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#but i actually feel optimistic for the first time in over a year that i won't just have to deal with this agonizing pain on my own forever

roosterr · 10 months

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white flag ✹ proglogue

note: can't believe i'm actually writing for ghost, yes he was the reason i got into cod, but i havent thought about him since like january lol. has this trope already been done? yes. am i doing it anyway? also yes.

pairing: ghost x gn!reader

wc: 2.2k

no use of y/n readers callsign is 'stingray'

summary: if there's one constant in your life, it's that ghost doesn't like you, so when your house burns down and you have no choice but to move in with him, it feels like your life is on a steady downhill spiral.

warnings: slowburn, some angst, your house burns down, ghost is mean, sort of enemies to friends to lovers

ao3

【next】

it's been almost a year since you'd joined the taskforce. nearly twelve months of gruelling hard work, and not for a single second had lieutenant ghost treated you with a shred of familiarity. at first, you thought he'd get over it, that he'd get past his obvious trust issues and warm up to you eventually, but you quickly gave up on that idea.

clearly, you'd been too optimistic.

which was unfortunate, considering how much you'd come to care for the prickly bastard, no matter how dismissive he was of you. it started slow; when you were first recruited, you held a great deal of respect for him because of his reputation, and you'd naively even looked forward to working with him. when you discovered his less than friendly demeanour, to say you were disheartened would be an understatement. he was withdrawn and stoic, never sparing you so much as a passing glance and a barked order, whether you were in the field or not.

the other sergeants had assured you that he wasn't as cold as he comes across; soap and gaz both told you how he'd acted the same towards them when they first met – he was a lone wolf, not used to having to look out for teammates.

the more time you spent on missions with him, the more you saw of the person beneath the hard exterior. you saw how he seemed to know everyone's strengths and weaknesses, things you never would've picked up on. he always made sure the team had eaten, disguised as a gruff order to stay on your game. when he got angry, it would be because someone put themselves in danger, not because they screwed up the mission. you saw someone who'd been through hell and come out the other side swinging.

before, you'd respected ghost as a soldier and your superior, but now, after spending so much time with him, your perspective of him has changed. he intrigued you; he's quiet, introverted but not shy, more observant than you could imagine, and so closely guarded you wondered if he'd ever be able to open up. you'd only heard whispers of the things he'd been through in the past, so despite his obvious animosity towards you, you treated him with the respect you thought he deserved – like a person, and you'd hoped that with time, he could see you as more than just a soldier too. though he still didn't like you, you liked to think that the two of you have come to some sort of understanding.

and that leads you to your problem; you wanted to know him. every tiny crack in his facade made you more and more curious about the man behind the mask – about simon, rather than ghost, but from what you could tell, he didn't hold the same sentiment about you. where he would banter back and forth with the others over comms, he'd fall silent whenever you join in. every minute little mistake was amplified to him, you've lost count of the amount of times he's berated you for things he's excused for others. it made your heart ache that you just couldn't win with him, and you feared you'd never understand why.

but now, as you sit shivering with a shock blanket wrapped around your shoulders, watching the smouldering remains of what was your home in the middle of the night, freezing and exhausted, you'd never felt more hated.

you could hear them, ghost and the captain, talking in hushed voices a little ways down the road from where you sit. they probably think they're being subtle, discussing what to do with you like you're not even there, like every single one of your worldly possessions hadn't just gone up in smoke, but you hear them as if they're standing right in front of you.

"i wouldn't do this if there were any other options, simon."

"there are plenty of other options, just stick 'em in a hotel for god's sake."

"there's no hotels close enough to base – it'll only be temporary, 'till we can find 'em somewhere else."

"fuckin' hell, why cant they go with one of the others?"

"soap and gaz are already flatmates, you live alone and you're the closest to base. this is the only option that makes sense."

"i'm not fuckin' happy about this, price."

their profiles are momentarily illuminated by the blue lights from the fire engine parked nearby, allowing you for a second to see the withering glare ghost is sending your way, and all of a sudden the last couple hours of emotional distress is crashing down on you; his obvious distaste for you combined with the toll of watching your house literally burning down was too much for you all at once. you could feel the tears start to spill over again, but you can’t find the strength to stop them and just bring the shock blanket closer to your face. you’d lost everything, and even now he couldn’t find it in himself to feel an ounce of compassion for you? why can’t he care for you like he does the others? like you do for him?

as your watery gaze drops to the soot and ash covering your pyjamas, a voice sounds from beside you, the opposite direction from price and ghost. you don’t even realise you’re hyperventilating until they lay a hand on your shoulder and rub soothing circles into your back.

“hey– hey, it’s okay,” it’s gaz, you notice in the back of your mind, sitting on the curb next to you. you squeeze your eyes shut in an attempt to block out the world around you, and gaz brings you closer into his embrace. “you’ll be alright, we’ll get everything sorted, yeah?”

"i– i don't– i can't–" you try to speak, but you can't seem to form a coherent sentence through your sobbing.

"it's alright, just breathe for me." gaz hugs you tighter again, your head coming to rest on his shoulder as he consoles you. for a few minutes you stay like that, your breathing eventuslly returning to normal and the tears slowing to a stop.

price and ghost are still arguing, but you can't hear what they're saying anymore; probably for the best, if you had to listen to ghost complain about you for one more second you might really have a breakdown.

soap's voice cuts through the fog in your mind, "managed to find this, thought ya' might want it." you look up to find him crouching in front of you and holding out a slightly singed photo, a weak smile on his face. "frame's broken, but the picture's still mostly fine."

you take it from him, fingers grasping the card gently as you turn it around to look at the picture. it's from a few years ago, you and your friends from your previous unit, smiling into the camera as if you had no worries at all. staring at the ghosts of your friends starts you crying again, clutching the photo to your chest and leaning back into gaz's shoulder. if anything could've survived the blaze, you're grateful it was this. gaz rubs your arm sofly, whispering comforting words to you again.

you hear another set of footsteps approach and look up again to see price now standing in front of you as well. it's not exactly surprising, but ghost is nowhere to be seen.

"ambulance is here," price says, offering you a hand and pulling you to your feet when you take it. "i'll follow behind to the hospital, one of you two take their car to simon's."

you nod and retrieve your car keys from your jacket pocket, thankful you'd had the mind to grab it on your way out in your frantic state.

"I've got a bag in the boot, it's got some clothes in it." you mutter, handing the keys to soap, who smiles and gives you a pat on the shoulder.

"no bother, i'll grab it for ya." he says, and jogs off to where your car was parked, thankfully untouched out of reach of the fire. he returns not a minute layer carrying your duffle of emergency supplies, something you never thought would actually come in handy.

before you know it you're waving gaz and soap goodbye, the paramedics are guiding you to the back of the ambulance, and you're leaving what remains of your old home in the rear-view mirror.

✹✹✹

you hated hospitals. it was a fact, and it had been that way since you were a child, everything about them just made your skin crawl. perhaps you inherited the feeling from your mother; she always managed to bring up her distaste for the place whenever the topic arose. or, maybe you only hated them because they scared you.

either way, the relief you felt as you stepped out of the front door into the car park with price trailing behind you was palpable. he falls into step next to you as the two of you make your way over to where he parked, his keys jingling as he fishes them from his pocket.

"we're puttin' you up with simon for the time being, 'till we can get you somewhere else." his words make you wince; you already knew he was going to say that, but it didn't stop the anxiety from bubbling up in your chest.

"i heard." a beat of silence passes before you continue. "how long will that take?" you ask, climbing into the passenger seat and dropping your bag at your feet as price settles into the driver's side.

"i wouldn't get your hopes up. might be quicker to wait for 'em to rebuild your old place." he flashes you a smile, but you can't find it in yourself to return the gesture.

"right."

neither of you say another word as he starts the engine and pulls out of the car park. you turn to look out the window, watching the world go by, the quiet rambling of the radio serving as white noise in the background. it's the early hours of the morning now, the sun would be up in a few hours and you'd have to go back to work already – price did say you could have the day off, but honestly the last thing you wanted was to sit around all day with nothing to do but overthink.

after nearly ten minutes of trying to ignore it, the worry playing at your mind becomes too much to keep to yourself.

"you know he hates me, right?" you utter, half expecting price to ignore your question all together.

he clicks his tongue. "he doesn't hate you," price replies, and his voice sounds reassuring but it doesn't bring you much comfort.

"okay, well, he doesn't like me either." you turn your head to look at him, raising your brows. rolling to a stop at a red light, he meets your eyes and huffs.

"alright, he can be difficult–"

"really?"

"–but i promise you, he doesn't hate you." he says. you give him a disbelieving look, and he sighs, looking back to the road as the light turns green. "give him a chance, alright?"

"is he gonna give me a chance?"

"he will." price says firmly, sparing you a look as he drives down the quiet road. "and if he doesn't, you'll knock some sense into him, eh?"

"sure…" you mutter, looking back out the window and falling back into silence. its only a few minutes until he's pulling over to the side of the road, outside the house number you know to be ghost's.

"sting," price calls out, stopping you as you reach for the door handle, "he'll come around, alright?"

"it's been a year, cap. i don't think he will." you reply, and before he can say anything else you open the door and step out into the night air, grabbing your bag from your feet before closing the door again. you give price a half-hearted wave as he pulls away again, before turning around and gazing up at your – temporary – new home.

it was nice, all things considered; a standard terrace on the end of the row, but the size has you wondering if there was even room for you to stay here. though it's not as if you have a choice. all the lights were off, which had you hopeful that you wouldn't run into ghost just yet.

you drag yourself to the front door, your eyes stinging from the effort of keeping them open, and twist the handle as quietly as possible, closing it behind you and cringing at the clunk it makes. thankfully ghost didn't hate you enough to lock you out for the night, something you actually wouldn't put past him considering how he feels about you.

there's a small side table in the entryway that catches your attention. on top of it sits your car keys – you make a mental note to thank soap in the morning – a new key, and a note. you pick up the paper, using the torch from your phone to examine the scratchy handwriting.

living room's yours. lock the door. – s

it's more than you expected from him. you sigh to yourself and pick up the other key, locking the door and shuffling into the small living room. the pull-out bed is made up for you, albeit quite messily, and you waste no time in dropping your stuff and laying your head down on the lumpy pillow.

with any luck, this arrangement wouldn't last long, but in the meantime you got the feeling you were in for a bumpy ride.

#ghost x reader #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #mw2 x reader #cod x reader #141 x reader #call of duty x reader #mw2 #cod mw2 #call of duty #simon ghost riley #mw2 ghost #roosterr writes #praying that hes not ooc

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anthurak · 3 months

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Something I was always a little concerned about in the lead-up to Hazbin Hotel was that Charlie was going to be a bit too passive of a character, ie; leaning only into the ‘kind, optimistic Disney-Princess-in-Hell who just wants to help everyone’ vibe and not really have much else going on as a character. Which in turn would make her feel kind of bland next to the big, over-the-top or dramatic personalities like Angel Dust and Alastor.

But thankfully, that is not what happened and there’s actually a lot that I like about what the writers are doing with Charlie, particularly in the potential future development and reveals they seem to be setting up.

First off, I like how Charlie generally comes off more like an over-the-top caricature of that ‘Disney-Princess-in-Hell’ vibe, ie; SUPER energized, enthusiastic, affectionate and emotional, often to overbearing degrees that get on everyone’s nerves. It’s generally funny, or at least amusing, and lets Charlie stand out alongside the other big personalities in the cast. Funny enough, she’s actually a lot like Blitzo in this regard, minus the seesawing into extreme abrasiveness.

And more importantly, we’ve already gotten major hints all but confirming that this over-the-top personality is largely a façade, and that Charlie actually has some very clear issues and baggage that she’s working VERY hard to keep buried beneath the surface. Again, much like Blitzo.

Like how in the trust-fall exercise in episode three, despite asking everyone to reveal something personal, Charlie actually bullshits just as hard as Angel Dust and Sir Pentious with her whole ‘I love you all!’ bit. Sure, it’s not like she was lying or being insincere, but it’s clear that was NOT something truly personal for Charlie. And in episode 4 we have Husk straight-up calls out Charlie as ‘wanting to solve everyone’s problems but her own’.

Then of course we have the brief glimpses we’ve seen of Charlie getting angry. Both the times we’ve seen Charlie dealing with some truly despicable and horrendous characters, we’ve seen that rather than lacking the ability to get angry, Charlie is often working to hold herself back. In both her encounters with Adam and Valentino we see points where Charlie is clearly NOT intimidated or afraid of them at all and seems fully prepared to throw down, only being stopped by reigning herself in or by someone else (in this case Angel) stopping her.

Again, it all paints Charlie’s big, bubbly, hyperactive exuberance as something of a front, a way for her to bury a lot of thoughts, feelings and general baggage she doesn’t want to face. Just like what the show has already explored with Angel and Husk.

It actually raises some interesting questions as to what’s REALLY driving Charlie in running the hotel and trying to help Sinners. For one, Husk has already pegged Charlie as ‘wanting to solve everyone’s problems but her own’. And going back to thematic crossover with Helluva Boss, I can’t help but see some potential parallels between Charlie creating the Hazbin Hotel, and Blitzo creating Immediate Murder Professionals.

I think it’s pretty clear at this point that half the reason for creating I.M.P. was as a coping mechanism for Blitzo, or rather the assassination business in general. Something that we’ve gotten hints to as early as the second episode in Blitzo’s back and forth with the Robo-Fizz (“Does anyone love you, Blitzo?”/“No. But I’m really good with guns now!”). With the other half of the reason Blitzo created I.M.P. clearly seems to be to create a surrogate family, as seen with how much he tries to insert himself in the M&M’s lives. Possibly even a specific attempt to replace the family he unwittingly destroyed fifteen years ago.

So I really have to wonder if we’re going to find out that Charlie creating the hotel and her goal of redeeming sinners is in part likewise a coping mechanism and escape for her own baggage.

It’s actually really interesting how episode two first introduced the idea of people opening up with Sir Pentious, then episode four dived further into the concept of the walls and fake personas people put up to hide from their pain and trauma with Angel Dust and Husk. With those two opening up and starting to let their walls down to each other, and by extension we the audience, I think it makes Charlie’s own façade all the more noticeable. It’ll be pretty interesting if Charlie actually winds up being the toughest nut to crack when it comes to opening up about their real issues and baggage. Yet another interesting trait she shares with Blitzo.

All in all, I’m really liking what the show has been doing with Charlie as a protagonist. And I’m REALLY interested to see where the story is going to take her.

Particularly what’s going to happen when she reaches a breaking point…

#hazbin hotel #helluva boss #hazbin analysis #hazbin theory #charlie morningstar #helluva blitzo #character parallels #character analysis #charlie has a LOT more going on than she's showing #blitzo hitting his breaking point had him crying himself to sleep into a pillow #what if charlie hitting HER breaking point has her raining LITERAL ARMAGEDDON down on some poor bastards?

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thelastofhyde · 1 year

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i. the likeability paradox.

pairing. joel miller x fem!reader

synopsis. joel miller is not a man who strives to be liked, with a chip on his shoulder and a scowl on his face, until his world is flipped on its axis when the pretty young thing living under bill and frank's roof, with an irritatingly unwavering smile and the literal sun shinning out her ass, says those five damned words: i don't like you, joel.

warnings. no use of y/n, enemies to lovers, slow burn ( i have several oneshots planned for this couple ), unrequited love ( except you will never catch joel miller admitting he feels anything beyond grief, hunger and exhaustion ), pining, poor communication no communication, no seriously joel is down bad it's actually disgusting and highkey 🚩toxic🚩 but luckily red is your favourite colour, sunshine!reader, grumpy!joel aka canon joel, kinda perv!joel ( if you squint ), implied queer!tess, undefined age gap ( reader implied late-20s ), descriptions of canon-typical violence, smut ( oral- f receiving, fingering, degradation, panty stealing, hair pulling, dirty talk, dubcon due to intoxication, joel kinda gives her a wedgie at some point and honestly i don’t know what i was hoping to achieve with that, discussions of a lacklustre sex-life pre-apocalypse ). reader is a) hinted at being shorter than joel but it’s not central to the plot and b) described as lithe but the meaning intended is graceful, not thin!

word count. 12.9k

hyde’s input. half-way through, the regret of choosing to write this from joel's pov started to settle in but lmao i was too far in to not commit to the bit. don't come at me for the fact the timeline or events may not seem plausible with canon, i just wanna write this silly little depraved fic about joel in peace :( anyway, enjoy my first attempt at writing for tlou, forming a prayer circle rn in hopes that this doesn't flop because i will cry and you will hear about it

taglist. @kayleezra @newavenger + add yourself to the taglist here !

read on ao3 ! ( capitalization available )

distaste is not new in the life of joel miller.

in particular, one that is loaded, aimed and fired directly at him. he is not a likeable guy, often by choice and rarely by accident. the years of pain from a bleeding wound have now scarred over into nothing but an empty shell of the man that once was, from a world that no longer is, and he’s tried little to fill himself back up.

if anything, he’s made himself more empty.

rid himself of feelings, that which saves him the weakness of appearing sympathetic. discarded the need for luxuries, for which he’d scarcely cared for prior to his world ending. lay to rest what was left of the optimist inside him, leaving behind the danger of hope for it to rot with the rest of the infected.

an apocalyptic world brings out all sides of man that one would never dare to engage with in normal civilisation. joel learned swiftly that he was built to endure, quick to evolve and adapt to the new world order. the man who once worked his hardest to keep the peace among his neighbours, smiling that little bit wider on days he’d catch them scowling to themselves in hopes of brightening one part of their day for even a simple moment, would be at odds with the man who wears a heavy layer of enjoyment when met with the scowling glances and the hushed voices, all the watch out for that miller guys passed between cowardly members of fedra and the keep away from mr. miller's lawns spoken harshly from mother to child becoming music to his failing ears.

this plague of fear-driven dislike keeps him alone, how he likes to be, no one to lose and nothing to be taken. somewhere along the years the idea of safety in numbers has morphed into an illusion, something people say and never truly mean, to distract themselves from a reality more bitter than a snowstorm: in times of survival, people become dead-weight.

“so that’s all i am to ya, huh? dead-fucking-weight?” his brother’s voice still echoes in that damned space he calls a home, weeks or months or years since the day he’d departed for something else, somewhere else, leaving joel to do what joel does best: endure.

somehow, silence was easier than telling the man he’d taught to tie a shoelace, to shave his beard, to tune a guitar that he was the dead-weight, doomed to drag all those who remained too close down into his pit of despair.

she was an exception, his tess, buried 5-feet-under in her own swell of darkness, nothing but the tips of her fingers stretched out above her head to feel the sun upon her skin and keep her from going that last foot deeper. they’d made a home for themselves in one another, one where he keeps them fed, and she keeps them safe, and neither of them keeps the place clean.

she never asks for more, and he never offers it, both content to survive without the weight of affection smothering them. contrary to the belief of any misfortunate soul who’s encountered the pair within the quarantine zone, she is the one who holds the leash, tugging joel along close by her heel and keeping him from wandering off into the wild to surrender himself to a feral lifestyle.

which lands him here, sat at a table playing happy family, each time he dares to snark out a few words being met with the sharp kick of tess’ foot against his shin.

