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birrdies · 6 months

Text

needs

last life fic (1.8k words)

Etho was good at mostly being alone.

Silences were easy things to fill with simple nothings: tinkering with faulty machinery, tearing his latest project down to its barest bones and starting all over (just for the hell of it), exploring as far as his tired legs would carry him. When hands are busy and a mind is occupied, it’s difficult to notice the nothingness close in on him.

Solitude. It didn’t matter the world or game. To Etho, it was as much a talent as it was instinct. To build a fortress up from the ground and pretend he didn’t care that he didn’t have enough to fill the empty rooms. To spend nights alone, because it’s for the best. Because he didn’t need it any other way. There was nothing he needed that he couldn’t wear nor fit in his pockets.

There were things he wanted, sure, but need and want were different things. Want was frivolous; it was a thorn in his side that he never could muster the courage to pull out. Need, was permanent. Need was saved for when things went bad. When the thorn was ripped from skin, when he needed to staunch the bleed.

This game wasn’t any different.

Want was a crumbling snowy castle resting like a tomb in the center of the end of the world. Want was a pair of twin staircases, a shield painted red and blue, and his name scrawled on the deed to his own freedom, handed straight into the hands of a madman.

Need was a fence splitting their home in two, the ravine and impossible task that separated them. Need was a burrow underground, a set of new faces, a message of death written in red.

Need was picking at the remains of what once stood as his home like a vulture.

Only one of the towers still stood. The moon hung low in the sky overhead, a silver spotlight on everything that he once had. The ground was upturned all the way through to the stone underneath. Dirt and wood and remaining pits of soul sand sunk into the holes dug and blown into the groundwork of the castle. Like it had tried burying its own body but couldn’t quite get the job done.

Etho skulked his way across the wreckage. This place belonged to the enemy now. It wasn’t his home anymore, no matter how much it masqueraded as such.

There wasn’t much left. A few potions he’d tucked away underground days before. A beaten set of iron armor. Scraps of gold and stale bread. Less than he wanted and more than he needed. The rest he could recover with time buried underground. That, he was used to.

Burying himself underground, gathering what he could to fool others into thinking of it as strength, only to rise from the dirt with a sword, bow, and the need to be the one to walk out of there. Not enough to be a phoenix rising from ashes into flames, but rather a body climbing out of the dirt to fight and survive.

He’d played more games than he could count that way, in the solitude and protection the caves and earth below had to offer. When he was alone, there was nothing that could truly hurt him— not in any way that mattered. Really, he should’ve been relieved. He should’ve felt lighter on his feet, a burden shed from his back.

But instead, he didn’t feel much like anything at all.

It hurt less than it should have, but more than Etho ever anticipated. The thorn had been pulled clean and he bled, but he felt less the pain and more the uncomfortable twinge. The calculated knowledge that skin had been broken but the detached thoughtlessness not to feel it.

He was alone again. But that was okay. At least he knew what to do with it.

“Find anything good?” Etho looked to the half-collapsed parapet above his head. Cleo leaned over the edge, her hair hanging in her face. Another need, if he wanted to survive. The more bodies the better. It didn’t make him any less alone, just more fortified. Etho wasn’t so prideful as to think that he’d last out there on his own. Not this late in the game. Not with the Reds out for his blood.

With a sigh, he shut the chest he’d been rooting around in. “Invisibility potions,” he said, packing whatever he could away in his pockets. “Extra armor I stashed. Some iron and gold. I bet Grian and Joel already picked up everything else worthwhile.”

Cleo hummed. Etho grasped the wrung of a rickety ladder to hoist himself up onto the parapet beside her. She stood with ease, hands on her hips and an amused quirk to her mouth as she overlooked what never belonged to her.

“We’re going to stick it out with Ren and his shadow freaks?” Cleo asked after a moment. He could feel her gaze on the side of his face, but he didn’t return it. “That’s our plan?”

We. Our. She was just as bad as Bdubs. Etho had the thought to be angry, but really all he could manage was confusion. Curiosity. How did they make it look easy? Like handing over trust was as easy and mindless as breathing? Meanwhile he was a machine short-circuiting between two ends of a binary: what his heart longed for and what his head demanded. The desperation to claw more out more lives for Bdubs from anywhere he could. Anywhere except himself.

“The Greens and Yellows should stick together,” Etho said, detached and factual. “At least until we knock out the rest of the Reds. Joel and Grian are going to be a big problem… Tango, too, now that I think about it.”

“You’ve made a lot of enemies this go-around, haven’t you?” Cleo teased. He knew she was teasing, but suddenly he was punched by the first flare of something since he stood on the opposite side of that cliff face.

Etho scoffed and turned to overlook the rest of the hills. Lava burned far off, an orange glow that bled into the night sky. When that wither erupted from the heart of the snow castle, Etho thought that was the end of the world. But it was nothing compared to this: the damage left behind.

“I didn’t even do anything,” he said quietly.

“You didn’t have to,” Cleo retorted. She rested a hand on Etho’s shoulder and he lacked the grit to brush it off. There were few people he both feared and respected in equal parts, and the person standing next to him was one of them. “Surviving this long always puts a target on your back. Plus, you’re the lucky guy who’s left to clean up all of Bdubs’ messes.” “You know a lot about that, don’t you, Cleo?”

He didn’t know where it came from. The words were nasty and sharp but his voice was even and calm as ever; he wasn’t convinced he’d even said it. But Cleo only raised her eyebrows in surprise and turned her attention to the rest of the world. She pursed her lips.

Neither of them said anything. The longer he stood in the bones of something he loved, the more he felt the ache start to sink in. Like pins and needles it started to spread from the pinch in his side, through his chest, up the back of his throat, and behind his eyes. It didn’t hurt yet, but he knew it could. He knew it would, when the worst of the numbness receded. If it ever did.

He didn’t know if it would. He didn’t know if he wanted it to. It was so much easier to deal with like this.

“It‘s okay if it hurts,” Cleo said finally. The hand on Etho’s shoulder never wavered, only squeezed the tense muscle there. “I’d be more worried if it didn’t. You’re more human than you pretend to be, Etho.”

The center of the snow castle's been caved in. A bomb detonated by Martyn. The walls to the east were crumbled and resorted to nothing more than dust. A fatal blow from the wither. A large, steep drop between the gap under the walls and the bottom of the hill. The last time they fought side-by-side. A single fence post remained in front of the door to their bedrooms.

He was good at being alone. In fact, he was better off for it.

He didn’t need Bdubs. He never needed Bdubs. It was convenient. It was easy. But then it wasn’t. Bdubs kept dying. Bdubs needed more lives. And suddenly it wasn’t anything about needing him and everything about wanting him. About doing everything within his power to keep him.

It was silver-tongued lies and trigger-finger betrayals. Scar coiled in fishing line, an axe through his throat before he knew what happened to him. The curse was easy to blame, but the truth was it simply provided him an excuse. A loop-hole. He would’ve done it either way. He would’ve made a way.

Because he wanted Bdubs and his brain forgot where the line between want and need stood.

“I could’ve given him a life.” A stab of remorse. The numbness started to fade as the sun threatened to rise and reality set in over the remains of what he had. “Things could’ve been different.”

“Maybe,” Cleo relented. She sat leaning against an old pillar of wood that supported what was left of the parapet, staring at Etho with an unusually soft expression that he had a difficult time feigning strength in front of. “But we both know Bdubs was dead either way.”

“No.” Etho shut his eyes. He willed the burning behind them to fade. “I could’ve given it to him, Cleo,” he said again, because she didn’t understand.

It was his fault. He fought tooth-and-nail to protect the single thing he was foolish enough to let in. Only to shoot it right down in the same breath. A punishment for his mistakes, doled out by his own hand.

The wood beneath him creaked. Cleo shuffled behind him until he felt her body heat slotted against his back. Her arms wrapped around him, trapping him in her embrace and squeezing his shoulders and chest tight. He didn’t open his eyes. Because he feared when he did reality would come crashing down, and he’d be forced to remember that one of them would likely be dead by the end of the day.

Cleo hooked her chin over Etho’s shoulder. The side of her head pressed flush with his. Shakily he laid his hands on top of hers, afraid she’d let go.

“For what it’s worth,” she said against his ear. “I think he’s already forgiven you.”

#birdie writes #last life #etho #zombiecleo #cletho #last life fic #they've been constantly on my mind for weeks #and i dont have motivation to write my larger cleo and etho project i have going right now #so i feverishly just wrote this in an hour #enjoy #ethubs #etho fic #ethubs fic

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tunastime · 2 years

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If you're still taking requests for the fanfic two words list ask game, how about #11 with ethubs?

