#Even the ones who seem like they’re jovial all the time | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

joelscurls · 6 months

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a heart for melting

pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader

words: 2.7k

warnings: post-outbreak, implied age gap, themes surrounding child loss and grief, some angst but mostly festive fluff, grumpy x sunshine dynamics (Joel is a grinch & reader loves the holidays), reader is described as having long-ish hair

summary: Jackson's first annual Holiday Market brings about more than just cheer.

a/n: Merry Christmas @thetriumphantpanda; I'm your pedrostories secret santa! I hope you enjoy this lil festive take on grumpy!joel x sunshine!reader — I had lots of fun writing it 🤍🎄 🥧 🪵 🦌

Joel doesn’t want to be here — surrounded by garland and ribbons and so much unadulterated joy, it’s nauseating. No, he was forced to be here.

Please, Ellie had begged, it’ll be good for you to do something other than patrol or drinking with Tommy. Plus, they’re too good to keep to yourself.

They, being wood carvings — the tiny sculptures of deer and bears and birds, tufts of hair and bunches of feathers drawn out of driftwood with the tip of his blade. It was only ever meant to be a hobby, a way to busy his hands after they’d been wrapped around the cold metal of his rifle all day. Something lighter, creative rather than destructive, an act of giving rather than taking.

But sharing them with other people? He hadn’t been interested. Maybe he’d make one for Ellie or Tommy. Wrap it up in a piece of cloth and offer it as a gift for their birthday.

Not that he thought they were any good, really.

With the announcement of Jackson’s first annual Holiday Market, though, came Ellie’s pleading. “I’ll help you,” she’d bargained. “You don’t even have to give me anything!”

“Who said I would anyway?” he’d grumbled, digging his spoon into the bottom of his bowl of stew and sifting out a chunk of meat.

Joel despises the Holiday Season. He’d welcomed its disappearance with the end of the world. Because he had no reason to celebrate, with Sarah gone. Her absence stung like salt in an open wound on any normal day. But on Christmas, memories of her hanging her favorite ornaments on the tree and sneaking one of the cookies baked for Santa burned behind his eyelids. Left him heaving through hot tears.

The holidays had no place in his world, but they certainly had a place in Jackson. The first time he and Ellie had strode through those gates, they’d been met with that damned Christmas Tree, towering over the settlement like a beacon. And he hated it, hated the way it brought about that pounding in his chest and that spinning in his head.

How could anyone find any good in such a poignant reminder of loss?

Tommy says it’s about new beginnings, finding ways to be happy again. And what’s happier ‘n Christmas? God damn Santa Clause, hot chocolate, children singin’ carols?

Still, Joel isn’t convinced — not yet.

Standing across the mess hall, at your table piled high with baked goods, you are far too cheerful. You’re humming some song with a jovial beat, absentmindedly swaying as you rearrange rows of gingerbread and muffins and scones — all of which are draped in white icing, like flocking on Christmas trees. You pause to wish a happy holiday to everyone who passes through.

Joel knows he’s seen you before, flitting in and out of the community’s kitchen, always with that signature smile scrawled across your face.

And god, you’re so bubbly, taking to everyone you meet like a bee to honey, letting them in without a care in the world. Popping from table to table, making sure they have enough to eat. That they’re doing well.

It shouldn’t surprise him that you’re so…spirited, too. You seem to find the good in everyone and everything, after all.

It infuriates him, nonetheless.

Joel groans to himself. Stuffs his hands in the pockets of his jeans as an elderly couple rounds on him.

He grumbles a hello to them when they approach. They offer him half-smiles in return, beginning to pick up some of the carvings laid out on the table — turning them, inspecting them.

“This one’s nice,” the man says to his wife. She hums in agreement.

“You got any tigers?” the man asks.

“Tigers?”

“Yeah — I used to love ‘em as a kid.”

“Got what’s on the table,” Joel grumbles.

“You make ‘em custom? I can offer some homemade jam in return — elderberry.”

Joel sighs in annoyance.

“Don’t make ‘em custom. Got what I got.”

The man seems defeated, nodding and walking off without another word. The woman follows closely behind.

Just as they leave, Ellie appears. She sidles up to Joel and shrugs her jacket off. Pulls a chair up next to him.

“There’s so much cool shit here!” she exclaims, too loud. A judgemental set of eyes flit her direction. She glares right back at them.

“Do you mind?” Joel huffs, jaw ticking.

“Jesus, who pissed in your Cheerios?”

“How do you even know what Cheerios are?”

“Don’t,” she admits. “I read it in a book.”

“Of course you did.”

Ellie leans back in her chair, pulling an apple out of her backpack and biting into it. She shuffles some of the carvings around on the table. “Gotta fill in these gaps, man,” she says, juice dribbling down her chin.

Joel ignores her. He sneaks a glance at you; finds that you’re already looking. Your expression is unreadable, gaze unmoving as he studies you.

Despite your upbeat disposition bothering him, he can’t deny that you’re gorgeous: bright, beckoning eyes, siren-like smile — it’s like you’re peering into his soul.

He didn’t think he still had one of those.

“Dude.” Ellie nudges him. He peels his eyes from you reluctantly. “I asked how many takers you’ve had.”

“Uh.” He pretends to think.

“You have no fucking idea, do you? Too busy staring at that girl.”

“Wasn’t starin’,” he clips defensively.

