of everything she can't pry from his gnarled fingers.

She leaves with him.

He drinks alone.

Despite whatever nonsense Tommy says, spouted over rationed potatoes and deer meat stew, he isn't sulking.

"Let your girl go out alone? Unlike you, brother."

The way the words sat in his chest felt like an anvil.

"Ain't my girl," he muttered. He wanted to be angry but all he felt was numbness. "Ain't my anything."

It's Maria who gets under his skin when she scoffs.

"Joel Miller, you're the biggest dumbass I ever met, save for your damned brother. Gonna push a good thing away and die alone."

"No one asked you."

Maria tries to fill in the blanks of something that doesn't exist.

It peels back the gossamer from his eyes, and he sees, then, the way they skirt around him and her like it's something. As if his name is permanently attached to hers.

He pretends he doesn't feel the burn in Maria's glare when he doesn't see her off at the gate.

It doesn't matter. It doesn't.

He isn't there when she comes back, and hates, even more, that he feels something prickle inside his chest when Maria catches him near the stables, and says, I expected more from you, Joel.

It doesn't feel good when he bites back, that's your problem, Maria. Shouldn't have gotten your hopes up.

Joel lives in his vindication, in his pettily forced indifference. She hasn't come to see him, anyway, and he's sure that she and Varsity jacket are meeting at the pub for that date he'll never give her.

Doesn't matter, he thinks. And then, if only to burn himself in the flames, he adds: better this way.

She'll know when he's not there. She's smart like that. Know him in ways he doesn't think anyone else ever could. Ever wanted to.

(He hates it, and her, sometimes, for it.)

She'll understand. She might corner him one day with that dry ire dripping from the corners of her mouth, patronising and grim, and she'll do what she does best when she strips him bare and leaves him to rot.

Her eyes are cobra pits. Her teeth leak venom.

But she won't push.

It'll simmer out when she blinks, knowing that this is it, and she'll say: okay, Joel.

Okay.

He braces for it—hates that has to because that means something, something he isn't ready to acknowledge—and—

And it's all moot.

She never shows up at the gate.

It punctures something in his lungs when Tommy looks up at him, face ashen and worried, and says: "she didn't come back. They didn't come back."

It takes an hour to find her, left for dead and beaten within an inch of her life by the side of the road. A wound in her side—a gaping hole he swears he can see through. Milky bones poke through, drenched in red, and—

His heart doesn't stop, but a piece of it breaks off and lodges itself in his throat. He can't swallow. Can't breathe.

Something curls out from the moon-white line of her rib.

A bud, he thinks. Distant. Warbled. A saprophyte.

He has the image of her in his head. The same one he sees when he closes his eyes and falls into a fitful sleep.

Beautiful even as the cordyceps split her skull into blooming monkshood in hideous grey and plum. Pale and lifeless; a marionette on toadstool strings. A puppet in fluorescence.

"She's—"

Tommy's hand reaches down, fingers curling around the sprout.

Don't— not Tommy, too—

He pulls back, and Joel catches the tremble in his joints, the whites of his knuckles, when he spreads his fingers.

In the palm of his hand sits a leaf.

A leaf.

The bark that leaves his chest tears right through the clot in his throat. Rips him open from the inside out.

"A fucking leaf—"

He carries her back, and doesn't let go until the doctor is there, urging him out of the room.

"You'll get in the way."

He sees the looks they give him when he passes, but Joel never cared what people think.

Doesn't plan on starting now, either.

He's on the wrong side of fifty, and has more blood on his hands than the looted bars of soap could ever scour clean. He knows who he is, and maybe, maybe, knows what he wants, and Ron's loud mouth never meant much to him, anyway.

Joel gets a name when she's sleeping after surgery—lucky, he overhears, got there in the knick of time, any later and—and brings nothing with him when he leaves. He won't need it. Doesn't want it.

He finds them chatting over an open fire, and beats them to death with nothing but his bare hands.

He doesn't burn them. Doesn't bury them.

When he's finished, covered in blood and aching, and satisfied, he drives an ice pick through their skulls (the same thing, he finds, that caused the hole in her side), and leaves them to rot.

They say nothing about the blood on his shirt, or the broken, mangled fingers of his hand. He's content to leave them. To feel the agony as his broken bones split through cracked skin.

(He thinks of her—broken, blue—and clenches his hands so tight, the pain makes him blackout.)

He only lets Maria patch him up when she hisses about infection, and blood poisoning.

Says nothing at all about what he'd done, where he'd gone.

She doesn't ask.

When she's finished, she says: "woke up yesterday."

He knows. Still: "that right?"

"Gonna go see her?"

"Don't need me crowding around her bed."

"Maybe she, for some reason, wants to see your ugly mug."

"She tell you that?"

"Didn't ask about you, if that's what you're asking." She snorts. Shakes her head. "Both a'you are really perfect for each other, you know?"

"We ain't."

Her brow raises. Something prickles across her expression. "Huh."

"What?"

"Nothing," she shakes her head with a small smirk. "Just… didn't know you knew the word we, is all."

"We done here?"

He doesn't go to her.

Stubborn as an ox, she comes to him.

She says nothing about the bandages on his black and blue hands. Nothing about the way he can't make a fist through all the swelling. Her hands are soft, and warm, when they wrap around his. Small, delicate. A baby deer cupping the paws of a grizzly bear.

His eyes flash with something that tastes of the same rotten satisfaction he felt gnarled inside of his chest when the man who left her for dead on the side of a road wheezed as Joel broke his nose, and then battered the broken bulb into a messy, mushy pulp.

He didn't stop until grey matter leaked through the holes.

She knows what he did. He feels it in the way she stares at the black, swollen mess of his fingers. Bones broke on teeth, on a fractured skull.

He doesn't regret it. He doesn't even think he enjoyed it much, really.

It had to be done. Had to.

They took a life. Varsity Jack, she tells him. Stabbed in the heart when he tried to defend her with the same ice pick that ripped through her flesh.

Her tone is flat. Empty.

He sees bruises on her knuckles, those little fists were her only defence against them, and the red welt on the man's face makes sense now.

He feels proud.

She's not broken—battered, beaten, torn to pieces—but she still stands, whole, intact. Resilient. Strong.

(A survivalist. The only time she ever alluded to more was to tell him that he was worrying for nothing. That, above all, she would survive. Outlive him, even.

"What are you so afraid of, old man?" A cheeky wink. Her tongue dips out, and touches the upper corner of her lip. "I'm gonna outlive you, anyway."

God, he thought, he really hopes she fucking does.)

It doesn't surprise him to see her eyes cloud with anger, arsenic white, when she brings his hands to her lips, pressing a soft kiss to his knuckles. Anyone else might have asked why. Said thank you, even.

She just murmurs, "I hope they suffered."

Saccharine sweet.

Rotten to the core.

He saw the same shade of calamity in her eyes when she wandered in, grim and distant, as the one that stared back at him in the mirror. Her complicity in this doesn't surprise him. If anything, he wonders if she's angry he left nothing behind for her.

The thought makes his lips quirk in a needle of something he hasn't felt in a long time.

"They did."

The words are uttered like a promise. His busted pinky twitches, and it makes her smile. A bloom of petal pink flowering across her face. Soft and tender. The swell of a sea mark burgeoning out in the gloom of grey.

And all for him.

Joel pulled her in close. Closer still.

(Too close, maybe, because now he doesn't know how he'll sleep without her by his side)

His thumb slips over the tumid skin poking out from tight, black sutures. The threads are the only thing keeping her together.

Beneath it is a bruise. Black. The tip of his thumb presses against the cresting peak. Knuckle to skin, it's a perfect fit.

(In all the same ways he and she aren't.)

"I'm okay, Joel," she whispers, and the thick, dulcified tone of her voice shakes him from the labyrinth of his mind.

It's his own fault, he thinks, for stuffing his grief in the same place he keeps his worry.

"Yeah," he intones, and he isn't sure if he's speaking to her, himself, or a god he hasn't spoken to since he was eighteen and Sarah got sick for the first time. Maybe everyone, all of them, all at once.

It makes her huff. "Am I losing you already, old man?"

"Ain't that old," he bites back, hips lifting when she slides down. It makes him nudge something that has her eyes fluttering, mouth dropping, slack. Her nails catch skin when they rake over his chest.

Sex has always been an outlet. A comfort. It blankets that part of his head that never quiets—failures, failings—and offers a respite from it all. Her weight on his hips, chest, thighs doesn't dull it all but buffers it.

White noise in his ears when her nails rake over his skin. The scent of her clings in the air around them—sex, kerosene, cinder, ash: the scent of a wet forest after a wildfire scorched the earth—and clots out the fetor of decay, of mildew, and moss, the earthy tang that reminds them of death. Of them.

It's a distraction. Distance in skin, sweat, and heat.

It's just sex, just—

"God, Joel," she gasps loud, sharp, when he pitches his hips into her, blunt and unforgiving, and hits deep. Carves out the shape of him in her soft, fluttering flesh, and tries not to get lost in the thick scent of her.

It dusts over everything until he still smells her even when she isn't here.

Temporary made permanent.

It's the very thing he runs from finally catching up. He feels the graze of fingers ghosting over the nape of his neck when he looks at her, poised and centred above him. Aphrodite in flesh and bone. Her fingers prickle his skin with their sharp tips, and the indents left behind are soothed over when she gasps his name like it's something special. Meaningful. An orison murmured in the quiet box of a confessional booth.

The curtain rustles.

"Yeah," he grunts, low and filthy; the noise sticks in the back of his throat when he feels her tighten up around him. A little apple-sized fist of pleasure. He flexes his thighs, hands grasping her tight, and knows he's going to keep her here again tonight. "Fuck, sweetheart—"

The way she moves is liquid. Mercury. He watches, eagle-eyed and enraptured, as she squares her shoulders, and takes him to the root. The base.

Her presence in his life atrophied his defences until they lay scattered on the sheets that reek of her. In the folds of his pillow where he rests his head at night. The featherlight wood of his guitar when she leans over his shoulder, and says, play me another one, Joel.

He's a dog without an owner. A stray mutt on the outskirts of town, wandering through the city in search of sustenance.

She's the one who keeps feeding him. Lays out a dish just for him, and scratches her nails behind his ears until the curl of his lips subsides. A slow broiled trust. He stops showing her his canines, his claws, when she shows him the vulnerable curve of her neck, and lets him mark her skin with his touch.

Joel will mourn her the same way he does everyone else—achingly empty, and tearless—but he thinks, now, that he might think of her once, and then never again. He's selfish. Always has been.

(Can't afford not to be when she looks better bearing his mark. When he sleeps easier with her breath in his ear.)

Just sex. The words are weak in the back of his head, and he feels the shaky resolve begin to crumble, chossy wobbling under unsteady feet, when her head falls back in a mockery of prayer, the utterance of his name heavier than the sins on his shoulders. Just sex. Just—

The grille falls, and shatters into smelted pig iron at their feet.

—it's just her, him, and the beats in between. A slow simmer of sex to something more. Something he isn't quite ready for, yet knows he can't let go of. Won't. Not now, not ever. He won't give her anything, nothing but the touch of his hands, and the weight of his body, but it's juxtaposed to the worry heavy in his chest, the anger still lacing the broken bones in his fingers when his thumb brushes the curve of her wound.

It splits in her ardour. The bottom scab tugged too much, lifting from broken flesh.

Ichor pebbles on the seam. It pools an angry merlot against the indigo scab, but when it slides down her flesh, it's Phlegethon red.

His thumb catches it. It's warm, and sticky. He smears it over her quivering belly, and fights the urge to try and lick it clean. Knows, somehow, it would taste of Lethe.

Joel's teeth ache when he grinds them together, tongue lashing across the ivory seal. He's thinking too much—abstracts, concretes; they blur together in a cacophony of want, take, run, hide—

Keep.

"It's okay," she says again, as if all his secrets laid bare. As if the talons digging into his flesh somehow tapped a vein, an artery, that leads directly to his stem, and she's syphoning the thoughts in his head with the same ease that she steals the breath from his lungs. "It's okay, Joel. It's—"

She doesn't finish. Her words are shorn, bitten at the grain when he reaches up, holding her around the waist, and brutally fucks into her weeping cunt with the finesse of a starving man invited to a feast fit for a King.