11. stain / unravel (x) (781 words)

He hears Etho before he sees him. He hears snow being pushed aside as he cuts through the wall (why they haven’t made a door is beyond him), as Etho worms his way through. Etho drops his tools and bag in a pile as he walks in, sighing to himself. Bdubs feels his gaze on the back of his neck for only a moment before it slides away.

"Hey."

Bdubs looks over. Etho’s halfway up the steps. His hands are stained red.

"Hey-yoh,” Bdubs starts. Etho’s halfway up the steps. His hands are stained red. “Yo. Woah."

Etho turns to him. He still hasn’t pulled the mask from his face, but his eyes give away his confusion.

“You good, Etho?"

"What?"

"You got a little..." Bdubs gestures to his hands, then to the stains on his jacket. Etho hums. Bdubs narrows his eyes, hands moving to find his communicator. He would’ve gotten a message. His mouth suddenly feels very dry. "Did you...?"

"Hm? No, it's mine."

Well that’s not any better. Etho frowns, more with his eyes than anything else.

"It's nothing."

Bdubs scoffs, folding his arms.

"Well, clearly it's something, otherwise you wouldn't be so damn dodgy—"

"I slipped, that’s it,” Etho quips. Bdubs winces.

"Ouch."

Etho shrugs. Something about him radiates discomfort more than apathy.

"It's fine. It doesn't hurt."

Bdubs lets him turn away and walk up the rest of the stairs, watching the patches on his jacket.

"Okay,” he says, to the impression of him.

He follows him a moment later. He hears him rustling around more than he sees him, and something in his chest becomes unbearably tight.

When he steps into the space, hands braced along the wooden beams of the fence, skipping over the notches, Etho is ducked over his hands, holding a rag. He scrubs at his hands, as if to wipe off the blood that stains them. He rubs, and he rubs, and he isn’t stopping.

"Etho." Bdubs says it slowly, announcing his presence. Etho doesn’t stop.

"Etho," he tries again. Etho keeps scrubbing. His skin is red raw under the stains. He doesn’t stop. Bdubs braces his hands on the fence before he hauls himself over. He doesn’t stop. "Etho, stop—"

He grabs at him, hands around his hands, and Etho freezes, muscles going taut under Bdubs’ hands. Etho meets his eyes. His are wide, dark, still green, framed with his pretty white lashes. His mouth hangs open like he can’t make words form in his mouth. His mask is off.

"Bdubs,” he finally says. Bdubs watches him swallow.

"Stop,” Bdubs manages, even if it comes out as a whisper. Etho tenses, more if possible.

"Other side,” he says. Bdubs shakes his head.

"No,” he says. “Not if you don't stop."

Etho squirms, but only for a moment. Bdubs keeps holding him.

"Let me go."

"No."

Finally, Etho seems to sag under his grip. Or resign. He isn’t sure what’s worse. But when he lets go, Etho doesn’t move. He also doesn’t look at him. He doesn’t look up when Bdubs finds a bucket of water, or when he takes Etho’s hand again and rinses the cloth. Bdubs wipes the palms of his hands, littered with nicks and cuts, a slice on the heel of his hand that only looks bad when it’s bloodied. His hands come surprisingly clean with little effort, still rubbed raw. Bdubs works gently, his eyes flicking up every so often to Etho’s face, expecting to see something. He never does. Etho keeps watching his hands, like he might watch Bdubs disappear from his grasp, or better yet, watch Bdubs take his first life.

Bdubs wraps his hands, too, pulling the bandage over his wrists. Only when he’s satisfied with his job does he pull away. He takes the bucket with him, the rag, the rest of the bandage. He turns his back to Etho, a dangerous thing that he cannot help but do (I’m not going to hurt you. Not right now. I don’t think I ever really could). He’s braced on the fence, again, dividing them, before Etho speaks.

"Thank you,” he says. Bdubs nods.

"Sure thing."

Etho looks up at him, tries to look him in the eye, finally, and something inconsolably warm washes over Bdubs. He doesn’t know if he wants to truly meet those eyes.

"Thank you."

"Hey,” Bdubs ducks his head, smiling a little. He can’t meet his eye, as much as he wants to. He gives him a shrug instead. “Don't worry about it. You're welcome."

He leaves when he feels Etho’s eyes leave the back of his neck and pretends that he won’t be staying up to make sure he sleeps.

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intrawebs · 3 months

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The Moment of Betrayal

[ao3 link]

BigB's stuck in time. Standing in front of Cleo’s body floating in the water, wishing she'd come back and yell at him already. He numbly places a chest on the shore, and trudges back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, collecting Cleo’s inventory, and he thinks he can fix this. It’s not that bad, when you think about it. It wasn't even him, really, it was the curse. All he has to do is be extra nice and give them so many gifts and tell them how sorry he is. How awful he feels. How he’s not sure if he’ll ever forgive himself.

Suddenly he's surrounded by people, but none of them are helping. Ren’s freaking out about being oblivious, Jimmy’s shaming him, Martyn’s suggesting exile, and where is Cleo she should be here by now.

“You turned against your own!” Martyn points out. Lizzie puts a hand up to cover her mouth like she's going to vomit, and BigB’s heart rate spikes as he realizes he's going to lose her too. Martyn smirks as he asks her how she could ever trust BigB again. B looks around for Cleo, because they could shut Martyn up with a word, because she could shame him till he ran back to the Southlands. But she's not there.

That’s when BigB realizes she’s not coming back. Not even to collect her things. He won't get to be nice, or give gifts, or even say sorry. Cleo’s never going to trust him again.

No one's ever going to trust him again. Because Cleo never did anything to him. Because Cleo was the closest ally he’s ever had. Because he loves Cleo. Because he deserves it. Because he never should have let her trust him in the first place.

Grian and Scar are stuck in the desert, Ren and Martyn are stuck in winter. BigB’s stuck in the worst moment of his life. Standing on the shore, dripping blood and river water, realizing he can’t be trusted.

#bigb #bigbstatz #bigbst4tz2 #my writing #zombiecleo #life series fanfic #life series fic #last life fic #last life

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kalkiesoo · 2 years

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thinking about how last life scott won for pearl and how double life scott lost for pearl.

I want double life pearl and last life scott to meet bc they were winners. can someone write a fic about it??

just imagine last life scott looking at double life pearl and remembering his teammate, the person that he stayed with the entire season, loyal to each other. the one who died before him and the one that he avenged by killing ren and winning for her.

imagine double life pearl looking at last life scott and remembering her soulbound, the one that she lost before they even met and gained again when everyone was against them. the one that sacrificed himself for her, the one that she had forgiven.

#double life smp #last life smp #dlsmp scott #double life scott #double life pearl #dlsmp pearl #last life scott #last life pearl #trafficblr #double life fic #last life fic #life series

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underground-monarch · 2 years

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“Oh, damn!” Martyn said suddenly, slapping his knee in frustration; the others stared at him, concerned. “We should’ve given Grian and Mumbo a send-off! Argh, I didn’t think of that…” As he spoke, he pulled some kind of copper telescope out of his pocket - a trinket like nothing Taurtis had ever seen before - and held it to his eye, looking out of the doorway at the shadowed walls of the fort. “I could’ve said, like… ‘it’s a shame we have to p-aha-rt like this’!”

Impulse and Jimmy laughed groaningly, lightening the atmosphere in the room just a little.

“Ohh, good one!” Impulse praised Martyn.

Taurtis looked back and forth between the three other men, frowning lightly.

“Oh right, of course…!” Noticing Taurtis’s confusion, Martyn passed him the telescope.

Taurtis took it slowly, unsure what to do with it.

“It’s a spyglass,” Martyn explained eagerly. “Now, look at me through it and say ‘aha’!”

Hesitantly, Taurtis lifted the glass to his eye and pointed it at Martyn; it zoomed in unflatteringly close on the man’s face, and Taurtis couldn’t help the smile that started to pull at his mouth because of how stupid he looked. “Aha…?”

The other three cheered loudly, startling him a little, and Taurtis grinned wider, pointing the spyglass at Jimmy, and then at Impulse. ”Aha! Aha!”

“You’ve got it, you’ve got it!” Martyn laughed, at the same time as Jimmy elatedly yelled, “He said the thing!”

It wasn’t really that funny, but the pure joy that it brought to the three Southlanders was contagious, and then Taurtis was laughing too.

Curse of the Covenant chapter 5 is out now! Read it here!