“No? Well she’s coming over here, man.”

Sure enough, you’re striding right toward him, abandoning your post. Joel barely has time to prepare for impact.

He unconsciously straightens up and pulls his hands out of his pockets. He brushes them on his jeans just as you stop in front of his table.

“Hi there,” you say.

“Hi!” Ellie chimes.

You pick up a carving of a two-headed deer. His favorite.

“This is beautiful,” you coo. “The craftsmanship is lovely.” You’re running a finger along the grooves in the wood, holding the piece delicately in the palm of your hand — as if it’s made of glass, not wood. “You have a real gift…”

“Joel.”

“Joel,” you repeat. He ignores how sweet his name sounds coming out of your mouth. You tell him your name, and it fits you, he thinks. It’s pretty.

“How long have you been making them?”

“Just since I got to Jackson. ‘ts somethin’ to pass the time.”

You nod. Continue scanning over the intricacies of the deer. “I was never much of a baker before I got here, either,” you joke, gesturing back toward your table.

“Good one,” Ellie laughs. “You’re funny — isn’t she funny, Joel?”

In his head, he’s glowering at her. Outwardly, he feigns amusement.

“Real funny.”

“I’d love to see how you make these sometime,” you say, then, placing the deer back on the table gingerly. “Do you have a workshop?”

“In our shed,” Ellie pipes in before he can say anything. “You should come by tomorrow! Joel’s off patrol.”

He shoots her daggers. She pretends not to notice.

“I’d love that! I have to work in the kitchen, though. I could come by after?”

Joel starts to shake his head no. Ellie’s hand wraps around his arm like a vice grip. He stills.

“Sure,” he grits.

“I can bring some pastries, if you’d like.”

“Don’t like sweets.”

“Oh,” you say, a little thwarted, but you’re undeterred. You shift on your feet. Chew your bottom lip. “Well, how about something not sweet, then?”

Your brows lift, narrowed eyes on him as you await a response. Joel still isn’t thrilled about the prospect of a visitor. Really, he doesn’t like anyone on his property that isn’t Ellie, or Tommy and Maria if he’s invited them. But you don’t seem so bad, offering to bring him food.

He can probably deal with your sunny disposition in exchange for a full belly. Lord knows he went too long without that luxury, and he’d be a fool to deny himself of it ever again.

So, he agrees, the garbled sure less than enthusiastic leaving his mouth. Still, you don’t seem too offended. In fact, you smirk at him, wordlessly sauntering back to your table, sneaking glances at him every so often for the remainder of the afternoon.

Sure enough, the next evening, while Joel is whittling in the shed, you show up.

You’re wielding a basket of savory hand pies, as promised, and Joel has to stop himself from drooling. They smell incredible. And they’re still warm, somehow, steam wafting off of them even after your walk here.

“Come in,” he gruffs, his nose following the scent like a dog’s as he trails behind you inside.

His set up is minimal: a rocking chair next to a bench, a couple stools he made for when Tommy comes by to play poker. But his works are scattered throughout, every surface in the small room cluttered with little carvings.

He settles atop one of the stools as you begin to wander around the room, plucking sculptures off shelves and awing at them with such genuine admiration, it causes something to pull in his chest.

Every so often, you make a remark about the details in a piece, how the fur on the deer looks real, how you can practically smell the replica evergreen in your grasp.

And something shifts — carried by your kind words through the stuffy shed.

Taken by the slight lilt in your voice when you speak to him, the almost-shy smile that pulls at the corners of your lips — Joel is attracted to you.

He’s following the line of your neck down to your collarbone, ogling at the exposed skin there when you pick another carving up off the shelf. And he feels guilty — he shouldn’t be looking at you like this. You’re just being nice, being neighborly, and he’s gawking at you like you’d have any interest in him.

No; you’re young, beautiful, could do a lot better than an old grump like him.

He averts his gaze quickly when you suddenly set down the tiny, carved bird that had been in your palm, round the workbench and perch yourself atop the stool next to his. You retrieve a handpie out of the basket and pass it over to him.

“It has braised rabbit and carmelized onions in it,” you explain, taking a bite and letting the steam roll out.

He follows suit and — it tastes just as good as it smells, if not better. He’s salivating again, letting the dough melt in his mouth before swallowing.

The two of you eat in comfortable silence, getting through the entire basket in mere minutes.

When you’re finished, you ask him where he’s from.

The question shouldn’t feel like such a shock to the system. But after a year of being in Jackson, successfully avoiding conversation about his life before the outbreak, it sets off a panging between his eyes, a dull ache in his viscera.

“Texas,” he tells you plainly. “From Austin, originally.”

You nod. And you must be able to tell that he’s not used to talking about himself — by the tick of his jaw or the lack of eye contact — he’s not sure. Because you don’t pry. Instead, you say, “you can ask me something.”

He nods. Thinks on it for a moment.

“When did you arrive here? To Jackson?”

Unlike him, you do not grimace at the intrusion. Instead, you tell him: about your parents, their untimely deaths, the harrowing road that led you here. You do not cry, but Joel can see the pain in your shiny eyes.

It’s inevitable; there isn’t a single person here who hasn’t been dealt a bad hand. But you wear your past like a badge of honor, like you’re still grateful, after it all, to be alive.

Joel envies your tenacity.