“... and then,” frank struggles over a cough, so excited in his story-telling that he fails to separate taking a breath from taking a sip of his wine. with a roll of eyes and a disapproving grunt, bill’s no more than two seconds away from clapping down on his back, urging the other man’s wind-pipes to unblock and welcome back airflow. “otis dragged his muddied self over the whole house. we were finding paw-prints for days!”

joel’s unamused, too keen to think of what a nuisance that would be. as if incapable of feeling the buzzing energy of disinterest, the german shepherd drops its head further up his lap, begging for a morsel of anything that sits atop the table.

“which means i was cleaning paw-prints for days.” bill, the only one at the table besides himself who wears the looks of a cynic, grumbles out before shovelling what remains on his plate into his mouth.

frank is quick to shush him.

“i’m sorry, again, bill,” he doesn’t mean to break eye-contact from the mutt at his thigh, but the voice calls to him like a siren calls to a ship in the night, like a flame dances and seduces a moth into its brightly burning touch of death, a spotlight in the dark which promises- or threatens- more light to come. “i’d no clue there was a storm coming till we were already a good few miles away, and there was nowhere to take cover to wait it out.”

there you sit, parallel to him.

the sun rests lower in the sky as time carries you all into the late noon, its rays a beacon of light bursting out just behind your head, painting you in the glow of the golden hour and staining a mockery of a halo above you. it hurts his eyes, this brightness that you so easily bask in, forcing him to squint and deepen the frown on his face.

you catch him with his sights on you, at some point, and the smile you meet his scowl with has him cursing at the sun, and the moon, and every star that sits between.

the threat of a great war looms in the air as you rush to rise up and help clear the table of the remnants left behind- none of which joel can account for, mouth to keen and body too starved to skip out on enjoying the mundane luxury of a fresh, home-cooked meal. the battle ends swiftly as you surrender to bill’s hardened stare, and frank’s disapproving head-shakes, and tess’ own plan of action to simply force you down back into the seat you’d been sat in- the one you always sit in.

“you, sit. no one should have to clean up the food they made.”

they get no fight out of him when they insist he’d done enough catching the so-called food.

silence casts its shadow over the table, dampening the light and painting you both in a mockery of greyed tones- truthfully, it is the disappearance of the sun hind a large cloud that causes such a thing.

being alone, with you, is something joel’s never mastered. the affliction of your presence is so much greater when there’s no one else to balance out your natural shine- the kind that has his head spinning and his cock aching-, no one but him.

were he not a sick bastard, he’d try harder to not make you sad.

something bumps his hands, ripping him out of his moral self-condemnation. the dog meets his gaze, eyes a widened mess of puppy-dog pleading that punctuates its existence with an impatient whine.

just like your owner, he finds himself thinking and not saying- never saying-, yet to find your bark.

the ball’s a sticky mess of slobber and dirt, and joel touches it all the same, throwing it up in the air once, then twice, before tossing it across the yard. he’s slumped back in his chair by the time he registers the dog’s departure, a ball of dark fluff bouncing its way across the garden, and all the man can think is fuck, he’ll be feeling the effect of that throw on his shoulder come the morning.

the pain is not enough to stop him from tossing the ball again, and once more, and then yet again, sending the dog in a never ending loop of chase, grab, retrieve- a parallel to his life of wake, survive, sleep.

“he likes you,” you never leave things the way he wishes them to be, bursting his bubble with the vocal reminder of your presence.

as if on queue, prompted by your addressing of it, the dog drops its interest in joel, and the ball, and the chasing, tail wagging uncontrollably by the time it reaches your side. standing on its hind legs, it collapses the front of itself into your waiting lap, and joel watches how you wrap your arms so easily around something that could cause you harm.

to envy a creature that licks it own shit off its ass is a new low for joel.

“thinkin’ he might like ya more, sol.” the nickname rolls off his tongue with ease, the safer option than uttering your name, a vice and virtue he’s only permitted himself in idealistic fantasies that play out in his own troubled thoughts.

“most people do,” whether you mean to make it seem like you’re degrading his very existence or not, he’s unsure, but it rouses a chuckle out of him.

he takes note of how you don’t protest the name he’s branded you with, not like how you’d fought tooth and nail against it every other visit he and tess have made.

“you’ve got a whole load in common, you know? i think that’s got something to do with his fascination-”

“how the hell’s a man like me got somethin’ in common with a four-legged mutt?” there he goes again, making that smile slip down your cheeks with a simple use of his voice. it helps as much as it hurts, frown loosening up and eyes no longer strained beneath the bright shine of your visceral optimism.

“well, you’re both... hairy,” he restrains himself from reacting, washing down a laugh with the help of the dregs of wine that lay collecting at the bottom of his glass. he’s let his appearance grow more rugged over the past few months and your noticing of this brings an unwanted warmth to his aching bones. “and have the most kickass women in your lives to stop you from dying.”

he’s interested to know what life would be like under your protection.

discovering the answer brings the threat of pain, and loss, and an openness to vulnerability he can not afford himself, so he takes the safer option: “‘s easy stayin’ safe when you live in this fantasy land. doubt your mutt’d last any longer than a day out in reality.”

with you as its protector.

he doesn’t say it and, still, it somehow hovers in the space between you both, a heavy, syrupy implication that slips down your throats and threatens to suffocate you. he watches you choke on it, coughing on his cruelty and feigning it to be a simple clearing of your throat. your eyes glue themselves on the dog, delicate fingers smoothing over the well-groomed hairs down its back.

survival has turned him into a man who knows when to seize an opportunity, and this is one he takes with both hands, basking in the simplicity of staring, watching, observing you without the crime of being caught.

but i could keep you safe.

he toys with the danger of uttering such a thing aloud. it’s not the first time he’s thought it. truthfully, he’s unsure when it first nestled its way into his mind.

his memory, which ails him more than it aids him these past years, would have him believe it was way before the dog had even appeared, back when it was just bill, frank and you. a few whiskeys in and a campfire lit for you all to gather for warmth around- why you’d all chosen to sit out in the gardens on a winter’s night joel remains unsure of to this day-, it was frank who’d prompted the question. “where were you all when... this started?” tess went first, braver than most people he knows, sharing stories of a version of herself he’ll never meet.

he never imagined her working in a bank.

bill, with reluctance, took the next step, keeping his account factual and to the point. “was shit-faced drunk and getting my stomach pumped.” he’d been quick to skim over the story of the young nurse who’d guided him to safety out the hospital, losing her own life in exchange for his survival. she was barely out of school. “i knew her dad, bit of an asshole, but boy, was he proud of his baby for graduating.” frank couldn’t let him swim too deep in his thoughts, afraid a current of guilt would trap him and drown him in the depths of it, and so he raised his own voice and began his tale.

joel had always been a good listener. being a single parent to a teenage girl required him to be, or so... she would have had him believe, nights at the table set for two spent listening to the playground he-said-she-said gossip. years later and he at last prefers things this way, a rare gem of safety found in the act of saying nothing and hearing everything- that his hearing will allow. all this to say, he’d tried his best to pay attention to frank’s impassioned retelling of his heroic misadventures that had lead him to the unintentional arms of bill.

but you weren’t smiling.

he watched you, you watched the dancing flames, face stoic and drained of that natural shine his eyes had only just started to be able to gaze upon without the threat of being blinded by such light.

the desire crept up on him like a tiger to it’s prey, hiding in the far off bushes until the opportunity to strike presented itself and the feeling lunged for joel’s back, gripping him in its claws and piercing his ribcage with its gnashing teeth. with each bite, it plagued him with the delusions of a wandering mind, imagination left free to run laps around his head with visions of you from another life, another time, another set of people gathered round a dining table. he’d wanted to hear about the ones you’d lost, and comfort you with all the things he hated hearing (“you’ll keep ‘em alive, in spirit and memory!” “those we remember never truly die!”). he’d needed to bend a knee and swear a vow to be the one to stand between you and death, to fight for your survival on your behalf. ‘could keep you safe. there, then, the thought did cross his mind.

he’d washed it down with a swig of lukewarm, flat beer.

“-could fix it, you know. i’m good with my hands.”

he almost chokes on his own breath.

i'm good with my hands, it swims in circles round his mind, replaying and echoing off the walls of his skull. and he knows- oh, how he knows- that he’ll be replaying it in those moments of solitude for the next few nights, weeks, months- however long it may take till he forgets the way such thought-provoking words sound on your lips.

“what?” the question leaves him harsher than he intends, drawing an enemy line between you both with the foul sound of it. in the corner of his eye, he swears he sees you flinch backwards, physically recoiling from the disdain-filled bullet he fires in your direction.

the mutt in your lap retreats, hackles rising as it turns to face joel once more.

he sees it, in the dog’s brutal protectiveness over you, this similarity you claim exists.

“your watch, it’s broken.”

“hadn’t noticed,” he’s retreating into his own space now, mentally and physically, scraping the legs of his chair against the ground as his mind works to strengthen those walls that threaten to crumble so often in your presence. “don’t need ya to fix it.”

you pull a face, brows furrowing and lips pouting. confusion.

“don’t you want to know the time?” you ask, as if time could ever be relevant in a rotten world where down is up, and up is down, and joel miller is not the overprotective father to the most delicate creature the god he’d stopped believing in had gifted him, just to force him to watch as life snatched her away.

“i don’t keep it for the time.”

you smile, and this one’s a killer, piercing straight through the cages of his ribs to carve itself into his withered heart.

the german shepherd relaxes with the rebrightening of your aura, shaking out the tension from its body before sauntering its way back over to joel, ball in mouth and tail wagging excitedly, as if it hadn’t just contemplated having its first taste of human flesh.

he’s throwing the toy in a matter of minutes, enjoying the repeated run and retrieve game, and the renewed silence that comes along with it. nature sings its tune with rustling leaves, cawing crows, and pounding paws. it’s almost so easy to leave your offer, your words, his broken watch in the rearview mirror of this otherwise pleasant afterno-

“ooh, so there’s a story to tell!” you’re blinding him with your excitement, lithe limbs leaning forward in your own chair in an attempt to reach closer, table between you be damned. “i’ve never heard any of the joel miller backstory, this should be-”

“i get that likin’ everyone is your thing, but would’ya give it a rest?”

nature falls silent.

skies grow dull.

you juggle sadness.

there’s a crash that comes from within the house, followed by the unmistakable sound of tess’ sailor mouth, cursing whichever delicate dish she’s broken into smithereens with the help of her accident prone hands. the dog’s lain itself down upon the grass, ball between it’s paws as it begins to bite, and chew, and break it under the pressure of its canines.

joel wonders what the mutt’s practicing for.

“sure,” then, with the return of your voice, all sounds resume, harmony upon planet earth once more. only, the gates have been shut in his face and joel finds himself forced to watch as everything unfolds from the outside, an unwelcome visitor forced out into exile with the fungal freaks and the inhumane. “but you’re wrong. i don’t like everyone.”

“‘s that so.” his eyes roll. the hole he’s dug for himself sinks deeper, casting you higher up on the pedestal joel will always be wiling to place you on.

“yeah,” you’ve risen out your chair, gifting him the view of how the fabric of your dress dances above your knee, a final twist of the knife in his heart that he lets you pierce his flesh with each time he surrenders himself to your existence. “i don’t like you, joel.”

the hours come and go, but your words linger like a bad tattoo, shamefully engraved into his skin and banning him to a life of noticing the horrendous thing each time he passes by his own reflection.

we’re staying, for tonight. tess had called the shots, and he’s been learning not to argue when she gives him one of her stern looks, biting down on the comments he’d wanted to make of the dangers of being out of the qz for too long, which would likely earn him nothing but a shrug and the reminder that they both were off duty the following day

the nights are beginning to grow darker as winter grows nearer, leading bill and frank- mostly frank- to excuse themselves to bed, bidding the two visitors with a final reminder to make themselves comfortable in whichever room they can find. if only joel could remember which door leads to yours.

the two women in his life remain awakened, passing a bottle of wine between each other as you both converse back and forth, catching each other up on one another’s life, satiating that craving for mundane gossip.

tess recounts the scandal of the poor boy who’d been caught sleeping with a fedra agent’s wife, you whisper that frank and bill had been fighting again recently. the memory of being ambushed by raiders- now dead raiders- comes to life once more with the help of tess’ voice, while the promise to uncover what exactly bill and frank were hiding from you as of late is sealed in your words.

at some point, he lays himself to rest atop the couch, legs stretched out and arms crossed over his chest, ignoring the squeeze of the fabric over his forearms as the too-small flannel struggles to contain the muscles forged by the need to survive. at another point, he’s lulled to sleep by the lullaby of your mingling voices, a safety blanket draping itself over his tired body and enveloping him in the comforts of having that which he struggles to care so little for, so near him once more.

-n’t tell me you’re a virgin.

the words are muffled as the man slips back into consciousness, a frown coming to rest on his forehead as he battles against the demons urging him awake, the nightmarish memories of car crashes, and soldiers, and so much red chasing him away from the sleep he longs for so badly.

a protest rings true in his head and his ears.

was gonna say. knew you were young, but not that young.

it’s the sound of your laughter that awakens him fully, saving him from the tortures of his own mind.

“god, no! me and my ex, we... a few times. it was alright, i guess. i just, yeah, there’s not much to miss.”

he’s unwilling, unable to reopen his eyes, curling in on himself as he rolls over onto his side. a groan slips past his lips, one he’s hoping tess and you will dismiss as nothing more than the sleep-filled rambles of a dreaming man.

neither of you make any acknowledgement of him.

“not much to miss?! sweet christ, you’re breaking my fuckin’ heart.” he’s learnt over time the common traits of a drunken tess. each word becoming an exclamation, curses becoming more frequent, and that irritating habit she’s picked up of imitating his own accent. there’s no need to bother opening his eyes, joel’s already sure he’ll find his companion with flushed cheeks and glassy eyes. “i’d give up a hand for some head!”

you must do something, pull a face or shake your head, for the sound of tess’ renewed shock fills the room. he wonders, as the sound bounces off the walls, how late into the night it’s grown.

late enough that the cicadas singing outside the window are now accompanied by the hoots of an owl.

“you’ve got to be shittin’ me.”

“it bores me!”

“it bores you!?”

the couch beneath joel creaks as he shifts once more, turning his back on you both as the ability to contain his laughter grows harder with each word you exchange and each gasp tess gives. the last thing he needs is to be caught eavesdropping on your sex life like some dirty old pervert.

the crueler part of his mind replays your voice, i don’t like you, and the knife twists in his guts this time.

you like tess. love her, even. it’s been that way since the first time you’d met the duo, eyes giving one look over the woman before the smile on your face grew even wider, voice as sweet as honey sighing out finally someone with a pair of boobs, i’m bored of the sight of my own. joel’d gotten caught up in the thought of how he’d never tire of such a sight that he’d failed to acknowledge your greeting towards him, catching just the moment you drew your outstretched hand back to your side and offered him an understanding smile.

maybe that was the moment you decided you didn’t like him.

“must not have been doin’ ya right,” the bottle of southern comfort is working its wonders on the older woman, accent growing further and further from its true nature with each glass she nurses. joel hears the faint sound of ice smacking against glass and knows it must be yours. you’ve always struggled with liquors, slipping as many ice cubes as you can manage into a glass in hopes that they’ll eventually melt and water the alcohol down. it’s oddly endearing, you think no one has noticed. “this fella of yours.”

joel has no right to despise the idea of you and some fella.

he does so, regardless.

“well,” he imagines the shape of your meek smile and the way you shrug your shoulders. “we were each others firsts.”

“that’s no excuse! trust i left mine cryin’ into her pillow the first time i went down.” tess and he have a silent agreement to never speak of the nights joel would take refuge on their beaten-up couch while tess indulges herself between someone’s thighs in the bedroom. no discussing the sounds she pulls from her concubines, no addressing the wet patches left behind to stain their shared sheets, and definitely no speaking on how his hand winds up stained in his own cum.

you scoff and follow it up with a saccharine laced giggle, so sweet its bound to rot your teeth if you even attempt to hold it in. “what, are you offering your services?”

this he likes less than the image of you with some fella, the thought of having to lay upon a mattress on which tess had raised you to heaven while he once again remained locked out in the dark leaving his skin crawling with unwarranted rage.

“‘as sure as i am that you’re sweet all over, ‘fraid to tell you i like my women a little older than you.”

he knows he should do the same, should lust after those women his own age who shoot him carnal looks in the streets of the qz. it should be skin his own age that he longs to taste, and eyes who’ve seen as much as his own he wants to stare into, and lips as cruel as the ones he owns that he fights off the urges to kiss. but he can’t, and he won’t.

and you’re the one to blame.

you, with the glow of a thousand suns. you, with the hands that tend to flowers instead of corpses. you, with the gentle nature he’d have to spend the rest of his days fighting off every other living thing just to protect.

his own self being the first he’d need fight.

joel wonders what he’d missed in his hours- if it had even been so long- of rest, how the playground gossiping dissipated into reminiscing the pleasures of supple flesh and the sins of unfulfilling lovers. sleep steals him away once more before he can find the answers.

the next time he awakens, he’s drowning in a plight of cruel memories, a cold and brutal ocean of faces, places, and traces of the ephemeral sentiment of happiness he’d possessed once upon a time, back when the price of letting one’s guard down was not so high.

he’s learnt, with time, that losing her comes in waves. some small, meaningless little things, that ripple joel’s surface and coast gently over his dirt ridden skin. others, tsunamis. big, angry, all imposing. they’re born in ground-shaking explosions of grief, building speed, and height, and weight the closer they grow to crashing over him.

amidst the passing of time, he’s tried to keep himself busy in his awakened hours, to keep his mind occupied and avoid thinking about her too much. but the waves always come back, no matter how hard he tries to fight them or swim away from them. they catch him off guard, crashing over him when he least expects it. in the middle of a raid, lost in thought and standing ten inches deep in grime, blood, infected, and suddenly the weight of her absence will hit him like a ton of bricks.

the currents grow more violent whenever he closes his eyes.

this evening, it had been a minuscule wave, yet it’s damage still leaves him with sweat slicked skin. he reenters the land of the living choking on his own fear and shooting up-right, hardly registering his surroundings till his feet hit solid ground. the gentle, barely-there croon of a sinatra record punctuates the room alongside the dim glow of a lightbulb which flickers with the threat of expiring and leaving naught but the moonlight to wash over the dark of the night. across from him is tess, nursing a half-emptied cup against her chest and wearing tired eyes. snoring comes from below him, where joel finds he’s a mere foot away from having stepped upon the sleeping dog, curled in on itself and laying soundly by his side.

you take up no space of this room.

neither the dog nor the drunk pay him any mind as he pushes up onto his creaking knees, stretching out his limbs in a fight to undo the tension in his aching bod. languid steps carry him out into the hall, where he freezes under the self-questioning of where he’s going.

there are three answer to this: where he should, where he could, and where he would.

he should find himself a bedroom, perhaps be ostentatious enough to rid himself of those stale clothes and let the warmth of running water wash away the sins he’d committed throughout the day. a good night’s sleep, atop a mattress where springs do not dig into his back and the sheets are clean as could be, it would do him good.

he could head towards the kitchen, quench that thirst that he’s awoken with, cottonmouth and a headache to go with it too. perhaps he’ll find himself something to eat, indulge in the luxury of readily available food just this once, he’s sure frank wouldn’t mind. bill definitely would, but that’s not something he’ll need care about when he’s miles out and heading back to the qz.

he would try find you, open whichever door it is that leads into the haven that must be your bedroom. he imagines its clean, and organised, and smells of some syrupy lavender that is bound to nauseate him as he smothers his face into your bedsheets, eyes shut, and mind relaxed, the threat of those violent waves no concern to him as he anchors himself with an arm around your warm skin. skin he’s never felt, yet he stands firm in his belief it must be the most soothing thing to touch, as gentle and inviting as the heart it keeps safe within it.

i don’t like you, joel.

those words stop him from trying.

he tells himself it’s for the best.

with a mind of their own, his legs have made the choice for him and deliver him outside the opening to the kitchen. he swallows down a gulp of his own saliva at the prospect of a glass of water. the door’s already half-opened, and joel nearly thanks christ for it as the fear of waking anyone with the squeaking of the handle is eliminated. the darkness of the night encompasses the room, even with the moon’s shine reflecting off every surface it touches: the counters, the knife stand, the metal drawer handles, the refrigerator.

the refrigerator.

it’s open, a blue light shining out of it and illuminating anything it its proximity. a subtle beeping noise rings from it, and suddenly joel’s back in his thirties, dead-beat yet well-intentioned brother stealing the food off his own plate as he beckons his pre-teen daughter back into the kitchen.

keep leavin’ this open and it’s a job you’ll be gettin’ this summer, not a dog.

she never lived long enough to get either.

he catches something move beneath the artificial light. cautious at first, it’s all the more startling to find the object of his ire and the embodiment of his desire stood leaning back against the countertop, a glass full of orange liquid pressed to a mouth that parts and welcomes in the sugary sweet delight.