It jostles her. Breasts swaying, head bobbing back and forth as he nearly lifts her off the bed with the force of his thrusts.

The brutality of it screams one shrill echo of it isn't. None of this is okay. None of it.

She's chiselling him open until he's a raw wound exposed to the unforgiving air. Until he bleeds and thinks of her. Until the only sound that drowns out the terror raking across his synapses is her voice when she murmurs his name.

"We're fine, Joel—," it carries the flavour of axiom. Aphorism when she says: "we'll be okay."

She trembles over him, muscles straining to keep up. This isn't her taking; despite being perched above him like a queen astride her throne, she gives. Lowers herself the way he likes. Circles her hips until he sees white behind his eyelids.

The weight of her feels like an anvil. The heat is enough to liquefy his bones.

"Keep goin'," he rasps the words out—a strange limbo of being both an encouragement and a demand. It lacks the bite it had before, when he'd bend her over and fuck her until he was satisfied, until the howling in his head, and the ache in his bones was eased with the soporific gossamer only sex could give him. "Just like that, pretty thing—"

It's a slip. An accident.

Her rhythm stutters. Her ribs expand wide under his palms; ballooning up so much he wonders if she's trying to burst them at the seams or float away. Irrational, of course. Sex makes him stupid. Makes him hungry and needy, and has him feeling like he's almost, almost human, and—

He holds on a little tighter.

Pretty thing. Her lips form the words in a soundless exhale. Pretty thing. She's used to him calling her all sorts of sobriquets smeared in a palpable stroke of derision. It's not contemptuous, but he makes his mockery of it clear with the flout in his tone. Sarcastic, caustic.

Sure thing, beautiful. If that's what you want, sweetheart. Go on then, gorgeous.

She always wore the same sour twist to her lips, the exaggerated eye roll. The heavy huff.

It was never flirtatious, never complimentary.

This—pretty thing—is the softest he'd ever regarded her.

He watches her throat bob when she swallows, eyes tracing the nervous flutter as she struggles to grasp the concurrency of his words, the way he said them. Their meaning. It flickers through those depths that threaten consumption whenever they dust over the length of him. Thinking. Thinking.

They were always abstract, but his words are concrete, and she isn't sure how to carry the heavy cinder he drops on her. Her fingers are used to the ephemeral weight of his scorn; the delineation of distance—unspoken but unignorable. Unequivocal in its separation.

"Wow," she breathes, tremulous. She grasps at normalcy but he can see how much those two words have rattled her. She swallows again. Eyes narrowing. Viper pits. "Getting soft in your old age, huh?"

Joel isn't ready to acquiesce.

He pitches his hips up, letting her feel the solid length of him—blunt, burning iron—and feels his chest flutter when she whines, head dropping back as he bludgeons into her core.

"Fuck, Joel—"

He isn't soft. Isn't malleable. He's made of carbonised grief, anguish, despair. Reinforced with volcanic clinkers running rivets of apoplectic fury.

He isn't soft. Isn't what she deserves, or needs, or should even want—

But the way she says his name is pyrolysing.

Cinder. Soot. Ash.

He spent so much time holding firm against the walls to keep her out, he never bothered to filter the air he breathed. She clots in his lungs. The scent of her builds. A mass forms. Metastasises inside of him.

Her hands fall there, palms drawn to the steady thump of his beating heart. It drums under her skin, a stuttering rhythm that makes her own chest swell with her shaky inhale.

His slide, rough skin scraping over her soft flesh. She burns hotter than the acorn stove in the corner of the room, and he feels the heat simmering in his veins. Scents the sulphur and volcanic ash in the air when she leans down, bending at the elbows to press her lips against his. It's chaste, as far as their usual kisses go. Biting and vitriolic. As if being sweet, tender, was forbidden.

Maybe it was. He doesn't know what he'd have done if she kissed him like this back then. Honeyed rich, and molasses slow. It tastes like smoke but reminds him of the rock candy he'd make at home with Tommy when he was young.

She moans into his mouth when his hands slip around her waist, her thigh. He holds her steady, and rocks up into her to the same tremulous beat as her clumsy, fragile kisses. The vibrations buzz on his bruised lips, and the tingle of her voice washing over him makes his cock twitch inside of her.

The press of him, unyielding and firm, against her soft, soft walls makes him grunt. Another noise pulled into the cacophony of them. It's lower than anything he's ever made before. New. Novice.

Fucking her now feels marginally different than it had only yesterday. It's raw. Vulnerable.

He thinks of a slow burn. A candle wick.

Wonders, then, if she feels it, too. This rawness that sits in his thundering chest; a scraped-out, hollow feeling that draws in more and more of her until the crater is filled with the essence of her sweat, the heavy breaths she tries to stifle in her throat to keep kissing him like she'll never get the chance to again.

And that must be it.

This isn't what he normally gives her—bruises and bites, beard burns over the delicate softness of her flesh; he leaves her kiss-bruised and drunk off of the taste of him, malt-heavy and whisky sour.

Intimacy is saved for moments when she cums around him, tightening up like a strung bow in his archer's hold; when she squeezes herself into the nook of his shoulder, whimpering as he fucks her through her high, and chases his release in the spasming clutch of her willing body. When he cums, painting her stomach, her thighs, her ass, with the stain of his spend, the only physical proof he'd been inside of her, and smears the wet mixture of them on her heated flesh, still buzzing with the aftershocks of her orgasmic haze.

It's reserved for the microcosm carved from their shared release, drenched in the glow of the chemical slurry that saturates their brains, releasing endorphins until they feel nothing but the buzz of each other. Skin to sweaty skin. Each breath a gasp.

He lets her linger in these soft moments. This singular dissonance sits incongruously with everything else between them. But then she shifts. The microcosm that filmed around them bursts.

She slips away after he does, slowly leaning over to pull on her discarded clothes, and wipe the stain of him from her body.

His fingers itch for a cigarette when he watches her through lidded eyes as she stumbles around on fawn legs.

She always hesitates for a moment. Joel often wonders if she's waiting for him to ask her to stay.

He never does. She leaves.

(Rinse. Repeat.)

But now—

"Easy, now," he murmurs, tongue slipping through the gap of her teeth to chase her taste. "Don't rush this, sweetheart."

Everything about this is unlike him, and she moans her disquietude into the scant space between them, brow knotting together when her stitches pull, and he leaves a bloodied trail across her waist, knuckles split and bleeding anew.

They're both bloodied, he finds. Drenched in each other's sweat, spittle, and blood.

It makes dizzy. Makes his fingers dig into her flesh, holding her closer to his heaving chest as he takes. His hips raise off the bed—a clumsy slant into her welcoming sex, and he feels her shudder when he hits deep, cock nudging that soft place inside of her that always makes her forehead crease.

He can't see it when she leans down, peppering wet kisses across his grey beard, and painting hard through her nose when he presses the flat of his palm against the base of her spine and fucks into her with sharp, unrhythmical thrusts.

"That's it, take it just like that—," he grinds the words off, and tastes the condescension in his tone.

In response, she bites down on his pulse point.

Another break in the routine. The rules lay scattered around them, smouldering embers of this incipient beginning to something neither of them is ready for.

Her hands wiggle out from between their chests, bringing them closer together than before, and when she tangles her fingers in the damp curls behind his ears, he swears he can feel her heartbeat echoing through his ribs.

He spears himself into her faster, seeking that place he knows will make her melt—

"Joel, oh—ah, fuck—"

—and once found, he cruelly angles the head of his cock into it, rasping out words of patronisation into her ear.

Good girl, he says, and groans when her cunt tightens around him like a nautical bow. Taking me so good. Gonna cum for me? Gonna cum around my cock—

He can feel his release brimming up like a fever in his veins. White-hot and arctic cold. It sets his nerves on fire, and the pressure of her around him makes him see pure white.

He thinks of church on Sundays when she chants his name like a hymnal—Joel, Joel, Joel—and finds nirvana when she sinks her teeth deeper into his flesh, unmarked and unclaimed until now. He'll have the perfect impression of her teeth embedded in his skin, and thought alone makes that gnarled spool inside of him loosen.

Joel is taken by surprise when she cums—voice a shaky, shrill howl of his name, and the sound of it, the blood that stains his beard when she turns, baring her teeth and pressing them flat to his jaw, makes him grunt. It's raw. An oozing wound.

She flutters around him like the beat that echoes through his bones, and feels a hunger inside of him grow.

The uncoiled knot inside of him rears, once dormant and dead to the world, now gnashing its jowls at the hands that prodded it from its slumber. Rapacious. A black hole when it yawns.

The town knows she's his. Has since she sidled up to him, all soft smiles and viper eyes, and asked him to dance, for a drink, and what's a handsome man like you doing in a place like this? Got anyone I should worry about, Joel? Wanna dance? Wanna fuck—

And they know, now, that he's hers when he carries her in his arms, and knocked his forearm into the necks of anyone who tried to pry her from his clutch.

They know. They know, but it's not enough.

He wants to mark her, stain her. Leave her with the permanent smear of him on her pretty skin.

Fuck—

This wasn't supposed to happen, but the keen awareness comes much too late.

He fucks the frustration into the tight clutch of her willing, forgiving, body, and tries not to come apart at the seams when she mewls his name like he's just as much of a burden to her as she is to him. Bankrupt. Bereft of the walls and the rationale that kept him lightyears away from everyone else around him (until Ellie, the hospital—this place that reeks of stagnancy and burrowed into his marrow), he crumbles in her hold once more.

His release hits him like a sucker punch to his gut, and the force of it makes him ache.

He doesn't pull out like he always, always, does despite the contraceptive she has, and spilling inside of her spasming cunt feels too much like heaven for him not to come apart at the seams. For him not to shatter into pieces when she pulls him closer, and murmurs, that's it, Joel. That's it—cum for me. Just let go, I got you—

And for the first time in a long time, he does.

It's an awkward assemblage of limbs that don't fit together, bodies that are too incompatible, but he tugs her down onto the mattress beside him, and makes it work. She rests the flat of her palm over his sweat-slicked chest, nails raking through the dusted grey smatter of hair on his chest. The inside of her thigh is wet with him, with her, them, when she slides it over his hip.

Her head rests on soft tissue where his arm and shoulder meet, ear nestled into his armpit. His arm around her back, fingers resting on the curve of her elbow. It's then, when he finds his thumb brushing small circles into her dewy skin, that he realises what this is.

Cuddling, he thinks, a touch derisively, in the apocalypse.

It was never a burning release, the aftermath of that intoxicating chemical bath of endorphins, oxytocin, and then a quick until next time.

Being trade partners for most of the scheduled shifts—his brutality, and her knowledge of survival made them a perfect match outside of this clumsy moment of intimacy—meant that she often stayed for a few hours afterwards discussing plans, and who to barter with next or the places they haven't yet scavenged. Lying naked beside each other, shoulders sometimes brushing as they spoke—that was the extent of their post-sex ritual.

This, he knows, is new. Different.

It has the same cadence as last night when his massive hand swallowed her wrist in his palm, and he said, just sleep here, but it's a syncopation. Lighter, somehow, than the gruff way he demanded her company, the brutal divot between his brow.

She moves, slow and languid, and for a moment he thinks about letting her leave. Repairing the chasm that crumbled between them into heaps of broken ruination and anguish, her hand brushes his when she pulls away, and he knows he won't.

For such a massive presence, she's surprisingly small in his grasp. The bump of her wrist bone fits snug against the broken, swollen knuckle of his middle finger when he folds his hand around hers.

The hitch in her breath, the rapid flutter of her pulse beating against his too rough, too worn palm are the only measure of her hesitation, her confusion.

They're not themselves in this moment.

The moor around him collapses. A sinkhole forms.

He clings to her and drags her under with him.

The words won't form on his lips. His throat is bereft of what he feels in his marrow, unable to utter them aloud, to make them real. As if speaking his burgeoning desires is somehow worse than a death sentence.

Wanting in this world is dangerous, and ruinous, but when Joel sees the dawning realisation buoying to the surface in those unfathomable black holes, he knows there's nothing more worrisome, more deadly, to him than her insatiable appetite. Her desire for more.

More—

And just him.

