#this should never have been a political issue

[levyfiles]

some people are mad at steven for a moral issue, tbf. regardless of your thoughts on watcher’s streaming service he did still say he has racist and homophobic friends. he still goes to a homophobic church.

I absolutely recognise that you must have been recently introduced to The Pod Clip that the twitter teens who hate him preserved to break out whenever it's a fresh moment to rally hate against him, but I would advise anyone just receiving this clip from August 2020 being passed around with the angle that Watcher tried to hide this. I and many others were there and just know that I have a zero tolerance standard for people who show no remorse or growth when they uplift racists and bigots.

Mine and other fans who were startled by the statement hoped publicly that it would be an opportunity to clear the air for Watcher because the current political climate was just finally examining anti-blackness in everyone's biases and as someone who is mixed-African growing up in an Asian household, I know that anti blackness is and has been a normalised mindset in the Asian community.

But the thing is, months before this, Steven platformed Tammy and her colleagues to discuss how all of us can work together to stop Asian hate and one of the conversations I highlighte back then was how very clear Tammy was that allyship from the Asian community to the African-American community was tantamount to moving forward. That the us vs them rhetoric has and continues to be harmful for both parties. Ryan and Steven were very involved in this discussion and agreed wholeheartedly.

Having said that, the narrative around the podcast ep never had a chance to be discussed rationally. It really ended up skewed because Steven's response to the backlash from that clip was this

I hope that's legible to you. Many people who felt uneasy about what he said felt a lot better and his intention to say something at the top of the next episode would once again, unfortunately, get derailed because Twitter users (some who are particularly loud about loving and supporting Watcher yet constantly join in on the throng of bullying as soon as the tide turns) were adamant that they needed Watcher to post the clip and Steven's apology publicly on their youtube front page and on the main socials, to literally advertise it when the reality is that not many people were watching/listening to the podcast. For what reason would it be intelligent or good business practice to broadcast this hurtful moment so that more people could get hurt by it?

Watcher's response amid the harassment was to release a full podcast episode where they all discussed what they would do going forward to show that they are allies, not just by not being racist or homophobic but by being anti-these things. They showed that they cared about their impact. It was emotional and devastating to watch and by that time, we knew the pod was likely going to wind down. 2020 was already a miserable time and it was made worse because no matter what Steven or Watcher said at the time, the "stans" on Twitter wanted the man fired, they posted memes saying the world would be better if Steven Lim didn't exist, they wanted him shamed by his staff, and for Ryan and Shane to publicly disavow him. Many of these so-called devoted fans raided the server to yell about how Steven's alleged homophobia hurts them, most of them were white and pointedly talking over people of colour telling them "it's not your apology to accept!". It was a blood bath.

And I see waaaay too many of the same faces utilizing this completely neutral move--that of COURSE could have been executed better--to terrorize Steven, to make petitions to get him fired, commenting on his wedding photo telling him that Tammy should leave him, posting those same damn disgusting memes because you see, a whole bunch of people forgot how disgusting and evil this vendetta was to the point where even watcher's socials started to FOLLOW some of these genuinely mean-spirited individuals. They didn't give a shit about a movement or activism.

What kills me--what absolutely THROWS me--is that these same people expect to be able to return to interacting with the staff, attending live shows, buying merch and sending fan mail as soon as the hate tide winds down. All these people so concerned about a statement referencing faceless hypothetical racists and homophobes that Steven never named nor attributed any context for--as he was never given the chance--are so quick to dehumanize and caricaturize real human beings to their faces and they think this is a normal and acceptable behaviour.

You'll have to excuse me, as an older fan who has seen my fair share of normalised homophobia and racism in these communities, if I disagree.

#watcher #steven lim #discourse

[lets-try-some-writing]

Okay, I was reading the Mr. Pax Teacher Au and this idea popped in my head. So basically Optimus is finishing up a work day and a staff member comes up saying someone is here claiming to be his ‘wife’. Optimus questions the staff for a bit and then they reveal they have “pink hair”. Optimus then goes outside to see someone patiently waiting for him with a smile. (I’m a sucker for OptimusxElita, sue me!) Also Elita going “Yeah, you would.” Cause she just knows him. Hope this idea is fun for you!

Well I can't NOT write a snippet for this thank you. I have exactly two ships that I will devour without hesitation and Optimus/Elita happens to be one of them.

━━━━━━ ⊙ ❖ ⊙ ━━━━━━━━━━━━

Optimus's digits tapped on the desk along to the beat of a simple tune he hummed to himself as he looked over the day's papers. There were quite a few interesting pieces from his young archivists- students. His dear students. They showed such interest in the history he taught them. It was a joy to watch them grow and thrive under his tutelage.

"Abigail, you impress me yet again." He smiled as he looked over the girl's artwork. The assignment for the week had been to compose a model of something Cybertronian. Abigail, one of his more artistic students, had created quite the work of art. Despite having never seen any actual images of Optimus's fallen world, she managed to capture an admittedly quite accurate, if a tad abstract, vision of Uraya. It prompted his spark to flare in joy within his true frame.

"Mr. Pax, apologies for intruding." A feminine voice broke him from his work, prompting Optimus to place down his pile of paperwork and look up. Mrs. Glass, the school nurse, stood in the doorway nervously. She patted down her knitted sweater in what Optimus could only assume was anxiety considering the lack of any noticeable contaminant.

"Can I help you Mrs. Glass?" The nurse shifted uncomfortably before she nodded. Optimus stood up slowly, concern growing in his processors as he ran through the possible issues that might have arisen while he was working. Was the headmaster trying to tamper with affairs again?

"There is a woman outside who is claiming to be your wife." Optimus froze, his expression shifting as he tried to parse out what was happening. Arcee had already taken on the role of "aunt" for Jack. Being Optimus's wife would break her cover. It couldn't be June either for similar reasons.

Was he being stalked?

"Does she have any distinguishing features?" His expression settled into something firm as he readied himself to have to politely tell a confused woman that she had the wrong individual.

"She has pink hair and bright blue eyes. I think she might be wearing colored contacts." Whatever worry was settling into his spark halted the moment he got out the door and heard the nurse's explanation. Instead, faint hope grew steadily as he increased his pace and Mrs. Glass continued.

"She stated that her name was Ariel of Iacon. Although I am not sure where that city is-" Optimus stopped listening and broke into a sprint as he forced his holoform to go faster than it should have been able to according to human biology.

She couldn't be here.

He sent her away after the Allspark was taken from its place.

There was no way his Conjunx was on Earth after so many millennia apart.

"Being a teacher suites you." It was not the voice he knew, not entirely. There was none of the underlying glyphs or tones of their homeworld, but he knew her voice anywhere. He could never mistake her.

"Elita." He stepped out, his holoform momentarily flickering as Elita-One waited for him patiently, her arms crossed over her chest and a font smile on her face. He could almost see the mighty warrior that was his Conjunx through the veil of her disguise. He could hardly wait to wrap her in his arms properly as soon as they were away from prying optics.

"I missed you." She was the first to wrap her arms around him, organic as they were. Their forms melded in places as their holoforms struggled to maintain the illusion alongside their raging emotional states. However, Optimus found he didn't care as he looked into oh so human eyes and saw the spark of a Cybertronian hidden behind them.

She was here. He didn't know how or why, but Elita was here with him once more.

"I stopped by your base before I came here. I wanted it to be a surprise." She laughed as she nuzzled against his neck, searching for sensory lines that where not there. Optimus wrapped his limited EM field around her as he processed her presence and relished in it.

"It has been a most pleasant surprise to see you here after so long." Distantly, he noted Mrs. Glass watching from the school entrance. Optimus didn't bother looking back as he pulled away and took Elita's hands in his. The paperwork could be dealt with later. For now, there were bonds to be reforged, memories to share, and many long cycles apart to make up for.

"To base then?" Elita smiled up at him. Optimus could almost imagine her antennae perking up as he grinned in response.

"If that is what you want love."

#transformers #maccadam #transformers prime #optimus prime #elita one #alternate universe #teacher au #mr pax strikes again #now with his wife mrs pax #optimus x elita #oplita

[nerdieforpedro]

Angel in Disguise

Javier Peña x plus size female reader

This fic and blog are for readers 18+ MDNI

Word Count: a little over 1k

Summary: It's raining and it reminds you of your recent interactions with your best friend Javier Peña.

Warnings: unrequited love, angst, one person you work for should not drive, slight self-esteem issues?, possessiveness

Notes: I haven't posted anything for Javier Peña for a long time. I'm glad I was able to write something. This is one of two for @undercoverpena 's April Showers Challenge.

Main Masterlist/ Javier Peña Masterlist/ Writing Challenges Masterlist

Leaning against your desk, you’re looking out at another rainy day. Thankful that you keep a pair of rain boots in your office and at home. You’re thinking of last month and last week, how you’ve lied to Javier and yourself. It’s for the best though. 

Large drops remain on the window as the sound of the water falling intensifies. Last month you had finally worked up the, well with a shot or two of liquid courage to tell him. Tell Javier Peña that “yeah, we’re friends Javi but I want more from you. Have wanted more from you. I could make you happy, because I know you. We know each other. I can give you something simple, a life together.” One of your favorite dresses, your deep violet one that had the open shoulders you liked. Pretty and not too sexy you felt, just right.

Nothing was right that night. He walked in with a woman you were pretty sure was at least ten years younger than him or maybe she had excellent skincare and always used sunscreen. His hand looked perfect on her waist and so did hers on his. He introduced her to you as his girlfriend of the last six months. You’d heard him mention someone but didn’t think it was the same person. Was she the one that had large mood swings? Javier would never admit it but you know he craves a bit of drama. Something you rarely have any of. Dinner was nice at the bar. She seemed nice. Neither of them stopped smiling nearly the entire night. 

The only silver lining is that you live on a lower floor than Javier so you don’t hear that. You’d go insane if you heard them doing that. You’ve heard the rumors and have gotten the sense (though given your feelings you could be biased. Highly doubtful,) that most of them are true.

That night you went home by yourself, threw off your dress and flopped across the bed. You weren’t sure if the rain came down first or your tears but you do know that you cried yourself to sleep and woke up cold. 

That was last month. Now they’ve been together for seven months.

This week at work you were legitimately busy given that the ambassador you work for has decided to drive drunk and hit a lamppost, damn idiot. Of course he wants to use his diplomatic immunity and the policia would like to make an example out of him. Negotiations are led by you as you represent the embassy. Javier was able to catch you one day, say hello, how are you and ask what you thought of Camilla. Her name is even pretty, like her. She was polite and complimented your dress that night. Nothing bad to say about the woman except she exists or is doing so next to Javi.

You lied right to your friend’s face and told him that you like her, she seemed very sweet, that you three should go out for drinks and that she’s beautiful. The last one wasn’t a lie, she was stunning. The rest of it you’re still unsure how you made it all drop from your mouth so easily. His eyes light up and Javier says something that is as honeyed as it is a stab, “I’m glad you like her. I was worried you might not and then I’d have to wonder if she’s really right for me. You’re the best ángel.” You think you smiled and gave him a hug before going back to dealing with the ambassador issue. It’s a blur. Getting back to your office and stopping yourself from yelling took priority over before getting back on the phone about this drunkard’s problem which is yours.

Finally into the next week, you’ve settled the dispute between the policia and the ambassador. He’s required to pay for the damage and a substantial amount of money to the city of Bogata with a suitable donation to the policía as well. You should have left a few hours ago, but then you might have run into Javier on your way out. You need to steady yourself before seeing him. ‘Just act like I did two months ago. It will be fine.’ That’s what you tell yourself but you know your body will betray you when you see him. You feel the melancholy and longing again. 

The gray skies match your mood. Subdued. Drippy. Unsettled. Foreboding. Closing your eyes, you feel them fall against your cheek again, the tears rolling down. Twisting your body to reach for the tissue box you now keep on your desk, you pat your eyes to see Javier Peña in the middle of your office.

“Hey amiga, qué paso? (friend, what’s up?) You’re crying.” It’s kind that he asks, Javier is always kind. Before you can tell him you’re fine, he’s got an arm around you and kisses your forehead. “What’s wrong?” You won’t tell him why, he’s happy and you know he deserves it. Given the small pieces of how he came to be at the embassy. Broad strokes and rumors are what you know. Javier doesn’t talk about his time in Columbia or pursuing the Cali cartel. When it’s mentioned his face hardens, letting people know to change the subject.

“Just a tough day today, that's all Javi. Thanks.” Your head leans against his chest, breathing in his scent. Keeping your hands around the tissue you’d been dabbing your eyes with. A thought you immediately regret enters your mind:

Could she be an angel in disguise and leave him broken on a rainy day such as this? Maybe Javier would be standing out in the rain? Could you take him against your chest like he’s doing with you now?

No. It wouldn’t be the same. Javier is being a sincere friend to you right now. You would have an ulterior motive. 

A few more tears fall across your cheeks as a gust of wind blows the rain loudly against your window. Even the sky is scolding you:

Leave that man be, you’re the angel in disguise. 

Peeps who want a hug from Javier 😭:

@guelyury @yorksgirl @angelofsmalldeath-codeine @javierpena-inatacvest

@theywhowriteandknowthings @goodwithcheese @maggiemayhemnj @readingiskeepingmegoing @bitchwitch1981

@harriedandharassed @bishtrouille @schnarfer @katw474 @megamindsecretlair

@tinytinymenace @magpiepills @pedroshotwifey

#pedro pascal characters #javier pena fanfiction #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal #fanfiction #javier peña #javier pena x you #javier pena x plus size reader #undercoveraprilshowerschallenge

[zenkindoflove]

Elucien Parallels: Eddard and Catelyn Stark's Arranged Marriage/Marriage of Convenience Trope

I'm back again with more ACOTAR and ASOIAF/GOT parallels. You can go read this post where I breakdown my thoughts on comparing Elain Archeron and Sansa Stark as representing similar character archetypes in fantasy.

Today I want to talk about one of my favorite ASOIAF/GOT ships - Ned and Cat. What I want to do with this post is sort of breakdown the dynamics of their relationship and story arc and apply it to some common criticisms of Elucien and why in order to get the kind of tension Elucien have in canon, you need to have an understanding of how this particular trope works and the way these types of characters inhabit it.

So, a quick rundown on Ned and Cat and their relationship, just to get anyone reading this up to speed. Catelyn Tully was betrothed to Brandon Stark, Ned's older brother. Their betrothal represented a political alliance between the Starks of Winterfell and the Tullys of Riverrun - the liege lords of their respective regions. Despite being betrothed for political reasons, Catelyn fell deeply in love with Brandon anyways. And when he was tragically murdered by the Mad King, alongside his father, she was heart broken. Enters Ned, now the Lord of Winterfell, who has to secure this political alliance because he is about to wage a rebellion alongside his friend Robert Baratheon against the Targaryens. It makes perfect sense for him to marry his brother's betrothed. Ned and Cat get married quickly and off to war he went. When he returned a year later, he brought home his bastard, Jon Snow. He and Cat now have to figure out their marriage on top of not only being effectively strangers, but also with this betrayal looming over their relationship. When we enter the story of Game of Thrones, they have 5 children, the oldest Robb who was conceived just before Ned left for war, is 16. Cat and Ned are very much in love, showing open affection and devotion to each other. Cat is quoted later in the series telling her son Robb (show canon):

"Love didn't just happen to us. We built it slowly over the years, stone by stone, for you, for your brothers and sisters, for all of us. It's not as exciting as secret passion in the woods, but it is stronger."

Okay, so where does Elucien come into all of this and why should you care if you ship them?

Well, I think Cat and Ned's story illustrates a lot of things and disproves many doubts that are thrown at Elucien being endgame.

Betrayal

First is this issue of betrayal - that Lucien's involvement with Tamlin and his inevitable association with the situation in Hybern (though he did not know the extent of the deal with Hybern nor at all that Feyre's sisters had been kidnapped) will be such a huge breach of trust that Elain will never be able to get over it. That the relationship is dead before it even started.

Ned and Cat are a perfect example of how many anti-Eluciens are wrong when they think that Elucien are essentially dead before they start. By bringing home Jon Snow and raising him in his home amongst his trueborn children, Ned inflicted a huge betrayal onto his wife before they ever truly started their relationship. Although, at least in show canon, we know this ends up being quite a noble lie by Ned, this is never something that he reveals to Cat. So, Cat must swallow her pride and her jealousy and continue to be Ned's wife. This does not mean she has to fall in love with him, as it is not expected of her to, but she does all the same. Why? Because of Ned's inherent goodness and devotion to her. Cat sees that Ned is a good, honorable man - which is why she ultimately believes the rumors that Jon must be Ashara Dayne's son and that he is a love-child that Ned cannot bear to abandon. Because as she comes to know Ned, she sees his heart and his moral standing.

