ShitCatLikes

Write it badly or it'll never be written

Write it badly or it'll never be written

Write it badly or it'll never be written

Write it badly or it'll never be written

Joel’s been quiet all morning. Not the heavy kind of quiet. Just… Joel being Joel.

You find him at the table with a mug of coffee that’s already gone cold, sleeves rolled, hands a little rough from whatever he was fixing in the shed earlier.

“You been up long?” you ask.

“Couple hours,” he mutters.

Of course he has. There’s always something to do. Fence to fix. Wood to split. Something broken that somehow becomes his problem.

You step behind him and rest your chin on his shoulder.

Joel glances up at you over the rim of the mug. “Morning,” he says.

Your hand slips down his arm, fingers brushing over the rough calluses in his palm. “You’re gonna work all day again, aren’t you?”

“Probably.”

“You ever take a day off?”

He snorts quietly. “You seen this place?”

You smile and press a small kiss against the side of his neck.

Joel freezes for half a second, like he still isn’t used to it even after all this time. Then his hand reaches back, finding yours automatically. His thumb rubs slow circles over your knuckles. “You sleep alright?” he asks.

“Better when you’re there.”

That makes him glance at you again. Soft.

Joel sets the mug down and finally turns in the chair, pulling you closer between his knees. “C’mere,” he murmurs.

Your hands settle against his chest, flannel warm under your fingers.

For a moment he just looks at you like he’s memorizing something. Then his hand slides to the small of your back, holding you there. “You don’t gotta go anywhere yet,” he says quietly.

You lean your forehead against his. And for a while neither of you moves. Joel doesn’t rush mornings like this.

⊹₊˚‧︵‿₊୨ᰔ୧₊‿︵‧˚₊⊹ ⊹₊˚‧︵‿₊୨ᰔ୧₊‿︵‧˚₊⊹

he deserves the biggest hug ever

⊹₊˚‧︵‿₊୨ᰔ୧₊‿︵‧˚₊⊹ ⊹₊˚‧︵‿₊୨ᰔ୧₊‿︵‧˚₊⊹

Pairing: Joel x Reader.

Chapter summary: You can't hold it in any longer.

A/N: 18+only 😝

Masterlist

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You try to settle, but you can’t.

Once you have breath and heartbeat under control, you stumble home on shaky legs, the quiet of the house enveloping you in a way that should be comforting but, rather, makes it almost harder. You climb the stairs to the bedroom and place the remainder of your belongings in the right places – clothes in the wardrobe, underwear in the drawer, Nick’s picture…

You’re still not sure where to put it, where it needs to live. It’s not something you want to look at every day, but you also don’t want to have to hide it, as though your relationship was a dirty little secret that can never be allowed to see the light of day. You’ve always known he’s dead, accepted that he’s gone but somehow now, in the glow of the love you have with Joel, you’re allowed to acknowledge that he lived. And that should bring you comfort – probably would on any other day except this one – but because you can barely think straight, you simply slide it into the drawer at the side of your bed next to the condoms until you can find the strength to give it the attention it deserves.

You think about going to the range. If you hurry, you might get a few rounds in before you need to be at the canteen, or anyone sees you. You can face the fear and shoot and scream and hurt, but every time you take a step off the porch and turn in the familiar direction, you feel your heart start to pound, your lungs burn and the world tilts on its axis. Sinking down on the step, the same one on which you waited for Joel, you put your head between your knees and try to comfort yourself.

It’s alright, you can do this, it’s not hard.

Oscar’s face, the floor, the pain. Oscar’s face, the floor, the pain. Oscar’s face, the floor, the pain.

They need you to do this.

Oscar’s face, the floor, the pain. Oscar’s face, the floor, the pain. Oscar’s face, the floor, the pain.

If you can’t do this, you’re no use to anyone.

Oscar’s face, the floor, the pain. Oscar’s face, the floor, the pain. Oscar’s face, the floor, the pain.

Someone calls to you from the house opposite, a woman you don’t recognise, asking if you’re alright, or if you need help.

“I’m fine,” you manage to reply, pulling yourself to your feet, going inside and closing the door firmly, keeping the outside world, the range, Maria, all of it at bay. You sit on the couch instead, staring into space, trying to think of good things – happy things. Joel, the way he looks at you, the way he loves you. Ellie, the way she laughs and teases you. The life the three of you are going to build here together where you’ll never have to be alone again facing a world you don’t understand.