Something in her gaze splinters. Cracks. Her shoulder slump in something that tastes of the same defeat that taints the pinch in his brow.

"You are getting softer, Joel Miller," she takes a stab at a joke but her hands shake too much for it to land properly. "Who'd have thought all it would take is old age and mortality—"

"Shut up," he grumbles, and fights the thrum of satisfaction that spumes in his veins when she lays back down beside him. "Didn't hear you complainin' this much five minutes ago."

"Yeah, well—" her hands settle on his chest, fingers carting through the damp, matted hair. "There's a reason I'm always on top, you know. Worried you might throw your back out."

"You say that like I haven't already."

Her chin scraps over the soft flesh where his bicep meets the curve of his shoulder, eyes bright in the morning sun that smears rays of ochre across the bridge of her nose.

She's pretty, he thinks, and feels that same gnawing in his guts, that same hunger, when she dips, and presses a kiss to his skin.

"Poor baby," she coos, brows drawing together in mock sympathy. "I can't believe a little missionary ruined you so badly. Guess I should take better care of the elderly."

"Wasn't the missionary," he huffs. Her skin is soft, tacky, when he runs his fingers over her shoulder. "It was carrying your heavy ass home."

"Did my heavy ass snap your hips, too—"

"Christ," he bites out, but it lacks any heat. "You just never shut up, do you?"

He hears the click in her throat when she swallows.

"Guess you'll just have to shut me up, won't you, old—"

He presses his lips to hers, and steals the goading words from her quivering mouth.

"Call me an old man again, and I'll spank your ass, little girl."

The condescending tone is thick, but where he expects her indignation over the same words spoken to her by everyone else when she said she wanted to go with him on runs—stay here where it's safe, little girl—it instead makes her suck in a sharp breath between her teeth. He feels the vacuum of it against his lips, and blinks up at her.

"Did you like that—"

"No," she snaps, and drops her head to his chest. "God, Joel, you really know how to ruin a moment."

"Is that what this was? A moment?"

"Yes," she volleys back. "You don't think it was?"

He swallows down the tang of panic that salts his tongue, and presses his lips to her crown instead.

"Ain't much of one, was it?"

"We'll make a better one," she murmurs, the lilt of a promise heavy in her words.

When she settles in his fold, cheek laying flat against his chest—hiding her embarrassment he tones with a particular thrum of fondness so sweet it makes his teeth ache—he folds his arm over her shoulder, keeping her tucked into the bracket of his body.

She's too small for him to ever be a perfect fit. Too hard inside that pretty little head for him to ever wiggle through. Too soft for him not to ruin her completely when he holds her too tight in his hands that overlap in a way that sometimes makes him dizzy, feverish with want, with fear.

She doesn't click in the same way Tess does—did.

A silent agreement of unspoken distance. Never ask for more, it hissed because you'll be brutally disappointed. Never hunger because you won't ever be satiated. Don't yearn. Don't want. Don't, don't, don't—

No, she doesn't click. She doesn't fit. Not with him. Not at all.

(Tess left him whole.

She devours.)

Consumes.

Her eyes are black holes, and ever since she looked at him through the fanned ring of her lashes, and said: you won't break me that easily, he's been standing on the edge of her event horizon waiting for that perfect singularity to swallow him whole.

(He thought her pull would happen quickly. Instantaneous.

But she's been ripping him apart the entire time; morsel after morsel until all that remains is raw nerve. Scraps.)

A slow descent into comfort, kinship.

She's on the same plane of existence as Tommy, Ellie. Maria, too, he supposes, a touch begrudgingly. His circle widens, expands. The bubble encompassing her, too, and he knows that he'd mourn her in the same hushed breath as the rest.

I'll outlive you, old man.

(He's never wanted something more in his life right now than for those words to come to fruition.)

For the first time since the walls reared, since the gunshot that still echoes in his ears like a reminder of his sins, his failures, Joel thinks of tomorrow. And the one after that. And after that.

He thinks of her, and them, this, in the afternoon. Over old stew. Tommy's laughter. Maria's knowing glances. Ellie's anger. Her scorn. Distrust.

Wasting the night away in the bar that's always several octaves too loud not to make him tense, antsy. Watching her dance around the room, ballerina nimble with a sprinter's pace. Listen to her joke and laugh with the men who look at her a touch too long, and a shade too intense, and—

Bringing her home after. Back here in this small house where he rots. Where he plays his guitar as if the chords of Hurt would ever be enough to drown out the bullets and the bloodshed. The clicks, the groans. The scent of moss, and fungus.

Taking her to bed in the sheets that hasn't stopped smelling like her since he fucked her three times over Christmas until she sobbed into his pillow, and begged him for respite. When she brushed the grey hair from his temple with fingers that wouldn't stop trembling despite the ease in her grin, and the polynya in her eyes as she regarded him with more than just desire. More than just sex and sweat and the comfort that comes with losing yourself to the chemical high of another body tucked into the crevasse of your own.

She doesn't fit. She doesn't belong.

But fuck—

He knows he's gone when he can't imagine her anywhere else.

"Sure," he says, and wonders when she let herself into his life, into the gnarled remanants of his chest. "Whatever you say, sweetheart."

(He only dreams in black and white, but when he closes his eyes and dreams of her, it's in a startling palette of browns, reds, and blues.)

#UMMMMMMM #this ended up becoming bigger than i expected #it was honestly supposed to just be super quick smut as an intro to me writing Joel and now it's a Thing #Joel Miller #Joel Miller TLOU #joel tlou #tlou #joel miller x reader #joel x reader #joel tlou x reader

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twotangledsisters · 5 months

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What’s some of your favorite new dream art that you’ve done?

Obviously, the one I have as my blog's banner!

It's not my best lineart-wise, but it's vibrant and very happy!

My second fave actually isn't on tumblr, but it's drawing of them sleeping by a campfire that I finished pretty recently! It's the second picture in this Tiktok. Very warm and sweet!

Then this piece:

It's simple, but I just love them both with brown hair and the more earthy colours.

And after that I've gotta go all the way back to NDAW, of which there was a lot of art to choose from but these were my fave from that week:

Funnily enough, all of my faves are the more simple pieces I did during the week rather than the actual big planned pieces!

Anyway, thanks so much for the ask! It was nice to go back and look through old New Dream art... there was a lot of it and a lot more than just these, but these are my faves, a highlight reel if you may :D

#ask answered #new dream fanart #new dream

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ehrendame · 5 months

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things your muse will notice about mine. ( repost, don't reblog. )

what they look like:

Resi is naturally pretty with her tousled chocolate-colored hair she refuses to admit that she had a few grey hairs in the past though, her hair falls beautifully down her back in natural waves. Her expressive, almond-shaped blue eyes appear to sparkle when she's happy and cheerful. Her eyelashes are long and she has a vibrant romantic type face. Her lips are small and plump often in different colours depending on what lipstick she chooses for that day. Her eyebrows are a natural shape and groomed elegantly.

Resi has a friendly, welcoming look (when she likes the person) with a beaming smile showing her almost perfect teeth, there may be some imperfections like crowns missing and a few fillings. Resi radiates light and when she smiles can make anyone feel warm. Resi may have smile lines but as for wrinkles, no way she is too vain for wrinkles she religiously used anti-wrinkle cream since the 1980s, and since then she kept her skin wrinkle-free. Her face can change to one of haughty aloofness if she doesn't like the person and not very welcoming to them.

Her body is womanly, a true hourglass figure with an ample bosom, wide hips, shapely thighs, and slender legs. Her body size varies depending on her mental health as she tends to fluctuate between a curvy size 12/14 to a slender size 8 when upset she tends to overexercise and not eat well - when she is content she is "plumper" as she is happy in he skin and doesn't need to work hard to look good.

what they smell like:

Resi either smells fresh like clean, crisp mountain air, delicate wildflowers (mainly chamomile, snowdrops, and edelweiss) she smells morning dew, a chilly winter morning. She also smells warming and welcoming with hints of vanilla, cinnamon, warm bread, and a hint of beer and apples. Resi has a scent of making someone feel at home, comforting and clean.

What they taste like:

Resi tastes like a fresh, cool breeze tingly and rejuvenating with hints of Apple cinnamon and a hint of beer. Depending on what favoured lip gloss she has she could taste like strawberry, cherry or chocolate mint. She can taste sweet as you can pick up chocolate, whipped cream and sometimes rum, lemon or gingerbread. When "tasting" her is just like consuming a Bavarian dessert.

What they sound like :

Resi's English is pretty good, it is spoken with good pronunciation and delivery. She is polite and welcoming with a tone that instantly draws people into a conversation. Her voice is honeyed and pleasant on the ear while speaking in a 121 conversation or group one (even though she may raise her voice to be heard). Resi is a woman who can use her voice to be heard like a "Listen to me voice" similar to a schoolteacher when she needs to scold anyone and an "I'm better than you voice" when speaking to her rivals. Resi can get tongue-tied when thinking of a word in English and will often respond with "hmm" or "mmm" when she is thinking of a word or rather use long silences as she thinks of the current word. Naturally, when she is upset or angry her tone switches accordingly to how she feels. When angry she can sound very demanding "Listen to me!" type of voice with a lot of Bavarian racial slurs thrown in e.g. Saupreiß for good measure. Resi is not the sort of woman who holds back when angry so be aware.

In her native Bavarian accent, she uses slang a lot when speaking and speaks more like a "common person" than a member of the aristocracy how she speaks in English she sounds much more confident speaking in Bavarian/German than English.

The other languages. She is confident conversing in French and Italian but as for languages like Hungarian, Czech, Spanish, and Romanian she tends to be less confident and will often like English find it difficult to think of the right word or verb.

What they feel like

Resi feels quite warm, her hands are silky soft despite working with her hands a lot (she uses hand cream and body lotion religiously), and she feels smooth yet money in areas like elbows and knees. She has "extra meat" on her thighs and hips which are squashy and bouncy. She is hairless on her body so she is majority smooth and except for a few scars around her body her skin is moisturised and she gives off the overall vibe of approachable, warm, and light.

Tagged by: @sorte-de-vida (thank you 🥰)

Tagging: @coltii-romanesti @mauerfrau @vilavelebita @nervous-splendor @heroyam

#:: headcannons #:: ooc post

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anna-kendrick · 4 years

Text

requested coloring tutorial

got the following ask from @jonismitchell: Hi! I love your edits. I was wondering if you could share any tips on giffing Bly Manor (namely how you get your gifs so nice and bright)? Thank you and I hope you have a lovely day :)

— tutorial under break —

omg!! first of all, THANK YOU!!! and secondly, i’m sure you didn’t mean to ask for a whole tutorial post, however i’m taking this opportunity to do one purely because it’s fun for me to make.

i’m gonna use a scene that has good lighting, because honestly it’s the easiest to work with when you’re making bright posts. (if i’m being really honest, if a scene has low lighting, it’s difficult for me to edit sometimes, so i just throw on a b&w layer.. and no shame!! b&w is cool and looks good too!!)

first, i’ll go in with my curves, and find a white point to basically auto-edit the scene, and balance out colour. if it’s washed out and lacking contrast, i’ll sometimes go in with the black point and do the same, but it really depends since i don’t want my gif to be too concentrated and contrasted.

next, i add my base colouring, which is a mix of selective colour, curves, vibrance and colour balance that i’ve saved as a psd for quicker gif making. i do edit the individual layers if it’s needed. in this scene, i removed some of the curves in my colouring, as i had added the white point & black point curves.

dl my colouring here (it is mine, so please do not repost without credit.)

i usually finish my gif by playing around with photo filters, selective colour, colour balance and hue/saturation. i like my blues, greens and pinks to be vibrant. i’ll up the yellow for dani’s hair, just to emphasize the blonde, but i try not to let it affect the skin too much.

for added effect, sometimes i add layers and colour in the parts i want most vibrant, and add a blend mode. i’ll link @chonis’s gif tutorial as it’s basically the same as i do, and it’s explained well.

the most important part in gifting, and what i enjoy most about it, is that no two scenes are ever truly alike, so you really just gotta play around with it and have fun developing your own style!!

hopefully this helps you, and please, if you, or anyone else, have further questions, my dms & ask box are always open! :)

final result:

#hope this helps!!#tutorials #coloring tutorial #completeresources #yeahps #dailyresources #mine #ask #jonismitchell

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apollos-son · 3 years

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✎ ❝Won't You Stay By My Side?❞

Rating ; 13+

Pairing ; eventual poly ot8 ateez

Genre ; fluff, slight angst?