#mdbb #multidimensional big bang #mcyt #last life #last life smp #the southlanders #last life southlands #last life fic #last life fanfic #last life fanfiction #evo smp #evolution smp #taurtis #martyn littlewood #inthelittlewood #martyn inthelittlewood #jimmy solidarity #solidaritygaming #impulsesv

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b-dubs-valdubs · 1 year

Note

30 with ll!ethubs? 👀

here you go!

angst prompts

30: "You're okay. You've got to be okay. You've got to be. You're okay. Please. Please be okay."

fic under the cut, or you can read on ao3

reblogs appreciated! <3

CW: SHIPPING, BLOOD, DEATH

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

Etho's footsteps thudded in the dirt, beating the grass down into the mud with every stride. His sword was by his side; he wasn't taking any chances.

At last he scaled the small hill, mud melting into stone, barren and bare. Standing alone, red jumper stained with blood, was Grian.

At the sound of Etho's footfalls, he turned around, grinning maniacally.

There was blood splattered across his face.

"I see you got my message," Grian purred, stalking closer to Etho.

Etho kept his gaze forward, focused. "I have what you asked. Let me see him first, and I will give you what you want."

Grian hummed, before leading Etho behind a stony peak, and into a small ditch. Etho's breath caught in his throat, throwing the diamond towards Grian before running down the sloping walls, slipping on the coarse dirt that lay there, causing mini avalanches as a wave of emotion threatened to drown him.

In the centre of the ditch was a body.

If the quiet whimpers coming from him were any indication, he was still alive.

Etho overturned him in his hands, resting the body's head carefully against his thigh. The body's face was littered with bruises and cuts, and his general complexion was ragged and torn. A hole in his abdomen was sticky with blood, as red as life itself, as red as love itself.

"Bee... Bdubs..." Etho whispered.

Bdubs squinted, blinking slowly in the pale sunlight. "E... tho..." he smiled, showing his missing tooth and curling into the embrace as much as he could. He laughed: breathy, weak, gentle. "Am... am I dead?"

Etho swallowed down the lump in his throat. "No... no... you're not dead Bubs... you're okay... you're here and you're safe."

Bdubs hummed gently, seemingly content. "I-"

A cough ripped its way out of his throat, bubbling blood into Bdubs's mouth. He furrowed his brow, making small noises of displeasure, but Etho was quick to shush them, pressing their foreheads together.

"Hey..." Etho tried to comfort, his own voice becoming shaky, "You're okay... You've got to be okay... You've got to be... You're... You're okay..."

This close, Etho could hear Bdubs's shuddering breath. A breath that couldn't be saved. No matter how hard he tried, the server wouldn't let him lay down his own life, in exchange for bringing Bdubs back from the cold embrace of death.

Etho didn't know if it was merciful, or torturous, that the server allowed Bdubs to stay alive for just a little while longer.

Warm drops splashed onto Bdubs's forehead, rushing out like a waterfall, but as soft as the dew on a spring sunrise. He pulled away slightly, watching Etho, with an expression contorted into worry.

"Don't cry..." he croaked, "It's okay, Etho, I'm here."

Etho watched, helpless. The red in Bdubs's eyes was slowly flickering out, embers left over from a blazing bonfire, slowly charring black.

"Please..." Etho begged. To whom? Some merciful deity, if they even existed in this damned world? To himself, a silent wish, carried away in the wind to deaf ears?

Or to Bdubs: a prayer that he would stay, that he would hold on, that he wouldn't slip away?

In the end, it was futile to even try.

"Please be okay..." he whispered, barely mustering the strength to call out, to scream at the gods above and curse them for taking Bdubs away from him.

A soft inhale from below him, and through teary eyes Etho saw a last fleck of red.

"I love-"

The last of the fire had burned, leaving behind the crusted jewels, staining shining white fabric.

How long could Etho lay, beside the wilting roses?

#ethubs #ethoslab #bdoubleo100 #etho #bdubs #last life #last life fic #shipping #mossy writing #tw blood #tw death

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p-011-yn · 8 months

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The Corner of Oblivion

“There’s an afterlife, right?” Martyn asks softly after another wave of silence.

“If there is, what would that change?” Grian asks in response. “Would it be better if there was?”

“I don’t know,” Martyn admits. “At least then we could see them again. Y’know, meet up at the corner of oblivion.” He tries letting out a laugh at the prospect, but it comes out strained and sounding like more of a scoff.

Grian takes the bait, though, laughing in a way that showcases no humor or amusement. “Yeah,” he sighs. “Corner of oblivion.” There’s resentment in the sound, though Martyn knows it’s not meant for him.

The conversation ends there, and the two of them spend the next half hour or so just sitting together, looking up at the stars.

They don’t know it, but that’s the last time Martyn will see Grian alive.

#martyn inthelittlewood #last life fic #grian #fanfiction #last life

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hermitblurbs · 2 years

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A continuation of my Steampunk AU (6)!

Scar’s turned idle for maintenance. It’s been about half a month before he brought up a dripping oil pipe, and Grian finds himself staring at the bot’s two-toned face. They really do look like scars, raised and pale against the planes of his cheeks.

The newest addition to their team, Jellie, is asleep on a worktable behind them all and rattling pens with her purrs.

Grian hops off the table he’s on himself, closing the distance to brush a knuckle against Scar’s cheek to check if the metal’s warm. Having been scavenging and generally being around him for nearly every minute he was awake—Mumbo banned Scar from the workshop after one too many clumsy accidents, so Scar was his—it was bizarre to see him so lifeless again.

It felt wrong, to hold a hand in front of that metal grin and feel no breath from it. He’s usually so full of personality, but his eyes are dull and dilated, and his chest is open while Mumbo works.

He’s just a bot. Someone programmed to be likable and easy to talk to. He’s not anything important.

Don’t get him wrong, Grian’s gotten attached to bots before. There was Grumbot, the little, trashy fortune teller bot Mumbo patched up and then burnt out. There was N.P.C, the simulator that glitched onto an obsessivity with rustic homes.

Scar felt different. Feels different.

His voice changes, ever so slightly, when he wants to smile more than the metal will allow him. And when he gets super excited, the whirr of his fan gets louder and his speech comes faster until it’s almost incomprehensible.

It makes him feel warm, even in the sticky chill of the wastes.

“Where do you think he came from, Mumbo?” He asks, turning his attention to the mechanic.

“I thought you pulled him out of the wastes yourself, mate,” he replies, working on extracting the faulty line in Scar’s chest. His core is ticking steadily, a healthy beat to match the churning of mystery liquid inside.

…Maybe more oil?

He doesn’t care, actually. Redstone wants him dead.

“Well, yes, from the wastes, but I mean before that.”

“Maybe he came from outer space,” Mumbo says, and Grian has to grin.

“What?!”

“Don’t you reckon it was aliens who dump a bunch of mystery metals outside the bubble?” He asks, matching Grian’s smile. “Think about it. It makes perfect sense.”

“Aliens destroyed the world?”

“Definitely. Metal? 100% alien.”

Grian hears the clicks of his wings settling, and he tips his head back and laughs.

“Makes sense as to why the government’s banned him then.”

“Yeah, why he’s—” Mumbo breaks the momentum of the conversation, looking to Grain with his eyes behind his ridiculous googles. “Oh, that’s not part of the bit. He is?”

“…yes? Honestly I don’t see why, maybe something with the uncanny valley.” He punctuates the muse with the clatter of a dozen metal doodads, trying to make space to lean an elbow on the worktable.

“I’ll keep that in mind. I mean, it’s not like the laws are in place for a reason to keep us safe or anything! No, not at all,” Mumbo laughs.

“It’s too late to put him back.”

“I know.” His voice dips, and there’s all that worry Mumbo keeps in his chest. “He brought us a cat.”

“And it’s Scar. He’s more likely to hurt himself than anyone else. First law of robotics and all, those have been around forever.”

Mumbo’s frown doesn’t disappear, and Grian finds uncertainty worming through his mind in turn.

Why were androids banned?

#blurb #steampunk au #hermitcraft #grian #gtws #mumbo jumbo #desert duo #hermitcraft fic #3rd life fic #last life fic #3rd life last life fic #double life fic #gtwscar #goodtimeswithscar #claps hands

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boatemhole · 2 years

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mem·o·ry /ˈmem(ə)rē/ - something remembered from the past; a recollection. Or, the two winners of the life games are doomed to remember.

a collab i did with my friend @whoopsijustdied! we tried out a transcript style for this oneshot and it was a ton of fun :D

#3rd life smp #last life smp #grian #smajor1995 #3rd life fic #last life fic #boatem archives

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honeysuckle-limeade · 2 years

Link

Chapter 4 of the cod boy au is up!! Written with @hermitblurbs, we haven’t abandoned this one, I promise.