“why aren’t ya sleepin’?” the words rasp out his throat, catching and scratching on the parts of him that still yearn for something to wet his tongue with.

beneath the light, you shrug, “could ask you the same thing, texas.”

he curses tess for teaching you such a nickname.

he curses himself more for the way you saying it twists up his insides.

you’re teasing him, smile a little looser and eyes less focused than he’s used to seeing. whether you’re tipsy or simply delirious with exhaustion, joel remains unaware.

he grunts, daring to take a few steps further into the kitchen. the door behind him closes over and give the illusion of the space becoming smaller, tighter, more compact.

“i asked first.” you laugh, at him. full on chest-rumbling, hand over your belly, head thrown back- so abruptly it nearly crashes against the corner of the opened cabinet door. the corner of his mouth is curling upwards before he can catch himself. he hopes the refrigerator light shows less of him than it shows of you, bare legs, and messed hair, and pointed nipples all on display for his undeserving eyes. “‘s so funny, huh?”

“nothing, nothing,” he successfully fights off the urge to follow the drop of orange juice that spills down the side of your mouth, over your chin, down your neck, disappearing beneath the collar of your dress. perhaps he is not as successful as he believes. “just never heard the joel miller say something so childish. you’ve usually got your panties all in a bunch if someone so much as looks at you for too long.”

you make way as he inches closer, sliding yourself over to rest against the island counter. a fragrance of things he can’t quite pinpoint, but enjoys nonetheless, wafts in his face as he travels down the path to the sink. uncouth and unbothered, joel opens the tap and cups his hands beneath the stream of water.

“you know there’s a cupboard full of glasses right next to you, right?” you call out behind him as the man brings water to his dry lips, splashing and just about guiding his head beneath the stream. the thirst does not budge. he hums an acknowledgement of you, yet continues with his method.

by the time he switches the water off, you’ve made yourself busy, back facing him while you work at something atop the counter, a consistent chop-chop-chop filling the silence that settles between you both.

“i’m making soup,” you state, like there’s nothing quite more logical you could be doing at whatever-o’clock in the morning it is. “make sure you take some with you when you leave. tess said she’s been fighting off a cold the past few days, need you to keep her warm and fed for me.”

would you do the same for him, if you knew he’d been the one to catch that damned cold in the first place? four days of just about coughing up his lungs, and not a single soul- not even his tess- had offered soup, nor warmth, nor sympathy. he’d not needed it, until now, when he hears you gifting it to someone else.

i don’t like you, joel.

of course you would do the same. not because you care, nor because doing otherwise would way heavy on your conscious, but because you’re nice. nice in a way he’ll never be, has never been. patient, welcoming, comforting, warm. all words that spring to mind when one thinks of you. they violently oppose the closed-off, angry, dark cloud that had rolled in years ago and casted it’s shadow over joel’s entire persona.

he straightens his back, weight shifting from one foot to another as he contemplates you from behind. the sway of your dress as you move has him in a trance, beckoning him closer before he can even realise he’s taken a step. his hands drip water onto the floor in a rhythm, and the record player sings in the distance as a reminder of tess, and your sweet out-of-tune humming fills the empty kitchen with a brightness greater than the moon, but that’s not what joel hears.

i don’t like you, joel.

over and over, you taunt him without even trying, nailing the words into his head and heart, impaling him with your sweet condemnation. you’re not the first to say it, to his face or otherwise, yet you’re the first to evoke such a reaction out of him, to leave a lasting impression hours after you’d declared such a thing.

and, suddenly, joel’s angry. at you, at himself, at the sound of that damned knife in your hand slicing down onto the chopping board. the fog of his ire blurs his vision, rendering him to move blindly through the night.

only when he finds himself looming over you from behind does his vision clear.

a hand meets the curve of your hip and you gasp, leaving joel to wonder if it’s because the shock of his cold, damp touch or, simply, because it’s his touch. without a thought spared, he firms his grip, fingers squeezing tight enough he feels your flesh bulge between each one, a bruising promise joel gifts you.

you may leave your marks emotionally, but joel’s will always be physical.

“why,” he pulls in a breath, loading up the will to keep his voice a low rumble, a quiet disturbance in the night for no ears but your own to hear. “don’t ya like me?”

if not for the pause in your practiced movements, knife stilling midway through slicing a carrot, he’d believe you’re unaffected by his proximity. “why do you care?”

he scoffs, “i don’t.”

“hmm,” this hum is far less delightful than the way you’d been following along to whatever melody tess was playing in the living room. “sure sounds like you do.”

“yeah, well, i don’t,” he insists, and he swears he almost feels the way it only digs deeper the hole he’s created for himself.

joel knows he cares. it’s been burning at his skin and itching on his mind since the moment you’d welcomed yourself to a little bit of unfiltered honesty, dropping the perfectly poised and eternally polite mask you’d worn since the moment he’d first met you, an attitude he loathes as much as he anticipates surrounding himself with it each time he’s tugged along for the trek to bill and frank’s.

what joel doesn’t know is why he cares. there’s nothing to be desired about him, no traits to respect and certainly no looks to admire. he’s near crafted his entire being in a way that makes sure of this, the more undesirable his presence is, the less likely he is to be approached, be it by other people or fate itself.

maybe there was a part of him that had wrongfully imagined you being the exception.

instead, you’re stood barefoot in the latest of hours, knife working away the vegetables in front of you, dress sticking to skin beneath his damp hand, and you don’t like him.

not one bit.

joel grabs at your hips harder, his free hand curling round the shape of your left forearm. his feet shuffle forwards, until there comes a point where one would struggle to make out where you end and he begins. his chest pressed to your back, his muscular legs trapping your soft thighs, his forehead digging into the side of your head so intensely it threatens to shatter both your craniums and leave nothing but dust made by bones blown into smithereens.

he inhales, and finds you don’t smell of lavender.

“for the record,” he watches your movements over your shoulder, entranced with the back and forth sawing of the knife through unidentified vegetables. ‘s like how i sliced that raider’s throat, he thinks, and instantly regrets it. no part of him should ever be compared to you. “i don’t like ya either.”

he’s lying through his teeth, hoping you don’t notice.

the knife never ceases its movement. back and forth, back and forth. chop, chop, chop. blurs of greens, and oranges, and more greens cover the counter before you. it’s oddly soothing, this repeated and unbroken pattern, reminding joel of times he’d found comfort in the mundaneness of cooking a meal after an emotionally exhausting day. perhaps, this has the same affect on you, a momentary lifejacket to keep yourself afloat amongst the waves that haunt you awake.

the hand on your forearm travels, mind of its own, drawing up the shape of your shoulder with featherlight touches that contradict the way his nails dig deeper into the the skin you hide beneath the waistline of your dress.

“that’s not news,” you must think he’s blind to the hitch in your breath when his fingers slip over your pulse-point.

it’s his turn to respond with a hum.

“you only like yourself,” words more untrue have never been spoken before the man who’s every moment is spent drowning in his loses. his wandering touch halts. “a little selfish, if you ask me. but, that’s just what i think.”

this strikes a nerve. fury commands his hand into a fist and fingers find themselves tangled in the tresses of your hair. the realisation of how surprisingly soft it feels barely finishes registering when he’s pulling on it, dragging your head along with, till it lays flat on his puffing chest and your eyes stare up at him. “d’ya know what i think?”

even upside down, your beauty is striking.

“no, unlike you i don’t care what you think about-” joel tugs on your hair once more.

“i think you’re a brat. a silly little girl who thinks she can smile and get away with murder.” you could. he’d forgive you as you soak your hands in the blood you draw from him. knife in the heart, bullet through the brain, bat to the face, he’d slip away easily from this life if only to have you smile as he goes.

“you’re hurting me,” you whine, joel growls.

animalistic, beastly, a rabid animal sinking its claws into its defenceless prey. his gaze dances over your features, catching himself before he can sink deep into your captivating eyes, tracing the shape of your mouth, slipping down the peaks of your collarbones.

your dress- red, a colour joel miller will no longer associate with bleeding wounds and stained weapons- sits tight on your chest, squeezing the swell of your chest beneath the fabric, and gives away all your secrets.

“you like it,” he speaks in awe, unable to pull his eyes off the two stiff buds that poke against the red fabric.

“no, i don’-” dampness follows wherever his hand goes, fleeting as he makes the journey around your waist and up your side, crawling higher and higher to where he can feel your heart beating from within your chest. “joel.”

he retightens his grip on your hair, aiding you with the way your curve your spine and force yourself deeper into his uncaring, ungentle, enamoured touch. whoever joel had been in a past life must have moved mountains or performed miracles to grant him the luck to be holding you this way, the fingers he’d gifted with nothing but the cocking of guns and the feel of his own pulsating lust now expertly tweaking at one of your stiff nipples, all thoughts of the fabric scratching at your sensitive skin dissipating into the abyss as he realises you’re enjoying the pain.

“heard ya, earlier, in the living room,” at the time, he’d been mortified to be overhearing such intimate words between you and tess. the blood that insists on rushing to his crotch now wants you to know, to hear the admission of guilt be spoken from his own mouth. “ talkin’ bout your past.”

he doesn’t specify.

he doesn’t need to.

you give away your shock with parted lips, widened eyes, frozen eyelashes, pupils staring up at him like a wounded fawn he’s about to take his first bite out of and, hopefully, it won’t be the last one.

“tess turned you down,” the hand on your chest switches sides, donning your other breast with some much needed attention. his hand must still carry residue of the water, for you gasp and shut your eyes in the shock of his touch, your own fingers shooting up to scratch at his wrist. near convinced you mean to push him away, the pressure against his hand that pushes deeper into his unholy affection has him realising otherwise. “i wouldn’t.”

you say nothing. joel pulls harder.

“too bad i’m-” you cut yourself off as he presses himself closer to you, your poor hips bound to awaken with bruises from the counter he’s got you pressed against. with a distance so small he can hear your teeth grind, joel watches you like a hawk. the twitch in your brow, the flutter of your eyelids, the bobbing of your throat as you silence what he imagines would be an otherworldly kind of moan, a whine he’d let kiss his ears and wind up poisoning himself with the torture of it replaying in his head each waking moment till he kicks the bucket, once and for all. the want to see you fall apart evolves into a need. “too bad i’m not offering you the chance.”

joel miller is a hot blooded man, at his core, weak to emotions and vulnerable to the warmths of flesh. with notches on his bedpost and a tally of lives beneath his belt, he sees little wrong with taking what he needs.

“who said anything about an offer?”

the descent to the floor is far from graceful, with bitten back groans of pain as clicking noises resound throughout the room while his joints bend and break in an effort to get him where he needs to be, where he’s needed to be for far longer than merely this exchange on kitchen grounds: on his knees for you.

a part of him would prefer it if you weren’t wielding a butchers knife.

the other part wishes you were facing him, eyes full of that repressed anger, hatred and discontent you likely harbour for him as you point the blade down at him and threaten to paint the floors with his blood. you’ve yet to do that, and so he takes it as his queue to progress.

smoothing his hands up your legs, he admires the landscapes of your body from this angle, with legs longer than any tree in the amazonian jungle and curves with peaks that resemble the mountains of the himalayas. arriving at the top of your knees, the hem of your dress both welcomes and conceals his touch, inviting him into the wonderful world it hides beneath it yet denying him the privilege of feasting his eyes on your paradise, an island of safety amongst the open ocean of his mind.

your breathing is measured, precise, too rhythmical to be natural, the subconscious action now turned into a practiced routine you mean to maintain nonchalance with. perhaps you’re yet to realise that, while he may remain indifferent to those that surround him, joel knows how to read people. and, right now, you’re a whole novel of lust, awaiting for someone to open up your pages and drink in every lyrical prose you promise to tell.

joel finds purchase mid-way up your thighs, hands sliding around to the front of them to grip the buttery smooth skin and ground himself in the reality he kneels before.

you breathe in, you breathe out.

one knee buckles, ever so slightly, the weight of you collapsing into his welcoming hold. he revels in the feeling of supporting you, in every meaning of the word, thumbs not even waiting on a command from his consciousness to begin soothing your tingling skin with a gentle back and forth movement to match the knife in your hand.

inhale, exhale.

your legs straighten once more, a hand of his winds its way back out from under your skirt and shoots up to grab your free one, dragging it down his pits of desire.

“hold,” he’s parched all over again, mouth drier than the texan wastelands on a hot summer’s day. all he can do to survive is peel up that infuriatingly soft, red fabric of your dress, skin unveiling itself to his hunger struck eyes. with the skirt bunched up, he shoves it into your awaiting palms, pinning your hand against your own waist. “don’t move.”

where he expects protest, he receives more breathing.

lace covers your skin, a delicate shade of a colour his eyes can’t quite distinguish in the dark of the night. one flicker of his sight to the very core of your body and he notices it, that tell-tale sign that you’re enjoying this little display of attention, despite what your measured breaths may have him believe. a wet patch, your wetness. the stickiest, sweetest of honeys that only a woman like you can possess, and a man like him should never bare himself witness to.

curiosity gets the better of him- one day, joel hopes, this will get him killed- and his touch is reaching for the lacy fabric, fingers curling themselves in the waistband of your panties and the fabric that covers your right asscheek before curling his hand into a fist, tugging upwards.

in and out, shaky breathing comes from above.

the lace pulls tight on your delicate skin, no choice but to nestle itself in the slit of your cunt as two pretty soaked lips peak out from each side. a heady smell he can only begin to describe as stiflingly sweet, tongue-tingling tanginess hits his nose. he makes sure to take a deep breath, letting the blood rush straight to his head- the one that sits packed uncomfortably in his tightened trousers.

delectable as sin, you keen back into his fist, back curving ever so slightly. there’s a tremor in the hold you have on the fabric of your dress. joel basks in the visual affect he’s beginning to have on you, no need to doubt if the fabric of your underwear rubs at your likely aching clit. he wonders if the sting of the lace digging into your skin hurts. he thinks it must hurt.

his fist curls tighter, pulls higher.

“ah,” at last, a ripple in your surface. though you still wield a knife, the carrot you’d been failing to chop rolls off the counter and onto the floor, lost somewhere in joel’s peripheral vision.

“shut up,” he grunts, like it doesn’t make his balls throb to hear you whine. “people are tryin’ to sleep.”

you scoff, and for a moment you seem to have rediscovered your composure. “tess is drunk as a sailor, and the old men could sleep through nuclear warfare.”

“‘s that an invitation to see how loud i can get ya,” he’s still caught in the way you mold against the lace, slickened skin carrying a reflection of the moonlight. this, he thinks, is what all them poets were writing about in their prose of love and beauty. “or a challenge?”

“it’s an invitation to stop lecturing me on volume control,-” you catch yourself, he realises, right before you can gift him some nickname a sweet girl like you would never use. asshole, dickhead, bastard, he’s heard them all and, still, he wants them on your tongue, in his mouth, condemning him for all the brutish, oafish ways he masks his obsession for you.

as coquettish as it may be, painting a picture worthy of a front-page on some playboy magazine, the sight of lace becomes a nuisance he no longer holds the patience for. so he strips you of it, hand moving to pull the garment down, down, down the length of you, till it hits your ankles. he awaits no movement of your own, taking it upon himself to lift each of your feet individually out the leg-holes.

it’s merely impulse that has him shoving the soiled lace into his back pocket, though he’s sure he’ll make use of them on lonely nights.

“you’re drippin’” his proclamation is ego-driven, pride swelling in his chest as he takes in the full sight of your bare heat. the view is a little obscured from behind you, but with the right amount of tilting of your hips at a certain angle and the widening of your legs, he’s bound to sit front row and centre for your private show. “‘s actually a little pathetic, sweetheart. is it cause ya like it when men get mean wit’ ya?”

he can imagine the way you’d roll your eyes at his words, and it has him thinking about how you’d look with your eyes rolling back for different reasons, reasons he’s about to gift you.

but first, he curls one hand around your ankle and tugs the limb along as far as he wants it. much better, he now faces no blockage in the path up to your slit, freely letting his wandering hands ascend to his newfound heaven. perhaps he’ll revisit the life of gospel, if you promise to be the altar he prays before.

cool fingers to warm skin, you swallow a gasp a little too late for joel to not notice as he drags the tips of his middle finger up the length of your slit. soft, puffy lips part for him, until he presses against that special button that’s bound to turn on your engines.

rolling his finger over your clit a few times, he refamiliarises himself with the female anatomy, with your anatomy, memorising each soft bump and meaty lump he finds along the way.

it happens so sudden, and unwillingly, the way his mind switches to thinking of tess. he wonders what exactly it is she does to those poor things she sends home on shaky legs, where she even begins to touch them. joel imagines she makes use of what she has and starts with her fingers.

so he does the same.

working over your slippery wetness, he coats the tip of his middle finger with it, till he finds what he’s been searching for: the gateways to your heaven, your entrance. he breaches your walls with that single digit and somehow that’s enough to have you squeezing around him so tightly he wonders if blood still manages to flow to his digit.

two, three, four pumps of his hand and he’s introducing his pointer finger too, pressing them both into you to witness the ways you mould around this wider stretch, the lips of your cunt a pair of cushions his knuckles collide against each time he fucks his fingers in.

“so now you shut up. ‘s the matter, huh?” he’s contradicting himself and he doesn’t even care, too busy focusing on curling his fingers inside you, delighting in the feel of that spongy tissue they press against. “am i too borin’ for ya?”

“you’re the most infuriating man i’ve ever- oh!”

a tongue meets skin.

the knife clatters onto the counter.

you lurch forward.

his hand pulls you back.

“tess was right, ya know?” he can still taste you on his tongue, nothing more than a simple lick over your slit and your salty pleasure already seeps deep into his veins, staining his very being with the memory of his new favourite flavour. he pulls his fingers out, slipping them up to your clit. three little taps to the pulsing bud- tap, tap, tap- and he’s slipping them into his mouth, tongue working overtime to clean up every last drop of you that coats him. “that boy of yours wasn’t doin’ ya right.”

the common sense that screams at him to not feel envy over some ex-lover, someone who was likely barely even an adult at the time and no longer appears to be around, is no match for the green eyed beast that commands him to tell you, without using words, that he can do better- touch you better, protect you better, fuck you better, if you’d just let him.