Tags ; painter Yeosang au, old au, nothing but sweet romance, poly ot8

Summery ; Kang Yeosang is a painter from the big city who recently moved away to a little port town very far away from any place he knew. With a determination to paint the scenic views, Yeosang hastily tries to settle in but finds that he can't get much work done because there happens to be some... distractions around the little town that seem to grab his attention in ways that other things couldn't.

Note : There are tags that might be added later on, and in specific chapters there may be trigger warnings, however if there does happen to be anything triggering in chapters that I have mistakenly not labeled with a trigger warning - please let me know so I can add a warning in, the last thing I want is to trigger somebody.

Also: something I should point out is that this fic will be tackling things such as homophobia and sexism purely because of the time-zone it's set in, so if you don't want to read about that then please don't read this. It won't be overbearingly obnoxious but it will be mentioned continuously throughout because it's a big part of the story.

I know this is unlikely but I do ask that you do not copy my work under any circumstances. Do not repost, translate or use my work without permission. Thanks :)

<- previous chapter • next chapter ->

chapter 1 ⇢ ❝I Can't Tear My Eyes Away.❞

The sun had recently risen, shining over the industrial buildings and bathing them with its warm light. As soon as that yellow luminescent glow flooded through the curtains of his apartment, Yeosang's eyes fluttered open slowly. The young painter pushed his body up with his palms until he was sat up completely. He rubbed his eyes gently with the sides of his index fingers and yawned quietly.

His small hands gripped the plush duvet carefully as he shifted his body to get out of bed. The loose button-up that hung onto his body covered most of his hands, right up to the knuckles. It was sheer, translucent even, and his soft, tanned skin could be seen from underneath. Not that anybody would be looking, of course, he lived alone. He had been living in the city ever since he was small. His bare feet thumped gently across the floorboards as he tiredly made his way to the small kitchen. His eyes were barely open, but when they had drifted to look at the old calendar that was fixed to the wall he grunted, and then when they gazed at the clock ticking away on the other wall next to his window they widened comically.

"shit! I'm late!" he cursed as he quickly slipped back into the bedroom to change.

Kang Yeosang wasn't somebody who considered himself anything more than "average" person. He was alright-looking, nothing special about his personality or anything like that. It had been his dream to paint beautiful scenes since he was a child, and yet the industrialism that overtook the entire city didn't seem to have any good spots for painting. Thick smog and old, dirty bricked buildings weren't really his taste. And that's exactly why when his uncle had made the offer of giving Yeosang his old home in a port town away from the city; there was no way he could refuse.

He was supposed to take a taxi ride all the way out there, but he must've gotten caught up with quitting his old job, because he hadn't even packed yet! In a quick flurry, he grabbed his clothes and threw them onto the bed. Thoughts of folding them and staying tidy immediately went away after he glanced back at the clock in the kitchen. Two leather brown cases that had golden clasps on the front were filled with clothes, the little self-care products he owned and his art supplies. Yeosang quickly hopped to the door, luggage in hand, before realizing... "aishh, I'm not even dressed!" he gasped, looking down at that flowy sheer shirt and shorts.

This was going to be a long day.

Far, far away from the bustling cities and the hassle of factory work, a quiet little port town hid. It was quite the overgrown place, seeming to look abandoned and yet was still full of life. It was a town of peace and tranquility, where everyone knew everyone. Clearbrook Port was one of the lesser known ports on the map. It didn't have those busy markets with exotic products from all around nor did it have any 'one of a kind' services. It attracted sailors not for its popularity, but for its quietness and its friendliness. A place of harmony; that's why it attracted Yeosang so much.

He recalls his uncle describing it as so different from the city he grew up in that it may take him a while to adjust, which was the only part of this experience that really worried Yeosang. He was typically a very shy person and also particularly quiet. He never really got on with any of his coworkers because of it, but he never really let that bother him.

He had been in the taxi for roughly an hour now (after having apologized at least twenty times for being late) and he was still staring longingly out the window. The smaller of the two brown cases he has brought was sat face up on his lap with his hands delicately laid over the top of it. The other case rested in the footwell of the seat next to him. The taxi itself seemed old, as it's colour wasn't a vibrant yellow, but rather a faded one. Despite the car's old appearance, the driver seemed to be quite young yet not chatty. Which was great for Yeosang, because he could just calmly stare out of the window. They had passed the threshold of where industrialism met nature a little while ago, he thought, so now he was merely gazing at old paths that had pretty flowers adorning the boarder. It was clear to him that these paths were still designed for horses and carriages because of how bumpy it had been.

Cars were a recent addition to society, so he assumed that this distant port town wouldn't have any use for them because it was small, right?

His train of thought was interrupted as the vehicle suddenly stopped. Yeosang's eyes flashed towards the driver and then back out of the window. Oh! They had arrived! He was so deep in his thoughts that he must've lost track of time. "ah! Thank you very much, sir," Yeosang thanked the man politely and gave him the money his uncle had provided him for the car ride.

He had just stepped out of the car and already there were people ready to greet him. A few older people, it seemed. Not that he was in a position to judge of course, he was here for the scenery of the town, not to belittle its residents. He glanced at each person briefly, a couple of sweet women with even sweeter smiles on their faces, an older man who seemed to be dressed in a much different manner to the rest of the people, it was.. richer almost? He didn't seem to fit in with the rest of the townspeople, or the whole vibe that the town gave off.

Yeosang may have had his eyes on the man longer than the others, but when his eyes drifted to the boy standing next to him, he let out a small gasp before covering his mouth. A short male, wearing similar clothing to the man he stood next to; it was far too posh. Yeosang could feel his cheeks flaring up just by how gorgeous the boy was. He wore a silk shirt that just so happened to have the top button loose, a pair of tweed trousers and a jacket that looked too big for him that protected him from the slight cold breeze that was drifting from the ocean's direction.

The boy smiled at him politely, his soft brown hair dancing in the gentle breeze. Oh, gosh, that smile. What a beautiful one it was. The way his eyes crinkled up just a little bit made Yeosang's heart flutter. "welcome, sir! I hope you had a safe journey!~" The boy chirped, his voice relatively average in pitch. He stepped forward and held his tiny hands out to hold one of Yeosang's, which caused the other male to press his lips together into a thin line. "My name is Kim Hongjoong, it's a pleasure to have you here in our little town, mister...?" he tilted his head a small amount, waiting for an answer. "Mister K-Kang Yeosang, sir!" The flustered male replied.

At Yeosang's shy tone, Hongjoong's bright smile only seemed to widen "Yeosang.." he hummed quietly, his hands squeezing Yeosang's jittery one. "What a pretty name," he complimented. The man that Hongjoong had once been stood next to cleared his throat obnoxiously to grab the younger man's attention. "Hongjoong, my son, you have other things to be getting up to rather than shamelessly complimenting our new resident, yes?" The man, now identified as Hongjoong's father, said with expectancy. The young man's smile dropped almost instantly and his hands immediately let go of Yeosang's hand. "You're right, father, my apologies," he hummed. "Well, Yeosang, I hope you settle in alright," he said kindly before turning around to leave.

Yeosang looked down at his hand slowly, blinking and replaying the scenario that just happened back in his head. He cupped his own cheek in an attempt to hide the redness that was displayed there. "Welcome, Mister Kang," Hongjoong's father spoke. Yeosang flashed the man an awkward smile. "We were actually expecting you earlier than this and unfortunately there are few people available to show you around, but I can trust that you'll eventually find your way, yes?"

It turns out that Yeosang couldn't find his way after all. He had stumbled around the town for an hour now at least. It was a pretty little town with cottages dotted around the area. None of them were too close to each other and none of them were too far. It was gave off a very home-like feel. The scenery was cause him to become very enraptured, it was quite new to him. There were a lot more plants and greenery than there were in the city. A lot of the buildings were made from stone and wood, too, which contrasted to the cities firm brick apartments. The stone itself looked to be quite worn down, especially the walls and some of the archways that lead out of the town and toward the open fields that resided behind. He was definitely going to go out there when he had the chance.

He had reached the far end of the port by this point, and his eyes were set on the cottage that was nestled right in the corner. That was the one, he thought. His uncle had told him that it was the most pretty one, and now that Yeosang's eyes had settled on it, he could easily agree. It was one of the medium sized homes, it wasn't small yet it wasn't excessively large. None of the homes seemed to be very large apart from the one that sat at the top of the hill near the town's entrance. The house was compiled of stone bricks, none of which were the same size and some of then were remarkably bigger than the others. Wooden boards seemed to frame the house in almost a perfect way. The roof had shingles that lead right from the roof's peak down to where it met the stone of the building.

Thin curtains of vines seemed to cover the front of the building, and plants were growing uncontrollably around it. Next to the cosy cottage, a small waterfall flowed into a pond that was surrounded by a few stones and moss.

"excuse me, sir?" a sweet yet deep voice came from the town's west exit. "oh yes? Can I help yo-" Yeosang turned around and his eyes widened softly at the sight before him. Another young male who was quite tall and very handsome. "Heh, my name's Song Mingi and I remembered that we were having someone new move in so I was just wondering if you needed any help at all? I've finished my shift at the general store so I'd be happy to help," Mingi offered, his brown eyes sparkling kindly.

Yeosang blinked a few times before sending the boy a shy smile "A-Ah, would you mind? I didn't bring a lot with me but.." he began "two is company, right?" Mingi offered, his fluffy red hair bouncing as he stepped closer. "R-Right, two is company," Yeosang repeated in a quieter tone.

"So you're a painter?" Mingi asked delicately as he watched Yeosang take a wooden easel from the bigger of the two suitcases he had brought with him. Yeosang gave him a quick nod "yes, I've always loved to paint. I used to work as an office worker and I would paint scenes and portraits for people on the side, that's part of the reason why I moved here," he explained to the taller male lightly as he set the easel down in the corner of his new bedroom and turned to his smaller suitcase that held all of his screwed up clothes ("did you pack at the last minute or are you just messy?" Mingi had asked him in a playful tone,) and he took the articles of clothing out, folding them neatly.

"You moved here to paint for someone?" The taller man inquired curiously and Yeosang shook his head "well, not exactly. I wanted to paint some scenes somewhere that wasn't.. In a bustling city. So my uncle offered me this home out here. It's far more scenic.,"

They stayed silent for a moment and Mingi watched as Yeosang sorted his clothing and his other items and smiled warmly. "Well, I think that we're lucky to have you here, if I may be so bold, you are very pretty," he said confidently. The compliment had Yeosang's ears turn red almost instantly. "Do you th-think so, Mister Song?" The stuttered comment caused Mingi to laugh just a little bit. "I do think so, Mister Kang," he replied playfully.

After Yeosang had unpacked his belongings, Mingi had offered to take him out for a walk to show him around, which he had graciously accepted. The two walked side-by-side as the afternoon sun shone upon them. Mingi took the time to properly show Yeosang the prettiest parts of the town. The harbor seemed to be newer than the rest of the town, which made the painter wonder if it was a new addition or if it had been destroyed or damaged prior to his arrival. At the docks, a young man who looked small but appeared to be quite muscular caught the young painter's eye. He was carrying a heavy looking barrel by himself. "Yah! Jongho-ah!" Mingi called "be careful! I wouldn't want you to get hurt, you hear?" he scolds the seemingly younger male. The male in question turned to look at Mingi, a cute smile coming over his face "Thanks for your concern, Mingi-hyung, but I'm fine, I promise!"

The tall male quickly became distracted by Jongho and started talking to the younger boy, distracting him from his job. A voice had come from the opposite direction "Mister Kang?" that familiar voice rang. It was the elder man, Hongjoong's father. "ah, I'm glad to find you out here again, have you settled in okay?" The man asked, but he didn't give Yeosang a chance to reply before continuing "I heard from someone that you are a renowned painter, yes?"