Which is all to say, that regardless of whether Elain begins her journey angry and blaming Lucien for association with her being Made and the end of her engagement, by getting to know him and spending time with him, she too will be able to see Lucien's inherent goodness. It is unavoidable and undeniable. Lucien, much like Ned, is honorable, loyal, and stands up to the face of evil, even if it will stupidly get him killed. He takes ownership over the people in the lands he runs and cares for that responsibility and their well being deeply. He commits violence when he must but he does not enjoy it. These are all traits that suited Cat well and why she ended up having such a loving marriage to Ned through many, many years. And likewise, suit Elain well and why she and Lucien will have a healthy and loving mating bond.

Reluctant Tension

Many anti-Eluciens do not understand the romantic tension presented in their situation. They see their distance, polite exchanges, and reactions as a sign of indifference or discomfort. It is a far cry from the explosive anger and deliberate pushing away that Nesta displayed with Cassian. Sometimes it's easier to understand Nessian's romantic tension because passion can exist both in anger and desire. But what about the stilted interactions of Elucien?

This is also where I will draw parallels to Ned and Cat. Ned and Cat did not go to the alter kicking and screaming. They were not political rivals or enemies. Catelyn did her duty with her head held high, living her house words (Family, Duty, Honor). Catelyn is often described as the picture of a noble lady - well-mannered, kind, diligent, dutiful, and respected. She held a high place of honor at Riverrun, effectively serving as Lady of the house after her mother's passing at a young age, and then taking over the role of Lady of Winterfell. She earned loyalty and respect amongst her subjects. We don't know much about the dynamic of Ned and Cat at the early days of their relationship. But what we can infer based on how Cat describes this time period, is that Cat hid her reluctance and anger behind silent pride. It was over time, as she grew to know Ned that this distrust and distance was thawed and she fell in love with him.

Similarly, Ned is not a hot head. He is grounded and stone-faced, a trait that Cat actually did not like initially because it was so different from his brother who she was in passionate love with. Brandon was a hot-head, charming, and funny. He was a showboat and is basically how he came to duel Petyr Baelish in the first place. But Catelyn eventually realizes the wisdom in loving a man like Ned, rather than the girlish love she had for Brandon.

Now Elain and Lucien are not mirror images of this. Lucien is certainly much more savvy and charming than Ned. And Elain is not forced into a romantic relationship with Lucien at all even with the mating bond. She has been given total freedom to choose, unlike Cat. But, my point here is that the presentation of their romantic tension, which is more quiet and understated and can confuse some readers who have a preference for the more passionate displays of tension, is very similar to Ned and Cat in the beginning of their relationship.

Now, as we learn both in the books and the show, Cat and Ned at the start of the series are well into their 16+ year marriage and are quite passionate now. They have many loving physical displays with one another, often passionately kissing or referencing passionate lovemaking they just had. They speak to each other with such warm affection others have to look away. It is clear they have deep love for each other that goes beyond duty. The passion certainly developed between them along the way. With Elucien I'm sure this will play out much differently given the presentation of the mating bond and how we know it affects people. It's very likely both of them are deeply desiring each other already, and very likely that they will have some dramatic rows between them, as it is likely Ned and Cat had as well, once they start really talking about the hard topics. But the point is that passion and the potential for passion does not have to be readily observable right from the start. If anything, there is something very delicious in the steady build-up to it through many of the tropes we see in historical romances where there are rules and etiquette to courtship (which many suspect Elucien will play with some regency era tropes).

Conclusion:

I really love finding parallels between ships of my favorite series, and there is of course a lot to draw from when its two fantasy series. In the end, my bigger point is that great love can come from Arranged Marriage/Marriage of Convenience Tropes which Elucien inhabit with the nature of their bond snapping right when they met. It's not for everyone, but for those of us who get it... we really get it. Fortunately for us, Elucien exist in a romance with HEAs and not the world of ASOIAF/GOT so they won't meet the same tragic fates as Ned and Cat *sobs*.

#elucien #pro elucien #elain x lucien #elain archeron #lucien vanserra #ned x cat #elucien supremacy #will i stop making these? #probably not #i was in got fandom for too long and these will keep popping in my brain

[tswwwit]

What are some ideas you have floating around that you don't have any plans on writing but like to entertain as a thought?

Many of them, in fact! Though they sort of vanish from my memory if I don't make a record of them, here's a few ones I jotted down when they came to mind.

For a domestic one: Bill thought he'd hate a lot of being married! Even though he loves Dipper, he thought he'd rebel against the chains of domesticity - and in some ways he still does - but one major benefit he's found is not having to be 'on' all the time.

No need to be perfectly performing all the time! No shoving around for social influence, no intimidation, or clever tricks. No commanding attention or taking up the room. Hell, there's surprisingly little upkeep! Bill can undo his tie and pick his nose and bitch about his day to someone who isn't bending over backwards to agree with him on everything. Someone who doesn't give him a weird look and sneer if he, god forbid, actually wants to sit down, read a book, drop the grin for an hour or two.

The concept in question is Bill's very first moment of great surprise. That when he isn't being the most charming, terrifying, and exciting guy in the universe, and just chilling out for like, five minutes, Dipper comes over and snuggles up to him on the couch, or wraps his arms around his shoulders and kisses the top of his head. And when Bill asks 'what was that for?', Dipper shrugs and goes 'eh, just felt like it'. It's both baffling and extremely compelling.

A short where Reincarnated Dip is Definitely Sure he's Not Gay!!! Especially not for this Hot Demon Man who is getting so close and touchy with him with his big smile and horrible wiles. Yep. Just keeping an eye on him to make sure he's not up to something Nefarious ™.

A discussion between Dipper and Bill where Dipper insists that Bill should understand this, or not do that, because, like. Y'know, Bill's a guy! There are guy things! Making Bill stare at Dipper like he's an idiot. He proceeds to informs Dipper how that's stupid for multiple reasons! First, that Bill's Not Human to begin with, his gender can't be put into a little box! And frankly, he never filled out the paperwork for his original one, come to think of it. Sure, he/him's fine, but c'mon, sapling, thinking of the whole shebang like a binary is dumb as hell. Now Dipper has to do some mental readjustment re: his own issues with masculinity/gender.

#answers #None of this is very coherent I just saved this ask for a while and dumped some thoughts in #Though I do have like a whole scene in my head for the gender one #Probably it's Bill cajoling Dipper into wearing a dress for something. Which Dipper obviously rebels against. #Bill's very convincing but Dipper shoots back well. He's never seen *Bill* wear a dress. Thinking he's making a point #But Bill just gets the metaphorical equivalent of a lightbulb over his head. Hey! Good point kid it's been a while #Oh ho!!! I see! Pinching Dipper's cheek - you want us to *match!* Surprised to see any fashion sense outta you #Hold on a sec. Bill will whip up something in a jiffy. A real nice one #Now Dipper's spluttering. He thought it was a good counterargument but Bill didn't even *flinch* at the idea of wearing one himself #But like. C'mon Bill Guys Don't Wear Dresses!! You're a guy you shouldn't- #Bill stares at him like he's an idiot. DIpper shuts up. Dumb move actually now that he's thinking about it #Both because telling Bill he *shouldn't* do something absolutely means he's looking into doing it. If not already in the process #And second. Uh. Oh hell. Dipper remembers. That Bill's only wearing that body. Not human. Triangular so - Wait. Is he *not* a guy?? Uh. #Bill's perfectly fine with his human body and his pronouns. Even with the presumptions that his husband has made over the years #But Dipper having this idea that those mean Bill should STOP doing certain things annoys him a lot #Bill politely - for him anyway - reminds Dipper that he's very much *not* a guy. None of that crap applies! #As Dipper has seen! And hey the ideas Dipper's working with there are outdated even among *humans* what the hell #There's probably a mini-rant that's rather scathing but frankly that's Bill on easy mode for his husband #Dipper's well-intentioned and knows how things go but he struggles with masculinity especially regarding himself #Turns out being bullied and trying so hard to be Socially Acceptable means a lot of issues to unpack #Also re: the Domestic one #Dipper is present with Bill while he chills out for those five minutes. Just watching from across the room #Bill knows he's there. But he's not puffing up trying to be impressive. Not being dismissive. Just accepting. And now Dipper's *fascinated* #It's so rare to see Bill NOT 'on' that he couldn't help it. No big show. No big grin. Almost.... not 'vulnerable' he's terrifying always #But so so relatable. God does Dipper know the feeling of just wanting to find some peace and quiet after a hectic day. But for Bill. That's #Rare and strange and so - Dipper *knows* he's the Only Person who could ever ever see this. Being in Bill's presence for a full ten minutes #Without Bill flipping some internal switch to 'Impress or Intimidate'. This is Dipper's own little secret to watch and absorb and treasure #And. In a way. When Bill's not vibrating with potential energy for parties or violence he's even MORE handsome #He just HAS to kiss him. A little bit. On the cheek or on the top of the head. Maybe curl up next to him where it's warm and touch his ches #Bill spends hours afterward wondering where the hell that came from and WHY. And it'll take him *so much* time to figure it out

[jvzebel-x]

🦋

#'wUtS sO wrOnG aBouT tRyInG tO gEt HawAiIaNs oFf tHe StReeTs--' #'im HaWaIiAn tOo n tHiS iS wHy wE cAnT gEt aHeaD--' #girl just say youre one of the extremely few hawaiians who grew up on those islands&had the privilege not to spend any time homeless #&shut the fuck up LMAO. #there is no 'pOliTiCs' to be on the right or wrong side of LMAO we do not need an outsider haole who owns land while the bulk of OUR ppl #left on the islands is fucking homeless&we sure as shit dont need him or any of his ppl telling us how they plan on assauging that fact #WITHOUT giving up their land or their power lmao like shut the FUCK up. #tell me w/o telling me that you dont know anything about the state of homelssness in the islands lmao. #he wants to set up tiny home camps to model after the one thats been up in kakaako for years like kakaako isnt STILL home to the largest #homeless camp on oahu or like ppl who are homeless&housing insecure-- ACROSS THE NATION not just in hawaii-- havent been talking for YEARS #about why these mini camps meant to mirror homelss shelters but w/ individual rooms to give the illusion of privacy #while 'advocates&volunteers' demand ID&talk down to you&refuse to let you bring in your own items or exist according to your own schedule. #tell me w/o telling me youve never dealt w/ actual land development issues in your life lmao even w/ these terrible plans #what PLANET do the protected historic lands need to lose protection so the state can work w/ PRIVATE LAND OWNERSHIP to build these places? #'i Am HaWaIiAn--' girl shut the fuck up why should that matter to me if youre sucking haole cock&telling us were all failing #bc we wont do the same LMAO. #hope sacrificing your integrity&connection to us is worth it white supremacy will have a ball using you until you act up.

[blackamite]

I’ve been thinking a bit more on the gnc allyship anon. My experience with all that is pretty minimal outside of the online detrans community, which the more I think about it is not a great example for multiple reasons, so what I wrote earlier might have been a bit off. 

I’m curious what others think (previous anon or anyone else).

If you’re a gnc man - do you think it would be helpful to group with gnc women, or do you feel like the community’s experiences are too different? Or, how would you envision that looking if so?

#I might have been misinterpreting allyship too - ofc allyship on political issues is good if those groups share opinions #I was reading it as #should they identify themselves under the same group #for example how ssa people tend to primarily group under lgb #but idk how it'd look either way #ig I never got the feeling there were a lot of gnc people interacting outside of lgbt spaces but it'd be cool if they did #0x20 #asks

[gingerswagfreckles]

I think people need to understand that when someone says the situation in Israel/Palestine is complicated they are not necessarily saying that the discussion of who the oppressor vs oppressed is complicated. The Israeli government has been oppressing the Palestinians for a very long time, that is clear, and it is not complicated to understand that at least since the 80s they have had dramatically more financial and military power to keep control of the territory in the way they like.

However, it is reductive and dismissive to insist that there is no complexity in the potential ways to move forward to bring peace to the region. Despite what people on tumblr.edu like to believe, "Israel should never have been created" is not a practical solution to an incredibly heated geopolitical situation in the present day. Israel was created and it does exist. 10 million people live there. 74% of the population is native born and the country has existed for 75 years. Hand waving these fact away with the opinion that "they should move back to where they came from" may make you feel good about being a Radical Leftist, but it does not give anyone a road map for how exactly millions of people without dual citizenship are supposed to just up and evaporate. Nor does it acknowledge the reality that 21% of Israelis are Arabs, the very people you are claiming to want to give the land back to.

Insisting that there's nothing complicated about expecting an entire country's population to willingly dissappear with no consequences is not a productive way to think about this conflict. It ignores the many massive superpowers that have an interest in proping up different states in the region, the power dynamics involved in any land back movements, and the inevitably negative consequences of totally dissolving an established state without a plan. It is also completely and almost comically unrealistic, so much so that it makes it hard to believe that anyone who's opinion starts and ends with this idea really gives a shit about anyone who lives in the area as much as they care about their online leftist clout.

There's nothing complicated in understanding that the Israeli government is and has been maintaining an oppressive apartheid state for decades. It is, however, very complicated to come up with a realistic way to resolve some of the most intricately entangled land disputes on the planet without plunging the region into total chaos. Not everyone has to be deeply educated on every geopolitical situation, but it is very hard to take people seriously when they know nothing about the politics or history of a region and yet insist that there is nothing complicated about it at all.

There's a lot of people on this website who are getting dangerously smug about their own ignorance, and are starting to go down Qanon type anti-intellectual paths in the name of being sufficiently radical. Not knowing the details of a very convoluted land dispute isn't something to brag about online as you call for intentionally reductive solutions. You can support the Palestinian cause and be aware of the oppression they have faced while also holding off on calling people trying to do real analysis and de-escalation work bootlickers. We need to get control of the urge to fit every global issue into a simplistic YA novel narrative structure that appeals to Western revolutionary fantasies.

#gingerswagfreckles #israel #palestine #israel palestine conflict #i/p #i/p conflict

[dduane]

Hello.

I've seen you posting detailed information about the WGA strike and wondered if you had any suggestions as to how those of us not directly involved can show our support for the Union?

Okay, bearing in mind that all this is entirely subjective at the moment (and so far lacking any more useful input from other sources): a few thoughts.

This will be my third WGA strike. (My first one was in 1988, just after I'd made my first live action sale—s1e6 of ST:TNG). And the thought keeps occurring to me at the moment that this time out, there's a potentially gamechanging player on the field that wasn't there before: truly pervasive social media.

(Adding a cut here, because this goes on a bit...)

In 2007, social media as we now understand it was still in its cradle. Now, though, those of us who're striking can make our voices much more widely heard. And so can those of us who're not, but just want to show solidarity. Last time, the AMPTP was able to do pretty much what it wanted without the public noticing or having even a medium-profile way to make their feelings known. But this time? Not so much.

So as an otherwise uninvolved person who wants to show solidarity, I'd start with something seemingly low-value. If I was on Twitter, I'd start routinely tweeting about the strike and my support for it—not obsessively, just persistently, a couple/few times a week—using the Twitter hashtags that are gaining ground even now, such as #DoTheWriteThing (and of course #WGAStrike). I would make sure I was following @WGAEast and @WGAWest, to keep an eye on what's going on.

Additionally: I would start politely, but repeatedly—again, maybe once or twice a week at least, and not stopping—tweeting the various major players in the AMPTP, especially the streamers: Amazon, Netflix, Hulu et al. I would start suggesting that their current attitude toward the WGA's contract negotiations is not only unrealistic but potentially (for the AMPTP) bad for business. (And self-destructive, too, as if this goes on much longer in this vein, they'll be seemingly eagerly casting themselves as The Baddies.) I would suggest that their bad behavior, if not amended by them coming to the table to bargain in good faith, might start affecting both my interest in their shows and my willingness to keep paying unreasonable people for access to them.

I should emphasize here that so far there've been no formal calls from anyone for boycotts or subscription cancellations. For the moment, this strikes me as wise. The point for WGA-friendly observers, right now, would be to keep what's happening to the writers visible: to keep bringing it up: to refuse to allow it to be swept under the rug. The "They only want two cents on the dollar!" angle seems potentially useful the more it's repeated. The point is to keep the repetition going: to make it plain, day after day, that the other side's being not just unreasonable, but greedy. Day after day, and week after week, and (if necessary: please Thoth may it not be...) month after month.

And tweeting is hardly all that can be done. Email is cheap and easy. But actual letters, written on actual paper and mailed, can still create a surprising amount of attention in a corporate office. (The saying in TV used to be that for every person who actually writes in about an issue, there are ten, or a hundred, who feel the same way but never got around to it.) Write letters to all the AMPTP members' CEOs, and make your feelings on the WGA's core demands politely plain. ...Especially when those CEOs collectively made almost three-quarters of a billion-with-a-B dollars in salaries last year, when many of the writers working on their shows can't afford rent.

After that: here's another thought, a little more physical. If by chance you're in an area where one or the other of the Guilds are picketing: turn out and support them! Honk when you pass: and if you're interested, show up and offer to walk the picket lines with them. These things get noticed. (In 2007 a bunch of us, both Guild members and non-, caused significant astonishment by turning out to picket AMPTP members' offices in Dublin.)

