ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ: wriothesley x gn reader
ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: you're afraid of (cock)roaches so you call him to help
ʀᴇ𝐐: no ~ ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ: 304 ~ part 2
ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: swearing, murder of cockroach, crackfic
ᴍᴀʏʙ'ꜱ ɴᴏᴛᴇ: based off a real experience, written at ~11 pm
☾⋆☆⋆☽
Picture this: you're minding your own business, pissing away at your toilet, and then you see a cockroach, on your shower wall.
"WRIO!!!"
With the way you're screaming all hell for him, he thinks it's a big emergency, an SOS type thing. That's why he comes rushing over.
Seeing you cowering away at the bathroom door, but certainly not in immediate danger, he calms down. "What?"
"Cockroach."
He sighs, "Just hit it with a shoe."
"I am NOT hitting it with a shoe. Can you SEE the size of that thing??"
He heaves an even heavier sigh and takes off his house slipper, then heads off into the shower half barefoot.
He closes the shower door, for your sake, and smacks the cockroach dead. It takes a few smacks, which leaves you mortified, then asks for toilet paper.
The next minute, the cockroach is spinning circles down the toilet water whirlpool, wrapped in its paper coffin.
You sigh with relief, leaning your head against the door dramatically as if you'd done all the work.
Wriothesley laughs and comes over to chide you about it, all while teasing you as well; but you stop him with a hand on his chest, enforcing an arm's length of distance between you two.
"Wash your hands."
"I didn't touch it with my hands."
You scrunch up your nose at him. He sighs, again, but obeys like the good boyfriend he is.
"Thank you..." You mutter, wrapping your arms around his waist and burying your head into his broad back as he washes his hands.
"Yeah, yeah." He huffs out a laugh, "You're lucky I love you."
"That, I am."
Why do you have a boyfriend, if not to kill cockroaches for you? True romance lies in the murder of the disgusting little things on behalf of one's beloved.
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ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ: joel miller x male reader
ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: how a crush looks like when it's mutual between two old men
ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ: 1234 (𓁹◡𓁹)
ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: middle school crush type cliche's, suggested makeout session
ᴍᴀʏʙ'ꜱ ɴᴏᴛᴇ: reader and joel are around the same age, and reader has a collection of records, he also has a beard. written from Ellie's pov. (its unsettling to see pics of joel smiling bc HES NEVER FCKN HAPPY)
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It's silly to see old men acting nervous, especially with Joel around. He's never really nervous, or at least he doesn't show it. What was it, something about life lessons?
Being as old as they are, knees givin' way, calloused hands, joints ain't like they used to be; you've experienced it all. You've experienced that shame of not knowing the answer in math class, tripping over your own feet or misjudging just how slippery freshly mopped floor is; missing a shot, getting nailed in the face by the stock of your own gun, and getting ambushed by a group of clickers. Most of all, you've experienced many rejections.
And yet...it still seems like you're afraid?
That's what Ellie sees, anyway, with the way you look at each other. You're both smiling, it's sweet, sickeningly so, because you're looking down at your own feet and not even seeing those smiles you're sending each other.
"I, uh, 'ppreciate it. Truly." Joel speaks up first, his eyes flitting up from the fresh cup of warm coffee in his hand to your face. Those eyes stay, with courage, on your face, and maybe he doesn't notice that you're not looking up at him because he's admiring you.
"It's, um," Your smile widens, you shake your head, shrug your shoulders lightly like, "it's nothing."
"No, really." Joel puts the cup down. It makes a loud sound in the cricket-silence, thick awkwardness in the room, and it finally brings your eyes up to his. "This-this stuff is real hard to get your hands on 'round here, 'cuz..." He pauses, suddenly self aware of his ramblin'. "well, I'm sure you know why."
You open your mouth, gape for a moment as the words just on your tongue are suddenly replaced by a conscious mind, "Yeah, I know."
Joel picks his cup back up, but he doesn't take a sip. Instead he takes it in both hands, inducing more sweat to slick up his hand for more than one reason now, "How-how'd you get this stuff, anyway?"
"Traded it."
Obviously. Ellie rolls her eyes, How else does one get stuff around here? It dawns on her the second after that killing is the other way.