So when you ask him about Ellie, if she is his daughter, he lets the walls around him down — just an inch. He doesn’t get upset when he stumbles over his words while telling you about Sarah. He finds comfort in confiding in you, in the way you so attentively listen, quietly nodding along as he recalls his version of the end of the world.

“Thank you,” you say when he’s done, burying his hands back in his pockets.

“For what?”

“For sharing that with me. I know it can be difficult to relive it.”

“I relive it everyday,” he admits. “Everything reminds me of her in one way or another.”

“I understand,” you nod. He believes you do.

So sweet, gaze like honey, you are an enigma to him. He hasn’t met many people who are kind just for the sake of it — not in a long while. Maybe that’s why he’d been so bothered by it at the market. It had felt almost unnatural to him, bound to be laced with an ulterior motive.

He’s still learning how to trust people again. It doesn’t come easily after twenty-odd years of rationing it like the pills he’d stowed. Still, there is something innate about baring his soul to you. Letting you in through the cracks in his battered being. You are safe, he’s sure of it; benevolence radiating from you like warmth.

It drips off your tongue when you ask him to show you how he does his craft — slips down your fluttering lashes. No longer can he deny you of anything — he’s accepted this swiftly — and so he obliges.

A half-whittled fox materializes from his coat pocket, along with his blade. He passes both to you and pulls his stool closer to yours.

He guides you, taking your hand in his, encouraging the press of the blade into the wood. Shows you how to round out a corner with a subtle twist of the knife. You’re a fast learner, Joel notes, attentive, taking every instruction like gospel.

The slow drag of steel, your fingers wrapped tightly around the handle; you’re so focused that you jump slightly when he places a reassuring hand on your knee.

“Doin’ great, darlin’,” he says, and your lips pull around pearlescent teeth. Joel feels as enraptured by you as you do the carving — the loose tendrils of hair that drape over your shoulder, the clinging of cotton to your soft curves. Though he hardened into stone a long time ago, he feels smelted in your presence. So he cannot help it when his fingers begin to drift up your leg, settling at your side as he turns his body toward yours.

The blade stalls, tip still stuck into the wood, puncturing the fox’s non-existent spine, and your face lifts.

“Is this okay?” he whispers. You nod, gaze flickering between his eyes and his lips.

You’re so close like this; Joel can smell the floral perfume dappled along your neck, can feel your warm breath fanning his face. He has half a mind to stop himself from sealing the sliver of distance left between you. But then you’re sighing, placing the blade and the wooden fox on the tabletop. And it’s your turn to guide him — winding your delicate fingers around his wrist and settling his hand at the small of your back.

The air in the tiny workshop grows heavy with unspoken desire, a longing to disrupt; to create. Your body forms to his languidly, arms interlocking behind his neck, fingers weaving in his hair to pull him closer to you. And then your lips press to his — hesitant at first, then not. You drink from each other until you are drunk, breathless and giddy when you separate.

“That was nice,” you whisper, and Joel chuckles.

“Just nice?”

“Great,” you amend. “It was great. Better than I imagined, even.”

“You imagined this?”

“Yes,” you smirk. “On a loop since I first saw you at the market.”

He pulls you back in. Gives you another chaste kiss. “For good measure.”

“Joel,” you say then, “will you and Ellie come by mine on Christmas? I could even cook — it’s just-”

“Yes,” he’s accepting before you can finish. “I’d love that. As long as you make more of those,” he gestures toward the empty basket on the workbench.

“That can be arranged,” you grin.

As soon as you leave that evening — sent off with a goodbye muttered between slotted mouths — Joel starts on your Christmas present.

end notes: thank you for reading! Please consider reblogging or leaving a comment if you enjoyed <3

#joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x female reader #joel miller oneshot #joel miller x reader #the last of us fanfiction #tlou fic #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal as joel miller #pedro pascal #pedrostoriesgift23 #pedrostories

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sameheart-sameblood · 1 year

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Love in the Time of Cordyceps

pairing: joel miller x f!reader

summary: when the world ends, you promise you'll never love again. joel miller makes that rule hard to stick to

words: 7.1k

warnings: mentions of gore (pretty tame but still), swearing, sickness, angst, fluff, two dummies not realizing they love each other until one of them almost dies 🙄

a/n: this was supposed to be more angsty but then i remembered life is hard enough already. and i just want soft joel soooo here we are. also i meant to write 2k at most but boy do i love to ramble

read on ao3!

After the world goes to hell, you promise yourself you’ll never love again. A person, an animal, a place, nothing. Only a fool would choose to make themselves that vulnerable, needing every fiber of your being one hundred percent devoted to your survival and nothing more.

Was a life without love worth living? Every time that question enters your mind, you swat it aside. It’s like a nagging fly that buzzes around you until your persistence finally drives it away completely. Of course you could live without love. You’d been doing it just fine these past fifteen years.

Living without attachment proves useful in the new world you find yourself in. It makes the countless people you lose along the way easier to move on from. In the early days, your heart still twinges as the people around you drop like flies. Most fall victim to the bites of clickers, some to raiders’ gun, a few by their own hand.

The first group you had travel with is filled with Midwesterners who see the terrors of the new world and still somehow have a smile and a joke for you. Their joviality can’t save them, though. Clickers swarm you one rainy night two years after the fall of civilization. The sight of Gail, a woman who reminds you of your grandmother, having her stomach ripped out by an especially voracious clicker cures you of your need for any connections to the living.