‘could keep ya satisfied.

that’s a new thought, one he’s never needed before yet never wanted more, a burning ache to be worthy of your trust, affection, lust. he’ll never forget the first time he thinks it, mouth salivating at the sight of you.

“is this the part you say some cheesy line straight out a porno? what ya need is a man, a man like me!” the softness of your giggle is still sharp enough to cut through the tension, god it’s never sounded sweet, and joel finds himself freely smiling into the darkness, yet still too stubborn to laugh at the deep voice you attempt to imitate him with.

“well, was you who said it,” his mouth finds it’s way back onto your soaked heat, taking his time to work his tongue up the length of it, his saliva mixing itself in a nasty cocktail with your wetness. he imagines the air is cold against your skin, and that you like it, memory of those hardened nipples hidden beneath the fabric of your dress. “but if ya insist.”

diving in head first had always been his style, from his first lover to his last, and to now, knees aching on the kitchen floor. the tip of his tongue dances round your clit, tantalising you to grind your hips to the rhythm of his sinful touches.

licking into you, he’s reminded how much he enjoys that swelling in the chest that only comes from bringing another pleasure.

he’d not been a perfect lover, far from it, but he’d liked to believe at one point he’d been trained by only experience that comes with age, years of touching wrong and kissing badly to learn the right ways to make those he shared a bed- or a counter, or a backseat, or a club bathroom- with see angelic white as they writhed and squirmed under his touch. you’re lucky to have him now, matured by past lovers and broadened by age, with all the knowledge he needs to open your eyes to how a man pleasures, kisses, loves.

he’s out of practice, sure, with recent years adding notches to his belt that were merely frantic, unexpected, barely undressed run-ins with strangers, in strange places, cock barely getting a moments affection before he’d be spilling his seed and tucking it, limp, back into the confines of his trousers and locking it away beneath a zip.

what a perfect excuse you are, for joel to remaster the arts of lust.

it’s messy, wet dripping down his chin and staining itself into the stubble of his growing facial hair. it’s noisy, his mouth openly groaning depraved joy into your warmth as you sing him a song of sweet euphoria, slowly building towards that crescendo on the horizon. it’s animalistic, barely human as he revokes all earthly needs such as rest, and food, and socialising, his mind, and soul, and heart, and cock all screaming in unison to spend whatever days he shall possess on his knees before you.

and all the while you writhe and wriggle, some times running away from him touch, other times rutting so far back into him that you threaten to suffocate him somewhere between your warm thighs, and sugar sweet cunt, and the two well-rounded globes of your ass.

his only saving grace is that he can’t see you.

hearing your pretty whines, and hand-muffled moans, and heavy intakes of breath is enough to curse him for the rest of his waking days, condemned to wander the wastelands of earth knowing the noises you make on the brinks of pleasure, with a touch-starved man satiating his hunger for flesh and blood with the sugary sins of your soaked cunt.

burrowing deeper into you, his consciousness rips through the fog of his lust to curse out his perversions as the tip of his hooked nose bumps against the puckered entrance of your ass. it does nothing to stop him tearing his tongue away from your clit, flattened as he drags it over the expanse of your cunt, and over your taint, and up the crack of your behind.

“n- ah,” you can’t deny him while sounding so eager for more, the tip of his tongue now circling your back entrance, mimicking the treatment previously given to your little pearl. “no, don’t, not there.”

next time, he thinks, we’ll try that next time.

sights returned to his previous desires, he works to rip every sigh, and every whine, and every dirty little song you’ll grace him with. the sound of whatever record tess has put on in the other room becomes a safety blanket, dousing you both in the warm protection of not being overheard.

and, then, he does it, he makes the ultimate mistake.

his eyes flicker to the left and he finds himself faced with the stove that sits within bill and frank’s- and, by an extension he does not enjoy to remember, your- kitchen. there’s little that’s remarkable about the appliance, just your standard, everyday oven that he’s sure you’ve spent countless hours cooking up those comforting meals he’s come to anticipate each time tess tells him they’re due a visit.

except, the oven door is made of glass.

glass which now paints the most pornographic masterpiece for no eyes but his own. you, with hands gripping the island’s counter like your life depends on it, and the skirt of that goddamn dress he’s envied all evening for the way it got to rest against the warmth of your thighs now bunched up in your tight grip, and your head thrown back, curving your spine in a way that has him wondering about the other ways he’d be able to bend and break you beneath his touch.

and then there’s him, down on his knees like a devotee laying himself down to worship his goddess, face burrowed in the space between your legs, mouth devouring you from behind with the help of his hands, the same ones that had strangled a man less than a day before and reigned fire down on countless others for years, that now grip the meat of your thighs to pull you back onto him, fucking his tongue into your sopping heat.

the image will haunt him more than the face of any man he’s killed.

“d’ya touch yourself, sol?” you don’t answer him, but that’s okay. in a sweet change of pace, joel miller’s perfectly fine with talking enough for the both of you. “yeah, bet ya do. late at night, right? once you’re all alone in bed. ya seem like the kind who can make herself scream.”

you back into him, smothering him under the weigh of your body. becoming his holy grail, he drinks from you like it’s the key to eternal life, and what a way of living this would be, time disregarded as nothing but meaningless while your bodies melt together in the heat of passion.

fucking his fingers back inside, he becomes frantic beneath the need to make you cry, fall completely apart with only his hands to hold you together. “let me do the honours this time though.”

you don’t scream, can’t scream, hand over mouth muffling whatever profanities and theatrical proclamations he rips from within you with the stroke of his agile tongue, the only muscle of his that’s yet to develop aches and pains. he imagines that will no longer ring true once he awakens past sunrise.

he’s unsure how much longer he works his tongue over you, slipping and sliding through the liquid pleasure, but it ends with fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him away and tilting his head up.

you’ve never looked more holy, moon casting it’s shine around you, eyes glossed with unshed tears, lips parted and swollen from the pressure your own teeth had bitten down on them with. your expression, he can’t quite read. not sad, not happy, not mad.

your eyes catch on something, abandoning his own for something closer to the floor, to which he follows and finds exactly what you’re staring at: the evidently dark patch that now stains the front of his jeans.

the discomfort of trekking back to the qz will now be tenfolds worse in the stains of his own pleasure.

“joel...” his name is nearly a beg, a prayer, an invitation. hand still in his hair, you tug, pulling him upwards off the ground. legs open wider and back arches deeper, a seductive sight that your body pleas for him with.

he swallows a groan, knees alleviated at last from the floor, and presses himself against you once more. strong arms crush you in an embrace, pulling you back into him as his head slips to rest against your shoulder. he’s capricious with the way he lets himself litter a few wet kisses over your neck, breathing in the smell of you.

“that,” you grind back into him, a torturer who takes his aged body as her victim and toys with his barely recovered cock, the cum in his trousers sticking uncomfortably to his skin. he pulls tighter on your body, grounding himself in the weight of it against his own to find the sanity to finish his sentence. “shouldn’t have happened.”

joel hopes no one awakens as he slams the door on the way out of the kitchen.

people once spoke of how the only certainties in life were death and taxes but, nowadays, the words don’t ring as true and the guarantee of life with taxes has morphed into something else entirely; a reality where death and time go hand in hand. as sure as tomorrow will arrive, death will come too, eventually. not today, however, and joel miller finds himself stood throwing a ball back and forth for a dog.

it chases and retrieves, trailing it’s happy self all the way back to him only to spit the ball down at his feet, siting and waiting to repeat the process once more. there’d been a time where this is all he’d wanted: white picket fence, dog in the yard, home-cooked meals filling a house with warmth.

that dream seems so far away now, even as he stands within it.

he cracks his back, huffing out a groan. “no, not again. my back’s fucked as it is, buddy,” with no one around to witness, joel lets himself crouch down onto his knees- both popping obnoxiously as he does so- and rakes his hand over the german shepherd’s head. it whines and makes an attempt to nudge the ball against him, protesting in the only way it can. a scratch to the ear does the trick to distract the animal, to which it tilts its head and forces itself deeper into his blunt nails. “not so bad, are ya? huh?” never in a million years did joel think he’d be talking to a dog when him and tess had set out for their routinely visit to the bill and frank’s. never would he have thought that would be the least shocking event to unfold on this trip.

he hears you before he sees you.

“you planning to make your knees familiar with every surface of this place, texas?”

he tries to rise, he truly does, but the four-legged foe he’d been petting mere seconds ago betrays him the instant it catches sight of you, charging past him and knocking him over in the process, ass to floor and head to sky.

the world above is a storm of greys, clouds swallowing one another with a looming threat of danger on the horizon and not a lick of the sun’s warmth seems to make its way through.

so instead, it sends you.

peering over him from above, hair a tangled mess, eyes a wreck of under-bags and sleepless tears, the collar of your jumper lowered just enough at this angle that he can see a tease of cleavage, you radiate a brightness like no other, more dangerous to his naked eyes than uv ray could ever be. he’s squinting again, frown etching itself on his forehead with the threat of becoming permanent soon. a few more years and his face will be nothing but frown lines and crows feet. at the very least, he considers, i’ve survived long enough to wrinkle.

the smile above him is worth a million laugh lines, a kindness laced within it that matches perfectly with the hand you hold out. when he does nothing but stare at it, you wriggle your fingers, enticing him to take a hold. he does most of the work, truthfully, but you play a part in pulling him back to his feet. upright once more, he can’t help but bask in the way he’s able to physically look down on you.

“thanks for tiring him out,” you’re the first to talk. you’re always the first to talk, and he curses you for it. “won’t need to walk him as far tonight.”

a queasy feeling overtakes him at the thought of you walking the dog alone at night, nothing but the moon to light your way. he’ll need to remember to tire the dog out next time he visits. “no problem, thanks... for feeding tess and i.”

“no worries!” you’re so kind, so good, smiling at him with a cheerful chirp in your voice. he can’t wrap his head around how you can bring yourself to treat him this way. “oh, actually, that’s why i came out here, i was looking for tess-” of course you were, when would you ever be looking for him? “hold on!”

you shoot off back inside so quickly that otis just reaches the doorway by the time you return. with an idle pet to his head as you pass by, joel once again sees, in the way such little affection can have the dog so elated, that resemblance between them you’d spoke of. in your hands, you carry an array of containers full of food- soup- each filled to the brim.

“i wanted to give you these, before you guys leave,” you’re explaining yourself, and joel wonders if it’s nerves that bring you to need constant babbling to fill any gaps of silence. he can’t imagine how he could make you nervous and therefore that thought is quick to be discarded. “i know the journey up here and back can be long, consider them a token of my appreciation towards you both for-”

“why don’t ya like me?” he cuts you off.

pathetic, he knows, but he can not stop himself, a deer caught in the headlights of your brightly burning, too-good-to-be-true, too-pure-to-be-fake personality.

you show no signs of hearing him, smile unwavering as you continue to hold out the boxes to him, “there should be enough to last you a few days, if you watch your proportions.”

it’s too much for him to handle- the food, the smiles, the sweetly glistening eyes-, and joel just has to know, needs an answer before the heat of his confusion consumes him entirely in its flames and leaves nothing but his smoking remains.

so he tries again, louder.

“why don’t ya like me?”

“and i’d probably say you’re best to heat it up, especially for tess,” you ignore him, again, lips stretching what can only be described as uncomfortably wider. “winter is sure coming in faster than last year, isn’t it?”

he grabs at your arm, fingers curling round the swell of your bicep as he speaks through gritted teeth, "answer me." like a frightened dog backed into a corner, he bares his teeth and yells his bark.

"for someone who doesn't care,” you try his patience, knowingly or not, and his grip tightens. you don’t flinch, welcoming the sting of his blunt and bitten nails against your flesh. “you sure do talk about my opinion a lot."

"answer the damn question, girl.”

“or, what?” you’ve got him there, he’ll admit, holding no real plan as to how to punish your silence. “you gonna give me the same treatment as last night?”

had he known you’d be so unabashed to mention the events on the kitchen floor so flippantly, as casually as one would speak about the weather, he’d never have dared to get on his knees. truthfully, he’d not given things a second thought, disregarding the later for the now, living in the moment with caution thrown to the wind over what the morning would bring. perhaps he’d hoped you’d been intoxicated enough to dismiss the memory as a nightmare, maybe he’d wished you’d keep away from him to free him of the volatile grip you have on his soul.

instead, you stand tall, proud, eyes fiercely staring back at his own as you challenge him to retaliate, mock you with none of those saccharine smiles you hide harsh tones behind.

joel says nothing.

“how about this, let’s make a deal, like the ones you and bill make.” inching closer, crowding in on his space and forcing him to take note of the smell of freshly cleaned clothes mixed in with your own fragrance. clean, warm, inviting, scents he’d never given meaning to before now. “you get me something, i’ll tell you what you want to know.”

he grunts out a response, hands meeting his hips as he juts out one knee, the shifting of weight between feet a perfect distraction to the rising tension in his worn-out jeans. “what d’ya want? ‘cause if it’s somethin’ like a gun, think again. i ain’t messing with none of bill’s strange politics on you havin’-”

“a dress.”

“a dress?” the statement has him quirking his brow, burning questions swimming in the depths of his eyes as he stares back at you.

“yes, and don’t look at me like that!” it’s hypocritical, he believes, for you to berate him for the looks he sends you when all you do is cast stones his way with your gaze yet shake him to his very core each time you smile. “i need a new one, my favourite one got ruined whilst making soup.”

unaware he’d even began to lean closer, joel’s quick to recoil, as if your words are bullets and his skin the target you hit on the bullseye every time.

“joel!” his name resonates from somewhere in the house.

neither of you dare to break eye contact. again, his name is yelled. this time, he manages to identify tess as the owner of the voice. habits have him used to running to her whenever she calls, but habits have never been caught between the choice of tess or you.

his feet remain glued to the ground.

tess yells once more and, though you speak up, you don’t dare look away. “think you might be needed inside, macho man. your missus is calling.”

“she ain’t my-”

“you two just gonna stand and stare at each other all day, or will you help a woman out already?” tess enters the scene somewhere behind you, a blur of her familiar shape standing out the front door.

only when your head spins and he no longer finds himself lost in the black of your eyes does joel take her in completely, hair clearly damp and complexion a little paled by her hungover body. in her arms, she struggles with the weight of a folded table. you approach first, he follows, his two hands aiding in carrying it out into the front yard as you retighten your grip on the boxes of soup in your arms.

“i should probably,” laying the containers down on the now unfolded table, you fidget with the sleeves in your hands, eyes downcast with something he can only read as guilt. he decides he much prefers the fire they hold when you berate him. “go check on the food, before it burns.”

you’re in the door and out his sight before he can so much as ask you to stay.

tess and him hit the road by noon. earlier than predicted, later than he’d wished for. the bite of cold already marks the air, despite the sun heating the world with its rays. he walks a little ahead, feigning ignorance to the repeated coughing coming from tess and racking his brain for answers.

answers to why he’d never noticed how hoarse she’d been sounding till you pointed it out. answers to what awaited them both upon returning to the qz. answers to when will be their next chance to visit the safe haven bill’s created. answers to why you don’t like him.

i don’t like you, joel.

it motivates him to walk quicker, faster, racing to put as much distance between himself and that damn kitchen floor, miles upon miles not enough to rid him of the dull ache in his knees that goes hand in hand with the throb within his too-tight-jeans. if he were alone, he’d break out in a sprint. but tess is here, he’s not alone, and home will simply have to wait on the passing of time to drag him back to it.

till then, he needs to find a dress.

#joel miller smut #joel miller x reader #joel miller oneshot #joel miller fic #pedro pascal smut

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charliemwrites · 2 months

Text

Government Asset Soap! This is half of the last part (the smut got too long and I wanted to post this dammit).

So consider this part 4.5? idk it's late.

Usual CW for this series with dubcon, mean Soap, post-trauma coping.

It’s probably a fire hazard, the candles. They’re sprinkled across your little cabin like fireflies, feeble but steady heartbeats of a home you’re failing to build. Too many of them, likely. Two, sometimes three, per room. Tiny tealights, smokeless soy, scented pine. It would be easier, safer, to just turn on the lamps you foolishly invested in.

You can’t bear anything brighter than golden halogen anymore, though. The glare drags you back to a tiny cell bisected by cruel metal, holding back an even crueler fate. No, you’d much rather wade through pools of shadow and firelight, fire code be damned.

It’s a small cabin, but you’ve already cluttered it up with furniture and rugs, a theme for each room. Yellow and blue for the kitchen. Purple and cream for the den. Green and brown for your bedroom. Nooks to hide in, spaces to squeeze into, big shapes to huddle behind. You’ll never be caught out in a cold, barren room ever again.

Your days are long regardless of the time of year. Get groceries in town every day, making a point to be friendly and seen so that someone might notice if you suddenly stop coming. Clean incessantly, so many surfaces to dust. Pick hobbies like daisies. Knitting and crocheting, different paint styles, felting. You’re contemplating carpentry, would like to build shelves for all the books stacked up in the den. Keep a dream journal by your bed that you neglect for weeks at a time.

You draw out the nights until you can count the hours until dawn on one hand. Stay up baking, making homemade ink, learning new ways to style your hair, anything, anything, anything—

It’s not the sleeping – or at least that’s not the worst of it. It’s the waking.

Laswell suggested a cat.

You told her to stop suggesting pussy to unstable people.

But it’s still not a bad idea. Another living thing to keep you accountable; the plants are pretty and time-consuming, but not good company.

You talk yourself out of it every time, knowing the worst-case scenario. It’s not catastrophizing if it actually happens, and you can feel an invisible time weighing on your shoulders like another gravity. Tick, tick, tick. Heavier, heavier, heavier. It’s hard to breathe beneath the wait.

The military doesn’t do apologies. It does platitudes at best. Well wishes and good intentions are painted in brushstrokes of blood. Victory flags are planted on bodies, living or otherwise. Laswell apologized. She swore that if there had been another way – any other way…

She didn’t promise to leave you alone. Didn’t assure you that you’d never see her or her goons again.

If you thought it would do any good, you’d tip one of the candles over and set it all aflame. Rebirth through fire. But you never did figure yourself for a phoenix. And besides, a phoenix is still itself, even when the ash falls away.

So, you spool out your time like picking at tapestry threads, one thin string at time.

Tonight, it’s bread. Cinnamon chocolate babka, to be specific. You were craving something sweet. Are debating the merits of some sort of cream cheese icing while you shower off the long, ever-busy day.

Have decided on an optimistic why not as you slip out to begin your overly complicated self-care routine. Moisturizers, hair oils, lotion. An unexpected benefit of overloading yourself, you suppose. Even when you first got out of the military, you didn’t take such good care of yourself. You have a jogging route now. You’re handling your trauma every possible way except therapy. (And sleeping.) Better than nothing, you figure.

The candles have gone out in your bedroom. You click your tongue in annoyance, trying to remember where you left the matches this time. Bedside table?

You pad across the soft carpet, using the edge of the bed as a guide in the pitch black. The only other problem with candles is that their humble light doesn’t reach very far. But you know this house and keep the floors tidy enough that you’re confident you won’t trip.