...Obviously not all that many people are going to be positioned, in terms of location or their own work and time commitments, to show up physically. But online? Find ways to keep this issue visible. The AMPTP wants this to go quiet, wants people to get bored with it, wants people to find reasons to blame the writers. They've tried spinning the story that way before. Don't let them pull that shit. Find ways to back those who're calling them on that, publicly. They do respond to this kind of thing (though they may strenuously deny it). If enough attention continues to be paid by the general public, they will blink—if sometimes excruciatingly slowly, as Disney began to blink over the dispute tagged #DisneyMustPay.

As viewers, and as viewers who pay for subscriptions to things, we far outnumber them. Help be a part of making the AMPTP understand that this quest for a truly fair deal is not going to go away. And the longer they try to act like the Guild's negotiation positions are beneath their notice, the more it's going to hurt them, and the stupider and greedier it's going to make them look.

...That's all I've got for the moment, as I need some lunch. :) ...But I hope this has helped. And thanks for your concern, and your desire to stand in solidarity with us! It's so welcome. :)

ETA: here's a link to the Guild's social media toolkit, for those who'd like to change PFPs or icons, etc., to show their support.

#Writers Guild strike #DoTheWriteThing #WGAStrong

[zanathan-aisling]

this is no place of honor. nothing good is buried here. like, look at those tags, jesus fucking christ icansayithewasalsojewish there they are, i'm at fucking PEAK 2:11 in the morning brain and i got hooked on the discourse rod like two hours ago at this point? i've been rewriting the same sentence over and over again trying to come up with a way to insult most of the people on this site while excluding all the people i'd feel legit fucking terrible making feel bad (which. includes forseeably anybody reading this unless the grace of god does- AAAAAAAUGHGHGHGGG JUST PUBLISH THE FUCKING THING

yooo this post literally begins "as a trans woman" and is about "discourse", uncool fetish shit, and like. idfk if theres even word for that other thing. People That Are Not Trans Women Keep Your Mouths Shut On This. Maybe Nobody Should Reply At All Actually? i've reached paranoid moralizing stink-beast levels that i don't even really know what to logically do with like i SHOULD post something and this is like my fifth time trying but also it feels deeply unwholesome to either reject or welcome outside input.

being a a trans woman, (which is. fucking relevant because YES THIS SHIT GETS TUMLBRFIED ALONG DEMOGRAPHIC LINESSSSS I'M REWRITING A FOLLOW UP THAT MORE DIRECLTY MADE CLEAR IT WAS ABOUT TRANSMISOGYNISTIC REACTIONS TO THINGS-RANGING-FROM-COMPLETELY-INNOCUOUS-TO-FRINGE-CASE-PERVERT-SHIT-I.-JFC-I-CANT-EXPLAIN-IT-MORE-AGAIN-I'LL-COLLAPSE) one who is NOT immune to internet horny in all its forms ranging from innocuous to.... Less [private information/"backstory" expunged tldr the internet can fuck you up especially if you grow to view it as a place of refuge] and is ALSO extremely adamant that Hey I Think That People Should Face Repercussions For Publicly Saucing Up On "Gross" (don't. make me spell out the exact points at which i think the enjoyment of a particular subject can be morally justifiable we'd be here all week and we'd kill ourselves before the talk was done) Shit but ALSO also the moral phucking filosopher in me can't shake off the feeling that Even Kink Shaming For Legit "Dangerous" Shit (in. interpersonal and cultural normalization ways not "shoot your boyfriend in the pancreas" ways) Still Fucking Counts As Sexual Harassment*** and. ghahghhhh.

at least if i didn't have a moral backbone i could hang out with those smug pretentious fictional bullshit loving DOUCHEBAGS but no i guess i'd chose "foolhardy and can-have-their-sense-of-Innate-Morality-swayed-into-fascistic-tendencies yet barring those incidencees are still fundamentally deep down good" to "i have pleasured myself with uranium-27 every evening for the past three years and its everyone elses problem, radiation is a puritanical myth" (or for that matter "foolhardy and easily swayed into fascistic tendencies and pretending to be good but its mostly people getting mad at trans women for calling themselves dogs or being furries". i do not intend to equivocate The Bad Thing Thats Transmisogynist with my own fucking sad little adoptive poop house filled with people failing to actually make any progress in extricating 'that stuugh' from the contexts where its fucking dangerous but like hey we're trying and i guess thats better than worshipping the the fucking stuff)

*** just bc i call it that doesn't mean arguments can't be made as to why its necessary or for the public good bla bla bla i'm not strictly arguing against it its just. even entertaining that it might be a lesser of two evils opens up so many fucking unsanswerable questions and my feelings-of-personal-shame-and-guilt engines just start kicking in bc this shit can't even be framed as "rationally" or "concisely" as a fucking trolley problem i'm moral relativisming my way into absolutism somehow i pray for hell to be real so that the duty of judgement can be left to hands other than my own for I Too am imperfect (albeit not in a way that gets off to children, LOL, get fucked i do still have the moral highground, like not over YOU necessarily but over those *other* dipshits that neither of *us* like)

#is 'is legitimately salty she can't just be an eviler person because that life of ignorance and harm sounds so much easier than this carp' #a bad person thing #lmao #<- said as a joke. i feel like 'bad person thing' should be inane enough an oversimplification that my ascription of morality to whats a th #thought that brings me to no actual different standing besides “FUCK those dickheads in their ivory tower of fictitious bullshit” is not me #meant in seriousness #....and this is the BETTER version of that post i never finished!!! #last remark if i type further than this my eye will explode: its. not enough to have the moral highground. that shits easy. the lack of cla #clarity on what to DO with it aside from the vague 'expunge bad thing from polite society which will totally be achievable ever prommy' is #where the actual fucking issue comes in #also. i've been adding tags in order of changes i've made to this #so. the first tags are following offa the bit before the asterixes. lmao.

[isa-renee]

how to explain to my vaguely-conservative-usually-a-republican aunt that she is literally a socialist

#or okay social democrat might be closer but like. still! #the thing you are talking about. is universal healthcare. what republicans are so adamantly against #or like. indigenous land rights. #but no it’s actually soooo fascinating to me #like she and i agree about so many issues despite having polar opposite views on their solutions #which is kind of fascinating! #and furthering my belief that we have far more in common ideologically and interests-wise with working class republicans than corporate demo #democrats #but i digress #it’s just so interesting like. we acknowledge that the problems exist and that there’s like gross inequality #but whereas my solution is yk redistribute resources to everyone even if it starts off only by helping those most disadvantaged #the conservative viewpoint is yes we should be helping people and solving these same issues but we shouldn’t enact these programs until they #benefit everyone but first and foremost benefit us citizens #which like. makes sense? i don’t agree necessarily but it’s a perfectly understandable viewpoint #and much more workable than democrats who don’t want healthcare or to support veterans or to deal with climate change #like it’s just. so close. #the main difference seems to be the view that like. i am dealing with these problems and most of the country/world is dealing with them as w #as well but programs to address the issues are not targeted at my demographics. or more generally i needed this help but never got it. and s #so for that reason we shouldn’t give this help to people who haven’t ‘earned it’ any more than i have #which is a perfectly understandable position! for someone who has been consistently victimized by our political system #and yeah there’s problems there but it’s just. so so so close! #but instead of trying to reconcile our ultimately very similar goals we shame them for being selfish and intolerant and they shame us for be #being unfair and hypocritical and nothing actually gets done and the class divide gets steeper and fucking steeper #okay rant actually over this time #but idk i just wish this was a conversation we could have without like constant ad hominem or just. squabbling over what ultimately are kind #kind of just the finer details #but alas when will politics ever be anything but a shit show #politics posting #idk what to tag this besties i haven’t gone on a random political rant in like a year at least #probably the last time i was living with my aunt asflkskgkg

[ki-yomii]

➥ pairing | jeon jungkook x f!reader ➥ word count | 4.4k ➥ warning(s) | 🔞 smut; fwb, angst w/ a happy ending, teasing, finger fucking, squirting, praise kink, frottage, dirty talk, pet names, commitment issues, jealous!jk, possessive!jk, dom!jk, idiots in love, misunderstandings ➥ summary | after being stood up one too many times, you realize you're in love with jungkook. and that just won't do. ➥ notes | istg i've re-written this more times than i care to count 💀 enjoy!

🖤 masterlist | inbox | AO3 🖤

cnt make it 2nite

The text is blunt - biting. No explanation offered, and certainly no false platitudes found in the lifeless string of black letters. Rather simple and straight to the point.

As you should have expected from Jungkook. He wasn’t known for his verbosity, and even less so for his love of texting.

But as you chew the fat of your cheek, reading it over and over again in an attempt to glean some hidden meaning that isn’t there, you admit to yourself - at least privately - there’s no more avoiding the truth.

One that’s been hovering over your shoulder for weeks like a shroud; an unwelcome guest you can’t ignore anymore: Jungkook’s been avoiding you.

It shouldn’t be surprising.

Moreover, it shouldn’t hurt.

There shouldn’t be an ache in your chest every time you see his contact or the plummet of your stomach when that inevitable excuse comes through.

In the end, he owes you nothing. The arrangement between you is casual, just a little fun between good friends.

It still fucking sucks though, you think, sucking your teeth.

Night thoroughly ruined before it’s begun, it’s only a matter of deciding how to respond now. In the past you’ve used a plethora of options, but you’re stumped. Unsure how to correlate the level of hurt to the nature of your not-relationship.

Should you be petty, passive-aggressive, indifferent - or worst of all: honest?

Hah, no way. I’d rather die.

Beside you, the bartender politely averts his gaze and busies himself with polishing a stack of pint glasses. It’s a slow night, and that’s saying something as this bar’s a little hole in the wall.

It’s never overly busy, which is one of the reason’s it’s a favorite meeting spot of yours. The floors might be sticky, but the music’s decent, the strobe lights they kick on after 10 PM aren’t offensive enough to induce a migraine, and the drinks are cheap with a heavy pour.

Watching him work is impressive - and almost distracting enough for you to ignore the needle sharp ache taking root beneath your ribs, the churn of your stomach.

Humiliation burns hot, creeps up your neck to settle into the apples of your cheeks as you’re stood up.

Again.

It isn’t the first time - it won’t be the last.

But it cuts deeper than all the rest combined, harder to shake off. You can’t lie to yourself anymore. The growing distance between you throbs like an open wound, as if Jungkook himself plunged a hand into your chest.

Scooped out any tender, soft thing he could find and left you hollowed out. Drained.

Not taking his flakiness personally used to be so easy. And now… well.

Goddamnit. A palm scrubs over your decolletage roughly to soothe the throb of your heart. What the hell did you expect to happen, getting involved with Jeon Jungkook, huh?

Everything from his stupidly pretty eyes to the dangerous curl of his mouth, the thick soles of his boots to the lapels of his leather jacket scream walking red flag.

Never mind the fact his proclivities are an open secret among the group. He’s never tried to hide his distaste for commitment. Finds it too monotonous. Predictable.

An eternally free soul much preferring to flit from one experience to the next, never shackled down for long. The Icarus of myth made flesh.

He runs through women like he runs through shoes, and you witnessed enough of the ensuing heartbreak and tears to be wary.

But knowing and feeling something are two very different things.

The dichotomy throws you off-kilter and finds you abandoned in a bar, once again, to choke on a regret so bitter you swear it’ll burn a hole through your throat.

What’s going on with me, you think, this is nothing new. He does this all the time.

You used to get on so well.

Any initial misgivings faded away in the face of Jungkook’s blinding attention, his unfaltering kindness lurking just beneath that surface of grit and gravel.

Even after you fuck, he never acts any differently, as casual between the sheets as he is lounging on your couch.

It's been great, it's been enough - until now.

Just the thought of going back to your empty apartment, alone, only to wake up and fall back into Jungkook’s orbit tomorrow when he swings by with a half-assed apology on his lips, and your favorite drink in hand is enough to make your skin crawl.

Stomach twisting itself into knots, everything in you rebels against the sudden cold realization: nothing will change - least of all Jungkook.

He’ll continue to take-take-take.

You'll continue to give-give-give.

On and on you'll go; a distant star orbiting a black hole, losing little bits of itself until there's nothing left.

Then he’ll leave your life as quickly as he entered it, a blurry after-image there and gone in the blink of an eye.

Fuck, I - I can’t do this anymore, you think, a shiver rattling down your spine, Because I…

An errant thought gains teeth, sinks them deep. Refuses to budge as an awful truth - one buried so deep you forgot it was there, ever lurking in the shadows - rises to the forefront of your mind.

And then --

Oh.

It’s because I love him - because I’m in love with him.

Suddenly it hurts to breathe, your lungs burning as you drown on the air itself. The steel band cinching around your ribs threatens to crack you open.

Your heart lurches in your chest, despair following swiftly to settle over your shoulders. Moreover, there is no one to blame except yourself.

Even if you want it to, it will never work out because loving Jungkook is to love the ghost of a long-forgotten memory.

And there are too many hurts to soothe, too many disappointments to name.

I can’t believe I actually -- shit. You swipe a shaky hand over your forehead. When you swallow, a sour taste clings to the back of your tongue. Should’ve known better.

You glance at your phone, the cursor blinking back at you mockingly. Should’ve done a lot of things, I guess.

Now, you're in too deep.

Waiting without ever realizing you began to do so in the first place; a life on pause, surviving off scraps of half-measures and maybe's, what-ifs, and if only's.

Now, it's clear the only way out is through.

The time to let go is here.

You need to muster up some semblance of self, and work to untangle the threads of connection binding you together. You need space to rediscover the pieces of your heart you left with him.

How to live without the taste of his kiss, the clench of his muscles, the thrust of his cock.

A new life sans Jungkook which begins with a simple reply in place of everything you really want to say: ok.

Then you wave the bartender over.

He does you a kindness once more, pretending not to notice the tears brimming along your lower lash line. “You ready to order?” he asks.

“Uh, yeah - sorry, I was…”

His mouth twitches. You waver.

Then the screen of your phone lights up with a notification.

Refusing to look lest you cave, emotions too fresh -  scraped raw and tender, you switch on DND and turn it face down where it will remain until you go home.

You're far too fragile (and sober) to think about reading Jungkook’s reply, let alone engage with him in any meaningful way.

“I’ll take a double vodka cranberry.”

Maybe if you get drunk enough, you'll forget about the home he carved in your bones.

Bottoms up, bitch.

w8 nvm guys cnt make it

y/n?

i cn b ovr in 10

???

gn ttyt

hey, sorry. called it early.

wyd?

nothing much. you?

nm running some mtchs

cool, cool. you able to swing by today?

yeh b there in 30 :)

In hindsight, trying to have this conversation with Jungkook face to face isn’t the brightest idea. But if anything, last night showed you every choice you’ve made lately is a disaster waiting to happen.

Your life’s already a mess - and you’re hopelessly in love with a man that’ll never love you back - so what’s another mistake added to a long string of misfortune.

So what if your hands tremble and your stomach churns as you unlock the door to let him in.

So what if he leans in for a kiss and you duck to the side, his lips brushing the slope of your cheek.

So what if he pauses and gives you a long, searching look before toeing off his shoes and offering you the drink he picked up on the way.

It can’t get any worse, right?

Only the hungry, molten mixture of rage and rebellion fueling you thus far fizzles away the minute you see him head towards your bedroom with a wink.

Anguish and despair follows in its wake, nipping at your heels.

This is all you’ll ever be to him, you remind yourself as you step into the room. A fun time. Nothing serious. You have to break it off.

You shoot him a tight smile. “Did you have a good night?”

Jungkook shrugs, glancing around at the decorations littering your dresser. “Nah, not really.” His gaze slides to you, traveling from your head to your bare toes in a slow once over. “I definitely would’ve had a better time with you.”

Swallowing roughly, you rub your hands over your arms and suddenly feel far too naked - exposed in your light summer dress. “Hah,” you intone without humor, awkward and stilted. “Probably not. I was out by 11:30.”

“Mm, that’s not like you.” Jungkook hums, moving forward until he’s right in front of you. His hands reach for you, grabbing your wrists gently. His thumb strokes over your pulse point. “You’re acting weird. Is there something you want to talk about, baby?”

Of course he’d notice.

It would be annoying if it wasn’t so endearing. Jungkook always pays attention to the details, makes leaps of logic based on little more than quiet observations.

You stitch together a chuckle. “Nothing gets past you, huh?”

His eyes crinkle at the corners as he grins, his lip ring dimpling the swell of his bottom lip. Your chests brush with every inhale, sharing space and breath. 

“Nothing,” he agrees.

It’s torture. It’s too intimate.

The glow of your overhead lamp highlights the sweep of his cheekbones, the curl of his lashes as he blinks slow and happy. The barely there impression of his body is too much.

You shrink back, clearing your throat.

“No, don’t do that. Where are you going?”

His eyes, shimmering with warmth, plead with you to stay, his shoulders curving towards you. A large palm settles over your shoulder, sparks igniting wherever he touches.

“Stop hiding. You can talk to me about anything. Come on, I want to know what’s going on in that pretty head of yours.”