Over the years, you make your way to the East Coast. Smiles, defiant in the face of adversity are replaced by permanent grimaces etched into the faces of everyone you meet. It seems as though every survivor has lost the ability for happiness of any kind. Good, you think, they’re finally learning. You wonder what took them so long.

Tales of peace the Canadian wilderness has to offer reaches your ears. In your heart you know it is most likely a tall tale spread by desperate survivors. But the good thing about a zombie apocalypse is you now have nothing but time on your hands. Working your way north, if all goes well, you’ll reach Saint John by May, continue to Port Elgin and then decide if you’d try for Prince Edward Island or turn east to Nova Scotia.

Plans are made to be broken, though, and yours, along with your ankle, break clean through one day as you make your way through Boston. It would have been over for you if not for the two survivors that find you nursing your injury in a department store that will most likely be swarming with clickers by nightfall.

The woman, after she puts her gun away, introduces herself as Tess. The man doesn’t offer his name, preferring to keep the barrel of his shotgun pointed at you. As they argue quietly over what to do with you, you observe their faces. Both are etched hard with years of loss and worry. Even harder than your joyless face. It’s impressive albeit in a sad kind of way.

Tess had somehow persuades the man to help you back to the Boston QZ. Joel. You hear her call him Joel. “Fine,” he had grumbles as he places your arm over his shoulder for support, “but if she scans red, I will not hesitate to put her down.” Oddly enough his threat somehow makes you almost like him. You sense a kindred spirit. Another follower of the “no love, no attachment” way of life.

You do not, in fact, scan red and are allowed to enter the QZ. An apartment is assigned to you, a crappy little studio with faded lime green paint. The old you would have adored it, called it quirky and planned out how best to decorate it with your meager funds. The new you just appreciates a safe place to sleep.

After your ankle heals, Tess invites you to join her smuggling scheme. Thoughts of Canada flee your mind for the time-being and you gladly welcome something to keep yourself occupied.

“But what about the cowboy?” you ask.

“Joel? What about him?”

Your eyebrows arch, “He threatened to shoot me.”

“Only if you were infected. Just don’t get infected.” She says it like you’re discussing the weather.

Joel allows you into the group begrudgingly, probably because he thinks they can use you as bait or a distraction if needed. Fine. Let them label you bait. You’ve been called worse before.

The first few months working together are tense. Joel reprimands you for the smallest mistakes and warns Tess you’ll get them all killed. At first, you bite your tongue, reminding yourself of the part he had in saving you. But one night after he scolds you for the millionth time about not checking your blind spots for clickers, you snap. “Fuck off, Joel! I survived the clickers for fifteen years. I think I know what I’m fucking doing!.”

He holds up his hands in surrender, wandering off with a hurt pout like he wasn’t the one who was just being the asshole. You wonder why your victory leaves you feeling hollow.

After that, Joel keeps his mouth shut around you. No nagging, no “helpful” tips. Just the bare minimum of whatever he needs to convey. You’ll never admit that it hurts. You don’t have to, though. Tess, at the end of her rope, explodes one night as the three of you eat dinner in awkward silence. “Couple of fuckin’ babies I’m working with,” she seethes. “If you don’t grow up I’m finding a new crew.”

It’s decided that you and Joel will do the next supply run to Bill’s. Alone. No Tess there to act as buffer between you and him. Joel grunts at that but doesn’t argue, always deferring to your leader. The trip to Bill’s goes as well as you can ask. There are no arguments between the two of you at least. You’re sure you even see Joel crack a smile. Of course it’s when you clumsily tripped over a raised tree root…But hey, progress is progress.

With the supplies in tow and Frank’s compound behind you, you actually think this trip might be a success. A gang of raiders lying in wait to sabotage you dashes your hopes of that. They had seen the two of you lugging your supplies and thought it would be an easy win. At first, they are correct. They outnumber you and Joel in size and wickedness. The four of them aren’t content to kill you outright. They tie you up and discuss what to do with you next.

Of course their attention quickly falls on you. The man with an ugly gash across his face leers at you. “Maybe we should keep her around awhile. She looks like fun.” Try as you might to act tough, that sends the blood rushing through your ears.

You almost don’t hear Joel snarl at them. “You lay one finger on her and it’ll be the last thing you ever do.” The venom in his voice snaps you back to reality. While their attention is on him, you discreetly start ripping at your bonds with the little pocket knife you thankfully decided to stow in your back pocket.

They beat Joel senseless by the time you get free. You honestly think you’re too late as you stab the goon nearest to you in the thigh, by some miracle hitting his femoral artery. The others turn to you, blindsided as you go wild at the sight of your bloodied and broken companion. Gash-Face comes roaring at you, all brawn no brains. The look of surprise as you lodge the knife in his neck makes you smile with sickening glee.

The remaining two corner you, murder in their eyes. Your gun is just beyond them, taunting you to come retrieve it. The only “weapon” you have is the belt you’re wearing, it’s clasp heavy and silver. You undo it and swing it at the nearest man. He grabs it, cackling victoriously as he uses it to pull you closer. In their grasp, you become the target of their blows. You curl into the fetal position, angry that after all the near death experiences you’ve had, this will be the way you go out.

A shot rings out, then another. Two thuds on the ground next to you make you open your already swollen eyes. As you look up, you realize your savior is Joel. Back from the dead. His face is covered in blood, like some kind of ghoul. But in that moment, you have never seen someone look more like an angel. The two of you limp back to the QZ where Tess nurses you as she simultaneously curses the deceased thugs.