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gutsby · 2 months

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Homemade

Pairing: dbf!Joel x Reader

Summary: While your dad’s watching a movie downstairs, you and his best friend decide to make one of your own.

Warnings: 18+. Sneaky sex tape fun with dbf!Joel ;-) Unprotected p-in-v. Age gap. Daddy kink. Facefucking. Joel being the world’s worst cameraman. Shower sex. Overstimulation via adjustable shower head. Dirty talk. Screaming ‘daddy’ too loud, and your father shows up.

Translations: In Chile, pico is slang for penis. Joel’s is big.

Part of the Waiting Game series

“If this ever ends up on PornHub, I’ll kill you, Miller.”

Joel knew you meant it, too.

The only reason you’d agreed to make this dumb little ‘home video’ at all was because you were headed back to college tomorrow and wouldn’t see him again until May. Doing long distance was tough, but doing long distance while simultaneously trying to keep a risqué, torrid, and totally-not-age-appropriate love affair with your father’s best friend under wraps was infinitely more difficult. This was the safest way to keep desire alive in the meantime.

Immortalized on a Sony CCD-TR70—because neither one of you trusted iCloud to keep a sex tape secret.

It had also been the only video camera you could find in the closet before your dad had plopped down on the couch just outside your room and announced he would be watching Oppenheimer for the third time. You’d had to scurry off fast before he could invite you to join him.

“I’ll be damned—this thing’s gotta be as old as I am,” Joel mused as he stood at the foot of the bed, camcorder pointed at your semi-nude form.

“I didn’t know they had cameras back in the Stone Age.”

Your smirk didn't flinch, even when Joel flipped you off.

You were lying on your side, head propped up on one hand while the other picked at a few loose strings from the comforter. The lacy, pastel pink bustier holding your tits in place was currently making breathing feel like a chore, and your skin was on fire from the warmth of the room, but you tried not to show it. Joel twisted a dial.

“Alright, now...flash ‘em for daddy,” he grinned as soon as the lens focused in where he wanted: your cleavage.

You rolled your eyes.

“A little closer, please,” you said, patting the space in front of you.

Joel didn’t need to be told twice. With one hand still cradling the camera, he clambered over the bed so fast he nearly tripped and took a nosedive in the headboard. You had to cover your mouth to contain a shriek of laughter—and terror—as his frame barreled into yours.

“JOEL!”

Fortunately, your cameraman was quick to recollect himself, planting a knee on either side of your chest once he’d knocked you onto your back. Then, from above, he angled the grey-black hunk of metal just a foot away:

“Anything you’d like to say to the folks watching at home, ma’am?” Joel inquired, suddenly assuming all the poise and matter-of-fact elocution of a news reporter.

You stuck your tongue out at the camera and blew the wettest, fattest raspberry you could muster in response.

Joel hummed, zoomed in on your lips, and nodded.

“Fascinating,” he said, pretending to make sense of the fart noise you’d just made with your mouth, “Have you ever given thought to maybe...sucking cock on camera?”

The swiftness with which he was able to dodge your kick was remarkable. He swayed the camera just out of reach before you could shove it away and say, ‘Joel, quit being GROSS’ and he promptly replied, ‘Ain’t that the whole point of a sex tape, sweet pea? Bein’ a little bit gross?’ And you playfully tried to kick him again, only this time, he caught your foot and yanked you closer to him. He turned the camcorder back to your face and grinned.

“That’s my little pornstar,” he murmured with affection. Then, zooming in again, this time to find your panty line, “Riiiiight there.”

You knew giving Joel Miller recording privileges for an occasion as momentous as this was a bad idea. At the rate you were going now, you’d be seeing the sunrise through the window before you ever got a glimpse of his dick. You needed to take matters into your own hands.

Literally.

You crawled on all fours to get to Joel across the bed.

The man, kneeling with the camera pointed in your direction, looked up to cock a brow at you.

“Sweetheart, hey, can ya do that one more—”

“Hush,” you muttered, closing in on his crotch.

Your head was lowered so you could undo the front of his jeans. Because of this, your back was arched, and your ass was pointed up just the slightest bit. For a second, Joel seemed torn between tilting the lens to your lower half or your face, which was inching ever closer to the bulge in his trousers. In time, he landed on the latter.

He swallowed. That sight never got old—and seeing it displayed on the camcorder’s semi-grainy screen only made it that much hotter. Joel shifted on his knees while you worked him out of his boxers, watching the nimble movements of your fingers as you wrestled the fabric.

“Wanna—” Glancing to the side of the bed, “—maybe—”

“Yup.”

Both of you liked it better on the floor: you on your knees in front of Joel, chin tilted up to see his reactions as you sucked him off. You loved to sink between his legs and then see and feel nothing but him, brain going blank the moment his cock filled your mouth. Joel slid a pillow under your knees before widening his stance some.

“Is it on?” Your hand was wrapped firmly around the base of his cock and your lips were hovering an inch from the tip. You resisted the urge to lick the precum off just yet.

“Darlin’, it’s been on ever since you stepped outta the bathroom in that— that—” Joel seemed to be searching for a word when the head of his cock was enveloped in a kiss. You dragged your tongue across the slit of him and collected the hot, salty beads with a muffled moan.

Then you pulled off.

“Teddy,” you said, reminding him of the name for that pretty little tulle and lace getup you currently had on.

“Teddy,” Joel echoed, his mind a million miles away from any lingerie jargon at the moment. He held the camera tighter as you took him back into your mouth and sank deeper on his cock. He struggled to keep it steady.

It was strange, watching Joel and the rounded glass of the lens as you did this dirty thing that was only meant to be shared between you and him. Knowing it would be recorded, saved for future viewing, displayed on some dimly lit screen in Joel’s bedroom maybe one, twice, or more likely than not, several dozen times over the next three months. You wondered how you might look from this new point of view; though, you weren’t so sure you needed to know what sight Joel was made privy to while you sucked and hollowed your cheeks around his cock.

As it turned out, that uncertainty wasn’t meant to last you very long, because Joel flipped the camera’s screen around two seconds later. Some sepia-tinted, pixelated rendition of your face, framed by the date and time and a bright red flashing dot beside the word ‘REC’ were the first to greet you. You flinched back just a little.

“Joel,” you said, almost bashful, “Flip it back.”

Joel just grinned. Then he laced his fingers through your hair and tugged you closer to him, thumb stroking over your scalp, “C’mon, darlin’, don’t ya wanna see how goddamn pretty ya look on your knees for me?”

You didn’t think you looked pretty at all. In fact, you reckoned your features looked something more like an alien utility funnel than a real, human face as you tilted your chin inward and seemed to be nothing but eyes and a hollowed-out expression, but you let Joel guide you back onto him all the same. You heard a low rumble of pleasure take shape in his chest as your lips slid over his shaft. Your gaze remained glued to the screen as you did.

Wet with saliva and a few faint traces of precum, you continued to bob your head up and down. Joel’s groans grew louder, and your drive to take him further and further surged as well. By the time his hand was tightening into a white-knuckled fist in your hair, you’d nearly taken him all the way to the back of your throat, and your nose was no more than an inch from the soft tufts of hair on his belly. Joel let out a shuttering breath.

“Fuck me,” he heaved. You might’ve smiled if your lips weren’t otherwise occupied. Then he clenched his hand even harder and murmured, “Can you— can I, please—”

Again, you didn’t need him to finish the rest of the question to know what he wanted. You moved your head back just slightly to nod, a low, ‘Mhmm’ reverberating down the length of his dick as you gave him permission. Joel swallowed and set the camera aside immediately.

He placed it on the nightstand, perfectly level with your head, to the side. Then he rotated the device just a bit, took one glance at the screen, and shortly returned to where you were watching him with wide, glossy eyes.

“Ready?” he asked. His right hand now joined the left at the back of your head, but not before thumbing a quick touch over your cheek to get a feel for your approval.

You hummed once more. You watched Joel’s hips move forward, hands secure around your scalp all the while, and you felt a gentle nudge at the back of your throat. Then another. You couldn’t help the impulse to gag, but thankfully, it was short-lived. Joel peered down at you, eyes searching yours for any plea to stop or slow down, but he found nothing. He sheathed himself deeper until your lips were brushing the base of his dick. He groaned.

“That’s a good…fuckin’ girl,” he managed, voice strained, “Takin’ my cock so deep.”

He shifted his hips to move an inch or two out, then slid his cock forward again, bumping that spot at the top of your throat. This time, you were better adjusted to take him and felt your muscles expand and contract around him without activating your gag reflex. Your eyes stayed trained on his face while he dragged his cock back again.