Make it to the nightstand without incident and pat around. Knock the side of your hand into the little carton and only just catch it before it hits the deck. Let out a little huff and start to fumble it open.

“Nice catch, bonnie.”

You gasp, but your voice doesn’t get any farther than the back of your tongue. The box slips from your numb fingers, matchsticks scattering across the floor. He tsks.

“Shame that. We’ll get ‘em later.”

You can’t move. Can barely breathe. You’re just frozen, heart thundering with a sudden storm of fear and confusion. Hands still aloft in front of you, spine rigid, knees locked.

You feel more than hear movement behind you, and then the warmth of his body seeping into your naked skin. Not quite touching. Not yet.

“Missed you, little bird,” he rasps in your ear.

You always thought that in a moment like this you would scream. Kick and elbow and fight, damn your certain loss. But when it comes down to it, survival drowns out all those stupid, haughty ideas about pride and dignity. So you don’t curse and shout like you always fancied you would.

You whisper, “Soap.”

He hums but it sounds like a growl in your panicked state. “Missed me too, aye? You’re already naked fer me.”

His hands are searing when they settle on your waist like they belong there. He pulls you back against him; in the dark he’s bigger, broader than you remember. At least, you think, he’s fully clothed for now.

“What are you… how are you here?” you ask.

He barks a laugh, mean and rough. “Was only a matter of time after that shite they pulled.”

You squeeze your eyes shut and see it recreated in the phosphenes behind your lids.

Soap buried balls deep inside of you, murmuring a constant stream of filth as he got harder and harder inside you. Filling you up as you twitched around him, oversensitive and teary, afraid of what would come next.

Then the lights flashed, flicked red. An alarm sounded, Laswell’s voice ordering Soap away from you. But he just snarled and hunched over you, hips snapping to bury himself right back inside while you cried out.

The locked door swung in, armed guards swarming in. Yanked Soap off you while you scrambled to cover yourself. Someone grabbing your arm none too gently to pull you from the room. Soap wild-eyed and snarling like something possessed, until he was overtaken by struggling guards and you were trembling naked in that damned hallway.

“Was mad at you, at first, cannae lie,” he says, almost conversational. Your eyes snap open, though you know it’ll do you no good. “But I’ve had time to think on it. Wasnae yer fault, was it? Saw them drag you out.”

An awful relief floods you. Fuck dignity, fuck honesty. This is Soap right behind you, completely unrestrained and unsupervised.

“Yeah,” you answer, voice small. “I didn’t know they would do that. What… um. What happened to you?”

He presses his face into your damp hair, pressing closer, snaking his arms to squeeze you against him.

“Sent me off on some shite mission,” he explains, “probably hoped I’d die out there. You smell so good, lass.”

You shiver as his breath ghosts over the sensitive skin of your neck. Hot, humid.

“And… and then what?” you insist, trying to stall.

You’re not sure what you’re stalling for. There will be no miraculous saves here – not that you really got any last time. It’s not like there’s any real plan to be made here, either. None that you’d be confident enough to risk his wrath on.

“Disappeared. Took care of business. Came to get my pretty little bird.”

A rough hand trails over the curve of your hip, brush the neat curls of your mound. You suck in a breath, hands twitching with the urge to stop him but not sure of putting up resistance when you’re still unsure of his mental state.

“And what about you, hm?” he rumbles. “Been a good girl while I’ve been away?”

His fingers dart down towards your entrance, not nearly prepared for anything. Least of all his thick digits.

“Y-yes!” you yelp, grabbing at his wrist. Relief makes you dizzy when you manage to stop him. “I-I’ve been good. Which means I’m not… I can’t just take you. I need… I need prep.”

He huffs, nips at the tender spot beneath your ear. The thrill that shoots through your stomach is terrifying.

“That’s what these are for, bonnie.”

And to your horror, he starts to push past your resistance like your staying hands aren’t there at all.

“John!”

He freezes. You shudder air into your burning lungs, feeling dizzy on panic.

You can get through this without pain, just think.

“I haven’t even got to see you,” you stutter, voice shaky. Can’t quite inject the disappointment you’re trying for, but hopefully it’ll work. “And I bet you’re all dirty from travel.”

He grumbles. “So what?”

You scramble to think of a satisfactory response. “S-so let’s get reacquainted in the shower, yeah? That way I can see your handsome face, at least.”

He chuckles, grazes his teeth “playfully” across your cheek. “Bossy thing.”

“You like it.”

And to your shock, he agrees with an amused huff. Hauls you up in his arms and walks you back to the still muggy bathroom. You’re set on your feet and spun around, chin jerked up to receive a savage kiss. All tongue and teeth, no finesse. He’s just licking into your mouth, hungry and animalistic, spit dribbling down your chin.

When he finally pulls away, you blink spots from your vision. Finally focus on his smug features and make a soft, horrified noise when you register the splatter of crimson across them.

“Och, that? My little bird had watchers.”

Of course you did. The horror ebbs a bit. Resentment has made you indiscriminately bitter.

“Oh,” you say, “th-thank you. Definitely glad we’re showering first, then.”

“Squeamish?”

You’d like to know when the world turned upside down and John fucking “Soap” MacTavish began teasing you about the blood on his face.

“A bit,” you admit.

“Poor dear,” he coos. “Hard to believe we were made for each other sometimes, aye? Complementary, we are.”

Is that what he thinks? Christ.

You turn to start the shower again, spine prickling with the weight of his eyes on your back. The water rushes down and then he’s crowding you against the cold wall beneath the (thankfully) warm spray.

“Y-you’re still dressed!” you protest between sharp nips to your collarbone.

“Fix it, then,” he snarls.

You claw his shirt up his back, get momentarily distracted by the impressive display of muscle hidden beneath. Draw your palms over his chest and feel him shudder.

“Fuckin’ heavenly, love,” he purrs. “Missed this.”

A vague memory comes back to you, him gripping you close because he felt you naked against him for the first time. Him admitting he hasn’t had affectionate touch in a while.

This… this you could work with.

#cod #my writing #fanfiction #reader fic #dark fic #asset soap #asset john soap mactavish #dub con #non con #rape

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rubra-wav · 2 months

Note

Hello! I saw asks were open and I wanted to drop a request! What if Husk, Angeldust, and Alastor (separate) had a s/o who revealed that they could break deals on their (the collared's) end given some time?

Husk, Angel Dust and Alastor with a Dealbreaker S/O

[Part 2]

A/N: Alastor's is written as purely platonic tho per my personal boundaries

My Hazbin OC actually is a powerful Dealbreaker, so I'm going off of the lore I've thought up on this topic for him haha

I will maybe write a part 2 where reader actually manages to break the contracts rather than just saying they could.

CW: Sfw, angsty asf in places, reference to addiction, mention/reference to violence, Angel's touches a bit more on abuse response/trauma response type stuff, body/ horror imagery in Alastor's (Alastor being the creature he is basically)

Husk

- Husk would not believe you at all at first.

- He would be tending the bar and then stop mid-drying a glass as a heartbreaking hint of hope (the first hope he'd felt in centuries) passes over his face for a second before crumpling and turning to extreme bitterness.

- "That's not funny." He'd growl through grit teeth at you, thinking it was some kind of cruel joke.

- When reassured that you are absolutely serious, he gives you more of a look of almost pity, sighing as if deeply tired.

- He tells you that multiple people have told him the same thing over the years, and that they have all failed just the same.

- All skilled people who were known to be able to break even soul ownership deals wide open.

- The leash Alastor had on him was air-tight.

- He basically tells you it would be a giant waste of time and that you should give up and focus your time on something better then a poor old sinner like himself.

- When you don't back down from the discouragement, he sighs again, but feels warmth burning in his chest at the fact you wanted to help him so badly.

- He's not hopeful, but he wants to have faith in you even if he's trying to discourage you and scare you straight as much as possible.

- He wants so badly to be free so he can be with you without any limits of his commitment to you and only you. To not have to think about whether he's going to be summoned to some bullshit getup again whenever Alastor gets bored of the Hazbin Hotel.

- Deep down he's absolutely desperate for you to succeed in your mission.

- He wants the catalyst for his alcohol problem to go away so he can live and finally actually be happy without the heaviness of his deal weighing on him at all times, making him desperately need the escape.

- He absolutely will tell you very very seriously to not to let this slip that you're doing this to anybody though - or talk about this in a place you aren't absolutely confident doesn't have any certain member of the hotel listening in.

- Husk doesn't think that Alastor would harm you physically over this, that asshole would probably just find it amusing. However.

- Husk's worst fear would be you trying to get him his soul back by signing away yours, something very possible Alastor would offer as a trick.

- He'd be skeptical, fearful of you succumbing to a deal with Alastor, and not very hopeful at all as he's tried time and time again to break the contract on his soul. You are so... optimistic that you'll find a way, but again, his collar is air-tight. You'll have your work cut out for you breaking the deal of someone who's notoriously a dealmaker.

Angel Dust

- When you tell him that, he tenses up with a sharp inhale of breath, a complete 180 from how he just was seconds before, winding down from his night in his hotel room with you.

- Angel's deal would be logically way more easier to break. However, what Valentino's deal doesn't directly hold of Angel, the moth's manipulation keeps him stuck imprisoned under him.

- Angel absolutely would have thought of contacting a dealbreaker, however never actually would due to how terrified he is. If it turned out one of those people were a mole for Val trying to catch him out, Angel would be in so much pain from the punishment that that would entail. You cannot trust someone claiming to be a dealbreaker in hell isn't lying to you through their teeth.

- When he realises you are absolutely serious though, and obviously confident in your abilities, a myriad of harsh emotions pass across Angel's face. Fear (for both his and your safety), and hope made themselves the most apparent.

- Fear of what Val would do to him if he ever found out about this conversation. What he'd do to you.

- Valentino was certainly not above hurting people to get his way. Angel knew that better then anybody. But if Val ever caught wind that Angel's secret lover behind the scenes was trying to steal away Val's biggest money maker and favourite toy, he'd kill you. Straight up.

- That fear was there and was deeply terrifying to him. But so was the hope. A flurry of hope that fills him with relief and brings tears pricking at his eyes at the idea that he could actually be free of his captor and go do whatever you two decide and be fully happy without fear of Val.

- Live with you not as Angel Dust, but as Anthony. Completely his real, authentic self.

- "How." He whispers breathlessly.

- You tell him that you need to see the contract itself, analyse all the ins and outs and come up with a counter-contract.

- There would be a few ways you could actually break the deal from there, and although they would be time consuming and possibly (very much probably) dangerous, you were confident you could break him out.

- Angel would be extremely fearful, but also hopeful. You seem confident in your ability as his contract is messy and poorly crafted. He's reassured as you say that what's mostly chaining him down is the psychological control Val has over him.

Alastor

- When you tell Alastor this, I feel he could respond two ways depending on how you've learnt that information.

If he hasn't told you himself:

- If he hasn't told you this or doesn't know how you've found out, he's going to be absolutely pissed. At you and probably Husk (assuming Husk told you)

- He'd turn towards you with jerky, unnatural movements, bones and joints cracking loudly in a cringe worthy way. Overhead, the lights would be flickering as static begins to fill your head.

- Towering over you, he'd be still bent in that weird position as he grips sharpened claws into your shoulders. Your friendship is the only thing keeping him from making you nothing more then a stain on the wall.

- "Who told you about that."

- When you tell how you've found out, he likely let's out a chuckle dripping with anger that makes you want to cover your ears as the sound scrapes into them. "And what makes you think you could do what even I cannot?"

- He has analysed every single last clause, letter, meaning of the words used, every possible loophole in his contract to the point it's driven him to have multiple psychological breakdowns. To him there is no doubt in his mind at all that he's completely fucked by the contract he was tricked into and there's no chance in hell that you would ever be able to even assist.

- When you push and say that you want to do this for him, he's not even a little flattered at all, in fact, it bruises his ego massively that you'd have the audacity to confidently imply you could do what he's worked so hard to for 7 years.

- In instance one, he's incredibly pissed off at you for claiming you could ever undo his contract after learning about it from someone other then him, so angry he almost kills you. Leaves you alone shaking and afraid in the hall telling you not to say anything to anybody else about his deal, and to never so flagrantly exaggerate your own worth so massively again. Your prior confidence stamped down to embers.

If you are close enough of a person to him that he's confided in you about his collar however:

- He'd just chuckle, calling it cute that you thought you could do that while walking away.

- You miss the way his eye twitches.

- He'd still be incredibly angry about it, but due to not being surprised you knew of his biggest secret, he'd hide it much better.

- Continues to laugh when you insist you can do it, and would passive aggressively respond about how you should not overestimate your abilities and mind your own business essentially.

- Again, he's pissed off and his ego is bruised about it. But this time, he's hiding it behind his smile and is passive aggressive as fuck about it rather then outwardly aggressive. He won't let you know how much you've actually gotten to him even though he would have let his walls down to some extent to ever tell you that.

A/N I was actually already planning a fully written x reader fic that's not just the dot points with Angel at some point where reader saves him from his contract, so like... Maybe I'll do full fics for dealbreaking Husk and Alastor's contracts as well because I'm kind of interested in exploring a fic w them after writing this now

(I'm probably gonna say this then eat shit via the universe straight after lmfao 💀)

#hazbin hotel #husk x reader #hazbin hotel husk #angel dust x reader #hazbin angel dust #hazbin hotel alastor #alastor x reader #this was actually so cool to write thank you for requesting this one

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evie-sturns · 3 months

Text

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴇʀ ᴄᴀᴍᴘ - ᴍᴀᴛᴛ ꜱᴛᴜʀɴɪᴏʟᴏ

part 2 (part 1 here)

summary: you and your best-friend matt, have decided to sign up to be a summer camp counsellor for your school's summer project! will you two stay as just friends? or will this summer turn out different for you guys.

a/n: theres going to be smut in the next part, hope you guys like this, read part 1 first, linked at the top! fuck danielle

contains: swearing, fighting (physical at some points), kissing/making out

—------------╚══ ❀•°❀°•❀ ══╝------------——

abrubtly matt pulls away, he saw me. his face drops as dani stares at me. my heart thumps as i freeze. matt tries to walk over to me, but its too late, i've already took off in the other direction.

i've found myself in the empty staff bathrooms, hiding in the stalls. matthew wasted my time, i spent half the fucking roadtrip up here comforting him, then he goes and makes out with her a few hours later?

i can't even understand why im feeling like this, why am i so.. jealous?

the door to the bathrooms swing open, probably matt, coming to explain himself.

"hey, come out of the stall please." a female voice calls out, "who's this sorry?" i say, still on the verge of tears.

"danielle."

my breath hitches in my throat, before i swallow hard. "oh." i mumble, unlocking my stall. im met with her face, shes still wearing the same outfit she was wearing while kissing my best friend.

she suddenly interupts my thoughts, "look, i don't know who the fuck you think you are? but don't go snooping into me and matts personal business, unfortunately hes mine." she says while crossing her arms, i scoff.

"funny you say that, because the whole car ride up here matt's been dreading seeing you, his exact words were, 'fucking hate her' so if i were you i'd back away hm?" i say in a 'sympathetic' tone.

she clenches her fist, running her spare hand through her dark brown bob before smashing her fist into the side of my face.

"what the actual fuck!" i yell before jumping at her, throwing her to the floor. the next 5 minutes are a blur of screaming, punching, hair pulling before she gets pulled off of me.

its jessie, the owner of the fucking camp.

she looks pissed.

(15 minutes later)

ive been sitting alone in the nurses office for 10 minutes, its now 11:30pm, i have to be awake in 7 hours for breakfast setup.

the door to the room im in swings open.

its matthew.

"y/n, are you okay? i heard what happened" he says frantically, sititng down on the chair beside the medical bed.

"oh please matt, dont act like you care." i mutter out.

"what?" he says cluelessly.

"look, go find out how danielles doing, oh! or you could fuck her while your there, go back to your cabin with her!" i yell, matts eyes widen as he looks at me.

"we aren't sharing a cabin, im with lincoln, shes with paige." he mumbles as he fidgets with his hands.

i laugh out of disbelief before standing up, pushing past him out of the room im in before swinging open the door to the nurses office.

the cold night air hits my fresh wounds as i approach my cabin, the lights are on inside meaning Xavier is still awake. i swing open the door, xaviers face drops "babe what the fuck happened!" he says, running up to me and hugging me, "danielle happened." i sniff as he lets me go.

"you gotta get some rest, we're helping the kids do kayaking tomorrow okay? gotta be up at 6:30." he whispers, as he pulls the covers down on my bed, letting me crawl in.

(6:30am the next day.)

a loud honk blares through the campsite, before jessie on the megaphone starts "shark counsellers! the shark kids are lined up outside the breakfast hall, go help out in the kitchen"

i groan, my face still throbbing from dani's punches. xaivers sits up in the bed opposite me, "you feeling better.." he says, his voice raspy.

i nod, "mhm, not too excited about dealing with about 25 nine year olds." i mumble getting out of bed "you'll be right, theres 6 of us to control them we'll do it." he says optimistically.

i finish up getting changed, tying my hair into two braids. "you coming?" i say, looking at xaiver over my shoulder.

the hall is only a few hundred meters away from the staff cabins, which is now filled with 200 children. matt and lincoln are walking through the doors, dani and paige follow close behind them, too close for my liking.

i step inside, the smell of oatmeal fills my nose as i look around, theres countless tables filled with friend groups, in the back corner matts sitting alone on the last empty table, picking at his dry toast. i sigh loudly before walking over to him, he looks up at me, his eyes are puffy and red, he looks upset.

i sit down opposite him, his breathing picks up before he starts unannouced,

"dani and i.. have hated eachother since middle school. when i saw you get into your cabin with xavier i got fucking jealous. hate to admit it but i did. while i was walking towards my cabin dani approached me, she started touching up on my arms before pulling me off the path into the bushes. she kissed me, i don't know why i kissed her back, i think it was a jealousy thing, i wanted to get back at you?"

he sighs loudly as silence grows.

"look y/n, i really like you, and-" hes cut off by jessie on her fucking megaphone.

"helloooo campers! this is the first official day of summer camp and here are what each group is doing today!, crabs are doing rock climbing, which means it is mandatory to wear closed toe shoes. Sharks will be doing kayaking, please wear your swimsuit and your counsellers will take you down to the lake!"

i barely take in what jessie says, the only thing i'm thinking about is matt's previous sentence

look y/n i really like you.

(20 minutes later)

we've been sitting by the lake for a few minutes now, watching the kids attempt to kayak, im wearing a triangle white bikini with daisys printed on it, matt's sitting to my left, his eyes have been on me the whole time.

abrubtly he stands up, looking down at me. "come with me." he demands "huh?"

i stand up anyway, he takes my hand and starts to walk towards a shed, he opens the door and switches on the light. the dim warm lighting fills the room, revealing piles of wetsuits and life jackets.

he turns around and closes the door to the shed, locking it behind him.

he looks me in my eyes, his eyes dart down to my lips. "can i kiss you." matt asks, barely audible.

i gulp before nodding my head.

matt's hand holds my cheek gently before connecting his lips with mine. after a few seconds it turns into a makeout, his veiny hand holding my hair.

he pulls away slowly as his phone lights up, he scrolls through it before letting out a soft laugh "no way" he scoffs, rubbing his eyes.