"renowned? I.. I don't know about that, sir! I do paint yes.. b-but-" the young male was cut off immediately "perfect! I need somebody to craft a wedding portrait of my son," the man announced. Shocked, the young painter stared at the elder male for a moment. He hadn't been commissioned by anybody in a while, and to make a portrait no less? "w-well... I could.. b-but.." he tried to speak up again, only to be cut off short "wonderful! Please come by to my manor tomorrow,"

As the elder man strode away, Yeosang sighed to himself. If he remembers correctly, that man's son is Hongjoong.. and he isn't sure if he was confident enough to talk to the male properly let alone paint him.

Out of all of the things he was expecting out of this little town, he certainly wasn't expecting that.

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

Lil taglist; @ningnings-plushies @catboy-dia @btsheadquarters7 @anon-giggles

#Aaron-james writes #First chapter~#V exciting #ateez #poly ot8 #Kim Hongjoong #park seonghwa #jeong yunho #kang yeosang #choi san #song mingi #jung wooyoung #choi jongho

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aenslem · 3 years

Photo

Challenge: From your creations, choose GIFs and do a split of before and after adding colouring!

tagged by @uuuhshiny . i have done these things before, here and here. but okay, i’ll do one more :D though, since i don’t gif recently i just found my old gif psds that i have not removed yet, and just resaved them, so sorry for the speed on the gifs, i did not really paid attention lmao the point is coloring anyway, right??

tagging @comicbookvillain @tennant @arthurpendragonns @rory-amy and whoever wants to do it :D

i love changing colors, i love when they are vibrant, i am also the kind of person who will turn everything into purple, but if the scene is purple i will try my best to make it look normal af and remove all the purple lmao idk why tho

changing colors is fun, like i did that on my pink Doctor Who gifset, and my golden Missy gifset

turning blue into pink or gold? im here for that :D but i rarely did it before, but i was challenged to do it, so i did :D and i think i did good.

if i see a kinda red hair, i will make it as vibrant as possible :D i also love when on gifs lips are red, idk why.

doctor who is a super hard to color, especially when you color doctor and the master, because i feel like show runners hate thoschei shippers considering all of doctor/master scenes are like this or worse

???

??????????

moffat what the heck??????

i mean, look at my doctor and master gifsets, i have a lot of them, those are all super edited because original scenes are the pain in the a$$ to color! they are either super dark blue or horrible yellow/red.

i have not used this gif in a set, wanted to but it was extra so have it :D maybe one day i will make a gifset with yellow/blue combo and use it :D and i do love those two color combinations, like there are other colors too, but i make those two colors stand out so it looks nice. like the gif with miranda otto above, that color combination is really pretty

also, i love making michelle gomez eyes really blue, or anyone’s lmao like if there are blue eyes consider me making them as vibrant as possible :D

not the best example, but it was not the best quality video and i did what i could. sometimes i make it with selective colors and hue and saturation, but sometimes i draw blue color over the gif. yeah, sometimes i love torturing myself and color each layer or a few layers and just move the layer where i need lmao

like previous insta videos of her i edited and made blue stand out, i did like that :/ but i would do more for that woman :D

my colorings are not super complicated, i usually upload those colorings i don’t use on my psd account @creationsofthedark so check it out, there are my first colorings i ever did, and the latest. you will not find channel mixer there tho, but it’s my fav tool now. i stopped updating the blog since... well, there was an incident where the person started doing what i asked to not to do, don’t copy me. i posted a gifsets with these colorings so why would you crop it the same way and color it with my coloring and post, the same scene??? after asking me sharpening settings also?? like, those were so similar i thought it is a repost tbh that’s why i stopped posting psds i use, and well, i use channel mixer mostly for correcting colors and it never works on 99% of the scenes, and i don’t wanna share coloring for one scene i already giffed, what is the point? so somebody could gif the same scene with the same coloring? nope. anyway, channel mixer as you see on previous creator tag games i did is really good when you need to correct colors, such as super red colors or yellow. unfortunately idk how to edit tHAT Doctor and Master scene from doctor falls, it’s the worst scene ever and i will not touch it again lmao, i tried I TRIED but... usual colorings which work fine on more than few scenes are uploaded on sideblog. and you may see there that i don’t do anything extraordinary, same settings almost everywhere, curves, levels if needed, selective colors and color balance are mostly used by me. and i always avoided using masks when i started giffing, but honestly that’s so good, don’t be scared to use them, they are really awesome when you need to correct part of the gif only. i also love using color fills, to change color of the background or a specific object, using blending modes, if the object does not move it is easy but sometimes it does not... like with the eyes, you have to draw over each layer or move the layer for each frame :D sometimes i use textures, but i usually blur them as on the first DW gif here. idk what else to say... :D

#tag game #i love coloring gifs #well i loved lmao

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jaskierswolf · 4 years

Text

The Viscount and The Witcher pt.3/4

(Note: Reposted from my old blog. The rest can be found on my Ao3 or on my pinned masterlist)

Geralt visited the Lettenhove Estate on a regular basis after that fateful day. He hadn’t intended to. He’d intended to forget all about Viscount Julian and Dandelion the bard, but the man had wormed his way into Geralt’s head, like poison in his veins. Dandelion, Julian just didn’t suit him, wrote him letters every time Geralt found himself in the area and Geralt gritted his teeth and mounted Roach every single damned time. The first time he’d ridden in the opposite direction for about ten minutes before he’d noticed a patch on cornflowers at the side of the road. He’d sworn and turned Roach around to help clear an arachnomorph infestation from the kitchen.

The monstrous spiders had turned out to be just normal house spiders, big ones but still easy to squish under one’s boot. Dandelion had whimpered about spiders being scary and had practically jumped into Geralt’s arms when one had started to crawl up his leg. Geralt had rolled his eyes but allowed the Viscount to cling to him. He didn’t stink of fear despite his act of jumpy cowardliness but Geralt didn’t call him out on it. He was rather amused by the whole scenario and he left the castle with a purse filled with coin, not a bad reward for killing some spiders.

The next claim was a bruxa in the wine cellar. The bruxa had been a friend of Dandelion’s, stark naked with dark hair tumbling down in front of her breasts. Geralt had taken one look at her tanned skin and turned back out of the wine cellar, Dandelion babbling excuses after him.

After that had been a werewolf in the shed which had turned out to be a large dog.

Then a harpy nest on the roof which was just chicken eggs in a bundle of straw.

Each time Dandelion would follow Geralt around like a sad lost puppy. He would insist on feeding Geralt, or ordering him a bath if he was looking too travel worn. Geralt grew used to having the blond’s vibrant blue eyes watching him as he undressed, he enjoyed the casual touches to his arms and chest. Dandelion didn’t even seem to realise he was doing it. Every time that Geralt was close, those soft gentle hands would reach out, brushing a strand of hair from his face, or squeezing his arm, or stroking across his shoulder as they passed each other.

Geralt had even begun to call the man his friend, in the privacy of his own mind.

Dandelion had now claimed that a dragon was terrorising a local farm. Geralt didn’t even hunt dragons and yet he still found himself galloping off to meet Dandelion at his estate. He didn’t think too much into it. He told himself that if he didn’t go then it would inevitably be the one time that Dandelion was telling the truth.

The wannabe troubadour was standing by the entrance to the manor as he galloped up the path to the house. He dismounted from Roach whilst she was still slowing to a walk and landed on the ground with ease. Roach whinnied and trotted around the front of the house towards the stables, she’d been here enough time by now that she’d learnt where the best hay was.

“Geralt!” Dandelion greeted with a charming smile. “I’m so glad you could make it.”

Dandelion flung his arms around Geralt’s neck. Geralt grunted but returned the hug, enjoying the soothing scent of lavender that always hung to the Viscount. He resisted burying his nose in the crook of Dandelion’s neck, that was too much temptation. How would he restrain himself from peppering the soft skin with kisses, from leaving dark bruising marks beneath the soft blond curls that tickled his jaw?

Instead, Geralt pushed the Viscount away and scowled at him.

“A dragon?” Geralt asked with a quirk of his eyebrow. “Really?”

Dandelion flushed prettily under his cobolt blue hat. It was a striking colour on the Viscount that made his eyes shine and sparkle against his skin. Geralt’s throat went dry as he allowed his gaze to drink in the sight of the blond. Dandelion preened under the attention like a fancy peacock.

He was truly a sight to behold.

“Well.” Dandelion sulked. “It might have been a forktail?”

“In other words a goat with wings stuck to it.” Geralt surmised.

Dandelion gasped and placed a hand on his heart. He stumbled backwards slightly and his hat almost fell from his head. “Geralt” He whined. “At least ride out to the village with me, my dear witcher.”

Geralt rolled his eyes. “Roach is tired. We rode hard to get here. Dragons are dangerous beasts.”

Roach was fine.

He’d only been in the next town over. He wasn’t even sure why he’d said it.

“Oh of course.” Dandelion beamed at him and put a hand on his hips. His tongue flicked out and brushed his lower lip. He had a habit of doing that and it drove Geralt mad. “Well you are more than welcome to rest here for a while. Food? A glass of wine perhaps? Or maybe some company?” Dandelion practically purred.

“Food would be good.” Geralt agreed, his stomach rumbling as if it had heard the Viscount’s words.

Dandelion pouted but ushered Geralt into the house. “It’s too early for dinner but Hanna won’t mind if we raid the kitchens. Come Geralt.”

The kitchen was warm, just like at Kaer Morhen, and the aroma of freshly baked bread and sweet buns filled the room. Geralt hummed contently. There was something incredibly grounding about the smell of freshly baked bread. Dandelion flitted around the kitchen with ease, searching the cupboards for some plates.

“I haven’t done this since I was a child.” He admitted, smiling brighter than the sun. “Hanna used to smack me over the bottom if she caught me stealing sweet buns.”

Geralt chuckled. “Well I’m not doing that so get it out of your head.”

Dandelion’s heart raced in his chest. “Geralt!”

“Dandelion?” He smirked.

“You bloody tease.” The Viscount muttered under his breath and carried on his search around the kitchen.

Eventually there were two plates pile high with pork pies, cheese, and honey covered rolls. Geralt moaned as he bit into the first pork pie. It was delicious. The Viscount’s cook was clearly a very talented woman.

Dandelion’s face was colour of roses and he nibbled his own plate of food. After a few minutes of eating in silence Dandelion sighed dramatically and swept his hat from off his head. “Gosh it’s hot in here!”

He fanned himself with his hat before abandoning it in favour of undoing the buttons on his doublet. Geralt watched, entranced by the Viscount’s fingers as they nimbly made light work of the buttons.

He swallowed and frowned before shaking his head.

“So the dragon?” He asked through mouthful of pastry. “What type?”

Dandelion’s melodic laughter filled the room and Geralt’s heart. “Why a golden dragon of course!” He announced with a wave of his hand.

Geralt pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. “Dandelion!” He snapped.

“What?” The Viscount whined.

“Golden dragons don’t exist. They are just a myth.” Geralt growled.

“Oh.” Dandelion stuck his tongue out as he thought. “Could have been a red dragon?”

It turned out that the ‘dragon’ was a horse… with wings created out of old doublets and sticks. One of the villages was riding the horse with a torch burning in his hand and yelling at anyone who came near the stables.

Geralt threw Dandelion an exasperated look. The Viscount just pouted at him and fluttered his eyelashes.

“Well it’s not my fault there haven’t been any real monsters recently.” Dandelion’s hand lingered on his arm.

The setting sunlight hit the blond curls on top of Dandelion’s head. Geralt tilted his head as he gazed at his friend. He gently removed the Viscount’s blue bonnet and tucked it under his arm, then he captured a lock of blond hair in his fingers, just liked he’d seen the viscount do on many occasions. It was just as soft as he’d imagined, the curls springing back into place once he released them.

Dandelion was staring at him openmouthed, blue eyes shimmering in the light of the setting sun. “Geralt?”

“Hmm?”

The Viscount’s heart was thundering in his chest, his sweet lavender scent grew only sweeter under Geralt’s touch. “What are you doing, my dear?”

Geralt blinked at the question and pulled his hand away.

“There’s no dragon.” He replied sternly. “Farewell, Dandelion.”

Dandelion sighed forlornly. “Farewell, my darling.”