Joel corners you in the bathroom the next day as you study your bruised face. “You could have run,” he hisses at you, making you jump. You don’t know what he wants so you just shrug. He invades your space, making you back against the counter. “Why didn’t you run?” His voice has gone low, anger simmering just beneath the surface.

Faces inches from each other, all you can muster is a weak, “We’re a team. I wasn’t going to leave you.”

Several emotions flicker across his face in quick succession. Anger, fear, worry and something you can’t quite put your finger on. Pride? Maybe that was you projecting but you hope you were right. Joel studies you for a moment longer, then reiterates, “Next time, you run.”

******

After that, things change. Joel is still a man of few words but the ones he does grace you with are softer and more intentional. Instead of berating you for the knowledge and skills you lack, he takes them time to teach you. He shows you how to identify fake ration cards and to spot the kind of guard you can bribe. Nights are spent with you following behind him like a shadow as he shows you all the secret ways in and out of the QZ. When your hands shake during target practice, he places his calloused ones over yours. It steadies your hands but frays your nerves, threatening to awake a feeling long thought dormant.

It goes both ways. Joel lacks attention to detail in certain situations and you show him how to read people and ascertain their flaws that can be exploited. During your runs you point out the flora that can be consumed safely or used as medicine. At Flynn’s, the only bar in the QZ, you teach him how to play pool. An essential to survival? No. But it sure helps you win a huge stash of ration cards from your fellows survivors. It also gives you an excuse to sidle up behind him and mold your body around his, all in the name of helping him get the “proper pool stance.”

Your excuses to fleetingly touch one another became more and more common. They are all perfectly innocent but carry the weight of something elicit, at least to you. Joel is never one to give away his innermost thoughts, happy to wear a permanent poker face. For all you know he couldn’t care less about you. Maybe he just knows keeping you alive is good for business and that’s why he takes a particular interest in making sure you’re safe. Whatever the reason, you hope he never stops.

******

During one supply run, a torrential thunderstorm forces you to spend the night at Bill and Frank’s. You know it makes Joel nervous to be indebted to anyone for such hospitality but you can’t hide your glee. A night there means a cozy bed and a hot shower, something hard to find in your home where the water runs tepid at best.

Afterwards spending way too long in the bathroom, you curl up in your bed, toasty and content, only to find sleep won’t not come. Your hosts are dear to you, even the grumpy Bill, but their snoring through the wall you share makes hopes for a deep sleep impossible.

After an hour of tossing and turning, you decide to go make your bed on the couch. As you tiptoe down the stairs you run into Joel, on his way up . “Going somewhere?” he drawls, exhaustion making his voice deeper than usual. You shrug, “Couldn’t sleep. There are two buzzsaws in the room next door.”

Joel chuckles, “I’ve had that room before. Can’t say it was the best night of sleep I’ve ever had.” You lived for these little snippets into Joel’s life before you came around, always eager to hear more. But the trek to the house through never-ending sleet and over the turbulent river left you more tired than you had felt in years. Right now all you want is to get where you could pass out immediately. “I’m just gonna make camp on the couch,” you say, stifling a yawn.

Joel shakes his head. “You take my room. The couch is good enough for me.” This man. Hadn’t anyone told him chivalry is dead. You sigh tiredly and beckon for him to come back up the stairs with you. “It’s a big bed. We can share.” There is silence behind you where there should have been footsteps. Joel’s smile disappears as his forehead creases in thought. “Please,” you pout, “I can’t sleep in my room and I won’t get any rest knowing you’re crammed on that dainty little loveseat.”

It takes far more coaxing than it should but finally Joel gives you a little nod and follows you into his - your - room. You gesture to the bed, “Care which side you get?” Joel thinks, then shrugs. “Left is good.” You flop onto the right side, eyes immediately drooping shut. Once again, there is no movement from your companion. Without opening your eyes, you chide him, “If you’re gonna be weird and watch me sleep all night then you can go sleep on the couch.” That got him moving again.

The sound of the shower turning on lulls you to a sleep that is disturbed only when you feel the dip of the bed several minutes later. You watch through barely opened eyes as Joel does a strange shimmy under the covers. It’s clear he’s trying his best not to wake you. The sight makes you laugh softly and his head whips to you.

“Thought you were asleep,” he murmurs.

You hum, “I was. You woke me up.”

It’s meant to be a joke but Joel grimaces. “Sorry.”

The sight is sweet and your heart flips, his frown making him look almost boyish. “It’s ok. It’s your bed.”

As you burrow into your cocoon of blankets, Joel props himself up, a pillow behind his back. He looks from you to the bedside lamp and back again. “You mind if I read for a few minutes?”

That surprises you. In all your time together you had rarely seen Joel do something just for the pleasure of it. There was usually no time. But Bill and Frank’s is a sanctuary and even the hyper-vigilant Joel Miller is able to slow down here. You nod enthusiastically, perking up. “What are you reading?”

It’s like you had asked him what his darkest secret was. He reddens, then finally grabs a book from the table. Pride and Prejudice. He stammers, “It’s just…I never had a lot of time for reading before and this was a favorite of…it was a favorite of somebody I knew.”