"What for?" Joel follows up, thumbing at the top edge of the cup, dangerously close to slipping his finger into the dark, scaldingly hot liquid.
There's humor, finally, from your end that eases a bit of the tension. "You do not wanna know."
"I do!" Joel's quick to object, he stands up a little straighter, his smile widens a little more, "I want to know what I owe you." He says it in a way that enunciates each word correctly, like he was serious, and yet the smile on his face is clearly turning his tone rather playful.
"I, well..." You scratch the hairs of your beard, looking away from his eyes nervously, out the kitchen doorway, out the window to the snowing outside. It's clear your intensions teeter on a yes or a no, to tell him or to not, but you stand on what you've previously said, so as to not cause you the trouble of admitting the truth.
Joel places his coffee down again, except it doesn't bring your eyes to his. He scoffs and crosses his arms, shifting his stance in a way that brings him a tiny bit closer to you, and yet he still looks like the standoffish asshole Ellie likes to joke he is. "It can't be that bad."
"It, it is, that bad." You admit on an impulsive thought, which only further feeds his curiosity.
Joel tries at a guess. "What, a gun?"
"Worse."
"Two guns?" He tries again, although on the same object, because to this old man, Ellie thinks, nothing is worse than the slight increase of the possibility that his world's in danger.
"I–" You're teetering, there, again, and Ellie makes a game of guessing what you'll decide. It's a yes this time 'round, she can see it in the way you're beginning to close your eyes, to wince, to prepare for his disappointment. "A record."
"What?!" Joel explodes, almost immediately, because he knows you love those things, that you collect them. You'd give up such a priceless piece of your collection just to give him something he'll consume, something so momentary that it's almost entirely—no, it is not worth it.
"It's–" You open your eyes again, to look at him, moving your hands frantically to ease him. "It's fine, really, a small thing, I barely listen to it."
"You have your records on a cycle, damnit! You put them on a cycle so that you can listen to all of them an equal amount, so nothing goes unappreciated!" It's something so particular, so unnoticeable, that even Ellie didn't know that.
"Joel–"
It's petty, frustratingly so to the spectator, Ellie. It's just a record, and coffee is just coffee; but she's barely sixteen, and she doesn't know the emotional attachments to these things the two of you do.
She doesn't know the bliss Joel finds in coffee, but you do; and she doesn't know the escape that those damn music records are to you, but Joel does.
"I'm sorry." Joel opens his eyes, stops pinching the bridge of his nose. It's an immediate deflation of emotions that Ellie would've liked to laugh at. "That's, a record. It's a lot to you."
"It is," You agree, not downplaying it anymore. Or, well, "it's just–" some low quality band, he stops you with a pointed look.
You look at him, eyes at full attention, accepting defeat and yet the way your eyes...Ellie can see admiration. "You do." And when you say it, it's not in a self-righteous way, but a simple fact.
"I owe you." He says, with finality; he won't take no for an answer.
You stare at each other, just a couple of seconds, no words, nothing about the fact you're starin' at each other, just unspoken, yet still visible appreciation in the look you share.
You two were and are just so caught up with each other that you'd forgotten she was even there at all. She must admit, it's very sweet, but she likes her foods more savory.
"You guys are pathetic." Ellie finally speaks up, a look of evident. played disgust on her face.
There's a snap and a jump and now you're about two feet away from each other again. You're looking away from each other, Joel's eyes are on the floor, yours are to the roof, and it's just so hilarious; and finally, finally, Ellie gets to laugh.
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Joel and him are talking again. It's too sweet, the way they avoid looking at each other, well, actually, they can actually keep eye contact now. At least for a couple minutes, anyway. He touches his beard when Joel makes him nervous, and Joel fingers at his jacket like he's pulling a trigger. What are these two, twelve?
—
Maybe they're not just talking now. I saw Joel checking him out, totally indecent behavior you definitely do not want to see from your so-called father figure.
—
I think they just came back from making out. OK. Yeah. They did. It looks like his beard has lost a patch. Figuratively speaking, of course. Joel's hair is messy and his jacket's buttons are all wrong. Gross.
—
Maybe I've warmed up to sweets.
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