Steeling your resolve, you inhale and exhale with a shudder. His expression is open, soft. You know it won’t last, and take a few seconds to commit how he looks in this moment to memory.

For all you know, this will be one of the last times you’ll be this close to him again. At least until you can beat your feelings into submission.

And then you can’t put it off anymore, unable to take the ginger strokes of his fingers. The calming caresses as if he thinks you’re something precious. Quick like ripping off a band-aid, otherwise the words will never get past the bend of your throat.

“I want to stop.”

You catch the way his eyes darken, sharpen in the dim overhead light. He knows exactly what you’re talking about, but his half-smile never falters.

Of course, he refuses to make this easy on you. To acknowledge this is happening. He’s always been a greedy man; wants what he can’t have, and destroys what he does.

“Stop what?” Jungkook says. “You’re gonna have to be more specific than that, baby.”

“Kook,” you sigh, rubbing the bridge of your nose. “You know what I mean. I just - I can’t do,” your voice cracks, a hand motioning to the space between you, “this anymore.”

A vein throbs on the side of his neck, his jaw working in response. Muscles tense and release with every grit of his teeth. He asks, “You gonna tell me why, huh? Or are you just going to ditch me and act like it didn’t mean something?”

“Kook…”

There’s a certain grief that can’t be spoken, gnarled roots burrowing deep in your chest. A sense of loss so keenly felt it almost steals your breath.

You wish this wasn’t happening, you wish you could take it all back but this pantomime of a relationship isn’t fair to you. Not anymore. And you knew this conversation wouldn’t be fun, but Jungkook’s staunch denial still manages to surprise you.

“It didn’t mean anything though,” you say.

At least, not to you, you think. To me, it meant the world.

-- And that’s the problem.

You need to stop whatever this is between you from building. He’s already shown he doesn’t share your desire for more in a multitude of ways. He’s been avoiding you for a reason, whether he was consciously aware of your feelings or not.

Undoubtedly, you trust him with your life but not your heart.

As sweet as he is, has been, he won’t treat it gently. Not through any intentional ill-will but because he can’t contain his own commitment issues let alone make room for yours.

It’s better this way.

Let what you have - had - stay a memory unmarred by the ugliness of your hurt feelings and bitter disappointments.

Jungkook’s shoulders draw up towards his ears, his gaze glacial as his hands slide away from you. “Is there a reason you’re done with me now?”

Shadows lurk in the depths of his eyes, his lips curled into a cruel smirk. Everything about him looks weighted down.

“Well, is there? I mean, shit, I think I’ve earned an answer after all the time we spent together.”

Your heart breaks for him, everything in you calling out to close the gap and offer him comfort. But you can’t. You don’t trust yourself to touch him without wanting more than your heart can bear.

“I’m not done with you,” you say. “I would never do that to you, Kook. I just - I can’t be with you like that anymore, that’s all. I need space but I’ll still be around, I promise.”

The glare he shoots your way freezes the blood in your veins. “Cut the bullshit,” he snarls. “Tell.me.why.”

You avert your gaze, arms wrapping around your chest. “Why does that - I -”

You only had one rule at the very beginning of this mess: if there’s someone you’re serious about, you stop fucking. It comes as a handy lie - a believable excuse that’ll stop any further questioning.

You don’t think you have the fortitude if Jungkook keeps pressing you, cracking under the weight of your grief and the anger in his eyes like fine china.

“I think I - I think I want to start looking for a boyfriend again.”

An expression flashes across his face, there and gone in the blink of an eye. But there’s no doubt he recognizes it for the goodbye it’s supposed to be.

This is it, you think.

You can put what you had to rest and move on, a memory on a shelf you’ll dust off years down the line when the hurt isn’t so prevalent. And hopefully, with time, you can relearn how to be friends.

Though the strange gleam to his eyes sends a prickle of apprehension down your spine, and then you find yourself being manhandled as he snaps forward like a snake coiled to strike.

Air flees your lungs as Jungkook shoves you with a firm palm, your feet stumbling over themselves as you trip backwards into your bed frame.

Wood knocks into the backs of your knees, and you fold like a stack of cards. The sheets puff out around you, the scent of your laundry detergent tickling your nose.

You blink at the textured ceiling, mouth agape as you try to process what happened.

The empty space above you doesn’t stay vacant, Jungkook quickly crowding you into the mattress with his weight as he settles over top of your body.

He molds himself to your front, his firm hips slotting themselves between your thighs. Broad palms, warm and calloused, skim your sides and ruck up the skirt of your dress as he reaches under you to grip the soft globes of your ass.

He yanks you into him, your pelvises slotting together. You whine before you can stop yourself, eyes fluttering shut at the heat of his body.

Teeth scrape along the delicate skin of your neck, the sharp pricks of pleasure-pain coaxing a shiver down your spine.

Lips brush the shell of your ear, his minty breath puffing against the side of your face as he speaks, low and husky, “So that’s it, huh?”

“What--!”

Teeth nip your earlobe, and you wince.

“My girl thinks she’s going to leave me for someone else?” Jungkook snorts. “Like I’d ever let that fucking happen.”

“I’m not your girl.”

You squirm, a bolt of awareness slicing through you as your body responds to his proximity, the weight of him over you electrifying. Liquid desire blooms behind your navel, uncomfortable and unwelcome.

“I never was.”

Blunt nails dig into the fat of your ass, and a cruel mouth latches onto the corner of your jaw. “Ah, is that right?” Jungkook asks, the rumble of his voice vibrating through your torso, your nipples tightening as they drag over the plains of his chest. “You’re not my girl?”

You swallow, and ignore the throb of your clit as the line of his cock ruts into you. “I’m not your girl, Jungkook.”

“If you’re not my girl,” he grinds into the cradle of your hips, teasing - taunting, “then why the fuck are you so wet?”

Keening, you twitch, involuntarily rocking up into the firm pressure of his shaft. The angle’s just right, spreading your folds beneath the thin cotton of your panties and giving your neglected clit the perfect stimulation.

Exposing your soaked core to the chill of your room as your body warms with mortification.

Jungkook hums in approval, giving the side of your neck a sloppy kiss followed by a stinging nip. “You think some nobody can fuck you better than me?”

“That’s not what I - ffuck!”

Heat pools low in your belly, blood pumping fast. You’re steadily losing control, the aborted rolls of your hips increasing in frequency.

“Answer me.”

A sharp burst of copper floods your mouth, your skin splitting open with how hard you’re chewing on it. Blood clings to the swell of your bottom lip, a ruby red bead you lick away with a nervous tongue.

Sweat dappled your brow, and it’s getting harder and harder to ignore the molten desire curdling your stomach.

The softness of your body knows the hardness of his, every curve has a matching divot. The heady, pleasant scent of his cologne floods your lungs with every stuttered inhale.

Your senses are overwhelmed as he surrounds you.

“Shit, Kook, please,” you plead, hands tangling in the sheets by your head.

You’re not sure what you’re asking for but at the same time, you’re not sure how you ended up here. Again.

“I don’t know what you want from me.”

This was supposed to be an amenable end to a dubious affair. It’s anything but.

“I want you to tell me who your cunt belongs to.”

Fingers inch down to tease along the soft flesh of your inner thighs, and play with the elastic of your panties.

You tremble, gooseflesh dimpling the exposed skin of your arms as knuckles brush over the length of your soaked pussy.

Your clit pulses, the pressure enough to tease.

“Come on, baby,” Jungkook coaxes, working his way beneath the fabric clinging to your core, “tell me you’re my girl.”

His cock nestles into the crook of your hip, hot and heavy through his jeans as a darkened patch blooms across the denim crotch. The sticky wetness of his pre-cum smearing into your skin as arousal swells, crashing over you.

Leaving you a whimpering, trembling mess in the cage of his arms.

“You just have to say it - say you’re my girl and I’ll be so, so good to you.” His breath warms the shell of your ear. “All you have to do is say it, and I’ll make you cum so hard you see stars.”

Jungkook doesn’t give you a chance to cobble together a response, sliding a thick finger through your sticky folds and into your needy pussy just as your lips part.

All words leave you, your mind wiped clean as a low, broken cry echoes out into the room. Swallowed up by the sounds of city life outside your apartment as he works to stretch you open.

You clamp down at the sudden fullness, walls tight and fluttering around his finger like they would be around his cock.

“Fuck, baby,” he groans. “You always feel so soft and wet.”

Whining in agreement, you give up any pretense of resistance, letting primal desire chase away the despair, the guilt that threatens to choke you. Wiping your mind clean of any thoughts until the only thing that remains is the thrust of his fingers and the ache in your cunt.

Your hands slip, scrambling for purchase with sweaty palms. “J-Jungkook!”

Your knees tremble where they dig into his sides, air rushing from you in heavy pants as the space between your bodies heats up. You know you won’t last long, already hanging on the edge.

Never in a million years did you expect to be so turned on by Jungkook’s rough behavior. He usually treats you like something delicate.

Though he holds no such compunction now, raw in his desperate desire to make you cum.

Jungkook peppers kisses onto whatever skin he can reach, spreading your thighs wider with his torso. His knuckles strain against the fabric of your panties, stretching out the cotton and ruining them forevermore as he slips another finger into you.

Then his dark head bows, catching your gaze, and he says, “Hold on.”

Barely seconds after you anchor yourself to his shoulders, he starts finger fucking you to within an inch of your life. His forearm ripples with strength, the movements of his fingers pressing and rubbing against all the right spots. Curling up to massage at your g-spot until you’re shaking beneath him with hitched breaths.

“Shit, shit,” you gasp, eyes rolling back as your toes flex against his side, “Kook, baby, please don’t stop.”

He huffs a laugh, dark and amused. “Wouldn’t ever do that to you, baby.”

“S’good - I - I’m close.”

You sob, tears brimming along your lash line. The sloppy sounds of him fucking your pussy ring in your ears, as embarrassing as it is arousing. He’s making you gush, slick wetting your inner thighs, dribbling down your ass to stain the sheets.

“So close, gonna - hnnng - gonna cum.”

“Yeah, that’s it. Just like that, baby. Give me that squirt.”

You shake your head. “I can’t - I can’t!”

If you could, you’d suspend time so this moment never ends. The finality of your arrangement hovering just on the other side of pleasure.

In the back of your mind, you know Jungkook’s only behaving this way because he’s jealous. Angry. He doesn’t mean it, and this is a mistake.

It’ll only hurt you in the long run but you’ll take what you can get.

After all, this is the last time you’ll be together like this.

“No,” he shushes, dropping a kiss to your sweaty brow, “No, don’t lie. I know you can. I’ll make you.”

There’s no escape.

He refuses to let you escape, using his weight to keep you pinned as he spreads his fingers open inside you, twisting and fucking so deep you feel a twinge behind your navel.

And then you’re right there, crashing over the edge as the bubble of pleasure bursts, crackling through your limbs.

You cum harder than you ever have before. Nails sinking into his shoulders with a hiss as a wounded, broken wail scrapes its way out of your throat.

Your pussy throbs, gummy walls sucking him deeper as a rush of cum gushes from you in spurts. Your ears ring with white noise, and you’re vaguely aware of the fact your hands have gone numb.

For several long moments, you float with a head full of cotton, only rejoining the atmosphere when warmth dribbles down your ass in sticky rivulets of squirt.

Jungkook’s arm is curled around your waist, holding you close as his nose nuzzles into the side of your head. Tender lips dust kisses over your crown. His cock is still a heavy weight digging into your hip but he doesn’t seem to be in any rush to relieve himself.

“Jungkook,” you sigh, a wave of fatigue crashing over you. Your eyes sting when you close them, a lump building in your throat. You ache all over pleasantly, satisfaction settling deep into your bones. In spite of that, a rift opens in your heart. “Jungkook, I--”

He kisses your shoulder, shushing you. “Don’t ruin it. Just let me hold you for a little while longer… please.”

The tears are almost impossible to stop. “It’s already hard enough, don’t make me -- I can’t just…”

Jungkook squeezes you gently. “I love you,” he says, “but I swear to god you can be so stupid sometimes.”

You jolt, eyes swinging up to meet his, wide and disbelieving. “What did you just  - I - I  don’t. ..Jungkook?”

“How could I not feel the same?” he asks, tone resigned and wary. “Honestly scared the shit out of me when I realized because, well, y’know I don’t have the best track record.” He averts his gaze, a sheepish smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I almost fucked everything up too, but Namjoonie-hyung helped me get my head on straight.”

Something unfurls in your chest, and you feel as light as air. Ridiculously buoyant with happiness. Hope.

Oh, how stupid.

“We’re kind of idiots, aren’t we?” you ask, sniffling as you shoot him a watery smile. “Like… the biggest.”

Jungkook hums in agreement, a boyish gleam to his eyes. “I mean, you said it. Not me.”

#jungkook smut #jungkook x reader #jungkook fanfic #jungkook x you #bts fanfic #bts x reader #bts smut #jungkook #jeon jungkook x reader #jeon jungkook x you #jungkook fic #bts jungkook

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Housing is a labor issue

There's a reason Reagan declared war on unions before he declared war on everything else – environmental protection, health care, consumer rights, financial regulation. Unions are how working people fight for a better world for all of us. They're how everyday people come together to resist oligarchy, extraction and exploitation.

Take the 2019 LA teachers' strike. As Jane McAlevey writes in A Collective Bargain, the LA teachers didn't just win higher pay for their members! They also demanded (and got) an end to immigration sweeps of parents waiting for their kids at the school gate; a guarantee of green space near every public school in the city; and on-site immigration counselors in LA schools:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/04/23/a-collective-bargain/

Unionization is enjoying an historic renaissance. The Hot Labor Summer transitioned to an Eternal Labor September, and it's still going strong, with UAW president Shawn Fain celebrating his members victory over the Big Three automakers by calling for a 2028 general strike:

https://www.teenvogue.com/story/uaw-general-strike-no-class

The rising labor movement has powerful allies in the Biden Administration. NLRB general counsel Jennifer Abruzzo is systematically gutting the "union avoidance" playbook. She's banned the use of temp-work app blacklists that force workers to cross picket lines:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/07/30/computer-says-scab/#instawork

She's changed the penalty for bosses who violate labor law during union drives. It used to be the boss would pay a fine, which was an easy price to pay in exchange for killing your workers' union. Now, the penalty is automatic recognition of the union:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/09/06/goons-ginks-and-company-finks/#if-blood-be-the-price-of-your-cursed-wealth

And while the law doesn't allow Abruzzo to impose a contract on companies that refuse to bargain their unions, she's set to force those companies to honor other employers' union contracts until they agree to a contract with their own workers:

https://onlabor.org/gc-abruzzo-just-asked-the-nlrb-to-overturn-ex-cell-o-heres-why-that-matters/

She's also nuking TRAPs, the deals that force workers to repay their employers for their "training expenses" if they have the audacity to quit and get a better job somewhere else:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/09/14/prop-22-never-again/#norms-code-laws-markets

(As with every aspect of the Biden White House, its labor policy is contradictory and self-defeating, with other Biden appointees working to smash worker power, including when Biden broke the railworkers' strike:)

https://pluralistic.net/2023/09/18/co-determination/#now-make-me-do-it

A surging labor movement opens up all kinds of possibilities for a better world. Writing for the Law and Political Economy Project, UNITE Here attorney Zoe Tucker makes the case for unions as a way out of America's brutal housing crisis:

https://lpeproject.org/blog/why-unions-should-join-the-housing-fight/

She describes how low-waged LA hotel workers have been pushed out of neighborhoods close to their jobs, with UNITE Here members commuting three hours in each direction, starting their work-days at 3AM in order to clock in on time:

https://twitter.com/MorePerfectUS/status/1669088899769987079

UNITE Here members are striking against 50 hotels in LA and Orange County, and their demands include significant cost-of-living raises. But more money won't give them back the time they give up to those bruising daily commutes. For that, unions need to make housing itself a demand.

As Tucker writes, most workers are tenants and vice-versa. What's more, bad landlords are apt to be bad bosses, too. Stepan Kazaryan, the same guy who owns the strip club whose conditions were so bad that it prompted the creation of Equity Strippers NoHo, the first strippers' union in a generation, is also a shitty landlord whose tenants went on a rent-strike:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/05/20/the-missing-links/#plunderphonics

So it was only natural that Kazaryan's tenants walked the picket line with the Equity Stripper Noho workers:

https://twitter.com/glendaletenants/status/1733290276599570736?s=46

While scumbag bosses/evil landlords like Kazaryan deal out misery retail, one apartment building at a time, the wholesale destruction of workers' lives comes from private equity giants who are the most prolific source of TRAPs, robo-scabbing apps, illegal union busting, and indefinite contract delays – and these are the very same PE firms that are buying up millions of single-family homes and turning them into slums:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/02/08/wall-street-landlords/#the-new-slumlords

Tucker's point is that when a worker clocks out of their bad job, commutes home for three hours, and gets back to their black-mold-saturated, overpriced apartment to find a notice of a new junk fee (like a surcharge for paying your rent in cash, by check, or by direct payment), they're fighting the very same corporations.