“You can read out loud to me if you want,” you offer with a grin. Honestly it was half in jest and half a serious hope. It had been decades since anyone had read aloud to you. Joel, always thinking you were making some sort of fun of him, smirks sarcastically. “Not a chance.”

Your glower slowly melts away at the sight of him putting on his reading glasses and settling in. Silently you curse as you feel your hardened heart crack just the tiniest bit. Idiot that you are, you try to talk yourself out of your own feelings. You aren’t attached to Joel. How could you be? He’s just a handsome, rugged man who keeps you safe and reads Jane Austen in his spare time. Maybe some lesser fool would fall for him but not you. No, sir.

The next morning, you find yourself curled into him, chest pressed against his back and arm draped over his side. Like a bomb diffuser, you carefully try to extricate yourself from the position, every movement slow and precise. Joel, still asleep, lazily grabs your hand, keeping your arm around him. He sighs contentedly as you settle back down and you swear under your breath, nestling your head at the crook of his neck. You are so that lesser fool.

******

The thunderstorms of summer give way to the pleasant days of autumn. Those good days don’t seem to last long enough. You should have appreciated them more while they were there but so is the way of being human.

Winter in Boston isn’t fun. Ok that’s an understatement. It makes you long for the soul-sucking, never-ending Midwestern winters you had lived through for most of your life. There is something about being next to the ocean that makes everything feel colder.

The nights are especially hard, the wind seeping through the cracks in the walls of your apartment. No matter how many blankets you tuck around yourself, your body never truly feels warm. Runs to Bill’s or anywhere outside the QZ become less frequent and more difficult. Only those deemed truly necessary are attempted and even then there is always a long discussion beforehand weighing out the pros and cons.

Runs between the months of November and January are too risky and after much debate, it is decided you three would lay low in the relative safety of the QZ. In the meantime, you’d assess your stockpile, make connections over the radio and wait for the spring thaw. With less food smuggled in from the outside, you decide to put your energy into earning ration cards. Even though no one could argue you don’t pull your weight in the group, you often feel like the weak link. Making sure Tess and Joel have a hot meal every night is the least you could do.

Joel had always told you to stay away from sewer work. It paid double what the other jobs did but at a high risk. Besides not being able to wash the stink off for days, the tunnels under the city were treacherous. Many had gone down there only to be blindsided by a stray clicker or jumped by a loner who made their home away from society up above. Some just got lost in the labyrinth, never to be heard from again. Or at least you had been told. You hoped those were just myths.

You and three other desperate souls are sent down to the sewers with the task of clearing the rubble from a recent cave in. A hard day’s work definitely but you were optimistic that you could get it done in a few hours time and be on your way.

The first few hours go well, the biggest pieces of the concrete being cleared easily enough. Your back aches and callouses quickly form on your palms. But still, all of that you can deal with, mollifying yourself with the thought of the stack of ration cards you’ll proudly gift to Joel and Tess.

Maybe if you hadn’t been daydreaming you would have heard the shouts of your fellow volunteers sooner. Finally coming back to reality, you move just in time to avoid another piece of falling rock. You save yourself from being crushed but lose your footing, coming down hard on your shin.

A stream of bright blood instantly trickles from the gash and you swear as you try to keep the tears that spring to your eyes at bay. Wanting to prove yourself, you brush off your group’s insistence that you go get it checked by the doctor. It doesn’t matter if you complete ninety percent of your shift. You still don’t get your payment if you leave early. So you suck it up for another hour, slogging through the muck as you finish the job. It’s fine, you tell yourself, it’s just a scratch. You’ll wash it off when I get home and be good as new.

With the job done and ration cards tucked away in your pocket, you hobble back towards your apartment. The thought of a shower, as lukewarm as it will be, is the only thing keeping you upright. That is until you feel someone putting your arm around their shoulder. Joel helps you the few blocks to your house, his icy silence hurting you more than the cut that now throbs with every jostle.

It’s only after you get inside and are deposited on the couch that Joel speaks. He rolls up the leg of your jeans, cursing as he sees the already festering wound. “I told you to stay out of the sewers.”

You suck in a pained breath as he starts wiping away the dirt. “I’m fine. It’s just a little cut. Besides, it was worth it,” you pull out the stack of ration cards and present them to him proudly. The sight gives him pause. But the look on his face isn’t one of gratitude, it’s worried exasperation. His signature grimace returns, “It’s not worth it if you lose your leg.” And people claim you’re dramatic.

Pushing him away with a shoo, you rise, limping to the bathroom. “I just need a shower. Then I’ll be right as rain.” As you peel off your now ruined clothes, Joel hovers on the other side of the door. “I can hear you pacing,” you call over the sound of the warming shower.

Even through the almost closed door you can hear Joel sigh. “I just think we should take you to the doc. Make sure you’re alright.” The water hitting you makes you audibly moan, the filth on your body washing down the drain and with it, the memory of the hard day. You appreciate the concern but all you want to do know is forget about the day. You call out to a still pacing Joel, “I’m fine. You worry too much!”

******

It turns out Joel worries the right amount. Of course he does. As eager as you are to forget about your day, it’s not long before you can’t ignore your leg. The wound is an angry red and the area around it has swollen, leaving it tender and throbbing. Thankfully you have Joel there to dress it because, honestly, you can’t stomach the sight of it. These past years have been filled with much blood and gore at your own hands. But there’s something different when it’s your own blood.