"tonight were sleeping in the kids hall, like me and you, supervising.."

"you're kidding matt"

"nope, apparently theres a small cabin that connects off the kids hall, its got 1 bed that we share" he laughs

my cheeks flush, sharing a bed with matt, after this?..

—------------╚══ ❀•°❀°•❀ ══╝------------——

hope you guys liked this, like i said there will be smut in the next part!!

taglist:

@iammattsturniolo @iloveneilperry @tatumrileyslover @chrisstopherfilmed

#nick sturniolo #matt sturniolo x reader #matt sturniolo #chris sturniolo x reader #sturniolo fanfic #sturniolo x reader #sturniolo smut #sturniolo triplets #chris sturniolo #sturniolo #matthew sturniolo #matt sturniolo imagine #matt sturniolo smut #matt sturniolo fluff

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oh-koenig-my-koenig · 5 months

Text

(to the tune of Avril Lavigne's sk8terboi)

He was a human battering ram.

She was a recon sniper.

Can I make it any more obvious?

Headcannons - Fit for a King - König x fem!OC fanfic

Instead of making a y/n fic, I decided to create an original female character because I ususally write all of my stuff in POVs. Due to posting the chapters often right after I've written them some of the context and the characterization might not be explicit in every single piece, some of the information is only gonna get revealed down the road.

(TW: alcoholism, death, violence)

Karina Müller is almost 30 years old, she served in the Norwegian military from right after school until the death of her brother who was KIA on a mission together. She fell off the wagon after that, feeling responsible for his death and effectively being shunned by her family after that. Her pick of poison was alcohol and it got so bad that she more than once was drunk on the job which led to her getting kicked out.

The years after that she spent getting help, trying to get clean and going back to a civilian life, but the military was what she knew, so the civilian jobs didn't stick and she started to work as a mercenary, now a dry alcoholic. Which might be an issue for some contractors, but KorTac doesn't really bat an eye.

She's a compassionate person who loves to laugh, she's seen enough shit not to take any from her teammates and can stand her ground when faced with any challenge thrown her way. She's still working through some stuff, coming to terms with her past, but she has an optimistic spirit and a strong will.

Even though the Colonel seems scary at first, she learns pretty quickly that he is to be respected in training and on the battlefield, but on a personal level he's really not that bad. The 6'10'' killing machine, Austrian war criminal (insert "what murdeeer?!"-meme here) is quite an anxious person when it comes to basic human interaction.

Shouting orders at his team, stomping his enemies into the ground is more comfortable to him than just talking about mundane stuff with other people, he mostly keeps to himself (except for Horangi because that little shit would never leave him alone). And for the first time in a long time, Müller makes him wish that he could just go up to people and strike up a normal conversation like a normal person (don't we all).

König is 38 years old (we don't know his full name) and has the biggest metalhead dad vibes without actually having any children himself (his favourite band is Death, although he listens to a bunch of different ones, it's also their merch shirt Müller steals in "Are you wearing my t-shirt?").

When he started out in the military, he shaved his long metalhead hair off because that was the way to go back then, but he let it grow back when he was older and already Colonel. He has gauged ears and a plethora of tattoos all over his body because the soft pain of body modifications and working out until he almost passes out are his ways of dealing with his anxiety and stress. His body is a testament to that.

He has a huge scar on the right side of his face from when he got beaten to a pulp by his bullies at school, something he never let happen again after that (five on one was really unfair). His nose has been broken two times and sometimes his tattoos get destroyed by battle injuries, but he doesn't really care about that - or his looks in general. He's a soldier and not a model.

So the reason why he's always wearing the selfmade hood is not the scar. He prefers not to show his feelings to others, staying hidden underneath the mask for his own comfort, even if it makes him scarier also in situations where he doesn't want to be.

(CW: some nsfw headcannons ahead, talk about not wanting to have children) They're both switches, though König is leaning more on the Dom-side while Müller is a sub who likes to brat a little too much, just to see her man falter (for example when she calls him a good boy in random scene #1).

Müller is bisexual, something she discovered when serving in an all-women-taskforce of the Norwegian military (we don't really know about König's sexuality though). She decided a long time ago that she doesn't want to have children (she doesn't see herself leaving service again anytime soon and given her past, she doesn't see herself fit to become a mother), so she got her tubes tied. Which also comes in handy when a certain Colonel's favourite pasttime (well, actually second favourite) is leaving creampies inside her (no 'unexpected pregnancy' trope in this household).

König definitely eats pussy for his own pleasure, begging Müller to let him eat her out in "Sit" or losing a little friendly competition for a sexual favour in "But no funny business" (oh and he definitely steals her panties at any chance he gets). She's totally not opposed to servicing him as well, but the size of his dick makes this a whole endeavour (like seen in "Open wide, Prinzessin").

They match each other's energy pretty well, just going at it like rabbits at every chance they get, which sometimes proves to be difficult as they're sneaking around in secret.

Their arrangement is kind of a fuckbuddy/fwb-situation, they fuck hard and rough, without ever really kissing (the mask stays on), but after a while feelings start to get in the way... After all they do belong together <3

Read more at the Fit for a King - Masterlist or keep an eye out for the AO3 link - coming soon.

#könig #könig cod #könig mw2 #konig #konig cod #konig mw2 #könig x fmc #könig fanfiction #cod mw2 smut #könig smut #konig smut #cod smut #female oc

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scoonsalicious · 13 days

Text

Unwanted: Chapter 19, Unfriended - Pt. 3

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Avenger!Fem!Reader

Summary: When your FWB relationship with your best friend Bucky Barnes turns into something more, you couldn’t be happier. That is, however, until a new Avenger sets her sights on your super soldier and he inadvertently breaks your heart. You take on a mission you might not be prepared for to put some distance between the two of you and open yourself up to past traumas. Too bad the only one who can help you heal is the one person you can no longer trust.

Warnings: (For this part only; see Story Masterlist for general Warnings) Language, mentions of sex, confrontation, uncovering of lies.

Word Count: 1.3k

Previously On...: Tony has a new mission for you, and everyone finds out you used to be a stripper.

A/N: CONFRONTATION TIME, BITCHES!

NOTE! The tag list is a fickle bitch, so I'm not really going to be dealing with it anymore. If you want to be notified when I update, please enable notifications from my Blog page!

Banner By: The absolutely amazing @mrsbuckybarnes1917!

Thank you to all those who have been reading; if you like what you've read, likes, comments, and reblogs give me life, and I truly appreciate them, and you!

Taglist: (Sadly, tag list is closed; Tumblr will not let me add anyone new. If you want to be notified when I update, please Follow me for Notifications!) @jmeelee @cazellen @mrsbuckybarnes1917 @blackhawkfanatic @buckybarnessimpp @hayjat @capswife @itsteambarnes @marygoddessofmischief @sebastians-love @learisa @lethallyprotected @rabbitrabbit12321 @buckybarnesandmarvel @fanfictiongirl77 @calwitch @fantasyfootballchampion @selella @jackiehollanderr @wintercrows @sashaisready @missvelvetsstuff @angelbabyyy99 @keylimebeag @maybefoxysouls @vicmc624 @j23r23 @wintercrows @crist1216 @cjand10 @pattiemac1@les-sel @dottirose @winterslove1917 @harperkenobi @ivet4 @casey1-2007 @mrsevans90 @steeph-aniie @bean-bean2000 @beanbagbitch @peachiestevie @wintrsoldrluvr @shadowzena43

Tumblr will not let me directly tag the following: @marcswife21 @erelierraceala @jupiter-107 @doublejeon @hiqhkey @unaxv @brookeleclerc

You left the conference room with a better idea of what Tony was hoping you’d be able to accomplish, and you were feeling slightly optimistic for the first time all day: You actually had a chance to help women escape the hell you’d lived in for seven years, and you were going to do your damnedest to do right by them.

You hadn't gotten very far down the hallway toward the elevator when you felt the cold, vice-like grip of a vibranium hand take hold of your wrist and pull you into a storage closet.

"Jesus Christ, Barnes," you yelled, wrenching your arm out of his grasp and rubbing the skin where he'd grabbed you. "What the hell?"

"Funny, I was just about to ask you the same thing." His eyes were dark. He was angry at you. Of all the fucking nerve. He had the gall to be angry at you? "What the hell, Pocket? What was that back there?"

Well, you thought, I guess this is actually happening.

"Really?" you asked, your voice calmer than you could have ever imagined it being. "Can't think of a single reason I'd be upset with you?"

"What are you talking about?" he asked, seeming genuinely confused. "We were fine this morning. Fuck, we talked about getting place of our own, for Christ's sake."

"Yeah," you said, "that's not going to be happening. Ever." He had the audacity to look hurt.

"What do you mean?" He reached for you, but you pulled away from him, trying to put as much distance between you as possible in the cramped space. "Sweetheart, talk to me. Whatever's wrong, we can figure it out together."

"How was Russia, James?" you asked, ignoring the concern in his voice. "Anything... I dunno, exciting happen over there? Twice, maybe?" You watched with a sense of sick satisfaction as all the color drained from Bucky's face and a look of panic overtook him.

"I-I don't know what you mean," he stammered.

"Please," you scoffed. "If there's one thing we can both agree on, it’s that I’m not intellectually stupid. Emotionally? Obviously. But not intellectually. Don't insult my intelligence by acting like you don't know exactly what I'm talking about."

"Whatever Carthage told you," Bucky said, trying to draw close to you again, slowly, as if approaching a wounded animal, "she's lying to you."

"Oh, no worries-- Jade didn't tell me anything, so no need to follow through on your threat to kill her and make sure no one ever finds her body, which, by the way, what the actual fuck?!"

"Doll, you gotta understand," he began, but you cut him off.

“No,” you said, putting a hand up to keep the distance between you. “I’m tired of being understanding when it comes to you, James.” You watched him flinch at your use of his government name. Good. “I’m tired of giving you second chances you don’t deserve. I’m tired of your fucking lies. I am so tired of you.”

You reached into your pocket and took out his phone. “Here,” you said, shoving it into his chest, “you left this when you went to your debrief.”

Bucky clutched the phone, looking between it and you. “You… you went through it?”

“Of course I fucking did!” you seethed. “Imagine my surprise when I picked it up, planning on just pocketing it to give back to you when I next saw you, only to see a notification for a new message from Jade fucking Carthage. The girl whose number I blocked from this very phone. The girl who, you swore to me, you were never going to speak to or be alone with again. Imagine how absolutely devastating that was.”

“You weren’t supposed to read those messages,” Bucky said, his voice low and full of sorrow. “I never intended for you to see them.”

“Well, no fucking shit, Barnes,” you said, throwing your hands in the air. “Kinda defeats the point of having a secret affair if the girlfriend knows about it, doesn’t it?”

“But it wasn’t like that!” Bucky exclaimed, desperate for you to believe him. “I didn’t intend for it to happen. It was an accident! I never meant--"

"Oh, an accident? My bad; I didn't realize you'd 'accidentally' tripped and got your penis stuck in her vagina. Two fucking times." You were hit with a realization. "Was this why you didn't call me when you were supposed to? Why you never returned my messages? Were you lying about your phone dying?"

"Yes, but--"

"For fucks' sake, James!" You were shouting now. "I fucking knew something was going on between you two. I fucking KNEW it, but no, you assured me it was nothing, that I was overreacting. That you loved me. I thought I was losing my fucking mind with insecurity, and meanwhile you've been fucking her behind my back and feeding me bullshit about how much you wanted to be with me."

"Baby, no!" Tears began pooling in Bucky's eyes, but they didn't sway you. "I swear, Russia was the only time anything happened. I promise you."

"See, here's the thing: your promises don't mean shit, James," you spat. "I can't believe a word that comes out of your lying mouth. I'd ask you why, but I wouldn't believe whatever bullshit you'd tell me."

"Because I thought you were with Steve," he blurted out, as if desperately grasping for any chance at making you understand. "I saw the news articles from the gala, and I was so angry! I– I wanted to make you hurt as much as I thought you hurt me…"

His words left you momentarily speechless. "You took the word of fucking trash rag as gospel, thinking I would do that to you? That STEVE would do that to you? And before even thinking about talking it over with me, you decided the smart choice was to go balls deep in the one person who I've been begging you to stay away from for months? That you swore I didn't have to worry about?" God, he seemed so pathetic to you now. “You just made the executive decision that I was a piece of shit? I’ve been to enough therapy sessions to recognize projection when I see it.”

"I'm sorry! I know I fucked up. Please, please just tell me what I have to do to make this right. What can I do to fix this? I'll do anything. You want me to never speak to Jade again? Done."

"That's just it, James," you said, the fight leaving you. "There's nothing that you can do. This is over. We're done. I refuse to do this any longer."

"Sweetheart, please," he cried, "please, you can't mean that. Don't talk like that."

"James..."

"Stop calling me 'James'!" he sobbed. "'m not 'James,' 'm your Bucky. 'm always your Bucky."

You shook your head sadly. "'My Bucky' died the second you decided to sleep with her, and there's no bringing him back. Welcome to the consequences of your actions, James. I hope you and Carthage are happy together. You fucking deserve each other." You started for the door, but Bucky grabbed your wrist before you could grasp the handle.

"Please," he moaned, "this-- this can't be it. We can't end like this. We were supposed to be forever."

You pulled your hand out of his grasp and opened the door. "You should have thought about that before you broke my heart," you whispered. “Again.”

"I don't know how to live without you," he murmured.

"Well, you better figure out how to fucking start," you said as you made your way out the door. "When I get back from this mission, I'm moving out of the Tower. Alone." The idea had just come to you at that moment, but you knew it was the right thing to do. You couldn't stand to live under the same roof as Bucky any longer, let alone across the hall.

"But this is your home," he pleaded. "You don't need to leave it."

"You were my home," you told him. "I don't have one anymore." And you left him standing in the open doorway of the storage closet, alone and crying.

<- Previous Part / Next Chapter ->

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky x you #bucky x reader #bucky fanfic #bucky barnes #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky x female reader #bucky barnes fic #bucky barnes fanfiction #james bucky buchanan barnes #james buchanan barnes #mcu bucky barnes #james barnes

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anonymouscheeses · 3 months

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more obvious shit I wanted to point out but it's more than last time uhhh pt.2 (spoilers for dad beat dad and maybe welcome to heaven. Maybe?)

I love that Charlie just randomly goes into demon form sometimes like here ehhehehe. Also can I just say I love Charlie so much?? She is my favorite and I love her especially in this episode because it feels like the same optimistic Charlie but she was just put in a bad situation. I relate to her a bit TOO much, almost down to every detail like wow. You'll understand later once I get there. But just wow...

LOOK AT THIS FUNNY LITTLE MAN. SPOODER DUST <3 also. Live [image] reaction. Someone make that into a reaction image 🙏🙏

HONEY!!! NEW MEME TEMPLATE JUST DROPPED. (Aka the one guy going crazy trying to explain the stuff on the board iykyk)

OMG... THAT CANT BE CHARLIE... NOT CHARLIE'S EMO PHASE PLEASE BAHAHAHHAHAHA (also love that Lucifer has kept it all these years, if Charlie knew I think she'd be extremely embarrassed. Vaggie would love it probably xd)

HE IS SO GOOFY I CANT- I LOVE HIM SO MUCH ALREADY!!! NEED.

Broskie got character development and is NICE?!? I LOVE THAT SMMM YALL.... LOOK AT HIM!! I am very delusional yes, but I will take this over ass development(cough. Vaggie's "story" in ep 3. Cough).

Imagine this. *holds your hand carefully to help you calm down while talking to your father you haven't really wanted to talk to.* lesbian type stuff ngl 🤯 (relatable)

Angel looking at the gays while being a gay too. HE'S BEING SO KIND TO CHARLIE UGGHH I CANTTT!!(POS) NODDING HIS HEAD, SMILING TO HER, ALSO TRYING TO HELP CALM HER DOWN. I MAY BE ASS AT SOCIAL CUES BUT I NOTICED THIS ONE!! YAA

*SHE IS STILL HOLDING HER HAND. CHARLIE'S ALSO SWINGING IT AROUND NERVOUSLY. I can never get tired of them and will make art soon just you wait.*

COMMANDER VAGGIE! I love that she acts like this is a camp full of tiny kids and honestly? That's not too far off. Sir pentious is at the ready! (glad he's here more often in the episode, thought he would just get sidelined after his first episode but gladly no!) Angel is just surprised. Husk spilled his drink, ON WHITE FUR NO LESS! Niffty of course is on the floor face first. Charlie is just happy to be there yippee!

What is this?? I have no idea what the hell it is at all. Bro is just peepin- it doesn't look like Alastor, even in demon form. And... I can't think of anyone else who could be this. Anyone have ideas or maybe it's foreshadowing? Maybe it was revealed in the 6th episode I don't know I haven't watched it yet. (I am a freak. I don't binge I give myself a day to watch a single episode. Most of the time uhhh.)

WE LOVE A SHORT KING. I LOVE THAT. I LOVE HIM. THE EVERYTHING. HE IS EVERYTHING. LET ME STRANGLE HIM PLEASE. (Lillith and Lucifer's dynamic is 100% Gomez and Morticia but a little more silly short man)

"OH WOW! AN OLDER MAN WHO GIVES ME FATHERLY CARE!" *STARTS TO FUCKING CRY*

I FEEL YOU CHARLIE WAAAGHHH

Oh and there goes the silly guy again! Atp I'm thinking it may be the gal some people been talking about that they've been hinting since the pilot. I forgot her name but she's said to be the big bad of season 1 or probably 2. Not sure if that's what it's trying to imply but here's my little no-thought idea

Lucifer, no...

LUCIFER NO!! THIS IS SUCH AN ADORABLE RESPONSE TO CHARLIE DATING A WOMAN. (ADOPT ME)

AND THEN THE HUG! I GET IM LOOKING TOO MUCH INTO THIS ONE SILLY SCENE BUT I JUST LOVE IT SO MUCH AND WANT THIS SO BAD IN MY LIFE.

Niffty really said, "Yes, I do the cleaning."

Get yourself a taller king who is a short king but compared to you is a tall king

Say what you will, but I genuinely want more dad Alastor, someone make an au before I do plsss and @ me 🙏🙏

alright.. now this is where it starts to be relatable and hurt my heart... yayy.... needing any sort of parent figure that actually cares about you than the actual parent who is rarely there? WOWZA! SAME CHARLIE <3 <3 (SO FAR VERY ACCURATE FROM SOMEONE THAT IS IN THE SAME SITUATION)

Alastor is letting her off kindly, atleast in his way. He may be pissed off she brought a shark gang to the hotel and put it on fire, but they were still close friends. With anyone else he would absolutely either murder them or have severely traumatized the person. She's the exception, although I don't think he'd let it off the hook so easily if there were a next time.

A father-daughter embrace! :,)

(This is gonna be messy asf) He wants to know who she is as a person. He always has, and that's definitely obvious, but from a person inside this, they may not know themselves what the other is thinking. To Charlie it was like he never cared and just wanted an excuse to not see her again, acting like he was truly busy as in the start where he made the rubber duck that breathed fire. Sure. But Charlie saw it as him finding ways to not interact with her again. The only times they talk was when it was related to business stuff or other things of the sort. Let me just say this song... is by far my favorite, including the episode. Sure, it's got problems it's own, but this extremely accurate portrayal of what my own situation with one of my parents just stole my entire soul. Yeah I got a bit of tears about to come out, BUT NOPE! NOT TODAY! I don't ever cry during shows or movies so if I ever get teary-eyed, YOU DID SOMETHING. THAT SOMETHING BEING GOOD. This episode was emotional and connected with me on a deep level that I dont think any film has ever done to me, which is weird because I've been actively trying to find one, any one that does. Then to find it in an indie company from a creator who has achieved the dreams that I myself want to one day? That's fucking amazing.