“My pretty girl and her—” Joel stabbed back into you, somehow tender in the way he did it, “—pretty fuckin’ mouth…Sweet thing likes gettin’ facefucked, does she?”

With the increased pace of his thrusts and the grip he had on the sides of your head, you couldn’t quite answer, but Joel could tell from the glint in your eye that you loved when he manhandled and fucked your throat like this. Watched the light sear gently behind those irises as you swallowed every inch of his cock, back and forth, and let your brain break down to little more than a happy, mindless mush. Joel was always keen to oblige you on that front—aroused to no end at the sight of all your thoughts being fucked straight out of your head—and within the next few thrusts, his gut was giving a familiar clench. He pulled halfway out of your mouth, paused, felt the pinch again, then withdrew from your lips fully.

“Get on the bed.”

You straightened back up and made it over to the mattress, quickly. Before you could assume the position you’d been hoping to take on all fours, you felt yourself flipped on your back. Joel yanked your hips to the edge of the bed and kneeled down between your legs. Hooked his fingers under the waistband of your panties and had them shuffled down your thighs and past your ankles in no time at all. Then, when he lowered his lips to your wet, aching core, you pressed a touch to the crown of his head.

“Joel, wait,” you said. All of a sudden your chest felt tight.

In spite of the fact that your airways were open and completely free from any obstruction—namely, Joel’s big ol’ pico—you still found it difficult to inhale. Some murky, amorphous sense of anxiety weighed over your chest.

When your hand didn’t move from his head and instead pushed him further, Joel furrowed his brows, perplexed.

“What’s’a matter, darlin’?”

You shook your head, more to yourself than to him.

“I haven’t…just— haven’t washed down there today…o-or shaved,” you stammered, “Don’t want you to taste it.”

That was largely a lie. You’d bathed, shaved, and prepared for this just fine, but really were more concerned about the novel optics that loomed overhead. Being filmed in such a singularly vulnerable state without knowing how to act. You were fine when the attention was focused on Joel and his pleasure, but something about having your every whimper and moan laid bare before you on film felt daunting. Unnerving, in a way.

Joel frowned while rubbing your thigh. His brow pinched inward again, as if he were considering something.

Then he moved across your body, and your muscles eased with relief at the thought that he’d just let it go and get to fucking you exactly how you wanted. You reached for him, ready to wrap your legs around his waist, when a yelp clawed out of your throat. You found that you didn’t get to touch his chest, or his cheeks, or his big, broad, beefy shoulders, as you were promptly thrown over the latter of the three body parts and lifted when Joel stood up from the bed. He started carrying you across the room, heedless of the startled, ‘What the FUCK, Miller?’ you’d cried the second he took one step.

Hardwood floors transformed to tile before your eyes, and shortly, you realized you were being brought into your bathroom.

You heard the squeak of some metal knob being turned, then a brief sputter, then a spray of water raining down on your shower floor. You were still being held hostage over Joel’s shoulder, try as you might to bite at his lower back or smack his ass in an attempt to break loose.

He set you down a second later, seemingly unfazed.

“Get in.” He nodded toward the shower.

Before you had a chance to respond, he left. You stood back in disbelief—refusing to go into the shower and let Joel have his win—but just as you opened your mouth to call out and tell him as much, his form slipped back in through the door. Naked, now, and wielding that stupid, goddamned camcorder with a devious glint in his eye.

“Will you—” You held out a defensive hand in front of you, cheeks already heating, “—stop with that?!”

Secretly, the corners of your lips were fighting a smile as Joel drew closer with the camera held up to your face.

“There she is, folks,” he announced, as though speaking to a crowd, or else reading off of a script from the world’s most cheesy porno, “My dirty, dirty girl says she needs a shower—don’t ya, sweet pea?”

It sounded so ridiculous and dumb that neither one of you could keep from laughing. Even as you lifted your middle finger in response, Joel grinned and smacked your ass. Steadied the camera out in front, nudged you closer to the shower, and watched you somewhat begrudgingly obey his orders. Once you’d stripped what little remained on your body, you stepped into the tub.

Add to ‘ridiculous and dumb’ just wildly unsexy as well—who the hell needed a soapy interlude to a sex tape?

Joel Miller, apparently. He constricted his grip on the camera and followed you in, tongue already skimming the backs of his teeth in anticipation. You turned away to step under the shower’s stream, and he wasted no time getting a shot of your derrière. You leaned forward and sighed.

The water worked wonders to get your muscles to loosen some, but still, you were nervous. You could clean up now, stall a little longer, maybe even offer to give Joel head again—but what if he really wanted to eat you out on camera? You couldn’t put off the conversation forever.

Or another minute, it seemed.

You let out a shriek when you felt Joel’s fingers sneak up between your thighs. You hardly knew what he was doing, just folding limply when he spun you around to press your back against the shower wall. Your eyes widened to see him descending your body once more.

“I lied,” Joel said, smirk painted clear across his features, “You’re not dirty—I just wanted to eat your pussy in the shower ‘s’all.”

Chivalry was evidently alive and well in Austin, Texas.

No truer words could have been spoken, and yet, you felt wildly uncomfortable the second Joel’s head dipped between your legs and that big, dumb, handsome face started licking stripes up your sensitive core. You cast a glance to the side and saw the camcorder perched on the sink—just through the open slit in the shower curtain, you could see it pointed directly at you.

You shivered and started to push Joel away.

“Can we maybe just—”

“Sweetie?!”

Joel’s lips tore out of your cunt quicker than a sneeze through a screen door. His eyes were wide.

“Y-Yeah, dad?” you squeaked, tone almost fearful.

“Everything okay in here? I heard ya scream,” your dad returned shortly.

You could only imagine the expression of confusion and distress painting his every lineament in that moment. Probably just barely sticking his head through the crack in the door and blinking anxiously through the steam.

Your dad was caring like that.

He just never knew the right times to show up.

No, there were very few times where you would’ve liked to see him less—apart from that one time you’d sucked Joel’s dick under the table at your dad’s birthday dinner. Your heart was thudding a wild, erratic beat in your chest, and you could only imagine how Joel was feeling. Probably seeing visions of a Size 11 boot being shoved up his ass if his friend happened to slide the shower curtain to the side and see him nose-deep in his daughter’s box.

That would be bad. So very, very bad and probably ten times worse than when Tommy had caught you blowing his brother at the aforementioned birthday party. You just couldn’t seem to catch a break these days.

You sucked in a breath and answered anyway.

“I thought I saw a spider.”

“Really?” You could already sense the embittered tinge to your dad’s voice, harking back to the war he’d once declared on all wolf spiders in the home, “Want me to kill it?”

The next thing you heard was two boots thud on the bathroom floor outside the shower, and you could’ve sworn you saw Joel’s whole soul leap from his body. He shot a frantic look around him, spotted a window above, and seemed to wonder for half a second if he might be able to shimmy his 188-pound frame through a space that probably wasn’t big enough to fit a fat raccoon. He slumped his weight against the shower wall and winced.

“No! I— It wasn’t even a spider. Just a…roach.”

Shortly, Joel’s eyes widened even more and met yours, as if to ask, ‘Why the FUCK would you say that?’

“A roach?!” your dad cried simultaneously.

Apparently, you’d forgotten that any derivative of the word ‘cockroach’ was like a sleeper agent activation phrase for middle-aged fathers who wanted to keep their homes free of all household pests. The look on Joel’s haggard, world-weary face communicated as much to you, and for a second, you remembered that he, too, was built the same way as any other semi-old dude you knew.

Just bigger and beefier and…harder below the belt than you would’ve expected most men around his age to be.

You quickly chided yourself for ogling Joel’s dick at a time like this and replied to your father, shrill, “No!”

Then, slightly more composed, “No, no— I already took it out with some hairspray and told it to fuck off to hell.”

An attempt at humor was the last leg you had to stand on. Fortunately, it worked.

Outside the shower, your dad chuckled, and his footsteps started to shuffle off toward the door.

“Ah. Atta girl,” he beamed, ever the advocate for brutal cockroach killings, “If you see another, just holler, okay?”

“Okay.”

You heard the sound of the bathroom door closing, and you almost fell to the floor. Joel probably would’ve been facedown just as well—fear seeping out of his body along with every last ounce of willpower to stand—had he not made a dive for you as soon as your dad had left.

The force of his push sent you straight into the wall, legs forced to wrap around his waist as he buried his face in your neck.

“Thank fuck,” he breathed.

“You’re welcome,” you murmured, swiping the water out of your eyes with a grimace.

Then, just as you were about to request that Joel lower you back down to the floor and out of the shower’s spray, you felt a nudge between your legs. Luckily not a tongue this time—just Joel, or the tip of his leaking cock. The man below you grinned, and for the first time in a long time, you felt a wash of relief. Could it be?