But it’s always there, lurking, swirling around your brain burning your eyes and deafening your ears.

Oscar’s face, the floor, the pain. Oscar’s face, the floor, the pain. Oscar’s face, the floor, the pain.

Hopefully you can get back up to the range eventually – get some more training in.

This isn’t patrol, it’s simply…re-acclimation.

Ask her about when you can progress to rifle training. Handguns are all good and well, but…you know what I’m saying.

We need people like you, women, like you, who are capable of going out there and doing what needs to be done.

Oscar’s face, the floor, the pain. Oscar’s face, the floor, the pain. Oscar’s face, the floor, the pain.

You’re not sure how you make it to the canteen, far less lift a tray, stand in a line, accept food and walk to a table. It feels like you’re floating several feet off the ground, as if you could look down and see your own body moving, interacting, living, with you having no overall control of it.

The room hums – voices stacked on voices, trays skidding, forks clinking, chairs complaining over wood. The overhead bulbs buzz faintly, flickering occasionally as though the generator’s playing up again. You pick the back corner because you like having the wall behind you and the wide view of everyone else, and because Joel told you once that it was the best table in the place. You remember the first time you sat there together, his knee pressed against yours, anchoring you to him and a terrible shiver runs through you.

He said four-thirty.

It’s four-forty and he isn’t here.

You tell yourself he’s coming, that the last logging run probably ran late, or Steve was being more irritable than usual. You tell yourself that he probably went home for a shower first to freshen up because you told him that you liked the smell of the soap he uses, and you just missed him on the way. You try not to watch the door every time it opens, but you fail.

We need people like you, women, like you, who are capable of going out there and doing what needs to be done.

“Hey.”

A voice to your left startles you and when you swing your gaze round, you come face to face with Mark.

He’s halfway into the seat opposite you, a grin on his face that falters slightly when he clocks your expression. “Is it okay if I…”

“It’s fine,” you reply quickly, gesturing to the chair. “Sit.”

He obeys and pulls it in tight to the table, fork digging into the potatoes in front of him, wiping them through the stew. “How have you been? You took one heck of a nasty tumble out on patrol last month.”

The room dips slightly but you nod, reaching for your water glass for something to hold. “Yeah, I…I fell through some rotten floorboards. Broke a few ribs and punctured one of my lungs.”

“Ouch.”

“Ouch is right.”

“Well, you look a hell of a lot better now than you did the night you came back in,” he says conversationally.

This isn’t patrol, it’s simply…re-acclimation.

You pause, glass halfway to your mouth. “You…saw me?”

“Sure, I was on the gate,” he nods. “Honestly? We all thought you were dead.” He spears a potato and puts it into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully as he looks at you. “I’m glad you’re okay though. You still owe me a game of cards.” He must see your confusion because he nods again. “Remember, I asked you to play that night in the Bison and you said no.”

“Oh…” a slight flush creeps onto your cheeks as you lower the glass back to the table, unable to hide the tremor in your hand. You remember that night – how easy it was to talk with Mark about nothing in particular whilst, all the time underneath, you were aching for Joel. “Yeah, that night I was…”

“Somewhere else,” he finishes for you. “Kind of like now?”

“I…” you pull your hands down into your lap out of sight as your gaze skates around the room again. “I’m sorry, I’m…being rude.”

“No, you’re not – just honest.” He swallows his food and pauses. “I hear you and Joel Miller are an item now.”

The word item makes you huff a laugh – like you’re both products the other selected from a shelf.

“Good to see a smile,” he points his fork at you. “He’s a lucky guy.”

“You should tell him that,” you joke weakly, rolling your shoulders as though you can somehow shrug the worry away.

Hopefully you can get back up to the range eventually – get some more training in.

“I will, but I have to admit, he scares me a bit, and I like to think I’m not a guy who’s easily intimidated.” He grins at you, and you tug the corners of your mouth as much as you can. “So, anyway, the guy that got your room at the bunkhouse? I ran into him earlier and he was saying how nice it smelled. What did you do, spray…?”