Unions who defend their workers' right to shelter do every tenant a service. A coalition of LA unions succeeded in passing Measure ULA, which uses a surcharge on real estate transactions over $5m to fund "the largest municipal housing program in the country":

https://unitedtohousela.com/app/uploads/2022/05/LA_City_Affordable_Housing_Petition_H.pdf

LA unions are fighting for rules to limit Airbnbs and other platforms that transform the city's rental stock into illegal, unlicensed hotels:

https://upgo.lab.mcgill.ca/publication/strs-in-los-angeles-2022/Wachsmuth_LA_2022.pdf

And the hotel workers organized under UNITE Here are fighting their own employers: the hoteliers who are aggressively buying up residences, evicting their long-term tenants, tearing down the building and putting up a luxury hotel. They got LA council to pass a law requiring hotels to build new housing to replace any residences they displace:

https://www.latimes.com/california/story/2023-11-28/airbnb-operators-would-need-police-permit-in-l-a-under-proposed-law

UNITE Here is bargaining for a per-room hotel surcharge to fund housing specifically for hotel workers, so the people who change the sheets and clean the toilets don't have to waste six hours a day commuting to do so.

Labor unions and tenant unions have a long history of collaboration in the USA. NYC's first housing coop was midwifed by the Amalgamated Clothing Workers of America in 1927. The Penn South coop was created by the International Ladies Garment Workers’ Union. The 1949 Federal Housing Act passed after American unions pushed hard for it:

http://www.peterdreier.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/07/Labors-Love-Lost.pdf

It goes both ways. Strong unions can create sound housing – and precarious housing makes unions weaker. Remember during the Hollywood writers' strike, when an anonymous studio ghoul told the press the plans was to "allow things to drag on until union members start losing their apartments and losing their houses?"

Vienna has the most successful housing in any major city in the world. It's the city where people of every income and background live in comfort without being rent-burdened and without worry about eviction, mold, or leaks. That's the legacy of Red Vienna, the Austrian period of Social Democratic Workers' Party rule and built vast tracts of high-quality public housing. The system was so robust that it rebounded after World War II and continues to this day:

https://www.politico.eu/article/vienna-social-housing-architecture-austria-stigma/

Today, the rest of the world is mired in a terrible housing crisis. It's not merely that the rent's too damned high (though it is) – housing precarity is driving dangerous political instability:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/06/06/the-rents-too-damned-high/

Turning the human necessity of shelter into a market commodity is a failure. The economic orthodoxy that insists that public housing, rent control, and high-density zoning will lead to less housing has failed. rent control works:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/05/16/mortgages-are-rent-control/#housing-is-a-human-right-not-an-asset

Leaving housing to the market only produces losers. If you have the bad luck to invest everything you have into a home in a city that contracts, you're wiped out. If you have the bad luck into invest everything into a home in a "superstar city" where prices go up, you also lose, because your city becomes uninhabitable and your children can't afford to live there:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/09/27/lethal-dysfunction/#yimby

A strong labor movement is the best chance we have for breaking the housing deadlock. And housing is just for starters. Labor is the key to opening every frozen-in-place dysfunction. Take care work: the aging, increasingly chronically ill American population is being tortured and murdered by private equity hospices, long-term care facilities and health services that have been rolled up by the same private equity firms that destroyed work and housing:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/04/26/death-panels/#what-the-heck-is-going-on-with-CMS

In her interview with Capital & Main's Jessica Goodheart, National Domestic Workers Alliance president Ai-jen Poo describes how making things better for care workers will make things better for everyone:

https://prospect.org/labor/2023-12-13-labor-leader-ai-jen-poo-interview/

Care work is a "triple dignity investment": first, it makes life better for the worker (most often a woman of color), then, it allows family members of people who need care to move into higher paid work; and of course, it makes life better for people who need care: "It delivers human potential and agency. It delivers a future workforce. It delivers quality of life."

The failure to fund care work is a massive driver of inequality. America's sole federal public provision for care is Medicaid, which only kicks in after a family it totally impoverished. Funding care with tax increases polls high with both Democrats and Republicans, making it good politics:

https://www.dataforprogress.org/blog/2021/4/7/voters-support-investing-in-the-care-economy

Congress stripped many of the care provisions from Build Back Better, missing a chance for an "unprecedented, transformational investment in care." But the administrative agencies picked up where Congress failed, following a detailed executive order that identifies existing, previously unused powers to improve care in America. The EO "expands access to care, supports family caregivers and improves wages and conditions for the workforce":

https://www.whitehouse.gov/briefing-room/presidential-actions/2023/04/18/executive-order-on-increasing-access-to-high-quality-care-and-supporting-caregivers/

States are also filling the void. Washington just created a long-term care benefit:

https://apnews.com/article/washington-long-term-care-tax-disability-cb54b04b025223dbdba7199db1d254e4

New Mexicans passed a ballot initiative that establishes permanent funding for child care:

https://www.cwla.org/new-mexico-votes-for-child-care/

New York care workers won a $3/hour across the board raise:

https://inequality.org/great-divide/new-york-budget-fair-pay-home-care/

The fight is being led by women of color, and they're kicking ass – and they're doing it through their unions. Worker power is the foundation that we build a better world upon, and it's surging.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/12/13/i-want-a-roof-over-my-head/#and-bread-on-the-table

#pluralistic #labor #hot labor summer #eternal labor september #jane mcalevey #los angeles #weaponized shelter #housing #airbnb #equity strip noho #tenants unions #red vienna #jennifer abruzzo #nlrb #the rent's too damned high

[halemerry]

I’m doing it. I’m breaking down the Scene. You know the one. I've been tearing it apart for a week straight now in discord and figured I should leave my observations here. So, uh, yeah, this one's a big one so buckle up folks!

I want to start with the build up because I can never leave well enough alone and because I think the framing we have coming into this sequence is important. We start with the camera on Mr. Acts of Service himself. Crowley, after banishing Muriel, starts cleaning up the bookshop. The music playing is the soft slow rendition of the opening theme. He is returning this space to the status quo, resetting back to normal, fully intending to do this for Aziraphale before dragging him out to the Ritz, falling back on their typical pattern of going out together for food and drink.

Now in a moment he's going to get interrupted by Nina and Maggie but before we get there I want to take a second to draw attention to the area of the bookshop that Crowley will be operating in for the bulk of this. This space is one we very frequently see Aziraphale in. It's his desk behind the till - a spot linked intrinsically to him, even down to the fact that it's located on the east side of the shop. The windows are throwing beams of light onto Aziraphale's chair and onto the same spot Crowley will stand during The Scene. This lighting choice will not change from now until our last shots in the bookshop and the way the blocking plays around these sunbeams is very aware (as Good Omens nearly always is) of exactly where they will land.

Nina and Maggie enter the scene to have a chat about boundaries and communication. Maggie, his own mirror, tells him flat out that he can't play with their lives like that. Maggie and Nina then both tell him that he and Aziraphale need to talk. And I don’t think they're wrong, exactly, but I do think that Aziraphale and Crowley are actually a lot better at communicating in general than they are in these following high stakes scenes. But that's some meta for later - for now I want to just focus on the particular way Crowley's been primed for the conversation he and Az are about to have. Nina in particular does something really interesting. She does exactly what we as the audience did when we first saw Nina and Maggie: she mistakenly projects herself onto Crowley. She says he has trust issues because she does and in the process accidentally frames the core of their problem as Crowley needing to allow himself to trust Aziraphale, a thing that he actively already does and has done for quite some time and has been shown to us several times throughout the two seasons.

Now the build up we get for Aziraphale going into this conversation is very small. By which I mean practically non-existent. We start at the end of his conversation with the Metatron who tells him to go tell his friend the good news - which notably does not imply that the news is something that would require Crowley to make a choice - and sends Aziraphale on his way. Now the most crucial thing in this sequence, to me, is the expressions Aziraphale makes when he thinks the Metatron isn't looking at him. While polite and smiley when engaged with him, Az's expression falls as soon as he doesn't have eyes on him. Something is wrong and Aziraphale knows it.

Aziraphale enters the shop. The doorway is dark and shadowy and he hasn't composed himself yet - though he does give Nina and Maggie a little smile as they leave. Then, as soon as they're not looking at him, but before he approaches Crowley, the tension is back.

He hesitates, then smiles and approaches Crowley. Crowley, planted dead center in that beam of light from earlier, takes off his glasses and promptly starts nervously rambling. The music cuts off here entirely, giving us nothing to focus on but the noises coming from our lead actors, the background noise from the street, and the ticking of the clock in the background. Aziraphale puts up his hands like he's going to interrupt then lowers them again as Crowley keeps talking, his face shifting into this helpless sort of smitten look.

Now look at the light and how it hits the bookshelves behind Crowley as he tries to get his confession going. It's in the shape of a wing. Keep an eye on that - when the camera chooses to show us this one wing of light is important.

Aziraphale then interrupts and there are two things I want to draw attention to here as Aziraphale fumbles for words. First of all is the fact that he glances in the direction of the door (and the Metatron) at least three times as he's struggling to speak.

Secondly, I want to draw attention to the words Az actually says here. He first echoes the Metatron's earlier statement about good news. He then does not roll into the news itself and instead glances at the door and says the Metatron. He starts rambling about the Metatron to a very confused looking Crowley and evetually talks his way into that the Metatron said something. He then hits a wall again, scrambling to find words and instead of explaining the context of what the Metatron says he lands on Gabriel. His brain latches onto someone obviously on the forefront of both their minds and something vaguely relevant to the news he's about to share. He rambles more about Gabriel's job, glancing once again at the door in the middle of this, still avoiding getting to the actual point or perhaps even synthesizing said point as he goes.

We then cut to what is framed as a flashback. I think it is very notable we only see this as Az is telling it to us. In other words that this is not us witnessing an event happening but us witnessing what Aziraphale is telling Crowley. This sequence is the single scene where the Metatron calls Crowley by name despite actively avoiding it in any real time continuity sequences. He uses it twice here which I think also is the strongest thread in here that tells us that we are seeing what Crowley is being told not necessarily what actually happened.

The instant the idea of restoring Crowley comes up the wing of light behind Crowley loses visibility. Crowley's speechless for a moment so Aziraphale fills the silence, already looking like he wants to cry as he talks about the old days. (I also can't help but to notice that the lights behind Az in this shot look like eyes.) Crowley finally speaks and circles around the beam of light he's been standing in like an object seeking to re-establish a source of gravity. The music cuts back in here with tense drawn out notes.

Crowley talks about how Hell offered him his place back and he turned them down. Aziraphale in turn presses on ideas that we know he doesn't really believe. It's a echo of the bandstand and uses a lot of the same language of that fight - another fight we know features Aziraphale saying things he knows aren't true. By now, we have seen him multiple times this season express he does not want to go back and make it abundantly clear that the side they have made for themselves is important to him. We see him actively calling angels bad and incompetent, contrary to everything he's telling Crowley here. We see him be the one to repetitively remind Crowley that they are on their side and be the one that always draws attention to that first. Yet here he says Heaven is the side of light to Crowley - who by the way is literally framed in light. The frame is telling us outright that Crowley is already Good as he is, while Az's expressions are telling us he knows Heaven isn't.

Aziraphale can't tell him that he did not turn down the job and Crowley does another orbit. The music cuts again. This time, he stops with his back to Az, tilts his head upward and decides to ruin me by invoking God.

Here he is, hearing these awful things that he was sure they had moved on from, hearing these things he has tried for so long and so hard to help them both unlearn. But these sorts of habits and lessons are insidious and he knows that and he himself is even a victim of that himself. I mean, don't get me wrong, he recognizes this is weird, I think, but between his own self worth issues and the stress of the few days they'd had can't work out what exactly is off here. He's confused and lost and just been told, in his mind, that he is not good enough as he is - a thing he has always on some level also believed. Yet he reaches out to the parent that taught him that lesson in the first place for strength and grounds himself with that. He circles back to stand in the beam of light and, with that wing of light finally backlighting him again, he is brave and tries to be enough anyway. He bows his head downward, fully emerging the line of this body in the light and tries again. Because even now, even after that emotional blow, Crowley is an optimist who can't help but to try.

At first Aziraphale can't figure out quite what is going on here. He squints at Crowley and glances at the door again. Crowley meanwhile keeps continually glancing upward, whether at God or to hold back tears or some combination of both. In most of these shots Crowley bisects the room, creating a dark half to his left and a light half to his right.

Crowley says he relies on Aziraphale. Even here, even now when he's just hurt him. Because it is the truth. Because Aziraphale makes him feel less alone. Because Aziraphale proves to him that no matter how fucked the system is that there is still good in the world, even if he doesn't always agree with it.

It is only once there is no doubt what Crowley is doing that Aziraphale starts shaking his head in very small quick shakes. He looks panicked even as they both physically draw closer to each other. It's huge not here, not like this energy to me. Aziraphale asks Crowley to come with to help him run Heaven. This is the point where Crowley starts tearing up.

Crowley then says you can't leave this bookshop, trying to say you can't leave me. Az, nearly in tears himself, says 'oh Crowley. Nothing lasts forever' as a means to convey that the books aren't what is important here. Crowley, naturally, hears 'including us.'

Crowley looks down again, quietly agrees, and puts on his glasses, covering himself up again. He then wishes Aziraphale good luck and the music starts up again, still tense but sorrowful now. He leaves the light and heads to the door. Az can't help but to call after him. Please wait. And Crowley can't help but to listen. It's worth noting here that even as he rotates toward the north door, the light still gently hits his face. The shots in general are darker though. He's moved away from the light but it still can't help but to touch him.

"Come with me," says Aziraphale and then after a pause adds "To Heaven." Aziraphale, looking heartbroken, starts one of two 'I' statements he will struggle around in the next few moments. He lands on I need. Which. I want to pause there a moment because holy shit. That is not something they say out loud either. Az looks at him a moment, visibly struggling before he says his dialogue about Crowley not understanding his offer. Like he's said something he didn't mean to and needs to cover it up or like he can't handle the silence after such an honest statement. And on some level he's not wrong there. Because Crowley doesn't understand what Aziraphale is trying to say. But Aziraphale doesn't understand the way Crowley is reading it to course correct either.

Crowley says that he does understand and that he understands better than Aziraphale does. And he also isn't wrong either, from his perspective. Because he does understand the implications behind the offer theoretically in play here. Because he does know that the position Aziraphale is presenting him is not going to result in the outcome Aziraphale is presenting him with. There are some things you can't undo just like memories slipping through the cracks.

Az says there's nothing more to say, trying to dismiss Crowley despite having been the one to pull him to a stop moments ago. He puts on a fake polite smile for a beat but then his is jaw sets, mouth working as his eyes drop - unable to look Crowley in the eye.

Crowley tells him to listen as the music fades out and points upward. Aziraphale humors this, glancing up a few times before looking frustrated, saying he can't hear anything. The light from the window shines down in his direction without actually touching him. Crowley tells him "That's the point. No nightingales." The shot he's on here is a dark one without even any of the book shops pillars visible in it to brighten the shot.

Aziraphale looks frozen a moment here and then as Crowley calls him an idiot and says 'we could have been us' his face completely crumbles. He rapidly glances away to hide his face and Crowley moves and reaches to pull him back. They're both distraught. Az is clearly already holding back tears even before Crowley touches him. The angle of this shot frames Aziraphale in the light of the window. For the first time in this whole sequence Aziraphale is in the light, literally being physically pulled into it by Crowley.

The music swells, playing a similar theme to the one that plays as the Pillars of Creation are formed at the start of the season. They shift back and forth, the camera focusing on Aziraphale's face and hands. His hands move uncertainly, trying to reach out even as he's struggling emotionally. He is visibly shaking but he crucially does not pull away, not even a little.

His hands settle on Crowley's back, right where his wings would be, and for a brief moment gets taller, like he's allowing himself to lean into the kiss. They press together tightly, their mutual gravity sending them crashing together before they break apart. When they do Aziraphale looks devastated and his eyes move pretty much instantly to look out the window where the Metatron would be.

Crowley's glasses make him harder to read here, but he looks at Aziraphale like a man awaiting judgement in a trial he knows he's already lost. He's sad too, but as always, is waiting for Aziraphale's reaction. Because he might push continually at he boundaries of them as a unit but he has always let Aziraphale decide where to set them in stone.

Az fumbles over words here. He gets stuck on "I" here and lets it hang in the air. He then visibly thinks his words over, his expression slowly filling with resolve as he comes to some sort of conclusion. Then, like it's difficult to say, he falls back into old coded language. "I forgive you." A thing he has always said in response to things that he agrees with but cannot or should not allow himself to have.

Crowley sighs and tells him not to bother, refusing to fall into the old pattern that Aziraphale has. He is setting a boundary, for once, and even if it is one born from misunderstanding I am proud of him for being able to. He turns away and leaves. And this is where Az seems most in danger of falling apart. His lips move as Crowley goes, forming the start of a 'no' after him. He draws back from the door and turns his body away from it, physically distancing himself from anything that would feel like following Crowley. Except he can't help himself. With shaking hands he reaches up to touch his lips. He presses in, like he's trying to recreate the pressure and then his jaw works a moment and his expression sets as resolved.