“I’ll still eat you out if y’want,” he started, though speaking with a little less conviction this time around, “But after all that I, uh—kinda jus’ wanna fuck ya stupid.”

Well thank fuck for fake spiders and cockroaches, too; you’d just averted a dreaded tonguefuck, thanks to that detour.

You’d worry about your pornstar moans and on-camera charisma another time—now you could just sit back and let Joel do all the work while he took you against the wall.

Really, there was no need to concern yourself with anything at all from that point forward. Once you’d given Joel the green light, he was sinking you onto his cock with a grunt and making sure you felt nothing but him. His hands found your hips and held you firmly in place as he rutted into you from below, your own fingers latching onto his shoulders for some much-needed support. Both of you knew that you needed to be extra quiet now—seeing how sound seemed to carry in that tight, tiled space—so Joel snagged your lips in his for a kiss.

He was practically panting in your mouth by the time you started meeting his thrusts. His fingertips slid some and must’ve seared ten perfect crescents into the flesh of your ass as he fucked you into the wall.

“Look so pretty like this,” he whispered in between kisses and short, shallow breaths. His cock parted your insides with an excruciating welt of pleasure, and he hardly even seemed to realize it, “Look so damn pretty takin’ cock.”

Then, lips kicking up in a smile when it seemed he’d remembered something, he added, “Can’t wait to play this tape back home and watch us fuck all over again.”

Again. Again. And again. Shit, you could just see it now.

Your eyes traversed the compact shower space once more to find the video camera—still perched, still live, still perfectly implacable and silent atop the sink as it recorded your every grunt, groan, and shuddering moan. You were nearly as curious to know what Joel’s bare ass looked like rutting into you like this as you were to hear yourself getting railed against the shower wall. Maybe you’d beat this fear of secondhand embarrassment after all.

Maybe.

Joel’s teeth snagged your bottom lip and bit it, lightly.

“Every chance I get, you can bet I’ll be thinkin’ ‘bout this…sweet pussy while you’re away,” he said, voice low and occasionally punctured by a groan, “Say one more thing f’me and I’ll…cum every time I watch this part.”

The kinks at the corners of his lips were endearing. You would’ve liked to supply them with just about anything they could’ve wanted, so when they leaned into your ear and murmured just what it was they needed to hear, you only hesitated a second.

Or maybe two or three, because, well…it was risky.

Moaning ‘daddy’ out loud at a time like this? It might get Joel off quick, but it might send your real dad running even faster. You weren’t crazy about the thought of anything that might draw the man’s attention again.

Joel seemed a little less risk-averse than you, notwithstanding the window-leaping fear he’d felt when your dad had rushed in before. Leave it to a criminally horny man to have the memory of a goldfish, though.

At present, Joel was blinking and gawking a bit like one, too, waiting for you to enunciate that one magic word.

You couldn’t deny he made a damn cute desperate sex fiend when he wanted to be. And you needed to cum.

You figured you could cut a deal with him just this once.

“Alright,” you mumbled against the top of his stubbled lip, “Make me cum and I’ll say anything you want, Miller.”

You weren’t sure if it was a chuckle or a strangled moan that jumped up in his throat when Joel squeezed your sides tighter. All you knew was that he was lowering you to the floor in the next instant, spinning you around, and walking you forward, swiftly and with purpose, toward the opposite end of the shower. Right where the crack in the curtain made you most visible to the camcorder.

Joel’s hand snaked around your front and gently eased between your legs. Then, pressing his chest to your back and nudging you to bend just slightly at the waist, he tipped your bodies closer to the camera’s line of vision and stilled. From the LED screen, you could see the ghost of a smile crossing his lips as he shifted his head beside your own. Next, they were kissing across your shoulder, your neck, that sensitive spot behind your ear, and finally the shell of it, brown eyes trained on the camera lens as he murmured to you, “Stay real still.”

You didn’t know if you could. But you tried. And you damn near cried when his fingers started working circles over your clit. Your body was raised on tip-toes, and your hand was bracing the wall as Joel fucked you from behind and made a mess of your wet, writhing body. In no more than three or four strokes, your fears of looking or sounding stupid on camera trickled away with all the rest of the silent, sizzling liquids circling the drain below. Your cheek pressed against Joel’s rougher one, and with the push of each new thrust, you came more unraveled.

When Joel’s hand closed over the front of your throat, you didn’t flinch. Didn’t move—couldn’t move, as the man was holding you still in such a taut, rigid grip.

“What do we say when we get fucked this nice, baby?” Joel whispered in your ear, words almost entirely masked by the sounds from the shower. You still heard it, though.

“T-Thank you,” you stuttered, cockdrunk and faint.

“Thank you, what?”

Your eyes were fluttering closed, but you could feel the smug expression just over your shoulder. You clenched around him and felt him snap his hips ahead even harder.

“Thank you, daddy,” you whimpered.

“Say it again.”

“Thank you, daddy!” you whined, still scared to be too loud.

Joel wasn’t scared. His hand ascended the column of your neck to pinch your chin between his fingers, jerking your head to the right.

To the crack in the curtain. To the camera.

You could’ve cried with how fast he was fucking you now. You opened your eyes and cast a pathetic look to the recorder. Joel made sure you maintained that gaze, too.

“Who’s makin’ ya feel this good?” he seethed, shaking your whole frame with the breakneck pace of his hips.

“You, daddy.”

“Who’s fuckin’ this sweet cunt like no one ever has?”

“You, daddy.”

Joel seemed sated and somehow not fully satisfied at all. Like he was pleased to see you falling apart for him like this, but needed to hear more. Feel more.

He withdrew from you, and you nearly collapsed with the absence of his arms holding you straight.

You pressed a shaky palm to the wall and almost moaned for him to get his ass back over here, you weren’t done, when Joel returned in a second. To your relief, his muscly arms found their way around your front once more, and his clock plunged back inside you, too—only this time, you sensed you were missing something else.

Water.

It wasn’t on your back anymore.

It was fanning between your legs.

Blasting the full force of its stream toward your most sensitive parts as Joel held the shower head up between your thighs. You would’ve jumped back and screamed were it not for his hand clamping tight over your mouth before you could, his lips grazing over your ear again.

“Try it one more time.”

You released a hoarse, muffled squeal into his palm when he lifted the stainless steel to your clit and started rolling his hips. The strokes themselves were relatively gentle, but paired with the ruthless spate of the water, your eyes were nearly rolling to the back of your head at the pulse.

You couldn’t breathe, much less speak. Joel hummed almost apologetically into your hair but didn’t seem sorry at all as he lowered his hand back down to your throat and squeezed. He continued rocking his hips into yours.

“You’ve said it dozens of times before—what’s’a matter?”

Joel Miller knew what the fuck was the matter. He just liked to see you desperate, fucked-out, and teetering on the brink of going feral before he let you reach your peak.

“D-D-D—”

Damn, you sounded stupid.

“D-D-Do you wanna cum? Is that it?” Joel said, mocking your struggle to articulate words as he fucked you.

In spite of your normal no-bullshit attitude toward him, you weren’t in quite the right frame of mind to be talking back to him. You just nodded and moaned, movements constricted by the grip of his fingers on your neck.

“Use those big girl words for me, honey. I know ya can.”

Again, you parted your lips and started to speak, but the oscillation of the water, the brush of his cock, the patently deprecating lilt in Joel’s string of praises, made it nearly impossible. You ended up sputtering again,

“D-D-ah-fuuuckfuckfuck.”

“That ain’t the word I’m looking for.”

But, just as you ventured to say it once more, he cut in,

“Here. Lemme help ya find it.”

Before you could blink, Joel was pistoning his hips against your ass like he had before, only this time, he held the shower head stationary between your legs as you seized and nearly fell to the floor with the force of all the pleasure coursing through you. Your body seemed to act of its own accord, head dropping to Joel’s shoulder and stomach giving an alarmingly fitful pinch as an orgasm tore through you. You couldn’t control how it came or where it went—or how your tongue jumped up and cried,

“Daddy!”

Joel nodded, fucking you through each violent spasm with all the composure and aplomb of a seasoned pro. While your eyes cycled back in the throes of delirium, he held firm and didn’t slow his hips—or the shower head.

You probably could’ve torn a hole through a cinder block if you’d happened to have one between your teeth just then. That was how fervid and merciless the aftershocks of your climax were pulsing through you, exacerbated to the nth degree by the continuity of Joel’s movements. You managed to grab the forearm that was holding the metal nozzle and plead a wild, slightly stifled, “JOEL!”