You don’t hear the rest of Mark’s question. Like a desperate moth to a flame you recognise the second Joel enters your orbit, eyes snapping to where he’s moving through the room towards the hot plates, empty tray in hand. You track him as he waits patiently to be served, then threads through the crowds towards you, his gaze sweeping the table, holding yours for a second, then flicking to Mark. His stride doesn’t change upon seeing the newcomer, but his jaw does, tightening just a fraction, like he’s weighing up how to approach this.

When he reaches the table, he sets his tray down with an unsubtle scrape and takes the seat beside you. His thigh finds yours under the table, arm stretching across the back of your chair without quite touching your shoulders until you tip an imperceptible degree in his direction. Then he lets the weight of his forearm rest there, draping around you in a way that doesn’t need a verbal explanation.

You want to bury yourself in him right there.

Ask her about when you can progress to rifle training. Handguns are all good and well, but…you know what I’m saying.

“Sorry I’m late, baby,” he says, eyes on you first, before moving to Mark. “Didn’t know we were expectin’ company.”

“Just catching up,” Mark offers, palms up around his fork. “Figured I’d say hi. I’m Mark, by the way.” He doesn’t offer his hand, almost as though he knows Joel won’t take it and he doesn’t want to amplify the awkwardness.

Joel hums, spears a piece of meat and chews like there’s no time limit on digestion, his gaze steady and polite but discouraging.

“This is Joel,” you offer somewhat redundantly as if Mark won’t know, then shift in your seat. “Mark was just telling me…” your brain fights to remember the last thread of conversation, “…that they’ve got someone new in my room at the bunkhouse already.”

“Uh-huh,” Joel says.

“Yeah, not wasting any time,” Mark says lightly. “I guess this place just never stops growing.”

“Guess not,” Joel agrees, his tone flat and heavy. His thumb starts making slow circles where his hand has slid to your knee under the table, the contact warm, deliberate, proprietorial without being crude and, for a second, you feel your anxiety take a step back.

You don’t have to be a mind reader to see Mark weighing his options. He’s neither oblivious nor a fool. He’s a man, and perhaps one who once had someone like Joel has you because he sits back and nods like he understands the situation. “You’re a lucky man.”

Joel blinks but says nothing.

“Well,” Mark says, rising graciously, tray in hand. “I won’t keep you. It was good to see you. Hope you keep improving and maybe we’ll get that game of cards one day.”

You breathe. “Maybe – thanks.”

“Take care, Mark,” Joel says, the version of polite that has goodbye and don’t come back written all over it. Once the other man has disappeared into the crowd, he doesn’t immediately look at you, rather he simply crushes his potatoes with his fork, his hand still on your knee. “Game of cards, huh?”

“You scared him off.”

“Didn’t say a word,” he answers, mouth curved at one corner.

“You didn’t have to.”

“Good. Saves me the trouble.”

You want to be annoyed, but, rather, you’re thrilled in a way that you know the independent woman lingering inside of you would disapprove of – even if you’re not sure she’s there right now. “You know I’m allowed to talk to people, right? Including men?”

“I know.” He finally looks at you, gaze flickering from your eyes to your mouth and back again. “Don’t mean I gotta like watchin’ it.”

“You jealous?”

“Maybe.”

You feel surprised at that, especially in light of what he said earlier when you were discussing Nick. But then, Nick’s dead – no threat. Mark’s alive, breathing and, until thirty seconds ago, occupying your space.

You look back down at your untouched plate and lift your fork. “You have no reason to be.”

“I know.”

“You could have said something when he told you that you were lucky.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know – like – I know or I’m the lucky one.”

“You need to hear me say it?”

It’s your turn to give a vague answer. “Maybe.”

He moves his head closer to yours, lips grazing over your ear. “I’m so fuckin’ lucky to have you I gotta punch myself in the face every mornin’ to make sure this is real.”

His surety warms you and you lean a little closer into him, pushing your potatoes from one side of your stew to the other. Spearing a piece, you lift it to your mouth, and that’s when you see them – Tommy and Maria – on the far side of the room by the hot plates, Benji in his father’s arms. Tommy’s busy talking to somebody, showing his son off like a prize, but Maria’s eyes find you and lock on, before she nods once, as though you share a secret code.

We need people like you, women, like you, who are capable of going out there and doing what needs to be done.

You put your fork down again and take a shaky breath that doesn’t go unnoticed. Joel shifts beside you and when you look at him, you see a line etched between his brows.

“You okay?”

“Fine.”