The Metatron enters through the front door, which is framed in dark lighting. Aziraphale looks panicked and immediately turns his whole body away from him to hide his face while he collects himself.

He turns around after a beat and the Metatron asks 'how did he take it?' This is an odd question that only sort of half fits the fact that we are meant to believe at this point - that Aziraphale should be obtaining a yes or no from Crowley. It's not asking Crowley's choice at all. It's like the Metatron assumed a different conversation had happened or perhaps that he already knew the answer.

Aziraphale says he took it badly and the Metatron just takes a moment to direct a few casual digs at Crowley. He references him being stubborn and too curious - all the while avoiding the use of this name. At this point Az's eyes are locked out the window in the direction Crowley vanished to. The Metatron asks if he's ready to start despite originally having promised Az time to think over his answer. Aziraphale keeps glancing out the window.

For a moment he cracks, stepping away from the Metatron and back toward the east side of the bookshop. For the only time in this whole sequence he steps right into the sunbeam Crowley started in. It notably never illuminates his face as he mentions the issue of his bookshop (a statement absolutely not about the bookshop).

The Metatron explains Muriel will take care of it. Aziraphale looks back out the window with the start of an objection.

The Metatron interrupts him asking if there's anything he needs to take with him. Az's mouth takes a moment to try and form words. He steps out of the light again, starts to object, and then cuts off, eyes back to the window. Then his expression shifts again, settling in another state of resolve before he puts on his falsely polite face and follows the Metatron out.

As they leave the shop we cut back to Crowley. Crowley, who could've left to go handle his own emotions, did not leave. Instead he planted himself there, nice and noticeable. Like he wanted Aziraphale to see and know that he still has a choice. Like he needs to see Aziraphale make that choice for himself. Like he can't quite bring himself to be the one to close that last door. He stands there, framed by light, and doesn't move until the doors to the elevator to Heaven close behind Aziraphale. He then glances at Nina and Maggie and then gets in the Bentley, which starts playing the song that we now know he knows is supposed to be theirs. He turns off the music and drives away.

So there's a lot in these sequences and most of it probably won't help us figure out exactly what comes next, but there are definite signs that all is not as it's being presented to us. Whether he's actively lying or not, something is wrong that Aziraphale either can't or won't talk about frankly with Crowley. I suspect, whether it's under stress from a literal threat or because he believes that it is the safest option for them, that Aziraphale is doing all of this to protect Crowley.

There are also all sorts of signals here, especially in the lights, that gesture at the fact their togetherness is a net good. Together they are balanced and stronger for it and likely more in alignment with the Ineffable Plan. And, more importantly than that, that said togetherness is so clearly what they both want. They have loved each other longer than anything alive has ever loved anyone and none of this changes that. They both are saying that in their own ways here, even if those ways are not ones the other is particularly good at picking up and I for one cannot wait to get to see the payoff of them learning how to.

#good omens #gos2 spoilers #good omens spoilers #good omens meta #kind of #is it meta if its mostly me pointing and yelling? #come suffer with me #you have no idea how many times i had to watch these sequences for this #crowley #aziraphale #the bookshop

[softlyspector]

Decaf

Summary: After your first tattoo session with Joel, you can't stop thinking about him or, his touch. And it terrifies you.

Read Honeyed first where: You put aside your touch aversion for a tattoo from Joel.

Pairing: tattoo artist!Joel Miller x f!Reader

Word count: ~10.1k

Warnings: a smidgen of angst for fun 😌 then comfort, slow build, no outbreak tattoo!au, the 'believes they're hard to love, loving them is like breathing' trope, reader has issues with touch and is mostly touch adverse (joel's workin' on that though), tattoos and getting tattooed (the process isn't really described), description of a past abusive relationship and a bad experience getting tattooed, undefined unresolved previous trauma, insecurity, anxiety, loneliness, Joel gets to have both his daughters in this

A/N: This is dedicated to all of you who are also touch adverse. I hope you like this part as much as the first, and feel seen and heard. I love you and thank you for being so kind and open with your love and your own experiences. May you find the patience and love you deserve in your own Joel.

Once again, we’re ignoring canon and pretending like Joel can draw for this fic, thank you. Editing this was a labor, so if there are any mistakes blame my tired eyes. Thank you for reading! As always, I would love to know your thoughts! Please please please, be sure to leave feedback!

Joel doesn’t want to walk you home, though he figures he should.

It’s the polite thing to do. The kind of thing his mother and grandmother raised him to do. 

And it's got nothing at all to do with prolonging this very long day with you. No, nothing so self serving and selfish as that.

His little doe he’d lured so close, still so out of reach with hidden tattoos not on her hip. It’s scary, the want that wells up in him, the desire to see you step that much closer to him, until you feel safe enough to nestle in his shadow. 

If you were the deer, he should be the tree, the shade, the haven. 

Rage, incandescent and warm and comforting in its familiarity, wells up in his chest again when your earlier admission plays through his mind. 

Nothing brings his anger, quick and deadly, like those he cares for being harmed. Rarely did he see cause for it to break the surface—not since Sarah was born and he had a better example to set, not since Tommy calmed down and stopped getting in so many fights. 

This, though, with you—the thought of you being harmed, brings it all rushing back. He hopes to never lay eyes on your ex, for everyone’s sake. 

I had bruises for a couple weeks after, you’d said. It hurt. He wanted it to hurt.

Those words had stung on their own, but then you’d continued. 

I think he wanted to brand me. He wanted to leave a piece of himself on me, whether I wanted it or not.

It grates on him, that anyone could hurt you that way, that anyone would even think of it, and get away with it. 

You’re happily finishing the last bite of the quartet of tacos he’d gotten you, unaware of the turmoil that drags taunting claws into the fleshy parts of his chest. 

You nod along to the Cash song still playing over the outdoor speakers, though now at a much lower volume as the night wanes later, a content expression on your face. 

He likes watching you eat, likes it even better knowing you’re eating something he got you. It satisfies something weirdly primal in him. 

The side of your leg is still pressed to his, warm and pliant even through two layers of denim. The buzzing flaxen glow of the sting lights halo over your head; it casts your face in shadow, the long feathers of your lashes spiking down your cheeks.

You seem more relaxed now. The tension in your shoulders has loosened, the crease between your furrowed brows gone as you ball up the used napkins and toss them into the little paper boat the tacos had been on.

He refuses the last few sips of lemonade, and so you drink the rest instead. 

“Well,” you say, your voice a little sheepish and shy, that soft round look coming back into your eyes. He imagines you with the twitching, sensitive ears of a doe, poking through your hair, alert and suddenly wary of the extended hand you’d been so trusting of minutes before. “I should probably let you go. It’s late.” 

You say it like you think you’ve been keeping him there, taking up his time that he’s eager to get back. 

But you haven’t, and he isn’t ready to let you go. 

“I’ll walk ya home.” 

“It’s alright,” you say dismissively, gathering the trash and standing before he can do it for you. “I’m only a couple of blocks over,” you say over your shoulder as you walk away. 

“I’d feel better if you let me,” he admits, following close behind you. 

You toss the trash and then turn back to him, nervously running your palms along your thighs, eyes flicking over him. “This is a safe little town, you know,” you reassure him. “Like, I’m pretty sure my neighbors don’t even lock their door.” 

Joel blinks. “But you lock your door, don’t ya?” 

An inexplicable smile pulls your mouth up at the corners. “Yeah, Joel, I lock my door.” 

“Good,” he says gruffly, shoving down the protective feeling that had been rising in his chest. It’s an insane feeling, one that sets something he thought long dead on fire within him. 

You just watch him for a moment, knowing eyes sliding over him. “Well,” you relent and jerk your head toward one of the side streets. “I’m this way, if you’re sure you have time.” 

Like time had anything to do with it. 

He gestures you ahead of him, his eyes falling down the curve of your spine, the shape of your hips and thighs. He’s still trying hard not to think about the bumblebee and the antlers tattooed somewhere on your body, all the parts of you he hasn’t seen. 

He’s trying hard not to think about a lot of things. 

Like how your skin felt under his hand, dewy and warm. How he’d spent most of the day with his hand covering yours, the hummingbird beat of your pulse against his fingertips. 

He’s trying not to think about how good you smelled that close, raw and unfiltered, how irritated he had been when the sharp smell of disinfectant had chased it away. 

You carried the smell of summer with you wherever you went, like sunshine and coffee, iced sugar and coconut. 

He walks with you through the navy darkness in silence, the flash of amber street light the only thing illuminating your way. It feels nice. He feels like the rest of the world has turned its face away, that it's only you and him and the ghostly eyes of the white glow of the moon peeking through the quickly dissipating clouds.

The Texas dry heat would be back with a vengeance in the morning, but for now the street is pleasantly humid. The air still smells like petrichor, like damp concrete. He should savor it. Tomorrow, the blindingly hot smell of asphalt and dust will return and chase this moment in the dark with you away. 

You seem almost better suited to the dark, to the quiet smooth pleasantness of it, like your fear can’t reach you there if it can’t see you, if you can’t see it. Like a prey animal that only ventured into the safety of night. 

So he lets the silence last, because it's comfortable, and he’s never been one to fill silence with unnecessary chatter anyhow. 

He can’t remember the last time he did something like this, felt the brush of someone else’s fingers through the dark and the accompanying zing it sent up his arm. He forgot how amplified everything could feel, especially in the low light.

The walk to your apartment is short. 

You only live a few blocks from the center of town, and only a few streets over from the studio. He imagines you walking this path each day with the intention of coming to see him, with the intention to walk by the studio, even before you knew him—in the sun, all summer.  

You live above the town’s sole bookshop. It’s cute, like the rest of the town is. It’s unbelievable how idyllic the town is, like it’s cut straight from the pages of a romance novel, or one of those shitty Hallmark movies. 

He stands just outside the circle of the security light that blinks on over the door. You fiddle with the lock for a solid minute, jiggling the knob just so and then twisting the key in a pattern that you seem to know well, until it finally yields and opens. 

Joel clears his throat. “Y’need someone to look at that?” 

You don’t seem to hear the question mark tagged onto the end of the question, or to realize that he’s offering to fix it. “Yeah, I know,” you roll your eyes. “I’ve asked my landlord to look at it a couple of times already but they haven’t gotten around to it—”

“I can take a look for you sometime,” he clarifies. “It won’t take but a minute—” 

“That’s alright, Joel,” you interrupt quickly and dip your head, embarrassed suddenly. “I’ve let you do way too much for me today. Everyday.” Before he can contradict you—because he isn’t sure what the hell you feel he’s done for you, you step back through the door and hover there in the doorway, shifting from foot to foot. 

The security light casts your face in harsh shadows, the dark stairwell behind you reaching black claws out to hook around your frame. 

You open your mouth but nothing comes out. You just linger there, fidgeting with your keys, looking for all the world like you have something you want to say to him, like you don’t want him to go either. 

Joel watches you, waiting for you to say something, to be the one to sever the connection between you and say goodnight. His chest feels tight as he waits for you to decide, waits for you to decide his shade was a place you could be safe. 

Besides, he’s still trying to figure how to say goodbye to you, still trying to figure how he’s supposed to pry apart the sticky want that thrums against his skin. Still trying to figure out what exactly had gotten into him, what had gotten into him in the weeks and months you’d started coming by.

He supposes it's just been a long time. He supposes he’s just out of practice at having feelings for someone. 

It’s been just him and his girls and his brother for so long. 

He must take too long trying to figure things out because you smile at him and glance away, your expression apprehensive and unsure. “You will let me get you back for the tacos someday,” you warn softly. “‘Night.” 

Then you shut the door. He hears you bang up the steps, your footfalls fading until he can’t hear them anymore. The security light flickers out and he’s plunged into semi-darkness, but he doesn’t move until a light finally comes on in one of the upstairs windows a few minutes later, the silhouette of your body outlined behind a sheer curtain. 

It’s only then that he turns away and walks back the way he’d come. He smiles to himself and then feels stupid about it. 

He’s too old, he thinks again, for his chest to be twinging the way it is, to be smiling in the dark, and missing someone he just left. 

He’d see you tomorrow, anyway. 

Just as he always did.

Just like you always do.

Joel is distracted the day after your appointment. 

Your scent lingers in the air of the studio. He mistakes every shadow that passes the front window for you. The image of you under the soft light in the center of town is imprinted behind his eyes. The way you’d smiled, the feel of your skin under his fingers—soft and damp in the humid air that had ballooned after the day’s rain, consumes his every thought, has his eyes shifting to the front window every few seconds. His back gives an unpleasant spasm from how quickly he turns at even the slightest noise, always thinking it's you finally pushing the door open. 

But he sees more than your shadow and the ghost of your silhouette in the window. 

Joel sees all the imagined, soft skin under your clothes where an antler tattoo is hidden. Untouched, unexplored skin that he would very much like the chance to explore and touch, if ever you gave him the chance, if you ever wandered that close. 

It’s a fine idea. 

That you’d come into the studio and lean against the counter and watch him work on a design for someone that isn’t nearly as important as you are. 

But, the day wears on, and you never show up. 

The day after Joel tattooed you and bought you sugary lemonade and tacos under golden light that you etched divine, you don’t stop in. 

You don’t even walk by. 

It isn’t unusual for you to go a few days between visits to the studio. He tells himself that it’s normal, fine, that you have a job and a life and that sometimes you don’t get the chance to come by. He tries not to worry about it. 

On the second day, with your image still fluttering behind his eyes, the weight of your gaze still heavy on his skin, he starts sketching another design for you. It distracts him, at least, because you don’t come in on the second day, either. 

You don’t come in the day after that either, or the day after that. His girls stop by for dinner on Friday evening, and Ellie crashes on his couch for the night to help out in the shop the next day. All that Saturday, all he can think about is you, pushing the door open slowly, pausing in the entryway like you always do with watchful eyes, skin shimmering with sweat from the sun and heat, cups of coffee in hand, one for you and one for him, just like always. 

He imagines you smiling at him, your shoulders loosening when your doe eyes land on him, the uncertainty and trepidation melting away because it’s him. Because it’s just him. It’s just the two of you. 

But the image, the fantasy, never comes to fruition. 

Ellie snaps at him around noon to stop being so fucking weird, dude.

Sundays—the shop is closed, so he doesn’t see you then.  

By Monday, five days after he tattooed you and walked you home in the dark, as the sun sets on a ragingly warm evening, Joel is convinced that you aren’t going to come by the studio anymore. 

He keeps working on your new design.  

Then, a whole week goes by, and then another, and you still don’t drop by, you don’t even walk by, though he catches a few glimpses of you down the road—in front of the boutique, the coffee shop, the record store a few doors down. He sees you at the farmer’s market that pops up every Saturday in the town’s center.

He dreams of you, dreams of the willowy, softly plush curves of your body. Joel dreams of you at home with him, in his bed. He dreams of pushing your shirt up, palming every delicate part of you, tracing his fingers over your hidden tattoos. 

He always jolts awake when the dream version of you pushes him back and kisses him hard, his hands cupped around you, your thighs, your breasts, the dip of your waist and belly. 

It’s distracting, the ghost of you everywhere he looks. He can’t even bring himself to take your painting down from the front window. The doe you don’t see yourself in. 

Adjusting to your absence is hard. He hadn’t realized you’d wormed your way into his daily life so firmly, like an invasive species the environment grows around, and turns when it's taken away. 

In one particularly low moment two weeks on, he takes a stroll a few blocks over, worried that something might have happened to you, that something might be keeping you away. He sees you inside the bookstore you live above, newly purchased novel in hand, feet curled beneath you on a sofa in the window. 

You seem fine, though an inexplicable twinge of jealousy plucks at his heart. He never thought that you might hang around the other shops like you did with his. 

And you never come by.

You don’t owe him anything, certainly not your company. 

He resigns himself to not seeing you until your second session, when he’ll finish your tattoo and probably never see you again. 

Joel scares you. 

His hand lying over yours all day; his offer to fix your door; the way he looked at you intense and heavy and waiting, wanting—it all terrifies you. 

The words to invite him up for something to drink had sat heavy in your mouth before you changed your mind and left him where he stood. You’d bothered him enough, taken up enough of his time. 

You aren’t sure what southern manners had led him to take you to get tacos and lemonade but surely he’s had enough of you. 

I’ve let you do way too much for me, you’d said. And he hadn’t disagreed.

Instead, you lurch up the stairs, let yourself into your apartment and stand breathing hard in the dark entryway, back against the door. Your forearm aches just a little, but in the pleasant way it always does after getting tattooed, instead of in the painful, raw way the one from your ex had. 

The familiar itch below your skin that had started with Joel’s art is now overwhelming, because you know what the shape of his hand feels like. You know the precise weight of his palm over the back of your hand, and against the column of your spine. You can’t forget how his jean clad thigh felt against yours, how nice the brush of his fingers had been through the dark. 