In truth, you didn’t really want him to stop. It felt too good. You could tell that Joel sensed this, too, because in the instant after that, his lips were sponging kisses to your shoulder, cock working steadily between your walls.

“One more, sweet pea.”

“Joel—”

“And say it louder this time.”

Were you in your right mind, you probably would’ve chided him for being so reckless and stupid about it all. How the fuck could he expect you to scream out loud when your dad was lounging right outside of your room? Did he really think the drone of Cillian Murphy’s smooth, American-ized tone would mask your unbridled moans? Honestly, you couldn’t be sure—and more importantly, you couldn’t be stopped to consider for much longer. With one last trembling vibration from the shower head and a thrust from Joel, you were cumming all over again.

Squeezing his arm, sinking into his sturdy frame, clenching over his cock in what felt like a hundred convulsions, and casting caution aside, you screamed:

“DADDY!”

You might’ve blacked out for a second or two.

Even a minute, as it was, because the next intelligible thing that reached your ears was the thunder of footfalls. And the thrum of Joel’s own hammering heart as he yanked you into his chest and stilled frozen inside you.

The door swung open on its hinges so hard it hit the wall.

“What is it, sweetie?!” your dad yelped.

“I—”

“Are you hurt?”

Just fucked raw by your best friend and shaking, Pops.

You sucked in a breath when Joel nudged your head with his nose and slowly pulled the shower curtain closed to move you out of view of the camera. But it was still there.

Your dad was still there.

The shower walls seemed to be closing in on you, but somehow, you managed, “No, dad, I’m fine! Just…coulda sworn I saw another spider in here, but it was nothing.”

“Are you sure?”

Your dad sounded unconvinced, pacing closer. You could’ve screamed, but Joel was likely holding you too tight to make any such sounds possible in that moment. The two of you recoiled, still stuck chest-to-back, away from the edge of the plastic shower liner when a boot thudded just outside the crack between curtain and wall.

You swallowed. Joel squeezed. Neither of you breathed.

“If it’s another roach, I gotta call the extermin—”

“No! No, it wasn’t a roach. I’m just seein’ things, I think.”

That didn’t seem to make your father feel any better, because he didn’t retreat like he had before. A tense moment fell over the compact, fog-infested room, like the man was chewing away at some thought in his head.

Then he sighed.

“Alright.”

Blissful footsteps away from the shower. You smiled.

Unfortunately, the grin was destined to be short-lived, because in the next instant, you heard boots screech to a halt on the tile. Pivoted, then paused where they stood.

Another gut-wrenching dozen seconds passed, and for one short, chilling moment, you could’ve sworn you felt your father’s gaze sear through the curtain and see you.

But he didn’t see you. Or Joel. Or anyone.

Instead, his gaze was fixed someplace else.

Suddenly, his voice rose above all the awful noises of clamor and panic in your brain, and broke out, loudly,

“What’s my camera doin’ in here?”

#TO THE CREATIVE MINDS WHO BROUGHT THIS MAN’S BUSH TO TELEVISION…..I OWE Y’ALL MY LIFE #it took COURAGE and TENACITY to decide that showing the happy trail was essential to the narrative #joel miller #joel miller tlou #joel miller smut #joel miller imagine #joel miller one shot #joel miller x reader #joel miller fanfiction #the last of us #tlou #the last of us fic #joel miller x you #dbf!joel #dbf!joel miller

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birrdies · 1 month

Note

47?

from this drabble prompt 'unfair' - etho, last life

Underground, the air is thin. It’s like slowly suffocating, the claustrophobia of being buried alive creeping in inch by inch, crawling like bugs beneath his skin. The ravine’s roof extends on and on, dripstone dangling precariously above his head— yet somehow Etho’s never felt more caged. Trapped. An animal fleeing with a wounded leg, leaving a blood trail in its wake. How did he get here?

Kill a red and you’ll get another life— that was the deal. Bdubs can do it. He has to.

Etho stares at the back of Scott and Cleo’s heads. They’re talking— he should be listening. There has to be a game plan. Next steps. A plan for survival. But his ears are muffled, like the thin ravine air wasn’t enough and there was water all around to drown him. To finish the job.

Because what does he have left? The ruins of a snow castle, wood charred and dirt scorched? The ruins of a life built on shaky trust and dependable uncertainty— the only types of truths in which Etho can deal. An alliance forged by necessity only, loyalty an afterthought— no, there’s no room for loyalty here. Not this late in the game.

Maybe there was never room for it at all. Maybe Etho had been kidding himself to think there could be.

His communicator buzzes on his wrist, the face of the watch lighting up. He waits for the rush of victory— Bdubs had done it. They can be buddies again. But when he lifts his wrist and the watch projects a small screen in front of him, he freezes. Five little red words on a gray, hazy screen.

BdoubleO100 was shot by Grian.

#birdie writes #this is VERY SHORT #but everytime I hear this song I imagine etho standing in silent horror in that ravine #seconds feeling like hours as he realizes that Bdubs is gone for good this time #he's not coming back #and its his fault #ethubs #ethubs fic #last life #last life fic #life series #traffic smp fic #ethoslab #etho fic

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tunastime · 2 years

Text

Hot Tea

Summary:

“Let me over the fence,” Bdubs says, all at once. He turns his head, but not his body, to Etho. Etho looks away, shaking his head.

“I can’t do that.”

“Let me over,” Bdubs says again, and as he sees Etho open his mouth in protest yet again, he lurches forward, stuttering out his words. He nearly knocks the tea out of his own hands. “Just—just for tonight. Just tonight.”

Etho knows he has to divide the base between them. It's the only way to settle, now, knowing everything between them. How Bdubs shouldn't be there. Etho builds the fence. Etho divides them. And Etho divides himself in the process.

(AO3 link)

(2,448 words)

The worst part about the whole situation was that Etho did not want Bdubs to leave. The fence was his idea, just high enough to where if either of them tried anything, it wouldn't be profitable, and just low enough to still meet halfway.

The loneliness set in approximately three days after Etho set the last fence post.

It wasn't even like Bdubs and him were physically apart—aside from a wood railing between them. But Etho felt the emptiness in the space next to him, when he checked the farm, when he sharpened his axe, when he hung the kettle over the stove and willed it to boil, when he looked up, seeing the stars in the sky.

He never knew it would be so hard to look up into his husband's face and expect there to be something else behind red, hungry eyes. It was like Bdubs was possessed by a creature that could never be sated by the bloodshed of one.

Striking flint against steel, Etho lights a fire. It was a dangerous torch in the night, but for this moment of respite he does not care. He lays meat in the red hot coals and hooks the kettle to the rig balanced precariously above the smooth yellow flame.

Bdubs is at the fence in an instant, the flames reflecting in his eyes, casting gaunt shadows on his bruised and healing face.

"Nice of you to keep the fire close to the fence," he chirps, shooting Etho a toothy grin. Etho looks over for only a moment to study the fire in his eyes before he turns away, face morphing into a grimace first then back to neutral in quick succession. He shrugs.

"Figured I could do something for you," he says coolly. He can’t help but smile just a little, though. "It'll be a cold night without it."

"You don't have to pity me," Bdubs says. "Better off without your help."

Etho's eyebrows raise. "I can snuff it out if you prefer—"

"No! No," Bdubs lunges forward, holding to the fence post he had been leaning on. "Don't do that. Don't be like that,"

Etho laughs to himself, casting another throw away glance in Bdubs' direction.

A solemn silence falls over the two of them as Etho works, busying himself. He stokes the fire to keep the coals alive, and Bdubs keeps his back to the fence, soaking in the heat. They partake in an equivalent exchange so often a part of their intertwined lives, whether or not Etho or Bdubs really noticed.

Every so often, Bdubs turns, looking up into the clear sky, tipping himself to lean against the fence posts. He finally stills, eyes turned to the sky, as Etho lifts the pot of water and dried leaves from the flame and settles, precariously, with his cup of tea. The wooden cup is warm in his hands, steam rising from the lip. When he takes the first sip, it’s scorching and bitter, and he swallows with difficulty.

Etho, too, finally looks up, kettle cooling on the coals, still steaming. He speaks softly, as to not startle Bdubs if he were sleeping, but finds that he barely meets a whisper.

"It's clear tonight," he says. He hears Bdubs hum to himself. "I hope it stays that way."

"I don't think it's rained once since we got here," Bdubs says, sitting up. He turns to face Etho, who shifts back on instinct. He nearly kicks himself for it, since Bdubs made no further movement toward him. For a split second, a fracture opens in Bdubs’ scowling facade, and the bone deep hurt shows instead. Etho's face morphs into concern, and he shifts back.

"Yeah," he says, looking away. "You're right."