His eyes flicker to your plate. “You ain’t eatin’.

“I’m not hungry,” you reply, wincing inwardly at the way your voice lands.

His hand tightens on your knee. “Since when?”

“Since now.”

He doesn’t push at first and you keep your eyes on your plate trying, and failing, to work up the impetus to put something on your fork and bring it to your mouth. But every time you think about it, about the food going down your throat, you feel it close up.

This isn’t patrol, it’s simply…re-acclimation.

His thumb keeps circling slowly. “Looks like you’re workin’ on somethin’ in that head of yours. Dr Phil’s in the house if you need him.”

You open your mouth to laugh, but nothing comes out. The clamour in the room swells and recedes. A spoon drops and rings shrilly from three tables away, someone to your left guffaws loudly and you feel yourself flinch, tiny and involuntary. His hand stills, and you know he felt it.

“It’s nothing,” you lie, voice barely carrying.

“Hey,” he says low, tugging when you try to fold back into silence. “C’mon.”

You try to shift your gaze, but you can’t. All you can do is stare downwards, the contents of your tray blurring before your eyes to the point where it could be anything, least of all food. “I can’t,” you whisper, voice breaking over the words.

His body angles toward you, fork discarded now on the plate, his hand moving from your knee to the back of your chair again, crowding your space on purpose. He doesn’t panic or move quickly, as though he can sense that will only make things worse. “Okay,” he says, voice steady on the surface. “Okay, we can – hey – look at me.”

You don’t, at first. The room feels like too much, your chest and ribs are tight and angry, your heart thudding and you can feel embarrassment crawl up your spine at the fact that you’re falling apart in so public a place. He waits one breath, two, and then moves closer, his beard grazing your temple, the warmth of him flooding your peripheral vision.

“Look at me,” he says again, softer now, and something in you obeys. His eyes are there, everything you’re not saying already reflected in them and he takes your hand under the table. You don’t realise it’s shaking until it disappears into his palm. “Breathe with me. Like they told you. In for four, hold two, out for six.”

You do as he asks – inhale, hold, exhale – and the edges of sound dull one notch. The hot knot in your chest cinches and loosens at the same time, but your eyes continue to sting.

Oscar’s face, the floor, the pain. Oscar’s face, the floor, the pain. Oscar’s face, the floor, the pain.

“You’re tremblin’, baby. Talk to me,” he murmurs, and now there’s a thread through the calm, the barest tremor, your tears turning him brittle around the edges. His hands move from yours to your shoulder to your knee, as though he doesn’t know where to place them other than somewhere on you.

“Joel…” you say, because his name is the only sentence that isn’t too heavy for you right now.

“I’m here,” he answers immediately. “I got you.”

You swallow, trying to open your throat, fighting against the invisible obstruction. “I’m…I’m not okay...I can’t do this…”

Oscar’s face, the floor, the pain. Oscar’s face, the floor, the pain. Oscar’s face, the floor, the pain.

He doesn’t agree or ask you what’s happened. “Alright,” he says, and his hand shifts up to your forearm, warm and firm. Then his other hand leaves the chair to cover the back of your neck, rough thumb brushing the tense line at your hairline.

It’s too much and not enough all at once.

You glance back towards the hot plates, Maria and Tommy with their backs to you now as they move along the line.

Ask her about when you can progress to rifle training. Handguns are all good and well, but…you know what I’m saying.

“You’re scarin’ me a little,” Joel admits, and you look back quickly to see his eyes steady and worried at the same time. “You’re white as a sheet and you’re lookin’ right through me.” He swallows, the muscle in his jaw twitching. “Mark…did he say somethin’…do somethin’?”

“No, it’s…”

You want to make it make sense. You want to lay it out from start to finish in a neat line so that he can follow the track of your mind and instantly understand. But fear, anxiety, panic – they don’t work like that and what spills out is a jumble of time and space.

Oscar’s face, the floor, the pain. Oscar’s face, the floor, the pain. Oscar’s face, the floor, the pain.

“I don’t know if I can do it,” you say. “I don’t know if I can go back out there and patrol and be who everybody thinks I’m supposed to be, what everybody wants me to be. I’ve been trying, I have, but every time I pick up a weapon and pull the trigger, I see his face, and I feel the floor breaking beneath me…”

Oscar’s face, the floor, the pain. Oscar’s face, the floor, the pain. Oscar’s face, the floor, the pain.