FORESHADOWING! FROESHADOWING! FORESHADOWING! VAGGIE EX-ANGEL THEORY MUST BE CANON AND IF ITS NOT I WILL TEAR MYSELF LIMB FROM LIMB WITH A CROWBAR. LETS GO TO HEAVENNN!!! TOMORROW! BECAUSE THE DAY I PUBLISH THIS WILL BE TOMORROW(FOR YOU TODAY) BUT TOMORROW FOR YOU ILL POST THE NEXT WHAT I CAUGHT SHENANIGANS AGAIN! SEE YA!

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blushweddinggowns · 1 year

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Part 2 to this!

Eddie had never considered himself to be a lucky person. Could anyone really blame him? For one thing, he was eaten alive last year. And that wasn’t even counting the fact that he had been a twenty-year old, drug-dealing highschooler before he was sent to literal hell. All after witnessing multiple horrifying homicides.

But now that he had Steve Harrington on top of him, shoving his tongue down his throat like his life depended on it, he felt like the luckiest man in the world.

Part of him still couldn’t believe that it was happening at all. He had been fully prepared to just play the part of the pining best friend and suffer through his unrequited crush. He even convinced himself that it would slowly disappear after he got off the high of seeing Steve all bloody and gorgeous in an alternate reality.

But it didn’t. It just got worse and worse. Eddie’s crush just bloomed into a full-blown love. Because Steve Harrington was nothing like he expected. Eddie had never experienced this much whiplash when getting to know someone before. Steve went from highschool bully, to a monster fighting badass, and landed on an adorable, snarky goofball who Eddie basically wanted to spend the rest of his life with.

It had felt like such a long shot when he asked the question. The question that had been haunting him for months, but Eddie couldn’t help but ask. Not after everything he’d seen. At first he thought it was all in his head, just his overactive imagination trying to convince him he wasn’t alone in his feelings.

But then he started noticing things. Like how Steve was always available to him, even when he had better options open. It was around the third time he witnessed Steve tell a pretty girl, “Sorry, I have plans tonight,” for him to raise a brow. Because the only plans he ever had was doing stupid shit with him.

It was when he actually rejected Nancy in favor of getting high and listening to music in Eddie’s room that he got optimistically suspicious. It made him pay more attention, the little voice inside his head was getting louder and louder, that told him, maybe, just maybe, Eddie wasn’t the only one in love here.

So Eddie let himself get a little bolder, terrified all the while but determined to figure out what was going on here.

It was small things at first, touches that he would let linger. A hand on Steve’s waist when they puttered around the kitchen together, always giving him a little squeeze before he let go. Brushing his bangs out of his face, his hand curling around his ear before pulling away. Resting his head in Steve’s lap when they were sprawled out on the couch, talking about nothing and everything for hours.

He didn’t miss the way Steve’s cheeks would redden at every touch, or the sweet little smile put on when he thought Eddie wasn’t looking. It made him feel emboldened, and terribly hopeful.

So he let himself do more, obvious things that were not normal between two male platonic best friends. He waited until night, because despite what Steve said Eddie was not a brave man. At least then if Steve rejected the hell out of him, he’d never have to see his face.

In theory it should have been easy. They shared a bed almost every night anyway, Eddie always making easy excuses to explain away why Steve didn’t need to go home.

It was too late, it was cold outside, the trailer was closer to his work anyway, he could still be high from a hit he took two hours ago, Eddie wasn’t above a single excuse. And Steve never complained, he’d just nod along, agreeing to whatever stupid thing Eddie could think of for the night.

They slept back to back, trying to hold onto some semblance of normal between them. And Eddie would be lying if he said the thought of breaking it didn’t scare the hell out of him, but that didn’t stop him from draping an arm over Steve’s waist one night. He had pulled him against his chest, heart on the verge of exploding as he waited for Steve’s reaction.

He hadn’t expected him to turn over in his arms, and Eddie had been almost sure that he was doing it to ask him what the fuck he was doing. But Steve just sighed, all relaxed and happy as he snuggled into his chest, wrapping his own arm around Eddie’s waist. They woke up tangled together, happy and restful.

They never talked about it, but every night when Eddie opened up his arms, Steve went right into them. And God did Eddie love it, he loved him. And the idea that there was any chance he could be with him and he wasn’t taking it, was killing him. So he took a shot, and asked the question that had been plaguing him for months.

And it fucking worked. Here he was, vindicated and rewarded with the most handsome, funny, kind boyfriend to ever live. In all honesty, not that much changed between them, considering how they were basically dating back when they considered themselves “friends”. But now there was the added bonus of being able to kiss the living hell out of him whenever he wanted. And the fact that Steve had apparently been holding out on him, because overnight he became the clingest cuddler Eddie had ever had the pleasure of knowing.

Whether that be hugs from behind, arms draped around his neck in bed, or Steve clambering up into Eddie’s lap whenever the opprunintuity arose. And it was so fucking cute it made Eddie feel like he could die from happiness. And when he returned the favor, Steve would just melt. A hand on his thigh while they drove, an arm around his waist at friendly get togethers, any small touch was enough to make Steve a blushing, gooey mess.

The whole thing was amazing and Eddie had never been happier.

There was just one problem.

For the life of him, Eddie couldn’t stop making him cry.

The first time, he understood. It had been a bit of a dick move on his end, to force Steve to admit his feelings because Eddie was too chicken-shit to do it himself. He should have thought about that and he'd apologized more than once for the way he handled the whole thing, even if Steve insisted it was more than fine. He just…never wanted to be the cause of that sad, dejected face ever again.

But then he did it again, completely accidentally. It had been a lazy Sunday morning, the both of them deciding to sleep in until someone from the outside world forced them out of bed. Eddie woke up first, blinking into the late morning light. Steve was draped across his chest, still sound asleep and only slightly drooling on him.

Eddie ran a hand through his tousled hair, completely lovestruck. The small movement was enough to have Steve shift against him, mumbling about it being too early to wake up. But Eddie was already trailing his hands down his back, more than ready to tickle him awake if need be. And it worked, it always worked, because the next thing he knew Steve was batting his hands away, a tired laugh escaping as he finally opened his eyes.

He groaned as he blinked into the light, pouting up at Eddie as he rubbed his eyes, “You’re lucky you’re pretty Munson. Or I would have kicked you out of bed by now.”

Eddie grinned, wrapping his arms around him a little tighter, “You’d kick me out of my own bed? That’s cold Stevie.”

“My bed now. A consequence of being with me,” Steve laughed, snuggling closer, “It’s in the contract.”

The snarky comment on his tongue died the second Eddie looked down at him. Steve just looked so…relaxed. Unfairly handsome and happy to be there, tracing patterns along Eddie’s bare chest. He was struck with the realization that he wanted this for the rest of his life. Just Steve, with his bed-head and sleepy smile. Eddie had to look away, staring up at the ceiling as he was suddenly overwhelemed by just how much he loved this guy.

The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them, embarrassingly earnest, “I think you’re the love of my life.”

Steve was quiet, but he could feel him nodding along as he traced Eddie’s collarbone. For a second, Eddie thought he just hadn’t heard him, and was doing that thing when he pretended like he did. He was a few seconds away from teasingly calling him out for it when he heard it. A soft sniffle, accompanied by a wet feeling, dripping onto him.

Eddie glanced down, eyes widening at the sight of Steve wiping his tears away, trying and failing to be quiet about it.

Eddie sat up, slightly panicked as he dragged Steve up with him, “Steve? Baby, what’s wrong? Was it what I said?”

Steve let out a wet laugh, “Not at all. I-fuck, Eddie I think you’re mine too. I swear this hasn’t happened before.”

Eddie was too worried to show how ecstatic that confession made him feel. He held Steve’s face in his hands, wiping away a few tears with his thumbs, “But you’re okay?”

“I’m fine, I swear.” Steve sighed, leaning into the touch, “I’m just being a fucking weirdo.”

“My weirdo.” Eddie corrected before kissing him, the salty taste of his tears be damned. Eddie reasoned that he was probably just overwhelmed, which was normal, considering how Eddie was speedrunning the pace of their relationship. It was a fluke, and that was fine.

But then it happened again.

It had been a completely normal day, no fights with anyone, no problems at the video store or with any of Eddie’s clients. They were watching a movie on the couch, Eddie’s head resting in Steve’s lap as Fame rolled on in the background. Steve was braiding his hair, absentminded as they commented on the muscial, both agreeing that Robin had really oversold it.

Though Eddie was a sucker for the New York based movies. He used to dream about running away there when he was a teenager. Working and playing in dingy bars until he was magically discovered and skyrockerted into stardom. But now, at the ripe old age of twenty one, he was much more interested in going wherever Steve would follow.

He watched the screen, mind wandering as he asked, “Where would you want to go when we leave Hawkins?”

The hands in his hair paused for a split second before Steve answered, “W-what do you mean?”

“When the kids graduate,” Eddie continued, missing the stutter in Steve’s voice, “We won’t really have any reason to stay here right? It’s probably about time that Wayne got the bachelor pad back anyway.”

“You…you want to live with me?”

Eddie let out a small laugh, rolling his eyes, “Babe, I don’t know if you’re aware but we kind of already live together.”

He watched the screen, someone whose name he forgot was starting another monolouge, “New York is a bit much, but Indianapolis could probably work. Somewhere with some options, y’know?”

Steve cleared his throat above him, fingers still working in his hair, “Y-yeah. Sounds good.”

Eddie smiled, pleased as he went back to trying to follow the plot. Then he felt something wet hit his cheek. He scrunched his nose up, confused as he shifted to look up at Steve, heart jumping when he realized what was happening.

“Holy shit, don’t look at me for a minute.” Steve groaned, covering his face with his hands, failing to hide his sniveling, “Seriously, just ignore me.”

Eddie sat up, ignoring Steve’s protests as he pried his hands from his face, “What’s wrong?”

“N-nothing!” Steve insisted, avoiding Eddie’s eyes, “I swear, I don’t know what the hell is wrong with me.”

“Sweetheart, if moving in together is too much to talk about that’s fine-”

“No!” Steve interrupted, voice loud in the small space between them, “I-I mean, that’s not the problem. Of course I want to live with you.”

“I don’t want to pressure you-”

“You’re not,” Steve insisted, grabbing Eddie's hands. He squeezed them, warm and comforting, “Whatever is wrong with me has nothing to do with you, or us. I swear.”

Eddie nodded, even if the worry didn’t fully leave his head. He couldn’t help it, because it just kept happening. Eddie was averaging on making Steve tear up at least once a month and everytime he would insist he was fine. That it wasn’t Eddie’s fault, he was just being a freak.

It’s not like Eddie minded. In fact he kind of liked comforting him. And it didn’t help that Steve was fucking adorable when he cried. With his scrunched up nose and pretty wet eyes, Eddie was more than happy to be the one to kiss his tears away.

He just wished he could figure out why it was happening, because despite what Steve said, he knew that he was the cause. It only happened when they were alone together, usually right after Eddie said or did something particularly mushy. He just wanted to know what he was doing wrong.

It was starting to keep him up at night, and as embarrassing as it was, Eddie was having anxiety nightmares about Steve leaving him for someone who wasn’t making him weep on a semi-regular basis.

Eddie blinked into the night, waking up from another one of those stupid dreams. He blindly reached over for Steve, his hand hitting the empty mattress with a thud. Eddie groaned, assuming he was in the bathroom, but knowing there was no way he was getting back to sleep without having him next to him.

Eddie stood, deciding to get some water while he waited for him to come back. He stepped out of his room into the dark hall, cocking his head at the odd scene in front of him. The phone cord was stretched from the kitchen to the bathroom, peeking out through the half cracked door.

Eddie stopped infront of it, curious as he made out what Steve was whispering through the phone, "Robin, if I cry in front of him one more time I'm going to have to change my name and flee the country."

Eddie snorted behind his hand, quiet enough to not be heard. He leaned in a little closer, fully aware that he should just turn around and not be an eavesdropping dick, but…if he could just find out why Steve kept crying, maybe he could actually do something to stop it.

"I'm not telling him. I'm lucky I haven't scared him off yet as it is."

Eddie frowned, confused. That didn’t make sense, there was nothing Steve could do to scare him off, not after everything they had been through. Didn’t he know that?

Steve sighed into the phone, sad and resigned, "I just…I don’t know how much more I can fall in love with him. When he ends it…it's going to fucking kill me."

Eddie could feel his heart stop in his chest. Where the hell did that come from? Sometimes Eddie spent half of his day just day-dreaming about their future, and here Steve was, thinking that he was going to end the best thing that ever happened to him?

"I know, I know. Maybe you're right. I love you too, I'll see you tomorrow."

Eddie backed away from the door, still feeling vaguely ill at what he’d heard. He slipped into bed, pretending to still be asleep when Steve eventually followed. He was back in bed for maybe five seconds before Eddie was reaching for him, tucking him tightly into his arms, like he could cuddle the doubts out of him.

Eddie could barely sleep that night, mind-racing on what he could do to make Steve realize that he wasn’t going anywhere. It made sense, in the grand scheme of things. Steve’s parents were total shit heads who had no appreciation for the wonderful son they had. The only other person he’d fallen in love with besides Eddie ended up cheating on him, right after drunkenly declaring the fact that she never loved him back.

And that wasn’t even mentioning his “best friends” who dropped him the second he decided to stop acting like a dick in highschool. Now that he was thinking about it, Eddie was kicking himself for not putting the pieces together sooner.

Of course Steve would be worried about that. But Eddie wasn’t like them, he’d never be like them. In his head, the only way this relationship was ending was if Steve dumped him, not the other way around.

If Eddie was extra clingy that morning, Steve didn’t complain. Even if he was making it a bitch for him to get ready for work. Eddie was still draped all over him by the time he was trying to get out the door, laughing at his antics all the while.

“Someone’s needy today, huh?” Steve chuckled, prying Eddie’s arms away from his neck, “I’ll be back before you know it.”

“That’s not soon enough,” Eddie whined, going as far as to follow him to the car. He kissed him goodbye through the window, not giving a single shit who saw them. Not when it made Steve blush and beam at him. He waved at him as he drove away, a plan already forming in his head as he started his day.

If Steve had fears, Eddie would just love them right out of him. No reason to make a big deal out of anything, not when Steve was already so embarrassed about the whole thing. He would play it cool, and slowly but surely alleviate all of the anxieties.

That was the plan, but the plan went straight out the window that same night. Basically the second he laid eyes on him after stepping through the front door. Steve wasn’t even doing anything. Just sitting on the couch, lazily watching TV. But then he noticed him, gave him that bright smile, and the floodgates just opened.

“I love you.” Eddie blurted out, making his way towards him, “Like I really fucking love you.”

Steve cocked his head, confused but still happy to see him. He shuffled over for Eddie to sit next to him, “I love you too?”

Eddie shook his head, “I mean I love everything about you Steve. Everything.”

Steve stared at him, surprise still painted on his face, but Eddie just kept going, aware on some level, that he probably sounded slightly unhinged, but he didn’t care. He needed Steve to understand, “I love how much you care about everyone. I love how you take care of me, and how you let me take care of you. I love how your hair sticks up in every direction in the morning, and how you get pouty whenever you wake up. I love it when you’re bitchy and you make fun of my music. I love it when you get too excited and scream at the TV over basketball. I love the little blush you get whenever I call you pretty. I love all of it, and I want it for the rest of my life. ”

Steve laughed, quiet and nervous as he looked away, ‘What the hell are you even talking about?”

But Eddie wasn’t having that. He grasped his face, tilting his chin up to force them eye to eye. The tears were already starting to form, but Eddie wasn’t worried. He knew what they meant this time, “I’m talking about how you’re the only person I’ll ever want. I’m talking about how I want a life with you Steve. You and no one else.”

The tears were really falling now, and Steve was looking at him like he ripped his heart out, versus perfusing his undying love, “You…you shouldn’t say shit like that Eddie. You don’t know how things will change later on.”

Eddie shook his head, steadfast, “I’ll never not want you. I’m serious Steve. You’re it for me.”

They stared at eachother, Steve searching his face as Eddie kissed his tear-stained cheeks, “I want to believe you.”

“It’s okay that you don’t yet,” Eddie murmured, “I’ll just spend the rest of my life proving it to you.”

Steve let out a weak laugh, pulling away from his hands to hide his face into the crook of Eddie’s neck, his self-proclaimed safe space, “You promise?”

Eddie kissed the top of his head, “I swear.”

It didn’t happen overnight, but it did happen. Their days together became months, months became years. Eddie never went a day without reminding him how much he was loved, Steve stopped waiting for the day that Eddie was going to leave, and slowly but surely, the tears stopped with it.

It was ten years to that day, ten amazing years with the love of his life, when Eddie found him in their kitchen, making coffee and yawning while he absentmindely stared out the window, just as adorable at thirty-one as he was at twenty.

He wrapped his arms around his waist from behind, kissing at his neck with a pleased hum, “You believe me now?”

Steve sighed, sleepy and happy as he leaned back into him, “Yeah, I think I do.”

#steddie ficlet #steddie fic #steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #you'll pry my insanely long posts out of my cold dead hands #This got so god damn long wholy shit #steddie brainrot #they got me in their jaws #stranger things #i swear anytime i do eddie pov it becomes a fucking novel #no shade to nancy sincerely #but it did done happen like that

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kitspindles · 1 year

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I’m in no way bashing on people who have already finished TSatS and say they hate it, are disappointed, etc., because I myself have not gone past chapter seven. My friend let me read some today, but I won’t have my own copy until Thursday, so maybe my opinions will change. I will say, however, that if you read 400+ pages in less than a day, maybe give yourself some time to process the entire plot first?

In any case, I can’t help but wonder how many people went into this book expecting one version of Nico and Will, only to be hit with something else entirely. And I mean like... expecting the fandom’s versions of these two, rather than what canon has previously shown us up until this book.

It’s my personal opinion that the PJO fandom’s worse enemy is their own mischaracterization of the characters at times. And I don’t mean like little head canons and stuff. Everyone has done those at some point. There’s usually no harm in those. I’m talking about people who created their own versions of Nico and Will and have been running with these visions for years through different fan fictions and what-not online.

For years we’ve known basically nothing about Will aside from the fact that he’s sarcastic, likes Star Wars, his mom is a country singer, he can glow in the dark, and he’s better at healing than fighting. (And he has questionable fashion choice at times). Like, that’s all we’ve had since his initial introduction in The Last Olympian over a decade ago. Everything else? Online and fan speculation. And again, there is nothing wrong with that! I just feel like a lot of people went into this book holding onto their own pre-conceived visions of what Will Solace was and ended up disappointed the authors made him... different? But not really different, because he didn’t have a lot of in-depth personality or backstory before this.