His voice was so low and graveled when it brushed against your skin, it tingled through your whole body, down to your toes, to the pit of your belly. It was low and intimate and felt like everything he said was just for you, like it had brushed against every tiny hair on your body. 

I’m not markin’ you, because it's not mine. It’s yours. It’s for you.

They were words for you, special for you, reassuring to you, spoken so kindly and in defense of you against someone he would never meet, over something that was not his fault and that he hadn’t been around yet to prevent. 

There’s a kinetic energy under your skin that burns, like pages of your story with him are already set aflame. Don’t burn this bridge, you think and lean hard back into the door. You close your eyes and tangle your fingers together, squeezing so tight it hurts, until you pinch your skin. Please don’t let me burn this bridge. 

You like Joel, more than you have any right to. He feels safe and sure and solid; he’s kind. He scares you, but in a way that makes you want to claw your way through the dark back to him, to see if he’ll touch you again, speak low and kind just for you, work on art made just for you. 

When you finally catch your breath, you flip on the lights and toss your keys down as you cross your small apartment. You scrub a hand over your face and take a deep breath from between your fingers.

A moment later, you pluck up the courage to glance out the window, just in time to catch Joel’s broad shoulders turn the corner in the distance back onto Main Street. 

Something in your chest pangs, the strings of your heart pull tight and hard up against your lungs until your throat closes. 

The feelings he planted in your chest, nestled among your ribs and wove between your veins, seem unfair. It seems horribly unfair, harsh even, that you should be left with the tips of your fingers smoldering, hesitantly reaching out for more. 

He’s left a sea inside you, a lonely dark hole. You knew it was there, that black, open emptiness. You’d felt it all your life, but now you know what it feels like when someone sees it, shrugs, and asks to be a part of it. You know what it's like, now, to have someone stand, patient and still on the shore. 

He’s left you wanting, craving something that you’ve feared for so long, that always felt wrong. And when your skin started to go tight and your muscles contracted and pulled, he’d somehow known, heard the pain buried away, and released you.  

You can still feel the ghost of his knuckles brushing against your wrist on the dark walk to your apartment. You can feel his thigh against yours while you ate tacos together and listened to the folks of your small town laugh and dance to old country music. You can feel his palm cupped around your wrist, dwarfing your hand beneath his.

You can still feel his calloused fingertips, catching at your palm and the inside of your wrist. 

He makes you feel safe and seen, like it’s okay that you lingered in his studio for weeks, bothered him endlessly, without any guarantee that you might one day schedule an appointment and actually get tattooed.

You thought the wantneedpull would subside after finally starting the tattoo but its only gown. The pain you waited for, the urge to flee from your own body never came with him. You want him closer, want the warm rough press of his palm against yours. You just want—you’ve never really wanted anyone closer but you want him closer. 

You want Joel so close that nothing else bleeds through. You want to melt into the palms that cupped you so gently, so carefully. 

You want to become carefully molded wax in his capable hands. 

Inexplicably, for the first time in so long, you want someone to touch you. You want to feel Joel’s hands everywhere, anywhere he could reach and even all the places he couldn’t. 

And it terrifies you. 

You mean to go back to your normal routine, but the first morning you try to stop by the studio, you can’t make your feet carry you there. You pause halfway between the coffeeshop and the studio, Joel’s usual order clutched in your hand. 

The gnawing, empty, raw hole inside you has only grown. You look at your pretty tattoo and think of the gently rough hands that had created it, the furrow between his brows while he worked, the scar over his nose, the strong, broad slope of his shoulders, and you feel anxious. 

You want it so badly, and yet—

He’s just your tattoo artist. He probably only put up with you hanging around his shop everyday, bringing him coffee, talking his ear off, because there was the promise of money, the promise of work. 

You’d just done the stupid thing and gotten attached to him, to the studio, to your fucking tattoo artist. You are just a client and you long to melt into him. You long to press yourself against him, feel the crush of his body against yours.

That want makes you wary, phantom pain, phantom aversion crawling beneath your skin right after.

It makes your head spin, it makes you feel crazy, that you can’t even decide what you feel, what you want. 

It’s better if you stay away, give yourself time to forget the itch, forget the feel of his hands, so you turn away and circle the block, back to your apartment where you set the cups on your kitchen counter and take a deep breath. 

Your chest is tight, your mind a snarl of half formed thoughts. 

Tomorrow, you think, will be better. 

But it’s not. 

Each day you think about going over, and you don’t. You feel wound tight, like clockwork left to rust. You dream of Joel, his hands everywhere and nowhere, the warmth of him like a ghost you can’t shake off. 

The feelings you try to avoid, the desert dryness of need and emptiness that the loss of his touch inspired, doesn’t go away. It gets worse; it outweighs the fear, the aversion. 

You only dare to go as close as the record store, checking he was still there, like the whole place would suddenly disappear if you stopped going by, like a witch’s cottage after a botched, half-worked spell. 

You feel cursed, like soot, like a monster waiting to steal the soul of the light. 

You’re burning your bridge and you don’t know how to stop. 

Joel is still there, where he’s always been. His art is still there, though you’re so far away now, you can’t see it clearly anymore. 

But you notice among the still ever rotating collection of art and pictures in the window, one always remains.

You know without seeing it that it's the painting of the doe looking over her shoulder, bees flocking like long forgotten gods around her ears. 

Ellie and Sarah ask about you on the third Friday that goes by without you stopping in. 

The temperature has cooled off a little, the warmth of summer receding just the tiniest bit. The kitchen table is laden with chinese takeout boxes, rice already spilled across one of the placemats. 

“You haven’t been talkin’ about her so much,” Sarah notes curiously. 

“Yeah, and you’ve been way more cranky than usual,” Ellie adds.  

“Ain’t had cause to see her,” he deflects, reaching for the yet un-spilled carton of rice. “Hasn’t been in the studio since her first session.” 

The kitchen suddenly falls silent, the clatter of cutlery deadened as it’s set on the table. “What do you mean?” Sarah, he thinks, sounds mildly offended on his behalf. 

“Just what I said,” he grumbles. 

He doesn’t need to look up from his plate to know Sarah and Ellie are exchanging a look. “Why not?” Sarah ventures to ask, her tone calmer. 

Joel shrugs and finally looks up at his kids. Sarah’s head is tilted to the side ever so slightly and Ellie’s brow is furrowed. “Busy, maybe,” he explains. “Got better things to do.”  

“Bullshit!” Ellie explodes suddenly. “What happened? Did you do something stupid?”

He sighs hard through his nose and shovels orange chicken onto his plate with more force than necessary. “No.” Then he reconsiders, goes over every moment of that day again in his mind. How much he touched you, selfishly, when he knew you were adverse to it. “I don’t know. Could be she was only around this summer to see if we’d make a good fit.” 

There’s another beat of silence before both girls are arguing with him. He lets them go on protesting it for a few minutes before he waves them down. “She’s got a lot goin’ on that you two don’t know. Somethin’ might’ve spooked her that I didn’t realize.” 

“Like what?” 

Your ex-boyfriend and your badly healed tattoo flashes through his mind. The bruises you said you’d had for weeks afterward, how badly it had hurt. The way he’d held onto you all that day.

Guilt pools in his chest, floods his lungs. 

He doesn’t know what might have spooked you. 

Just hopes it wasn’t him. 

“Well, have you tried to talk to her?” 

Sarah peers at him with wide eyes, fingers delicately folded around a pair of chopsticks. “No,” he admits.  

Ellie makes a discontent noise. “Just fucking talk to her, man,” she says. 

“You always do this, dad,” Sarah says suddenly, shaking her head.

“I do not—I don’t—” he stammers. When was the last time he’d had the opportunity to fuck something up? “What are you talkin’ about?” 

They both shrug. “It’s like you don’t ever wanna be happy sometimes. She makes you happy and you always think of everybody else, it's okay to think of yourself sometimes. Maybe whatever’s going on with her doesn’t have anything to do with you. Not everything is your fault.”

He can’t figure a way it's not about him, though, that it might not be his fault. 

Joel clears his throat and looks down at his plate. “All right, tell me what you two’ve been up to this week.” 

“Hey Joel.” 

Joel glances up, glasses perched on the bridge of his nose. You’re distorted in his vision for a moment before he reaches up to take them off.

Your shape comes into sharp relief, a balm after not seeing you for so many days. You look cheerful, happy to see him. 

Excited, even. 

He hasn’t seen you in a month.

You’d messaged back and forth with his kid about your appointment, about today.

He hasn’t heard your voice in a month.

Seeing you now, despite thinking about you, dreaming about you everyday, makes some part of him close off, go cold and hard. “Howdy,” he says, his voice toeing the edge of polite and flat. The smile on your face fades a little. 

Though the sunshine is bright as always, the air outside is chilly for Texas. You’re wrapped in a sweatshirt. For the first time since he’s known you, all of your tattoos are hidden, most of your skin is covered. 

You blink owlishly, your fingers flexing nervously around the cups in your hands. “I brought you coffee,” you offer.  

He makes a noncommittal noise and jerks his chin towards the door behind the counter. “C’mon, I’m already set up.” Joel turns. 

“Oh,” you say, your voice following him to the back. “I’m sorry, I didn’t think I was late.” 

“You aren’t,” he grumbles softly. “Had another client this mornin’,” he says, needlessly adjusting and straightening the supplies he had set out, keeping his back to you. 

He isn’t sure how he’s supposed to get through this with you—ain’t sure how he’s supposed to make sense of how much it hurt that you’d stopped hanging around. There’s a feeble little thread of hope in his heart that you’ll explain it away, that you even noticed you’d changed your routine. A tiny, weak little thing that makes him hope you thought about him too. 

Stupid. 

That painful tug of hope makes him feel like a teenager, like an idiot kid who read into every little thing like it was a sign until reality started to distort.

He’s always been that way, hopeful and goddamn stupid. It’s why he hasn’t really been with anyone since Sarah’s mother left. It’s how he got tangled up with Sarah’s mom in the first place. He gets stupid when he thinks he feels something, and he’s never been good at figuring how to hold onto something like that, something so delicate. 

He always ends up loving too hard, too much. He always crushes the thing before it has a chance to bloom. His girls, they were his only exception, the one thing he was mostly good at taking care of. 

“Guess the coffee was a stupid move, huh?” 

Joel turns at the sound of your voice, pulled away from the half self-deprecating thoughts floating through his mind, and finds you hovering awkwardly in the doorway, fingers fidgeting anxiously around the cups. You look like you did the first time you came into the shop, stiff and unsure, wide eyes peering at him like you’re waiting for him to give you a reason to run. 

 The doe waiting for the snap of the twig beneath a hunter’s boot once again. 

Something twinges in his chest, the sharp pain slicing through bone and tendon. 

He doesn’t want to be the hunter to your doe. 

“No,” he straightens, making an effort to soften his voice. “‘Course not.” 

You step cautiously closer, extending one of the cups toward him. “Well, it kinda is.” You smile a little. “You won’t be able to drink it while you work, contamination and all. I just—I was on autopilot again, I guess.”

He takes it from you, the paper cup warm in his hand, and tries not to think about how autopilot for you meant unthinkingly buying a cup of coffee for him. 

Again, you’d said. Have you done it before? Accidentally bought coffee he never received? 

“Well, thank you, sweetheart.” 

You swallow and glance away, nodding at the ground instead. 

A long silence stretches between you, and unlike all the times you came into the studio before—it's awkward and heavy. He takes a sip of the coffee and finds it sours instantly in his stomach, mixing unpleasantly with the nerves. 

Yeah, he’s exactly like a damn kid. 

And he’s not good at this. He’s never been good about bridging silent gaps. 

Not with words, anyway.

It doesn’t help that you seem to take up the whole room, the smell of sun and coffee and leaves curling on the air. 

He sets the cup aside and goes about washing his hands instead. “Go on and get comfortable,” he directs over his shoulder. “Just like before.” 

When he’s done scrubbing his hands in the sink and putting on gloves and fighting the urge to inhale the scent of you penetrating every cubic inch of air in the room, he turns to find you sitting and stripping out of your sweatshirt. 

He inhales sharply when the shirt beneath lifts with the material, exposing him to a strip of your skin. You tug it back down, hiding skin that he’s dreamed of in the last three weeks, that he’d like to tease his fingertips along, if you let him, if he could lure you that close, convince you to trust him that much. 

It seems like a fucking pipe dream now. 

You look soft and rumpled as you fold the sweatshirt, fisting your hands anxiously around the edges of it in your lap. 

The tendons in the back of your hands flex, bone straining against the flesh. You’re tense, nervous. 

“You’re alright,” he drawls, despite himself. The words come out soft, and your shoulders loosen and slump as you release a breath. Whether you stopped coming around or not, he doesn’t want to make you uncomfortable. “C’mere and lemme see it.” 

You offer your arm to him and Joel takes your wrist in his hand, just like he had the last time he’d seen you. He’d touched you a lot that day, and you had let him. You’d let him touch you even after you left the studio and he hadn’t had a good excuse to keep doing it anymore. 

Now, he relishes the feel of your delicate skin against his again. 

“Looks good,” he says, stepping unconsciously closer to you. “Healin’ good anyway.” 

You glance up, the side of your knee brushing against his thigh. Warmth radiates from your body, and settles into him in the invariably cold studio. A smile tugs at your lips and the tension disappears from your forehead. “You’re allowed to compliment your own work, you know. It’s beautiful. Probably my favorite.” 

He doesn’t answer, fighting the clawing ache in his chest. “I do okay, I guess,” he concedes, turning your arm. “Just glad I didn’t hurt ya.” 

You frown but don’t say anything as he goes through the motions of cleaning your skin and settling in on the stool next to you. You settle back in the chair, a cloud of your scent caccooning both of you, undercut by the annoyingly sharp smell of the disinfectant. 

He covers your hand and squeezes the tight fist your hand curled into until you release the tension and relax. “Good,” he murmurs. “Good job.”

You chest hitches and you glance over at him, the movement sharp, but he doesn’t look back at you and you don’t say anything. 

It’s quiet for a long time, just the buzz of the tattoo gun to keep him company. 

He wonders what it is you’re thinking about. Though your body remains loose, the furrow between your brows is pinched tight in thought. 

Joel doesn’t bother you, focused instead on his work, on monitoring the flex of your hand beneath his. He doesn’t strictly need to touch you like this, but he wants to, and it seems like you don’t mind.

At least, you hadn’t minded a couple weeks ago. 

Maybe that’s what has your forehead so scrunched up. Maybe—

“I didn’t think you would.” 

He glances up, those big eyes he sees in his dreams staring down at him. “What’s that?” 

“I didn’t think you would hurt me. I mean—really, I’ve only had one bad tattoo experience,” you say with a roll of your eyes, dismissive of your own pain, like that’s not one too many times. “The rest of my—the rest of my issues are mine. Even from before that happened.” You don’t look away from him. “Besides, Ellie assured me beforehand that you have a light touch.” 

Yeah, he thought he’d heard her saying that. He’d been both embarrassed about it and warmed.

“Well, I guess she’s right. Never had any complaints.” He leans back and takes his hand off of yours, flexing his fingers and stretching out the pinch in his spine. 

One thing he did not relish about tattooing was the way he had to be hunched over. It makes him feel achy and old even if he knows it’d be much worse if he was still working with Tommy. 

You nod and fidget with the hem of your shirt with your free hand. He watches you for a long moment, still not saying anything. 

Even though things are a little awkward, he feels better, having you there again; knowing for sure that you’re okay because he’s seeing you with his own eyes. His kids might be right, that it’s all right to think of himself for once. Or, as Ellie put it, to just fucking talk to you instead of making assumptions. 

“You ain’t been around much lately,” he offers, extending that metaphorically slow hand to you as he always has, asking for the nugget of whatever truth you held onto so tightly. 

Maybe it was never about him, just as Sarah had said. 

He looks away from your eyes, goes back to tattooing your arm, filling in your piece, the design he’d worked on for a whole summer. Just for you. 

The tattoo suits you. He feels an odd kind of pride that you liked his art enough to trust him with designing something, with putting it onto your skin, and your trust is something he never could have hoped for. 

“No,” you start, your voice a bit hoarse. “I guess not. I—I just figured that I didn’t have an excuse to stop by anymore.” You pause and swallow. Your voice is clearer when you speak again. “And you’d already been so nice about me taking up your time.” 

Joel has to pause again and glance up, just to judge your expression. To see if you’re serious. 

You aren’t looking at him, but staring at the far wall as though the most interesting thing you’ve ever seen is etched there. Your features are tense, like you’re trying not to show what you’re feeling. “Taking up my time?” 

You shrug, the easily startled anxiety threading back into your eyes. “And,” your voice is shaky as you continue. “I was a little—I don’t know. Afraid. I guess.” Something must show on his face, the swoop of his gut visible on his features because you hurry to explain. “I just…I’ve never trusted someone the way I think I trust you. So. That’s scary.” 

There’s a lot of things he could say, a lot of things he should say, but Joel isn’t exactly good at that kind of thing. He just knows he hates when you look at him with trepidation and weariness. 