He blinks once and you see panic flaring, quick and mild, across his face, as though this wasn’t what he was expecting.

“And I’ve only been using handguns, just like Dr Vee said, but now they want me back on rifles and I’m worried that it’s too soon – that it’s going to hurt more and…” You dash your hand quickly across your eyes, “…and I don’t know what’s worse – the pain from the recoil or the fear that I can’t do it – can’t go out there. And if I can’t do it, Joel, then I’m useless here and if I’m useless here…”

We need people like you, women, like you, who are capable of going out there and doing what needs to be done.

You break off because you can’t hold back anymore and you feel your face crumple with emotion whilst around you, people continue to laugh and joke, oblivious to the fear you can’t control.

He leans closer, lips ghosting over your temple. “It’s okay, baby.”

You jerk your face away because you don’t want to cry like this, don’t want him, or anyone, to see. But his hand on your cheek tilts you back, not forceful, simply unwilling to let you go alone to wherever your pride is trying to drag you.

“Hey,” he murmurs, and the word cracks. “Let me see you.” You look up and he swallows again, throat tight. “Do you wanna stay or step out?” he asks, practical, urgency threaded through it. “I’ll walk you, or I’ll carry you if I have to. I don’t care if anybody looks.”

“Don’t carry me,” you whisper, horrified and comforted in equal measure.

“Then walk with me,” he says. “Now or after you eat. I’m with you either way.”

You glance at your tray, your stomach receding to the size of a coin. There’s no way you can keep anything down, not now.

“I have to…I have to leave...”

“Okay.” He squeezes your hand under the table once, signalling, then shifts to stand, simply sliding his chair back, scooping both trays together into one stack, and setting them at the very edge of the table. His other hand stays on you, palm at the small of your back as you rise, braced for you to wobble and catching you when you do, like he knew it was coming.

You don’t look at anyone as you move through the room, Tommy and Maria mere ghosts in your peripheral vision, and, outside, the world is somehow quieter. You stop and lean against the side of the building, the cold bleeding through your clothes to your skin, Joel stepping in front of you, blocking the view like a tree. His hands come up to your face again, thumbs warm where they brush at damp skin, saying nothing, simply nodding encouragement as you work through the tremors.

Oscar’s face, the floor, the pain. Oscar’s face, the floor, the pain. Oscar’s face, the floor, the pain.

“I’m…sorry,” you finally manage to say and he shakes his head.

“You got nothin’ to be sorry for. I’m here, you just…take your time.”

It feels as though your tongue is too big and your throat too small.

“You were talkin’ bout firin’ weapons and seein’ someone’s face?”

“I’ve been…up at the range,” you say finally, the words sliding out on a hiccup. “The last few days I’ve been up there – shooting.”

He blinks, tongue ghosting over his lips, but he keeps his hands on you.

“When…I had my first check-up with Dr Vee, she told me that I could start light training – handguns only. Said it would be…re-acclimation. And I didn’t know what to think when she said it because I figured that I wouldn’t be cleared for patrol for a while but then…then I remembered what Maria said to me and…”

He drops his hands and takes a step back, jaw tightening. “What did Maria say to you?”

“I met her…in the clinic, before I was discharged and she said…said that she hoped I’d be able to get up to the range and get some more training in. So, when Dr Vee said it, I thought…thought that I should do it, but…”

You break off, tears flooding your eyes again.

“But I see Oscar’s face. Every time I pull the trigger, I see him looking at me, begging me not to kill him and…and I see the house, feel the floor shifting beneath my feet and…and I’m falling and the pain…”

You wrap your arms around your body as though physically holding yourself together, and he steps towards you again, but you move out of his reach.

“And now…now Maria wants me to start training with rifles again because Jackson needs women – strong women like me to go out there on patrol and…and I’m afraid it’s going to hurt more and…and the thought of being out there…”

You break off and heave in a tortured, ragged breath that makes your vision whiten.

“Joel, I don’t think I can…I don’t think…”

The sobs hit hard, tearing out of you like they’ve been locked away too long, and once they break free, there’s no stopping them. You step forwards and press your face into his chest, his shirt rough against your skin, the fabric going damp under the spill of your tears. Your whole body shakes, small, violent tremors you can’t contain.