Bdubs sighs. The fence creaks as he leans against it.

"So you're still doing our ritual, huh?" He asks, his voice flat. When Etho looks at him, he can't see his face, but Etho doesn't speak for fear of the confusion being too evident in his voice. He can't tell if Bdubs reads it in his body language or his face but Bdubs shakes his head, settling back against the fence.

"The tea, Etho. You used to make tea for us at night. Especially if you weren't feeling well."

Etho blinks. His stomach is in thick knots, twisted in on itself—sick, as Bdubs had assumed. He holds the cup loose in his hand, bringing it up to drink, the motion deliberant.

"I did?" he asks, voice somewhat lost. He sets the cup in the soft sand beside him. "Oh. Hm. I guess I’d forgotten that."

“I’m sure you did,” Bdubs says, and then in one motion, he rises to his feet. Etho can hear the sand crunch as he walks away and for a moment lets out the breath in his chest.

Etho listens as Bdubs leaves, and only then does he eat. It’s not a satisfying meal in its own right. It’s plain and lukewarm and hard to swallow, and would be even without the lump in his throat. He sits on Bdubs’ words as he eats, turning them over to inspect the sentences. He never thought twice about how the little habits might change each meeting but clearly the two had gone from meeting like a semicolon to meeting like a period. There was a sense of finality in every word Bdubs spoke to him. Like he expected it to all come down around him.

The ache was back in Etho’s chest, a solemn silence that replaced hunger and hurt a little less. It wasn’t welcome, but it was bearable.

Etho tracked the sounds of Bdubs’ footsteps across the sand. He must have gotten something to eat because he hadn’t said anything in between the moment he left and the moment Etho was within his sight. Everything was within earshot, silence was only a formality.

Etho hears Bdubs sigh as he sits, then hears him clear his throat.

"You know, Etho, it doesn't have to be like this,” Bdubs says, almost nonchalant. “I can help you. We can help each other, even, it's not that hard—"

"C’mon, now,” Etho cuts him off, raising his hand. “You can't possibly mean that."

Bdubs sighs, and it has a certain quake to it that does very little to settle Etho's nerves.

"I don't," he says after a beat, but immediately inhales as if to note that he's speaking again. "But Etho—"

"Bdubs, please—"

"No, Etho listen—"

"No, you listen—"

"I miss you, okay?" Bdubs says, turning fully around to face Etho. "I miss you so, so much, you have no idea ..."

And then Bdubs falls silent. His chest rises and falls haphazardly like he can’t get a breath in otherwise and his face has fully morphed into something very painful for Etho to look at. Even in half darkness he doesn’t want to see the ache in his eye that may surely manifest in his chest if he does. He does not want there to be a hand shaped hole in his heart where it may be held and willed to beat. He does not want anything. If simply wasting away in this space would be enough to sate Bdubs he would do it. But he finds that that is not the case.

“I know,” Etho says, voice bowing. It barely scrapes by a whisper, so he clears his throat. His words stick together. “I know .”

The quiet, though unbearable, envelopes them again. Etho takes the time to look up to where Bdubs’ head is tilted, shoulders knocking back against the fence posts. He watches the sky, hoping to find any sort of solace he can, and finding only the cool black, and the stars that wink back at him. He opens his mouth for a moment, almost pointing out a series of stars that form one of the many constellations he’d gotten good at recognizing, but then shuts it. He stays quiet for a minute even though it weighs like a heavy coat on his shoulders. He holds his cup in one hand, letting the warmth seep into his fingers until he reaches over to his bag, and sets the cup in the sand. There, he takes another small wooden cup from the satchel and turns back to the pot. The metal tin is lukewarm at best, and only a few long wisps of steam rise from the cup’s surface, but Etho cradles it in both hands. With a deliberate slowness, he turns to Bdubs, and extends his hands.

Bdubs sees him out of the corner of his eye and when his gaze fixates on the cup outstretched to him silently, Etho’s gaze elsewhere, his eyes snap to the cup and his hands and not Etho’s face. He doesn’t dare look, likely for the same reason. He takes the cup and only then does Etho sigh in relief. Bdubs takes a long sip of bitter tea (Etho can tell its bitter, Bdubs’ pulls a face so scrunched it takes everything in him not to laugh) and then moves to speak. His eyes fixate on the stars above him.

“Etho...” Bdubs says, still looking up into the sky. Etho turns his head to him, and in the light of the fire, he can just see the profile of his face, tipped back. Etho’s eyebrows raise questioningly.

“Yes?”

“I want to offer you a proposition.”

Etho’s voice bubbles with amusement.

“Shoot,” he says, as if he doesn’t already know where Bdubs is going. In all honesty, he’s thrown away the notion all together until the words slip from Bdubs’ mouth.

“Let me over the fence,” Bdubs says, all at once. He turns his head, but not his body, to Etho. Etho looks away, shaking his head.

“I can’t do that.”

His voice mellows out as he sits on the words, the last of them spoken low and without fervor.

Etho sighs, his brow furrowing.

“Why, B?”

Bdubs shrugs, a motion that’s almost lost to the dark.

“We both said that we miss each other,” he reasons. “What’s one day? One night?”

“I...” Etho tsks , sighing through his nose. The words he wants to say are hard to find, and he folds and unfolds his hands, as if the words might be written somewhere on the backs of them, or in the sand around him. He finds nothing but the grey-brown swirls in the soul sand.

“Bdubs...” he tries. “I don’t think it would be just one night if I let you do that.”

Bdubs is silent. He deflates, body moving as he twists around, leaning sideways against the fence. He folds one arm over himself, letting the other rest on the sand.

“Then...then...” Bdubs fights, looking anywhere but Etho’s eye. “At least let me hold your hand.”

He finally manages to get the words out with what seems like a frustrated sigh. Etho almost laughs. He almost can’t help himself. The notion that Bdubs would be asking to hold his hand when they were married not long before, and for all accounts and purposes, still. But the notion remains terrifyingly the same. He requests Etho’s vulnerability, face up. Palm up. Much like how his hand rests under the last rung of the fence, palm up, fingers outstretched.

And Etho gives it to him. He sets his hand, palm down, into Bdubs’, and nearly instantly does he find that Bdubs locks his fingers around his own and the side of his hand, slotting in the funny way he always held his hand at this angle. Bdubs gives Etho’s hand a hesitant squeeze.

It’s as if all the confidence Bdubs had at the beginning of their meeting tonight has seeped out from his body. He holds onto Etho’s hand with careful pressure, thumb skimming the side of his fingers and over the top of his hand. He stops for just a moment to trace a thin, fine scar at the base of Etho’s thumb. Etho makes a noise in the back of his throat, a huff out of his nose, as the motion settles.

With his free hand, Etho finishes the last of his luke-warm, bitter tea, and realizes that the flavor isn’t so bad anymore. It settles in his stomach, no longer knotted, and as he presses back against the fence he can actually feel the dark, heavy sky around him again. There’s still a shred of empty air that claws at the corner of his heart, but, all at once, Etho decides that there’s no reason it should fester.

He detangles his fingers from Bdubs’ hand. In doing so, a short, painful oh catches in Bdubs’ throat, but it’s very nearly replaced with the sound of Etho pulling himself to his feet. He looks down at Bdubs, and Bdubs’ eyes are wide and Bdubs blinks hard as he looks away, and a second later Etho isn’t looking at him. He’s moving, pulling himself over. He doesn’t even need to hop the fence. He lifts one leg, then the other, and he’s over it. And he’s there. He falls to his knees and Bdubs is in front of him, eyes still wide and mouth slack jawed. There’s nothing behind the red in his eyes, at least, to Etho, the hunger is gone. There’s nothing. But they are round, and wide, and glossy, and Bdubs is halfway to reaching out to him before he even thinks about pulling away and Etho can’t help but meet him anyway. He pulls himself into Bdubs’ outstretched arms, lurching forward into him. His head falls into the dip of his neck, hands cradling his shoulder blades. His knees sink into the sand and his body forms a convex at which Bdubs is the apex. He lets himself be held in Bdubs’ hands like everything else has suddenly stopped mattering. And to Etho, it has.

Bdubs holds the back of his neck in the palm of his hand and the other rests at the top of his spine before he curls his fingers into Etho’s jacket and holds him fully.

“Etho you said—” he tries, the nervousness bubbling up into his voice. Maybe he, too, fears the inevitable that Etho is promptly ignoring.

“I don’t care what I said, I missed you,” Etho says against his shoulder. “I miss you, Bdubs.”

“I know, Etho,” Bdubs says. His forehead falls to Etho’s shoulder, his body sagging as he sighs. “I know.”

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