Me personally? Yeah, I’m not that far into the book yet but I’m loving how Will is portrayed so far. He’s still sarcastic, but he’s shown his fair share of level-headedness as well as frustrations just within the first couple chapters. He is in no way the overly-optimistic sunshine-y boy who only exists to help Nico that the fandom has portrayed him to be all these years. His character arc is already headed in a way deeper direction (more on that when I finish the book). The whole bit where Will had coffee spilled on him and spent the next couple paragraphs in the scene trying to be unbothered while actually giving off “This is fine” fire dog energies? I loved that.

As for Nico, can I just say I adore how he’s written in this book? Aside from his PoV in Blood of Olympus, this is the first time he’s had his own narration. And it’s actually about him and more in-depth than previous times. I’ve heard people say that he’s “out of character,” and while I can see a little of what they’re all saying, I just want to know... what version of Nico have you all been reading? Did I miss something?

Up until this book, what exactly did we know about Nico? That he’s displaced in time, his sister and mother are both dead (and he feels alone), he harbored repressed gay feelings from his upbringing as a Catholic guy in 1940s Italy, and he’s been through the ringer more than once (so, trauma, basically). Oh, and he’s a bit of a nerd (Mythomagic and knowing all kinds of ancient creatures). That’s... about it. Everything has been speculation and projection from fans.

In previous books he’s always been portrayed from first- or third-person point of view (usually from people who don’t know him well and just think he’s “creepy”), leading to the idea that he’s distant and low-empathy based on some interactions he’s had with demigods who weren’t thrilled to be around him, during a time of great pressure. But he’s not exactly uncaring. He’s been shown to care a lot, actually (Bianca, Hestia, Bob, everything he’s done for Percy, his friendship with Reyna, Hazel, etc.)

But what about when he was ten? He was an excitable, curious kid who liked to have fun. And what did we see briefly in Trials of Apollo (before Jason died, at least)? We saw some of that energy return, particularly in The Hidden Oracle.

So, yeah, I’m personally thrilled to see him making cringe-y jokes and have some self-deprecating humor. It’s very “#OnBrand” for a traumatized teenager who’s just trying to cope and live life without any godly wars forcing him this way and that. Can we really say it’s “out of character” if we’ve never seen more than one side of Nico? (The under pressure side, from other character’s PoVs, in books not about him where he’s basically been a side character?) I’m just glad to see him cracking jokes, laughing, and acting more like a normal kid.

Now, is this book different from Rick’s other ones? Uh, yeah. I won’t say it’s not. But it’s not bad. It’s supposed to be different. It has slightly different intentions than the other books (re: explicitly working through trauma and relationship bumps). Also, it’s co-written. Co-written books always read slightly off from the original author’s work, but dam if it isn’t hard to meld writing styles and copy another author’s particular voice. But I think Mark did a very good job at imitating Rick’s style (again, from what I’ve read so far).

Will I change my mind on all this the farther I get into the book? Maybe. There’s a lot to read and take in. All I’m saying is don’t let the negative reviews warp your opinion of the book if you haven’t read it yet and are on the fence if you should or not. Wait for the PDF to drop, or for a library copy, and read and see for yourself.

#nico di angelo #will solace #the sun and the star #tsats #tsats preview #tsats predictions #pjo fandom #pjo hoo toa #rick riordan #mark oshiro #rrverse #riordanverse #riordan universe #Read Riordan #my stuff

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lazycats-stuff · 6 months

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i was wondering if you’d like to write a Jason Todd x male!reader(gender neautral is fine too)who’s also a vigilante magic user! Jason meets Y/N as red hood first on patrol and eventually meets them out of costume at a book store(doesn’t know Y/N is magic user vigilante yet). Jason is entranced by “both” of them. Is it magic or chemistry?

Hehe, more Jason Todd, I like it. Also, it's both.

Summary: Jason Todd meets (Y/N) as a vigilante. Then he meets him as a normal civilian. Jason falls in love.

Warnings: minor cursing, Jason feels attracted to (Y/N), but is it magic or no?, who knows, Albert Camus mentions,

Vigilantes on the Gotham scene were always an interesting thing. You had those who were with Batman for a long time and were the OGs so to speak. And then there are the ones who aren't connected to Batman at all. Not on any level.

Jason was in the category of OGs and it wasn't a shock for him to see vigilantes on the scene. But what normally isn't the norm is a magic vigilante with actual magical powers. To say that Jason was in shock is an understatement of the year.

And Jason rarely get shocked by anything nowadays. He found (V/N) in the Crime Alley helping out kids and showing them some of his magic. The kids were very excited and (Y/N) seemed happy to show them the tricks he knew.

Once the showcasing was over, (Y/N) left and went on with his patrol. Jason decided to follow quietly, but (Y/N) wasn't born yesterday. He stopped after a while smirking at Jason.

" You caught me I see. " Jason said, raising his hands in the air to show (Y/N) that he meant no harm.

" Can I ask you what you are doing mister Hood? " (Y/N) asked, crossing his arms, levitating in the air. Jason had to admit, he was thoroughly impressed. It's about time for a change here on the Gotham scene.

" I'm just making sure that you aren't some sort of... Enemy to the city. Batman is rather unwelcoming if you don't work for him. " Jason said and (Y/N) just raised his brow.

" Is that so? " (Y/N) asked and Jason tilted his head.

" What do you think I'm doing? " Jason asked, taking a step closer to the vigilante who was still levitating. His hands went to his waist and (Y/N)'s eyes glanced at him and shook his head.

" I mean no harm mister Hood. " (Y/N) said and Jason chuckled.

" Well, I don't know that. I have to worry about myself. " Jason said, smirking to himself underneath his helmet.

" Well, you won't find trouble from me. I just protect people that Batman can't. " (Y/N) said and Jason was confused. Batman protected everyone and they protected everyone.

" Who are those that we don't protect? "

" That is something I can't tell you Hood. That is something that will go to the grave. " (Y/N) said, eyes down on the roof.

" It's not a bad thing to have Batman on your side. " Jason said, crossing his arms.

" But it's also a dangerous thing. Especially for the people that I protect. " (Y/N) said and Jason had to agree with the first part of that sentence.

" Can I ask you something? " Jason asked and (Y/N) nodded. What is he even going to ask him?

" What are you doing in this city? I mean, anybody with a brain would run from here. " Jason stated as a matter of fact and (Y/N) had to agree with it. But the rent was cheap and he had a very important group of people here that he needs to protect.

" Believe it or not, I like this city. I believe that it can be saved believe it or not. And my heart is just here. I don't think I can leave it. " (Y/N) said to Jason and he saw a small smile on (Y/N)'s face. It's an interesting thought.

Gotham City can be saved.

Jason wanted to retort, but couldn't find anything to say. He saw that (Y/N) is an optimist by heart, but he wasn't a naive person. He could see that he was realistic too. It's not good to be naive in this world.

And especially in this city.

" Don't say anything to Batman. I would like to stay a secret. " (Y/N) said and Jason nodded. He understood why. (Y/N) didn't know Bruce the way Jason knew and there was probably some sort of distrust.

Maybe something has happened to (Y/N) before coming here. Somebody hunted him maybe? Either way, he won't tell Bruce.

" Your secret is safe with me. But soon enough he will find out though. He knows when there is someone else operating in this city. " Jason warned and (Y/N) nodded.

" Thank you Red Hood. " (Y/N) said and just flew off. Jason watched him do, taking a deep breath. And he didn't even ask for his vigilante name.

Wow.

Something really messed with his mind. Was it (Y/N)'s magic? Either way, he needs to find those kids and find out the name, even if it's just a nickname. He is sure of one thing.

This man won't leave him mind for a long time. Not at least until he gets more information about him. Oh this is an interesting development.

Very interesting.

Jason shook his head as he walked down the sidewalk. He didn't see his mysterious vigilante, well, it's not a mystery vigilante anymore. He found out that it's (V/N). It fitted him in a way. For a couple of days and he was getting a bit antsy and a bit restless. He didn't know what pushed him to be this way, but (V/N) was in his mind 24/7.

That's not really good for him, so he went to the bookstore to get some more books. He likes buying books and then actually reading them. He loved some mysteries, but he was in the mood for something more philosophical.

He has heard that Albert Camus' Stranger is a very good book. Apparently it makes fun of human existing and Jason was all for it at this very moment. He felt like he was being made fun off by fate.

Maybe Albert Camus had some answers for him. He went to his bookstore and all though a small one, it has very good titles and some really great books.

Jason found it cozy and nice and he bought some of their books. He recently bought Charles Baudelaire's poetry and Jason was in love. He never thought that he would enjoy poetry, but Charles Baudelaire had a great way with words.

Jason walked in the bookstore, smiling at the smell of something sweet in the air. He closed the doors behind himself, slowly walking into the store, saying a quiet hello to the person working there.

He moved through the shelves, knowing that they hold the Stranger somewhere. Somewhere around here. He stopped when he noticed the name Albert Camus. He glanced around and his eyes stopped at another person. He was smaller than Jason and was struggling to reach the top shelf.

He had (H/C) hair and very beautiful (E/C). He wore casual clothes and he was struggling to reach. Jason swallowed as he walked over, just reaching for the book and handing it over to the cute stranger.

" Thank you. " The stranger said and Jason smiled at him.

" No problem. I'm Jason. " Jason introduced himself and the stranger smiled back too.

" (Y/N), nice to meet you. " (Y/N) said and Jason felt... Something warm in his stomach. Something that he felt when he saw (V/N) a few hours earlier. What the hell?

" What did you pick? " Jason asked and (Y/N) showed him Albert Camus' Stranger. Jason chuckled and showed him his own copy of the Stranger.

" Wow. " (Y/N) said and Jason nodded.

" I know, I heard great things about it. I need something about Camus' absurdism to help me out. I feel like fate is playing with me. " Jason explained and (Y/N) gave him a knowing look.

" I know, I feel you. I had a tough last night and I swore that I would buy the Stranger. I want to see how human existence has no sense. " (Y/N) explained and the two walked to the register.

" I know that feeling... When we buy these books, do you want to go out for a coffee? There is a nice coffee shop just around the corner. My treat. " Jason said, confused as to why he was so attracted (Y/N).

What was going on?

(Y/N) stopped, tilting his head for a moment.

" Why not? " (Y/N) said and Jason smiled. The two paid for their books and then (Y/N) followed Jason into a small coffee shop.

" It's nice. " (Y/N) commented as the two sat down.

" I know. Now, what do you want to drink? " Jason asked as he went to order.

" Anything but black coffee. " (Y/N) said and Jason nodded, going to the counter to order. (Y/N) sat back as he waited for Jason to come back. Why did he say yes to him?

He could have said no, but something attracted him to Jason. His magic sometimes did it to him. Sometimes it made other people attracted to him. And that's why he has decided to be alone for the rest of his life.

But there is something about Jason that sparked his interest. He didn't understand it either, but why should he be alone for the rest of his life? His magic is something that he loves, but sometimes it bothers him a lot.

Especially in the dating department. But sometimes you need to take a leap of faith. He smiled as Jason gave him what seemed like latte and for him a pure black coffee.

Maybe he should give this a shot. Just maybe.

Jason smiled as he sat down and started talking to (Y/N). There is something about (Y/N) that he couldn't pinpoint, but he is definitely interested in finding out.

#dc comics #x male reader #dc x male reader #jason todd x male reader #red hood x male reader

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friendlybowlofsoup · 8 months

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Another Update

Hello Friends,

I have a rather long (but optimistic!) update to share with you all today. As many of you are probably tired of reading these kind of posts, I have a TL;DR here, but I did want to share what has been on my mind in that past half-year that I haven't been here.

It has been rough, and busy as always, but I think I'm finally facing myself and my project for the first time in a very long time.

TL;DR (it's actually long, I have a lot to say (*_ _)人)

I soul-searched and decided to stop compromising on my own feelings with regards to this project. I gave in to everything I wanted to do.

Plot changes, which means some character changes, which means some of the demo is outdated.

GotRM will be switching over to Twine.

----

OH MAN DID I SUFFER THE LAST FEW MONTHS

After my previous update, I hunkered down and really analyzed how I wanted to proceed with GotRM as a project. Because even prior to that post, I had already been going through long periods of hiatuses (which you are all aware of), and while I didn't lie about school taking up my time, I was also harboring a growing dissatisfaction with my own writing that really killed my progress for a long time.

So after everything had settled, I sat down and forced myself to peel apart my work. I know I said I would answer asks, but I uninstalled all of my social media and put aside this blog to focus. I made a note of all the things I liked and didn't like, and I made a list of things I wanted to change or improve on. The biggest point was that I also looked at my efficiency during actual writing sessions: how much of my time was spent writing vs. fighting with code? How could I change that?

And after a lot of deliberation, I figured there were a few things I had to change from the ground up, summed up in four points:

My working style was super incompatible with grad school. I can't spend 20-30 minutes scrolling up and down CSIDE checking code or looking for narratives while also jumping between chapters to make sure events line up. As this story grows, the more difficult it becomes to keep track of all the branches, so I needed an alternative working method, which I am adhering to now, and it prioritizes efficiency.

I hated the way I was tracking and coding stats in-game. I have griped so much about coding stats, and I have adhered to such a rigid style that I really felt trapped whenever I was confronted with balancing them out. So I'm throwing that to the wind and redoing how I utilize and convey them. Player-side, this decision doesn't change much since I never fully utilized stats in the demo anyway, and the stats page with indicators will still exist, but I'm getting rid of stat bars and how I treat stat checks.

The story I want to write now is different from the one I started out with. I've known for a while that GotRM was becoming far more than the tiny, wishful novella that I wrote as a teenager. I held onto that old story for a long time, but there's just so much I want to change that I realized I'd been clinging to a story I no longer enjoyed writing. So I spent the majority of the last few months rewriting GotRM from scratch. I redid some worldbuilding, I changed a lot of plot points, and I fixed a lot of characters' backstories accordingly. This meant scrapping stuff from even the demo, but that turned out to not be the biggest issue because:

I wanted to branch away from ChoiceScript. Honestly, I never really cared about getting officially published, but the camaraderie in the forums and on Tumblr were why I committed to CS and CoG. However, ultimately, I really want the functionality that other tools can offer GotRM, and so after a long internal debate, I will be switching over to Twine. Fortunately, since I was rewriting everything anyways, this has been relatively painless, and passage mapping has made everything so much neater. I am trying my best to make it up to chapter 2 before I release the new demo, so please look forwards to that!

And so yes, I am still here, chugging along.

I love this game and this story: it's been my creative escape for as long as I could remember, and you can imagine how frustrated I was when I realized I was starting to dread working on it.

I am forever learning more about myself and my writing style, and this is simply more of that journey. Thank you everyone for sticking around, for joining the discord, and for checking up on me--that I have all of you has truly been a dream.

Hopefully more updates to come soon! I understand that there may be questions about these new changes, so please ask away! I will (try) to release some asks that I've been working on in the drafts too, but I will wait until at least tomorrow to release them so that this post doesn't get drowned out immediately.

And as always, with a lot of love,

FriendlyBowlofSoup (Mei)

#writing update

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respectthepetty · 2 months

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How do you feel about PheeJin. I'm conflicted. I can see that Phee actually caught feelings, even if he feels guilty about Non still. And Phee and Jin do have chemestry. But I don't know. There was something was missing for me, I guess maybe it felt too fast.

Anyway what do you think are the chances of Phee/Non reunion?? Shall we clown together for a happy ending, or do you no longer see them coming back together??

@italianpersonwithashippersheart, because I'm crazy, once I realized Phi took Jin to Eden from the previews last week, I mentally pushed Jin off a cliff and focused on one sole thing -

NON IS ALIVE!

TLWR: It could get messy between Phi x Jin, White is a problem or salvation, and . . . Keng might be alive too *eye roll*

This entire theory can go up in flames in the next episode, but come with me for a second to Optimistic City:

I thought Phi was the mastermind and that Tan came along for the ride, but Tan is actually the mastermind while Phi is being dragged along. I like that Phi caught feelings for Jin because, hopefully, this means Phi is going to tell Jin about this crazy plan to get a confession, and it's going to come back around that Jin recorded the video; therefore, these two are going to look at each other with disgust unless they are like Babe from Pit Babe and completely cool with it, which I'm also very cool with.

When Phi didn't drink the water, I instantly was like "oh, so he knows it's spiked with drugs!" but then he commented when Jin was freaking out that he hadn't realized it was spiked.

And I love this because it implies that Tan has always had a different agenda and has left Phi out of it.

Since it seems Tan knows more details than we thought.

So if Dead Friend Forever is giving me a story about brotherly love rather than one of romantic love . . .

Then who am I to argue with a tale of redemption.

Which is why I think Keng might be alive.

People have pointed out one of the masked killers is on crutches.

Which would make sense if someone had gotten hit by a car and the injury didn't heal properly.

I don't want Keng to be alive, but the fact remains that Jin keeps seeing Keng, which we know is a hallucination just like all the other guys, while Tan seemed like he genuinely saw an actual person in the house.

The hooded person also looked up at him, and kept it moving.

Yet Phi hasn't seen or heard anything which is why I thought he knew about this hooded figure and was in on it unlike Tan, but why would the hooded figure stop to peek a glance at Tan?

When Top was attacked, Tan was upstairs "sleeping." Before Uncle Dang showed up to the house, Tan had just arrived to see the aftermath of the fight between Phi and Tee. And Tan was quick to suggest they use Por's place for Jin's farewell party in the first place.

But Phi immediately ran to Jin's house to try to speak to him.

And even questioned Tan! It's been over two years since they infiltrated the group. Why now? Why wait two years for a confession?!

Because it's no longer about a confession for Tan.

I mentioned that if Non is alive, it would make sense that he waited to do something until after Tee's uncle was no longer a threat, and homeboy is dead now!

Tan's hallucination was eerily specific: Non was framed. Expose the Fucked-Up Five. Get Non's forgiveness.

And Tan has always thought ALL of the boys are bad and specifically narrowed in on Jin as the reason for his brother's disappearance.

If Phi truly fell for Jin, he will try to protect Jin against Tan who is going rogue. But Tan needs an inhaler. It could hold the antidote if Tan has bigger plans to kill them all, but my original thought was it would be the perfect way to die without dying. He wouldn't have to get stabbed or hit. It would take no physical injury. He would just need his inhaler and not get to in time.

Stop breathing. Pass out. Be a dead body as chaos continues around him, and when the dust clears after the masked killers have finished everyone off, he gets back up and walks out of the woods as New because Tan who has asthma never existed in the first place.

Non was presumed either dead or missing. Both boys could walk out of those woods without anyone even realizing they were there. The only issue is White, BUT he wasn't supposed to be there either.

And yet he is keeping Tee right where he needs to be.

White's only connection to the group is he is dating Tee for almost three years.

His backstory is as thin as Tan's was, but I have never seen him as "in" on the kills. White hasn't been physically harmed unlike the Fucked-Up Five. White continues to remain in the safety of the house when everyone has to venture outside. I want White to live, so either he has his reasons for being on this trip and keeping Tee out there, or White is really as innocent as he appears and Tan will save the little one as an act of redeeming himself for not saving his brother.

Which would make the thrill of Non being alive even sweeter!

Because it would mean that everyone who "wronged" Non suffered. His mom. His dad. The Fucked-Up Five. Phi. (Keng, please God!). And even possibly his brother unless the narrative allows the brothers to be the final love story. It's scorched earth.

Perth's character still exists, and I think he helped Non survive somehow. I have no idea how all of this will turn out, and I'm excited to see, but the second Phi took Jin to Eden, he was dead to me.