____________

Dandelion was slowly going crazy stuck in his old castle. It had been three years since he’d first met Geralt. Over the last three years he’d played his part perfectly. He summoned the witcher at least once a year with cries for help and pretend monsters. Geralt rode out to meet him every single time. Dandelion was sure that Geralt knew his monsters were fake, that was part of the game, and yet every time Geralt insisted on focussing on his hunt and ignoring Dandelion’s propositions.

Well, not ignoring them entirely.

Dandelion didn’t miss the way the witcher looked at him like he was the sweetest chocolate to be unwrapped, amber eyes dark with hunger and lust.

And yet the damned surly witcher had never acted on it.

Dandelion had practically thrown himself into the witcher’s lap, begged him to take him away on one of his adventures, pleaded with him to allow Dandelion to be more. He needed more, more than this house, more than this life.

Geralt’s fiery eyes and silver hair haunted his dreams. Dandelion had woken up many a time with Geralt’s name falling from his lips, false memories and Geralt’s gruff voice whispering sweet nothings in his ear.

His choice in lovers had shifted since meeting the witcher. He found himself drawn more to well built men over pretty maidens with perky bottoms and luscious golden locks. There was just this itch that he couldn’t scratch, no matter who he bedded. He was pretty sure it had something to do with the way his heart skipped a beat every time Geralt galloped up to the house on Roach.

He hit his head on his desk and moaned.

“My Lord Viscount. What you are asking is preposterous!” His lawyer gasped, dumbfounded.

“Kings and Queens can abdicate.” Dandelion answered firmly. “I have had enough!”

“There is no coming back from this Viscount Julian.” The lawyer countered. “If you regret it—”

“I won’t fucking regret it!” Dandelion insisted. “There must be some cousin or other distant relative.”

“You’ll lose everything.”

Dandelion hit the desk with his fist. “I simply don’t care!”

“Viscount Julian. I beg you, please reconsider.”

Dandelion glared fiercely at the other man. “I should have run away when I had the chance. I was going to you know. I had clothes stuffed into my lute case and ready to go, but I didn’t. You’ve had me trapped here for thirteen years but no more! I’m more than this, this place.” He threw his hands up and gestured at the study.

But the fool still wasn’t listening. Dandelion stood up and declared the meeting over. He was going to get his lute and leave.

It was time.

He could follow Geralt’s trace on the path.

He could track him down and they could travel together. Maybe he’d actually see a real monster for once.

That was if Geralt even let him come with him. He hoped he would. The witcher did always come when he called for him. That had to mean something, but if it meant something then why did he always push Dandelion’s affections away like he’d been burned? Dandelion scoffed. It wasn’t as if he was repulsive, he was well aware of his good looks and he knew when someone was attracted to him. Maybe Geralt thought that Dandelion was just out for a good fuck. It may have started like that but after three years surely Geralt could see how much their little games meant to Dandelion? For someone that was observant, Geralt really could be an oblivious brute.

He sighed.

Maybe it was time to give up the games. He’d showed his hand over and over again. Geralt could have no doubt about Dandelion’s intentions. He was really quite in love with the witcher. He flirted, he danced, he preened, all to gain moments of the witcher’s attention. Seconds of pure torturous bliss when Geralt would smile dangerously and lavish Dandelion with flirtatious words that made him feel weak and wanton.

No.

It was the witcher’s turn now. Dandelion was done with wearing his heart on his sleeve for scraps of the witcher’s attention.

The witcher would come to him, wherever that may be.

“Viscount Julian! Wait!” The mousy man called him back. “A compromise, if you please.”

Dandelion cursed and turned back to face the man with his hands on his hips. “Go on.”

“Your cousin will take over the estate in your absence, but you will remain Viscount by title. You will need to return to the estate once a year, and you will need to stay here for a little while until your cousin arrives.”

Dandelion narrowed his eyes at the man and sighed. Spring was just around the corner. He could enjoy the warmth of his house until then. There was no point freezing to death just to be spiteful. “Two weeks. No more.”

He turned his back with a toss of his hair and practically skipped out of the room.

#the witcher #geraskier #gerlion #geraskier fanfiction #geralt of rivia #jaskier pankratz #julian alfred pankratz #geralt x dandelion #dandelion #the viscount and the witcher #wolfie's witcher writing

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masterstrange-closed · 4 years

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𝐋𝐎𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐂𝐇𝐑𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐄 𝐏𝐀𝐋𝐌𝐄𝐑, a drabble

This was originally written for @combatfueled / @caresomuch and posted on my former account, now being reposted here by the author. Do not copy or repost elsewhere. Do not reblog this at all, and do not interact with this if you are not a mutual.

It had been a while coming; every day that Stephen had been able to hold onto Christine just a bit longer had been a blessing. If it were possible, the sorcerer was convinced that his pure selfishness towards her could have kept her alive forever. Still, some things were impossible, even for the Sorcerer Supreme. As such, he knew he had a sacred duty to protect the multiverse and keep the balance of the natural order. Just because Stephen’s methods were often unorthodox, that didn’t mean he hadn’t grown to respect it. As much as it pained him, Stephen couldn’t hold onto Christine Palmer forever.

There had been new people in their lives over the years; friends and allies that come to hold a great deal of significance to him. A few of these had already begun to pass on. Stephen never could forget the sorrowful, grim look on Wong’s face the day he first brought news of a comrade’s death outside of the line of duty or tragic accident. The world was moving on, and soon Stephen would be left in the dust. The passing of your first life, that was something all Masters felt. Something Wong knew personally once upon a time. For Stephen, it was the most stone cold sobering moment of his life. He remembered rushing home to Christine nursing a tea, their dog at her feet on the sofa, and practically knocking the mug out of her hand as he pulled her into a tight embrace. She had been so confused, it wasn’t until much later that he’d been able to force the words out to explain. The gravity of longevity. It wasn’t just looking youthful, as his mind had previously likened it; it was being stuck as the world moved on — as the people he loved moved on without him to a place he could not follow. It was the certainty of being left in the dust alone.

She had still been alive, but as the years went by, Stephen couldn’t help but already begin to feel a twinge of mourning towards her. Hiding it as best he could, but Christine was smart. Smarter than him in several ways, straight up telling him not to miss her before she was gone on a couple occasions. She was right, of course. Christine rarely wasn’t. So, Stephen tried to enjoy it while it lasted. Selfishly stealing every second he could dedicate to her; late for lessons and meetings. Not everyone understood; they were mortal though. It was different for them, they were all dying.

Even some of the other Masters grew impatient at times, their own first lifetime and former earthly attachments long since past. Only Wong truly understood, while he shared frustrations when Stephen was twenty minutes late (despite having the Eye in his possession) and covering the class he was meant to lead, he couldn’t maintain it for long. Stephen was his friend, and despite the Sorcerer’s prickly disposition and off putting sarcasm, he was so emotional. So invested, he loved so much even if he didn’t actively show it on the surface. He knew the loss of the remainder of his human life would be the most painful thing he ever felt — and Stephen knew it.

Christine wasn’t just a friend. Hell, she wasn’t ‘just his wife’ either. Christine was his past, his present, and his future that was quickly running out of time. There were parts of him that only she held the key too. Experiences that shaped who they were, undergone together. Fusing their two souls together in a way nobody could ever replicate. They had been a part of their greatest moments of happiness and their most painful heartaches. Celebrated each other's victories and consoled their miserable failures. If Stephen was a map of all he had ever been and done, then Christine was the legend. Sure, one could glance a map and get a glimpse of what was being depicted — but you’d never fully get the full details without the key to understanding it. He’d live on, but the context to all he had ever been was gone.

Christine was gone, and in his selfishness, Stephen stretched her final moment out as long as possible. Afraid to say goodbye, understanding now how The Ancient One had felt that night they watched the snow fall. She was stronger than him, she always had been. Stephen wasn’t brave by his own doing. He was brave because she had taught him to be so. So much loss in his life, but this one felt different. It sat different with him; there was no blame this time. No finger to point. Christine had come into existence and sailed off into the night like she had always been meant to do. There was a peace in that, he supposed but it also left an unsettling heartache that made the world feel dull around him. She was just gone. It was the natural order, but that didn’t make him feel any less empty.

In his selfishness, it was only after her passing that Stephen stopped thinking about his own broken heart and considered Christine’s legacy on her own. A wing at the hospital they had once both worked at was currently dedicated to his late wife; Christine had raised countless amounts of money for charities around the world, leading to the funding of various underprivileged areas and medical research that changed the world. At her service, Stephen had been shocked by the amount of people whom she had saved or helped the loved ones of over her long career that had come to pay respects. For months, cards, flowers and donations made in her name to organizations she had cared about overflowed; and Stephen had no idea what to make of it all. One life. One woman. On some cosmic scale, one ordinary and universally unimportant woman provoked this much love and gratitude. Then again, even if the universe had never realised, Stephen had always known that Christine Palmer had been the exact opposite of that and more. The rest of the cosmos was just catching on.

He felt lost for a while, Christine had always been his anchor. His north star that guided him home. Motivating him to be better than he was. It was too easy to fall into old habits and drown himself in his work. So many times, Stephen teetered on the precipice, dipping his toes in the other side — until he heard the very stern and demanding voice of his wife in his head setting him straight; and whenever he did, the world slowly gained a bit more of its colour. He didn’t think it would ever be as vibrant as before, there were somethings that could never be replaced… but maybe he would be okay.

Seven hundred years, and counting, was a long time. Stephen’s past lives held fuzzy memories and blank spots. Eidetic Memory had limits and he found that as time went on, to access older memories Stephen required intense mediation to unlock them. Yet, there were some things that always remained clear. His first life. His first love. Christine Palmer held parts of him nobody could ever have; which was why Stephen Strange held the parts of her she had given him with him until the very end.

When Stephen faced the Vishanti one final time, leaving his world weary body behind, Christine Palmer still resided in his heart and soul. Seven hundred years, and counting, and when it was time to go — one last time, she was his legend. His compass. His north star, always guiding him home.

#𝐈 𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐀𝐊 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐌𝐘𝐒𝐄𝐋𝐅 / other writings.

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tmntxreader-fics · 5 years

Text

TMNT Leo X Reader: STICKS AND STONES (Part 2)

ITS BACK

I’VE REPOSTED AFTER THE TUMBLR UPDATE DESTROYED THE LAST ONE.

Found this in a glitch actually, I copy and pasted it and it disappeared literally 10 minutes later into the abyss so I don’t know if the Tumblr staff took pity on me?...

ANYWAY

WARNINGS: Cussing, angst, and possible typos. Also it’s long as hell.

Word Count: 3307

Your gaze drifts over your own reflection, heart pounding in your chest.

“You don’t look like yourself,” April had said when she picked you up from the airport. It was one of the first things she had greeted you with. Now, back in your old city, standing in your old apartment and appraising yourself in your old mirror- you realize that she is right. In the 6 months that you had been gone, you’ve abandoned your old self and God did it feel good. Like a snake shedding its skin, a butterfly emerging from its cocoon; you are new.

Your once simple and almost bland hair is now vibrant and impossible to ignore. The roots remain their original colour but slowly along its length it weeps into a red that puts Raphael’s mask to shame. A deliberate colour scheme to symbolise the opposition of blue.

Even as you eye the clothing draped over your body, you can’t help but compare the difference between your originally modest and humble style and the present edge you’ve currently obtained.

But the most significant change you display is not a tangible presence, it cannot be observed with a materialistic lens. The thing that stands out the most, as you analyse your own reflection, is not the clothes on your back or the colour of your hair. It’s the confidence.