In any other circumstance you would have reveled in the feeling of Joel holding your leg so tenderly, his fingers brushing against your skin as he wraps the bandage around you. It would have driven you insane seeing him crouched in between your legs as he is now. But at the moment all you can think about is how you much pain you’re in.

You try not to show your discomfort, but your poker face is nonexistent. Joel’s eyes flick up to yours as you slowly exhale, trying to keep calm. Avoidance has always been one of your favorite tactics when dealing with uncomfortable situations so you pipe up, overly perkily, “See? All better. Now about those ration cards, I was thinking for dinner-“

Joel rolls his eyes, standing with a groan, his knees audibly cracking. “The only thing you’re gonna do tonight is rest.”

You slowly turn your body to prop your leg up on a pillow as he watches. Pouting has never worked on Joel but you figure it never hurts to try. “I still have to eat,” you mope.

“You will. I’ll open a can of soup or something.”

The disappointment is real and bubbles to the surface quicker than you realized it would. “I just wanted us all to have a nice dinner. You and Tess do so much and I feel like…” Thinking how you feel is different from saying it out loud and you have to psych yourself up. Joel’s softening gaze helps you continue. “I feel like I’m useless. I just thought this was one thing I could do to really contribute.”

The silence between you feels heavy as you avoid his stare. Finally, he speaks, confusion contorting his features, “Of course you contribute. We wouldn’t have kept you around if you hadn’t.” It’s meant to make you feel better but it doesn’t, especially in your current laid up state.

“So are you going to get rid of me if I’m no longer useful?” you gesture at your leg, feeling your eyes beginning to sting with tears.

Joel sits down next to you. Your fear has made you defiant and you meet his gaze, wanting to fight. But Joel speaks in a soft, level voice, as if teaching a child a lesson. “First of all, you’re going to get better. You just need to be patient. Second, you’re thinking there’s only one kind of way to be useful.”

“I can’t shoot like you two can. I can’t fight. I can’t threaten people into getting what I want. I can go on runs and earn ration cards. That’s it. I’m too soft for anything actually important.”

Joel frowns, “You say that like it’s a bad thing. ‘Being soft’ in a world like this is an act of defiance. It’s brave as hell. What you consider important? I don’t want that for you.”

Warmth spreads through your chest as you observe him. He’s trying so hard to find his next words, to make you believe his truth. “Me and Tess, we let the world harden us more than it needed to. It was easier that way. But having you around reminds us there’s still innocence and good out there.”

The angry tears have turned to ones of gratitude. The sentiment is too much for you, unused to such vulnerability from Joel. You give him a small smile and he returns it, leaning over to wipe a tear off your cheek. “You’re useful just being you.”

While you still wish you matched Joel and Tess’ levels of badassery, the conversation helps ease your mind. You might not think much of your survival skills but you remind yourself that you’ve stayed alive in a world that wants you dead. Fifteen years you’ve been fighting and surviving and that’s nothing to look down on.

“And for what it’s worth, “ he adds, “you scared the hell out of me the first time we met.”

You grin at him, shocked, “Really?”

He nods, smirking cheekily, “Really. Still do sometimes.”

******

Joel heats up a can of tomato soup for you to share. You try not to think of how old it must be as he prepares it. But actually, it’s not bad, the taste reminding you of your childhood.

It also helps that you’re sharing it with someone you care about. A part of you hates that how easily you’ve let him into your heart. The one thing you swore off all those years ago is now all you can think about as you watch him sitting across from you, ladling out the steaming liquid.

He catches you staring and breaks the silence, “Were you even going to tell me you got hurt today if I hadn’t run into you.” The fuzziness of your feelings for him makes your brain a little mushy and instead of having a grownup conversation, you reply with a childish, “No, I thought I’d let it be a soup-rise.”

Joel rolls his eyes in mock annoyance. You chuckle and continue eating your rapidly cooling dinner. You sober up a bit and add, “The extra ration cards will be good, though. Right?”

He nods, “Yeah. I think it’s soup-er.” His eyes flick up to yours as they crinkle, the only sign that he finds himself amusing.

After dinner, Joel excuses himself to go work his overnight shift. When he leaves and you’re left along, the throbbing in your leg returns with a vengeance along with a mild fever. Your usually chilly apartment now feels stuffy and you have to remove all of your layers except your t-shirt to be even somewhat comfortable.

Worry creeps in as you sit there, alone and increasingly unwell. You long for the company of Joel or Tess, anyone to reassure you that you’re fine. But you’re alone and the dark thoughts creep in, whispering in your ear that whatever is brewing is not good. Unsure of what else to do, you slip in to bed, hoping that whatever this is will be better by morning.

******

You don’t wake for two days. Or at least, you have no real memory of the past 48 hours. Later, when the worst is over, Joel will tell you the details of that lapse in your memory. He’ll recount how you faded in and out of consciousness, sometimes submitting to your fever for so long that he wasn’t sure you were coming back. His voice will waver as he remembers how bad it got and how fragile you looked…

But for now, he stays by your side, foregoing his own health to make sure you stay alive. The first thing you remember is waking up to the sounds of Joel and Tess arguing in hushed tones.

“We need to get her to a doctor. Now.” Joel’s voice sounds strained, like he’s trying desperately not to lose it.

Tess still maintains her signature composure. “We can’t, Joel. It’s too late for that.”