So instead, he covers your hand again and squeezes tight. He refocuses on your tattoo, on the transformation of your skin. He isn’t sure what to make of what you’d said about trust, or your honesty about it, so he pushes down the feeling that wells up into his gut at that admission. “Well, it ain’t no trouble. Havin’ you here. It was mighty quiet without you around.” 

It’s hard to say, somehow, the words sticky and catching in his mouth. A quiet descends in the wake of his words, the low buzz of the tattoo gun driving him crazy. He wishes you’d say something, anything, but he doesn’t have the heart to look up and see if you’re looking at him with big, startled eyes. 

“Oh,” you say eventually, softly.

And then—“It was quiet for me too. I missed coming by. Why didn’t you ask after me? Ellie could have gotten to me.” 

Joel had considered it. He’d figured you’d had good reason to stay away. And he guesses you had, just not the ones he thought. 

It hadn’t been about him, really. 

“You’re real skittish,” he settles on telling you the truth. “Didn’t want to push you further than you’d already gone.”

He nods, wipes your skin gently with a damp paper towel. “I looked out for ya. Kept thinkin’ y’da come by.”

“Oh,” you say again and this time the word is laced with surprise. “I…didn’t know that. I looked for you too.” 

Joel shrugs in what he hopes is an offhand manner. He cares more than he wants to admit, more than he can admit. 

“It’s just because you missed having someone bring you coffee,” you tease gently when he doesn’t respond. 

He snorts and the lingering tension dissolves. “Don’t do that again,” he says, still not looking up at you. “Coffee or not.” 

Joel shrugs on a dark red flannel before he shuffles you out the shop’s front door. 

The air is chilly but dry, and it burns the inside of your nose. In truth, the temperature is mild, not worthy of shivers or flannels, but compared to the unending heat of summer it's practically cold outside.  

The skin of your forearm feels warm beneath your opposite hand clutched over the fresh ink, safely and carefully wrapped. You can’t stop looking at your now completed tattoo, still smiling to yourself about the way Joel seemed irritated that you not only paid him for his work but tipped him too. You told him to think of it as repayment for the tacos and lemonade but that had only made him frown harder. 

“You don’t have to walk me home,” you say, even though the last thing in the world you want is for him to let you go on alone. 

“Sure I do,” he says, turning away from the door. 

Arguing wouldn’t change his mind, and you don’t really want to anyway. 

Joel urges you down the sidewalk, his gait jilted and slow. 

There’s an inch of space between you as you walk down the lamplit street. The horizon is a haze of orange, casting the wide open sky in shades of lavender and periwinkle as it darkens and evening sets in. You can feel the heat of Joel’s body, so close by. 

It’s nothing compared to his hand over yours, the warmth and all consuming size of it. You don’t know if you’ll ever have cause to feel his hand again, now that he was done tattooing you. 

Joel shifts so his hand hovers at your lower back, guiding you lightly. The gesture makes your skin prickle pleasantly, itchy with heat and that strange want that never went away. You wish he’d put his hand against your spine like he had when he’d gotten you tacos, so you could lean back into it, so you could feel the pressure of his hand. 

He doesn't. Joel walks you along the street quietly, his hand painfully close to you and yet not close enough.

That alone makes you ache. 

You don’t expect him to say anything as you walk along, mainly because you’re the one that’s always nervously chattering at him, half waiting to be snapped at. He tells you about Sarah’s course load for the upcoming fall semester and how Ellie’s nearly done at her apprenticeship. He talks quickly, like he’s trying to catch you up on a month worth of things you’d missed, like it mattered to him that you had. 

He tells you about the clients he’d tattooed, and the designs he’s still working on. He wavers when he mentions the designs and you hope maybe he’ll ask you to look at some of them but he quickly moves on.

When you get close to your apartment he abruptly goes quiet and pulls his hand away from your back. Just like the last time he hovers just outside the halo of the security light over the door.  

You struggle with the door like you always do until it finally pops open with a groan. This time when you hover in the doorway, you pluck up the courage to ask what you hadn’t been able to the last time. 

“Would you like to come up for some coffee?” 

“Late for that, ain’t it?” 

Your heart sinks, breaks somewhere along your ribs. “Guess so,” you admit, gripping the edge of the door. “Thanks for walking with me, I’ll, uh—”

“But I would like that,” he cuts you off. It's so unlike him that you just stare for a moment. “If you’re offerin’, that is.”

You smile. “I am.” 

He gestures you forward, reaching out to catch the door in his hand.  

You slide into the dark entryway and Joel bolts the door shut behind you before following you up the stairs to the landing where you unlock your apartment door without so much struggle. “I can look at that other door,” he offers again, sounding sheepish this time, like he’s sorry for bothering you about it again.

“I’d like that,” you say, and let him in ahead of you. 

You flip on the lights as you move past him to the kitchen, tiny and cluttered and too warm. You sweep your mail off the breakfast table and point Joel into one of the chairs when he starts to shrug out of the flannel. 

Both chairs have jackets hanging from the back but he just drapes his over what’s already there. His shoulders strain at the material of his shirt, bunching around his biceps and under his arms, across the incredibly broad plains of his chest. 

You yank your eyes away from him when you start to follow the vein in his arm, thinking you’d like to know what his skin tasted like there. 

Heat floods your chest at the thought. It’s unlike you, makes you feel shaky in a good way. It’s been years since you’ve thought that about someone, and try as you might you can’t remember if you’d ever looked at your ex and thought something like that. 

You wonder what that bit of skin feels like, how soft and firm the inside of his bicep must be. 

He looks comfortable and domestic in the warm glow of your overhead kitchen light when he sits down. 

You can’t look at him for too long without something in your pulse jumping, a raw little needy nerve that demanded attention. You want him to touch you again, to reach out and hold your hand so delicately in his. 

Instead of dwelling on that thought, you turn to your coffee pot, deftly fixing it to brew before you turn to rummage through your fridge. “I have something stronger, if you want it. I don’t like drinking after getting a tattoo.” 

“You shouldn’t,” he advises. “Ain’t good for healin’. You should eat somethin’, though.”

“I figured you’d have something to say about that,” you roll your eyes and turn to put the blackberry pie in your hands onto the table. “I won’t complain this time as long as you have some with me.” 

He stares up at you, an odd look in his eyes. If you didn’t know better, you’d say it was affectionate. “All right, dear.” 

Dear. That’s new. It makes you feel light, like bubbles are popping in your veins. 

You nod at him, warmth spreading beneath your skin, before pointing to the pie. “From Flu’s. You been to Flu’s? She has the best pie. It’s blackberry.” 

“Sure, me and the girls have been a few times. Coffee’s good there. Blackberry’s one of my favorites,” he rumbles, and you can’t tell if he’s lying or not. You have a feeling that even if Joel hated pie and was allergic to blackberries, you’d never hear a word about it. 

Joel doesn’t look away from you. His gaze slowly shifts from your eyes, to your hand planted on your hip. He slowly reaches out and curls his hand around your wrist. The slow way he does it stills your heart and all the worries shelved inside it. All the room he gives you, to be skittish, as he called it, and afraid, makes your throat go tight and hot. He handles it like it’s not something to fix, just something to accommodate, figure out with you. “Thank you, sweetheart. Why don’t you sit down and I’ll get the coffee?” 

“It’s my house,” you gripe softly, no bite behind your words. His skin is fever hot against yours, like an ember pressed against your jumping pulse.  

But just like the last time he tattooed you and insisted on something to eat, he scoffs at you. His thumb slides across the inside of your wrist. “And you were the one that lost blood today. Sit, and tell me where your mugs are.” 

You slowly sit across from him, your wrist still in his hand. “Good,” he releases you and stands. The little bit of praise goes straight to your belly, just like it had at the shop. It settles warm inside you, a good kind of tense. “Cups?” 

You point him to the correct cabinet, exhaustion overcoming you all at once now that you’ve sat down. You watch him pour the coffee, offer to get you cream or sugar even though he doesn’t know where those are either. You have to point him to where the plates, and then the cutlery, are kept. 

It's an odd little hope that flits through your mind, one that wishes for a day when he would be familiar enough with your things that he wouldn’t need to ask. 

He returns to the table and cuts two even slices of pie and plates them before returning to his chair. 

You’re just about to dig your fork into the pie when his hand curls around yours again. He isn’t looking at you when you glance up, glad that he still wants anything to do with you, that he so carefully touches you, gives you the thing you crave and fear and are too afraid to ask for.

“Don’t do that again.” He squeezes your wrist gently, voice that quiet, low drawl, an echo of what he’d said earlier.  

It’s the same thing he’d said at the shop and you don’t have to ask what he means. You wouldn’t anyway, not when the vulnerability in his voice seems to cost him. 

He’s not sure how it happens, how he spends all night at your kitchen table with your trembling pulse beneath his hand. 

He’s too old to be doing this type of shit.

He’s got an ache in his neck now that’s going to get him teased by just about everyone. His girls and Tommy already get on him about being a crotchety old man—between the glasses he refuses to wear besides anytime he needs to read something small and the landline phone and his attitude generally.

Yeah, his neck and back issues are going to be next on the docket. 

But he can’t really bring himself to care, not when he’s gotten to sit with you through the night and listen to your voice, not when your hand is still securely within his and you haven’t given a single indication you’d like him to let go, not when your calves are crossed with his beneath the table. 

He lets himself imagine it better, imagine it more. 

You curled in his lap, head on his shoulder, fingers tangled up in the fabric of his shirt or knotted into his hair. In this stupid little dream of his, you’ve just woken up instead of staying awake through the night. You say good morning and he pours you coffee. 

He thinks, too, of pressing you back into the table, finding what lay hidden on your skin. He’d go to his knees for you, he’d worship at your feet, if you asked him to. 

He wants it so bad he can taste it, but he settles for what he has here with you, the limit you’ve guided him to, hands tangled and legs crossed.

The sun dawns a white gold through the sheer curtains over your kitchen windows. You’d never pulled the heavier drapes closed and the street light had cast your face in shadow when you flipped out the harsh overhead light. 

You watch the sunrise, and Joel watches honeyed light shift over your face. 

He likes your little apartment. It’s cluttered and homey and reminds him of his parent’s kitchen when he’d been growing up. You have art and photos stuck to every inch of bare wall. The blanket over the back of your couch and the shaw over one of the chairs is crocheted. There’s evidence of all kinds of little projects scattered around your apartment. 

Even the little breakfast table he sits at is hand painted.

“You never said you were an artist,” he’d said early on in the night. 

“I’m not,” you’d ducked your head and deflected. “Not like you at least. It’s not like I’m any good.” 

You’re plenty good. “Right,” he agreed. “Not like me. It's better than mine. You could do your own sketchin’ for a tattoo.” 

Even though you’d been embarrassed he could tell you were delighted he thought so. 

Now you turn your face toward him in the comfortable silence that’s descended, half your features in shadow. You smile and your teeth shine. “Good thing today’s a Sunday, right? You don’t have to worry after rushing to open the studio.”

You tug your hand back from his and stand, gathering both mugs before you cross your tiny kitchen to set about starting a new pot of coffee. 

He watches you, absently stacking the plates crusted with blackberry filling. 

Your shirt rides up a little when you reach for the coffee canister, a thin strip of skin showing between your rumpled shirt and your jeans. He’s reminded again of all the places he wants to touch you, to touch the soft curves of your body, trace that line of skin and seek out each of your hidden tattoos. 

Not on your hip, you’d said. 

So where? Where hasn’t he seen?

The velvet of your thighs, the silken skin of your ribs and back, between your breasts, your sternum.  

The kitchen fills slowly with light, orange and red on the far wall, undulating lines of light slicing apart the worn wooden floor. He picks apart the place with his eyes while your back is turned—the paintings and photos you don’t think anything of, the postcards stuck to the fridge, the hand painted, hand knitted-ness of everything, the mismatched mugs and glasses, chipped at the corners, the tiny dish of kibble on the floor—

“You got a cat?” He figures he would have seen a dog by now. 

You turn and follow his eyes before you smile. “Sometimes. He comes and goes whenever he likes. He’s not really mine.”

“How’s that?” 

“How’s what?”

“That he comes and goes?” Joel stands, meanders a couple steps toward you, trying to discreetly stretch out the throbbing nerve in his back. 

“I leave the window cracked in my bedroom.” 

And he hates that, just like he hates the thought of you leaving your door unlocked and he just like he hates the thought of you struggling with the door in the middle of the night when he hasn’t walked you home. “Shouldn’t be doin’ things like that.” 

“Knew you wouldn’t like it,” you smile, repeating your earlier sentiment and he has a feeling it’s going to become a common refrain. “He’s probably sleeping just now.”  

He shakes his head, the corner of his mouth twitching. “You’ll drive me crazy.”

“This town is the safest place I’ve ever been.” 

“Hate to see where you’ve been before.” 

You laugh and ask him if he wants to get breakfast when—

“Shit,” he slides a hand over his face. “I told my girls we’d have breakfast. Start of the school year tradition, Sarah's first day back is Monday. I gotta drive down to Austin.” 

“It’s still early,” you reassure him without turning, but he can see the way your cheek curves with a smile he can’t see. “I’ll put your coffee in a thermos to go.” 

Joel takes the last few steps toward you and leans against the counter. Your breath hitches and your eyes flick up to his, big and shining bright as they always are. A slash of sun falls over them, lighting up your irises. The coffee pot bubbles and hisses, percolating slowly and you don’t look away. 

Your lips part softly and your breath fans across his chin. “Don’t gotta leave this minute. I got some time,” he says, watching those doe eyes of yours flick across his face, to the corner of his mouth. 

You move a bit closer, your foot slotting between his, and he feels like you’ve finally drifted close enough. Finally come close enough to feel safe, to rest. 

You lean into him first, eyes fluttering closed, shoulders relaxing  against the line of his body. Joel presses one arm around you, slides his fingers along the column of your spine, and for a moment you stiffen in the cage of his arms. 

“You’re all right,” he murmurs and loosens his hold a fraction, but your body suddenly goes lax against him. Your nose slots against his throat, fingers curling gently into his t-shirt. You release a long, slow breath against his throat. “You’re okay.” 

He isn’t sure what he’s trying to reassure you of, but it doesn’t much matter because you seem to know, to get his meaning. 

“I know I am,” you sigh. 

He can feel you breathing, the rise and fall of your lungs, the press of your breasts against his chest. You’re soft in his arms. “Good,” he says, nose against your temple as he slides his hand to the back of your neck, keeping you pressed there. “Good girl.” He feels you shiver and holds you closer, tighter than should be possible. 

Your hand is hot when it slips beneath his shirt, pressed against his lower back for the briefest moment before it disappears and roots down into his shirt again, your breath shaky. 

When he rubs the tense muscle of your neck you make a noise that forces him to stifle a groan and pull back just slightly. 

“You okay?” He asks, ignoring the fire burning low in his belly, trying to temper himself. 

Your eyes are damp, the corners wet. “Sorry, sorry. Yeah, I’m—”

He cups your cheek, tilts your face up, sweeps his thumb over your cheek. 

“I’m just a fucking mess, Joel. I always have been. For a long time, I have been. And I don’t know why.” 

“Why what?” His eyes are on your mouth, then your eyes, the image of the divot in the bottom of your lip lingering in his mind. “Sweetheart?” 

The big, scared, doe-eyed look you send him breaks his heart. “Why it’s so hard. To touch people and be touched.” 

“You’re doin’ okay,” he strokes your cheek again, slides his other hand to your hip. “Seems to me anyway.” 

“For now. I’m work. I always have been. And I’m more trouble than I’m worth.” 

He thinks of your pretty little apartment decorated with your own arts and crafts that you dismiss with a wave of your hand, the way you think you bother him, your insistence of paying him back for his time. You make yourself small, and he thinks you have more scars and worries from the past than you realize. 

“Trouble? You’re the least troublesome person I know,” he says. “My idiot brother, Tommy, now he’s trouble. Still gotta bail him outta trouble sometimes. You? Nothin’ about you is trouble.” You lean into his hand, watching him closely. 

He can’t believe his silent extended hand, his patient hand, has been rewarded with this. “And I don’t mind hard work.” 

You search his eyes for a long time, not blinking, not looking away, as you reach up and hook one hand around his wrist. He can see you trying to convince yourself to believe him. You swallow and place your trust in him again, if not necessarily your belief. “Okay.”

“All right. You wanna get breakfast with me and my girls? I’ve been wantin’ you to meet Sarah.” 

“She won’t mind?” you ask, gently pulling yourself out of his hands, tugging his hand away from your face. 

He lets you go, recognizes the trapped, pained, fearful wanting on your face. You need space. “They think I don’t know it’s more for me than them. They stopping carin’ about it sometime in middle school. Hell, Ellie ain’t even in school anymore. I’m holdin’ on to them bein’ kids, I guess.” 

You nod. “Okay.” 

He stands aside and lets you fix the coffees. He pulls his flannel off the back of your chair when he passes it on the way out and drapes it around your shoulders. 

When you’re in his truck, fiddling with his radio, he catches you clutching it closer, your nose dipped into the collar. 

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