Joel doesn’t flinch. He wraps both arms around you, pulling you in so tight it feels like you’re being welded to him, his chin resting on the crown of your head. One hand cradles the back of your skull, the other spans your back, holding you steady. “Alright,” he murmurs, voice rough and low, almost breaking itself. “Let it out, baby, I got you. I’m right here and I got you.”

You sob harder at that, because it feels like a lie – you’re splintering, drowning, how can he possibly have you? But his grip never wavers, never loosens. Your fists clutch at his shirt, twisting until your knuckles ache, needing to hold onto something, anything. He doesn’t complain, doesn’t shift, doesn’t try to pry your hands loose. He just lets you anchor yourself however you need, like his body was made for this purpose.

“It’s okay,” he whispers into your hair. “You’re safe, baby. You hear me? You’re safe.” The words scrape through you, leaving more tears in their wake. You shake your head against him, a broken, wordless denial, and he only tightens his hold. “I’m right here,” he says again, firmer now, voice trembling with the effort of holding himself together while you fall apart in his arms. “Ain’t goin’ anywhere. Ain’t lettin’ you go.”

Your sobs come faster, ragged, your chest aching with the force of them, ribs pulling tight like they might snap. But he just keeps holding you until they taper, not gone, but quieter – hiccupping gasps, wet breaths and the occasional shudder. He presses his lips to your hairline in a long, lingering kiss, and lets out a shaky breath.

Finally, you pull back, eyes swollen, head aching and meet his gaze.

“I…what do I…?”

“You don’t do it,” he says, voice shaking over the words. “You don’t do any of it, you hear me? No shooting at the range – handguns or rifles. No patrol. No walking out the gates of this place for any reason, ever. Not unless you have to, unless you have no choice.”

“But…”

“And I don’t mean no choice for them. I don’t mean because they need strong women, or however the fuck she put it, out there and they can’t find anybody as good and as strong as you. That don’t cut it. You only leave here if there’s no way on earth that you can stay and – if that happens – Ellie and I leave with you. Okay?”

You mumble something that has no meaning.

“Okay?” his voice is tighter now, and you nod mutely, before he pulls you into him again and rocks you gently, as though you’re a child. “You should’ve told me, baby. Should’ve told me all of it.”

“I wanted to but…but I knew if I told you what was in my head that you’d never let me near the range.”

“Damn right! Jesus…” he exhales heavily. “Hate to think ‘bout you up there on your own and feelin’ afraid…I’m gonna fix this, okay? I’m gonna fix all of it.”

You pull back and look up at him again, “How? I mean, I…”

“I’m gonna talk to Maria.”

“No, Joel…”

“Yes,” he says firmly. “I ain’t havin’ this over some goddamn notion that you’re the only goddamn person in this town who’s fit to patrol. I ain’t havin’ my girl feel this way – ever. You matter. You have value and you got lots to give that don’t involve you pickin’ up a weapon if you don’t want to, okay?” You nod and he cups your face again in his hands, shaking his head. “I am so goddamn fuckin’ lucky to have you and nobody – nobody – is comin’ between us like this. So, from now on you gotta tell me if somethin’ happens, or someone says somethin’ or you feel scared or anythin’ like that. Promise me, baby.”

“I promise,” you whisper. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” he kisses you, softly but firmly, forehead brushing against yours. “And, like I said, I’m gonna fix this but, right now...I’m takin’ you home.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

i cried, i sobbed 😭

unhinged google searches that cause your fbi agent to have a meltdown

a folder on your laptop with too many wips to count that you swear you will work on soon

75% of the writing sessions consist of daydreaming about your blorbos while not writing a single word down

only finding typos after posting the chapter… but there never are any mistakes when you proofread it

suddenly forgetting how normal human beings speak… why does the dialogue always sound like a rat and an octopus trying to communicate?

(totally healthy) obsession with THE character

2 mortal enemies: the ao3 summary box and tags

sleep deprivation is maxed out

daily nighttime meditation that involves staring at the ceiling while thinking of new ways to forever haunt THE character

engagement doesn’t solely depend on the quality of the work. whilst it can play a role, other things such as fandom, ship, tags, tropes and posting at the right time of the day/week play a SIGNIFICANT role.

so keep writing what you love. keep writing what makes your heart happy. your work is amazing. the fact that you’re even putting words out there is amazing.