It was a terrifying concept at first, attempting to push past the fears that plagued you for years. The chains that bound you under the label of shy, socially anxious and introverted were never weak. They were made of hard steel with what you had previously thought to be no weak link to be discovered, but you found it six months ago and its name was Leonardo. When you broke the link, shattered it with a sword of humiliation and scorn, you realised then that the opportunity for growth came after being cut down. You are free of your chains and you want to let the world know that you’ll never be confined by them again. Starting with the one who both restricted you and freed you, you plan to display this newfound power in the best way you could. You’re going to rub it in everyone’s face that you are new. You are an entirely new being and you plan to bask in it. You want to silently gloat about it to those who thought you to be insignificant. You know your worth now. Precisely why you’ve agreed to visit the infamous lair of the turtles after so long of avoiding it like the plague; trying to pretend it never existed. “You sure you wanna come with?” April questions sceptically, her eyes slowly dragging over your frame. After a hard silence, she throws her hands up in surrender and mutters a sarcastic apology beneath her breath. The reporter knows this meeting will be chaos; not necessarily physical but emotional anarchy for everyone involved. It sounds good in theory, the idea of ‘strutting your stuff’ in front of your ex but the bond between you both was deeper than the average relationship. April knows that tie is still existent whether you choose to acknowledge it and young woman suspects this will not go in accordance to your plans- things rarely do. However, you are stubborn and even the famous reporter is no match against the fury of a woman scorned. Your breathing picks up as April leads you around what seems like the 100th corner in a row- and it’s not because of the amount of unwarranted exercise you’ve been forced into. “Donnie said he’d meet us here,” April huffs, slightly winded by the hefty trek. Before you can reply, a recognisably excited voice pipes up from the shadows of the alleyway. “And I’m here as promised!” You exhale sharply at the sight of the purple clad turtle- it’s been so long since you’ve seen any of the mutant brothers that the presence of even Donatello shocks you. You drink the sight of him in, from the goggles resting atop his head to the gadgets strapped to his ankles. An almost nostalgic sigh is expelled from your system as you shift the strap of your bag on your shoulder, a nervous tick. His gaze lingers on you after greeting April, longer than it should have until he figures it’s illogical to try hide the fact that he is staring. You smile sadly, “Hey, brains. It’s been a while, huh?” His gaze softens and his lips quirk to mimic yours. “Precisely 6 months and 2 days,” he states quietly. His smile widens into a goofy grin, the tension easing up as he rubs the back of his head awkwardly, “who’s counting though?” “I have a suggestion as to who,” April responds suddenly, observing her fingernails when the attention falls upon her. You realise she’s talking about the blue clad turtle and the turmoil within your stomach returns tenfold. You felt physically sick by the idea of seeing him again, having to look into those eyes. A gaze that had once observed you with love, a gaze that was tender and affectionate reserved only for you; a gaze that turned too cold, too quickly. “Speaking of,” Donnie begins quietly, “everyone’s waiting downstairs for you guys.” He nods his head towards to the open manhole cover and you swallow thickly. You almost wish that the walk to the lair was as long as the trek it had taken to meet Donnie at the rendezvous point. Your heart has basically nestled itself in your throat and you know that there will be difficulty dislodging it. As your little band of three approach the entrance to the lair you force your racing mind to stop, this was all done for a reason. You will not allow yourself to be weak, to become unravelled by a person you once knew. They are no longer a part of you, they no longer define you, they no longer value you the way they once did but you value yourself and that is what makes you infinitely more powerful than you were. You know your self-worth, you know you deserve just as much respect as anyone else. After 6 months of inner struggles and the journey to self-love you absolutely refuse to be shaken. However, as told by Mike Tyson, “everyone has a plan until they get punched in the mouth.” You figure that it wasn’t meant to be coupled with this current situation, but anything can be applied to everything depending on the individual’s approach.

As you enter the room holding Donatello’s brothers, you realise that seeing Leonardo’s face damn well felt like a nasty uppercut. As Mike Tyson predicted, anything witty you had planned to say has expelled itself from your mind.

A glacier like gaze skims over your being repeatedly, slower each time. The ice melts into pools of emotion, collecting at the water line of his eyes. Your mouth opens, fighting to make a sassy remark that you had planned previously- you failed miserably. A name slips from his lips, your name. It sounds foreign, why does it sound like that when it used to be comforting? Why does he say it like that? With longing, with sorrow. He has no right to long for you. But he does have a reason to be sorry. You straighten your posture and set your jaw, forcing your sights to rip away from him as if he wasn’t worth any time of day. Settling your gaze onto Raphael, his lips curl into a charming lopsided smirk. “I like your hair,” he states; stepping forward with a confident sway. Seems you aren’t the only one who’s grown. “It reminded me of you,” you tease playfully, a grin finally gracing your previously tense features. Through your peripheral vision you catch the slightest flinch from Leo. Raph returns the sentiment with a brilliant smile and you’re shocked by both the act and the way he immediately reaches out to embrace you. Blatant affection from the temperamental warrior was a rarity, to be the object of said affection made your heart swell. “It’s been hell without you here,” his words are pressed against your ear, quietly swallowing the air around you. He frees you from his embrace, eyeing you with a meaningful glance before returning to his resting expression- a mixture of irritation and arrogance. “I’ll go wake Mikey up,” he suggests, disappearing past Leo and into the tunnels. Something about the way he spoke confirmed to everyone that he was doing no such thing. April and Donnie, unfortunately, also got the unspoken memo. “Well, I’m just going to um-” Brains mutters awkwardly, spinning in a half circle away from you. “Show me the lab! He’s going to show me the lab,” April exclaims, gripping his bicep and dragging him in the opposite direction. “You know? TCRI isn’t going to disappear over night!” The duo left the room in a flurry of nervous mumbling, leaving you to face Leo by yourself. You swallow your nerves and un-furrow your brows, determined to give this turtle absolutely no rope and no leverage. You are in control here. Your gaze returns to Leo with hooded eyes and cold intentions. He steps forward as if to embrace you but your stare stops him dead in his tracks. Blue’s mouth opens and closes repeatedly as if he is confused by the apparent shift in attitude. You take his clear vulnerability as an opportunity to speak, looking around the lair with nonchalance. “You know, I really missed this place,” you state, tossing a side glance at the still turtle. “I missed your brothers, I missed Splinter- God knows I missed the pizza.” Your fingers trail over the railing beside you casually as you reign yourself in to ensure the confident voice doesn’t waver. With two slow and long strides forward towards Leo, you Harden your gaze and let it rest on him. “You know what I didn’t miss though?” You question, taking another step closer to the turtle who suddenly looks almost alarmed. “You.” You cross your arms and square your sights on him, “I didn’t miss you at all.” His jaw clenches before an emotion crosses his face, one you’ve never seen before. You find yourself beginning to wish you hadn’t stepped so close. “You’ve always been a bad liar,” Leo’s voice is quiet but hard. Your eyebrows raise at his immediate response. You’d hurt him with your words, you can tell by the silent strain in his voice. His icy stare narrows in on yours and he takes a step towards you- it feels like the ground is shaking. Resisting the urge to step away from him, you instead opt to swallow nervously and raise your chin in defiance. “You wouldn’t know,” you say. “I’ve never lied to you. That was your job.” Just like that, Leo’s strong facade shatters. His expression opens, revealing sorrow and harrowing regret, your heart squeezes at the sight. “What I did to you,” he begins, licking his lips as he pauses. “What I said to you was wrong.” “You’re stating the obvious again,” you force a tone of boredom but your hands begin to tremble. Leo’s swift gaze travels from your eyes to your lips, they trail from your shoulders to your shaking hands. His stare lingers there for a moment and his brow ridge furrows slightly. “I’m sorry.” His words are barely a whisper. His sorrow incites fury; two words cannot erase months of heartache, betrayal and tears. You narrow your eyes at him. You’re furious at Leo for what he’s done, you’re furious at him for seeking forgiveness through just two words but mostly you’re furious at yourself for wanting to forgive him so easily. Your blood boils at the fact that you wish he was the first to approach you, to embrace you, to express how much he missed you. But he wasn’t; he didn’t say a word. However, you were never one to slap away an apology- even if the last thing you want to do is forgive them. “Apology accepted. Have a nice day, Leonardo,” you laugh bitterly, turning on your heel with the intention to be in the company of anyone but the turtle with the blue bandana. How disappointing. “I can’t.” His voice is sharp, demanding to be heard. You frown and face him. “Can’t what?” “I can’t have a nice day,” he states, almost frustrated with himself. You pull your shoulders into a shrug. “Well, that’s unfortunate,” you say carelessly, motioning to continue with your departure. “I can’t have a nice anything, actually,” he continues. Leo steps closer and the intensity of his gaze weighs down on you- forcing you to be still where you stand. “I can’t have a nice meal, a nice training session or a nice patrol.” Your eyes widen as he grits his teeth and moves closer, it feels like the air is being drawn from the room. “I can barely close my fucking eyes at night, let alone have a nice sleep,” he snaps and you swallow at the sound of the cuss being spat out from between his teeth. It sounded alien and misplaced, he hates swearing. Your breath leaves you in a subtle tremble, your eyes unable to tear themselves away from him. “How so?” You whisper. He chuckles humourlessly and you note that it’s almost self-deprecating in tone. “Because I sent away the one person that made things nice. Nothing has even come close, ever since.” You stare at him, heart pounding in your chest and tears gathering in your eyes. This was becoming vastly more complicated than the scenarios you had played out in your mirror at the apartment. “Then why?” You settle for the one question that’s been plaguing your mind for months. “Why did you do it?” Leo falters before you. Despite him being completely frozen in his tracks, it’s as if you’ve physically just watched him trip over himself at your question. “I…” He trails off, voice a mere, soft rasp. You raise a brow, trying to will back the tears. You are shaking, you know it’s visible, but you can’t find it in you to be embarrassed. “Well?” You prompt impatiently, “you made it your damn mission to break me. I at least deserve a reason, don’t you think?” “Yes,” he whispers. “Of course you do.” “Then spill it,” you snap, swiping the tear that had made a mad dash down your cheek. He eyes you carefully as he words his response carefully, “I was failing. As a leader, as a partner, as a member of the team…” You motion impatiently for him to continue. Leo casts his gaze to the floor, a frown marring his expression. “I couldn’t keep anything together and rather than look at my weaknesses and failed choices as a leader, I blamed you.” He grits his teeth, “I failed and you suffered for it. I thought you were a weakness when in reality you were my strength.” You don’t bother wiping the tears that have begun to basically stream down your cheeks, you know that’s a lost cause. Leo, catching your small sniffle, glances up and his face contorts to one of guilt. Your ex-lover makes an instinctual move to comfort you. “What do you want me to say?” You ask, wrapping your arms around yourself and stepping away from his advances carefully. “That it’s fine? That we can go back to what was? You can’t humiliate me and toss me aside then expect me back when you realise your mistake,” you snap. Leo’s eyes soften, “I don’t expect that from you.” “Then what could you possibly want?” You’re visibly exasperated, not to mention exhausted by this entire exchange. “A chance to try again.” Leonardo states almost pleadingly. You’re stunned by his words, mouth opening in bewilderment. Then you begin to laugh, interrupting his sentence with an almost cruel laugh that subsides into giggles. You imagine that this is possibly a terrifying image considering that your face is still heavily laden with tears. “You think I’m going to just get back with you?” You throw your hands up and turn in a circle, “the mighty Leo has asked something from me so I just must obey. News flash! I’m not your little bitch anymore,” you hiss. “I’m not the same person I was, I will not roll over for you.”

“I know. You’re stronger, you’re smarter and you’re angry. I understand that and you have every right to be but if you’d just give me a chance to prove myself.” He begins, moving close in another habitual attempt to console you. “Damn right I’m smarter, smart enough to stay away from you,” you snap, stepping back from his advances. Instantly he opens his mouth to respond, with wide eyes and hands raised to defuse, “Hold on, I wasn’t done just listen to me-” “No, you listen to me,” you interrupt, halting your retreat and instead stomping towards him, “I am not part of your damn team and you sure as fuck are not my leader!” Your hand had poked into his plastron to emphasise each point and his gaze moves down to eye the hand you had left resting upon him. “You do not get to make demands as if I owe you something.”

His mouth closes and to your surprise a small smile lifts one corner of his mouth. “You don’t owe me anything,” he begins softly. “But I will ask you, please, to let me try earn back your affections and amend what I have failed to do previously.”

You stare at him for a long moment, gaze drinking in every feature of his face. You remember the times before he had distanced himself from you. You remember the affection, the love, the way he had tried to so hard to woo you in every way possible even when you were intimidated by him and it seemed he had no hope. Leo had fought for you, fought to make you comfortable around him, he had made sacrifices to be with you. Your anger begins to slowly ebb as his icy coloured eyes search your own for some sort of agreement. Where did it all go wrong?

He took you for granted and whether he gains your affections later down the track or not, he has still paid the price.

You clench your jaw before a heavy sigh slips from your mouth. The silence is loud as you both wait in anticipation of your decision. You know that allowing him back into your life allows unpredictable elements to gain control, once more. Would he do the same thing under a different lie? Would he treat you the way you’re meant to be treated? Rather than cutting him off and the possibilities of a positive outcome, you decide that letting things move slow will provide ample opportunity to catch any deviations.

“You can try,” you agree, “as friends first, obviously. Don’t get your hopes up for anything beyond that.”

With that, Leonardo cracks a blinding grin- as if he had been waiting his whole life to hear those words. He takes in a breath, one that is not heavy with despair like those he had taken in the past six months. He wants to drop to his knees, express his gratitude for your mercy and promise you the world.

Instead, he settles for a simple, “of course.”

Because, this time, Leo will not waste his chance on words that he knows you will never believe.

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kosmosian-quills · 5 years

Text

Blameless

So this is actually a pre-story event that (as of yet) isn’t featured in my WIP, but I make a reference to it and I just wanted to write this scene and it is one of my favourites.

Reposting and editing slightly from my other writing blog, making it a bit more conscise than it was previously.

POV: Irena

The library always is a peaceful place for me. For the longest time, the deafening silence was a tranquil comfort that never seemed to be a problem. I can find solace in the crisp pages of the books that told their own unique and dynamic tales, both fictional and non fictional. It’s calming, reading the words of people who were alive long before I was born, about what their view of the world was.

It was always intriguing to me - to see the world through another person’s eyes.

It just seems to be a bleaker world now than it was a week ago. Everything is different. Before, things were very bright, colourful, happy. But now, things are so tense and everyone can feel it, it’s constricting. The rumours and the gossip, the entire incident is the worst kept secret, and only 11 people in the world know what really happened on that fateful night a week ago.

And the entire feeling of trust and protection that was once very evident has evaporated into dust, all because of the actions of one man. One man that a lot of people had their trust in.

I was taking a moment alone in quiet recollection in the library when Anastazja, the strong presence that she is, joined me by the window, overlooking the vast ocean below us.

“The atmosphere is so dark around here,” she said thoughtfully, gazing out with me, crossing her arms as she spoke.

“I’m not surprised, honestly. How are you doing?” I asked, careful in how I phrased the question.

“I am fine, I am,” she nodded reassuringly, raising a hand slightly before she continued, “I… Am worried, though,” she said slowly, as though hesitant.

“The General and the guard involved are being punished for their crimes, I’m sure,” I tried to be just as reassuring, but I felt my voice waver. The General used to be such a decent man, and now I didn’t know what to think about him anymore, “the King wouldn’t let them get away with it.”

Anastazja raised a hand completely now, “no, no, not that. I am certain we agree on that. That isn’t what worries me,” she looked away, casting a glance at the door behind us, before facing me again, “it’s Matylda.”

“She told me she was fine, that he didn’t hurt her…” I recalled. I had only spoken to Matylda once since the incident, mainly because of her request for solitude.

“And you’re right. But it’s not a physical pain she is suffering through, and believe me, she’s suffering,” Anja nodded her head as she spoke, “she blames herself. And before you say anything, we all know it was not her fault. No one blames her for what happened. When the General had a knife at the Princess’ throat, he told Matylda that he will slit her throat if she so much as moves. He held her in place by those words, she was terrified. When I fought back and ran away, she still daren’t move. I put the Princess in danger with my actions, but I ran for help. Matylda is hurting, Irena, and I think you’re the only one who can help her. She won’t listen to me, but I think she is going to act irrationally - she thinks the Princess hates her for her lack of action, which is certainly not true. Haven’t you noticed how little she has seen the Princess since the incident?”

“So surely the Princess is the better qualified person to speak with her about this?” I countered.

“By the time the Princess is ready to talk to her, I think it will be too late.”

“And… what, you think she’s going to quit?”

“I do, I don’t want her to, but I do, and I think once she’s set on it, she will quit.”

The idea of Matylda leaving her duty as a Maiden of Honour was heartbreaking to consider. She was good at her role and respected in it as well, why would she want to give it all up? Well, she has just been through a scarring incident that the Princess is unlikely to forget in a rush, and Matylda is so much younger than us. As sobering as it is, Anja is probably right.

It would also mean that I am so close to losing a dear friend over something she had no fault in.

“Please, just go see her. She needs a friend, someone to talk to, and I don’t think she’ll listen to anyone else. You’re both so close to each other, please,” Anja pleaded, taking a hold of my hand and looking into my eyes.

I nodded, “I will, Anja.”

---

"Matylda, are you alright? You’ve been awfully quiet,” I asked, after having knocked on the door to her bedroom, just two doors down from the Princess’. To get to our rooms, you have to go through the Princess’ herself. There is a small corridor to the side of the room, which connects our five generously spacious rooms to Anjelika’s. All of them had a stunning view of the gardens below us, but only the Princess had a balcony. Our windows opened, but it was too cold for that at this time of year.

Matylda didn’t open the door straight away, and she took her time answering me at all.

"I… I’m fine, Irena,“ she said weakly through the door.

“Please, let me in, Laleczka. I just want to see you again,” I asked gently, my head against the door, waiting for a sound to indicate that she was moving either towards or away from me, “please...”

It took a few seconds, but I did hear the click as she finally unlocked her door. She didn’t open the door to let me in, so I did it myself, slowly and as quiet as I could manage.

Matylda’s room was adorned with flowers. She loved to paint, and was quite skilled at it, and most of her paintings were of the flowers in the gardens below us. They were full of life and colour, just like she should be. Her other painting is something of her pride and joy, and only hung it up because I had seen it before she could hide it. She had done a self-portrait, of sorts, of the six of us performing ballet, with her next to the Princess in the centre. She had captured us so perfectly, and I loved the way she painted the dresses like they were flowers, the flowers in the gardens below us. She was decked in a dress that looked like a yellow and orange iris, Anja’s was covered in red and white corn poppies. Karolina was purple with tulips, Zofia was a blue lotus. The Princess was a daisy, and I was a “euphorbia redwing charam”. I had never seen this flower, as it was not a Kosmosian native, but it is a beautiful green flower, she told me. Matylda had chosen them for us, decorated our dresses in a way that envisioned us, she said. She was going to hide this beauty away from us, until I showered it with praise that it rightfully deserves. She had painted the flowers that she thought were us, around the room, every one of them. She hangs it above her bed, a proud reminder of what she can accomplish.

It was sad to think that she would leave us behind, after everything we have done together, as Maidens and as friends. At least, if me and Anastazja are correct in our assumptions.

“You’ve seen me now,” she said from her desk, “I’m fine, honestly.”

"Please don’t lie, Laleczka, something is wrong. Please, tell me what it is,” I asked gently, closing the door behind me. I knew it was a stupid question, but I didn’t think about that as I spoke.

Matylda was watching me. At my words, she turned back to the desk and looked down at whatever she had been doing. A blank sheet of paper, and a pen rested on top of the pristine desk. It was not normally so devoid of anything, there were normally her sketchbook and pencils there, maybe an unfinished picture too, maybe her paints. Seeing just the pen and paper spelled out everything to me, confirmed it, even.

She curled her shoulders forward, and I heard her voice crack, “I… I failed.”

“Failed at what?” I asked, sitting myself down on the spare chair just beside her desk.

She continued to look at the paper, and I could see the tears well up in her vibrant blue eyes, “I failed in my duties. I’ve thought about this. I want to resign from my role as Anjelika’s Maiden of Honour,” she spoke quickly, as though getting them out quicker will somehow make them hurt less, as if treating a wound.

But also like treating a wound, it can hurt much more to remove something quickly instead of carefully.

"Matylda, please think this through,” I pleaded.

She nodded, her untamable blonde hair bounced as she did, closing her eyes, "I have. The Princess hates me, I didn’t do anything. Anja, she fought and kicked and got away… I just let them try to…” she hitched her breathing as she sobbed, letting the tears stain her pale cheeks and fall onto the paper she was trying to write on.

“I promise you, Laleczka, that no one sees it that way except you,” I tried reasoning with her, holding out a gentle hand and resting it on her shoulder, I hope she sees this as a comforting gesture, yet something in me nagged to not touch her, so I released her after only a few seconds.

She shook her head, "I did a dishonourable thing, Irenka…”

I pulled my chair closer to her, “Matylda, you did not. Please listen to me. I am so sorry you all went through that, truly,” I put my hand on her shoulder again, but this time she looked at me, glassy eyes swimming with tears and sadness, “maybe this is too soon to talk to the Princess about, but go talk to Anja. I promise she will tell you exactly what I am telling you now. Me? I would have probably done what you did. You have to remember that Anja has been in a high stress situation like that before, neither you nor I have.”

“But…” she stammered, her face blotchy and red.

I didn’t let her finish, I spoke over her, “What is your duty as a Maiden of Honour, Matylda?”

Matylda thought for a moment, thinking on her answer. She looked down at my feet and spoke to them instead of me, but this was good enough, “… um, to be a companion to her company. To offer her guidance, support and advice. To be loyal and trustworthy…“

"Now where in those duties you just told me, does it mention having to protect her from an active threat?” I asked, she looked me in the eyes again briefly, but quickly darted them over my shoulder, “where does it mention having to sacrifice your safety for her own? That duty belongs to the guards assigned for her protection - not to a Maiden of Honour, not to me and certainly not to you,” I shook her shoulder slightly as I spoke, speaking with enough confidence and conviction to hopefully get my message across, “I promise you, Laleczka, that Anjelika does not hate you for being forced to watch. Anja does not resent you for not acting the way she did. You were in an unpredictable situation because you did not expect the General to do what he did. He is the dishonourable one, Matylda. Not you. Do you understand?”

She nodded slightly, sniffling, “… I understand, Irenka.”

Somehow I suspect that she did not believe her own words, “I want you to repeat after me, alright? I did nothing wrong.”

“But, I did -” she protested, but I knew that she would react this way.

“I did nothing wrong.” I repeated calmly, but slightly louder, looking her straight into the eyes. She looked into mine, I could see something in hers. A glimmer of something, beneath all the sadness. I’m not sure what it was, but there was something there.

“… I did nothing wrong.”

“I am not responsible for the General’s actions, he is responsible for his crime.”

She looked down, breaking our eye contact, before she repeated me again.

“I am not re… Responsible for the General’s actions… He, he is responsible for his crime.”

“The Princess does not hate me for being too scared to help her.”

This is where her silence was truly a shock. Even I did not expect her to believe this. How much had this one thought eaten at her, in the two days since the incident? How lonely must this have been, for her to live thinking that one of her only friends in the world must hate her? How could she have conceived this idea in the first place?

“The Princess does not hate me for being too scared to help her,” I repeated, blinking quickly to supress my own tears.

She gulped, and then repeated my words, "the… The Princess does not hate me for being… Being too scared to help…”

I pulled her close, into my arms. I heard her sob, face buried in my shoulder, clutching at my front, her own shoulders jarring from crying. I heard her weak attempts at words between her hitched sobs, but they were so incoherent that I didn’t attempt to ask her to speak. I squeezed my arms around her, hoping that she understands that I am here, I always have and always will be, “and don’t you forget it,” I said quietly into her ear, through my own tears, “the only person the Princess blames for that night, is the General.”

Matylda pulled away from me after a while, truly opening the floodgates of her emotions to me. She wiped her teary eyes with her fingers before speaking again, “… I understand. Thank you Irena,” she spoke with a small shadow of a smile hanging from her lips. I could sense the gratitude, and I smiled in return.

"I’m only looking out for my friend,” I smiled, wiping my own tear from my cheek, “come on, let’s go get you something to eat. You can see the others, if you want to,” I nodded my head in the direction of the door, my hand held out for her to take. She took one look at her desk again, before standing up and leaving with me.

If all she needed to know was that she still had her friends believe in her, then that is what I will give her every time.

I hope she truly understands that, now, that none of us will turn our backs on our friends in need.

#my writing #my OC's #WIP: Angel #Irena #Matylda #Anastazja #these two are so so close #Matylda is the youngest #and they're all very protective of her #but Irena took her under her wing and helps her not take everything so seriously #I honestly can't envision any of the other characters sharing such a vulnerable moment with her #not even the Princess #POV: Irena

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