Joel must make some kind of face because Tess sighs and re-words. “It’s too late to take her in because if we bring her to the hospital all they’ll focus on is her fever. They’ve put people down for way less. You know that.”

In your addled state, you wonder who they’re talking about. Your throat hurts to much to speak up though and ask.

“The doc will give us the meds. We’ve bribed him before.”

Tess shakes her head, “Antibiotics are on lockdown. Shipments have been delayed because of the weather. No one gets any without FEDRA knowing. Breaking in guarantees we get caught. We’re no good to her dead. ”

Joel scoffs, “So what do you suggest we do?”

“She rides it out.”

“She’s been ‘riding it out’ for two days. Look at her,” Joel’s voice gets closer as he peers down at you, “she’s fighting but she’s losing.”

Oh. Fever may have taken hold of you, making your brain fuzzy and concentration near impossible, but you understand now that you are the subject of their argument. For Joel to sound so forlorn you must look bad.

If you’re dead soon, you want to let them know to leave it and just let you slip away. Your well-being means nothing if it puts them in unnecessary danger. Rule be damned, they’re your family now and you care about them. If you’re being honest, you’ve cared about them since you met them. It breaks your heart thinking you won’t be able to tell them that now. It nearly kills you right then and there to know you won’t get the chance to tell Joel you love him…

Opening your mouth to articulate all of that takes great effort and when you do try and speak, all that comes out is a strangled groan. The two rush over, Tess sitting down beside you. She takes your hand, an uncharacteristic show of tenderness. Yep, you’re dying.

“You’re ok, kid,” she whispers, “you just have to hang in there.” It would be easy to ignore reality and blindly trust her. But you’ve always been stubborn and so you shake your head and continue trying to speak. Again, nothing comes out but garbled nonsense as you writhe around trying to make your limbs do what your brain wants.

You must look a sight because Joel lets his anger overflow. “Maybe you can sit here and watch her die, but I can’t.”Heavy footsteps and Tess yelling are all that you can focus on as you fade back into oblivion.

******

Living is hard and unconsciousness is addicting. Peaceful and cozy are feelings you can scarcely remember having. It would be easy to stay in that enveloping darkness but the feeling of the back of someone’s hand on your clammy forehead pulls you back to the realm of the living. You grumble weakly as you’re made to come to.

Everything is painful. Stabbing jolts of electricity radiate up your leg from the cut. Your chest is tight, making breathing troublesome and your eyes can barely stand the dim, watery sun coming through the shades of the window. Someone places a damp cloth on your forehead to keep the fever at bay. Still out of it, you try and swat it away.

A gentle hand grabs yours, shushing you. “It’s alright. It’s only me.”

Joel. Maybe you have died and this is heaven. The man you love by your side, nursing you so tenderly. It’s more than you could have ever hoped for. This might be the afterlife believers talk about if only you weren’t in so much pain. The neurons in your brain begin firing more rapidly as your fever dies down. They remind you that you and Joel aren’t lovers. Your cowardice, disguised as intelligence, has kept you from telling him how you feel.

“What’s happening?” Your voice comes out croaky and soft but at least it’s intelligible. The bed dips as Joel moves closer to you. As you peer up through barely opened eyelids you can see him leaning over you. His tired eyes look down at you as he caresses your hair.

“You got real sick, honey. That cut you got festered and turned into a fever. We thought we were gonna lose you.” The slight falter in his voice makes your already tight chest contract.

“How long was I out?”

“Three days. We got you some meds, though. You’re gonna be ok.” He says it firmly, which does some good in easing your worry.

Trying to open your eyes a bit more you continue your questioning, “Where did you get the antibiotics from?”

Joel hesitates, “Bill and Frank had some.”

You try and sit up, angry that he made that trip and put himself in danger. Even now, you can see the snow whipping around outside your window. Knowing he made the trek there and back through that storm makes you curse. Joel tuts and puts a gentle hand to your chest, keeping you down and resting.

“It’s done. No use getting angry about it now.”

You glare up at him even though you’re really just upset with yourself. “Why would you do something so stupid?”

His smiles peacefully down at you, exhausted but eyes bright. “We’re a team, remember?”

It’s too much for you to handle. You cover your face just in time to hide the angry, relieved and grateful tears that spring to your eyes. Silent sobs wrack your frame, making you seize with pain.

Joel pulls you into him, shushing you as he resumes stroking your hair. You hide your face in his side, trying to regain your composure. Crying shouldn’t be something you feel the need to earn. But you’re all sorts of broken, so you take this rare opportunity to not judge yourself and weep with abandon. You almost died, for Christ’s sake. Surely that warrants some show of emotion.

After a few minutes, the tears stop and your breathing calms. Peeking up, you see Joel has his eyes closed. His face is the most serene you’ve seen it in ages, most of the worry lines softened. There’s still a few that refuse to relax, though. The crease in between his eyebrows remains stubbornly indented. You gaze up at him as he continues to run soothing patterns along your back.

Feeling the weight of your stare, he opens his eyes. Coward that you are, you glance away. “Thank you,”is all you can mumble out as he gazes at you. After a moment, you add a shy, “I would do the same for you. You know that, right?”

Joel pulls you gently into him, almost to remind himself you’re still here with him and that the danger has passed. He nuzzles into your hair, murmuring an affectionate“I know, honey. I know.”

******

After a few more hours and another dose of antibiotics, you begin to feel more like yourself. Joel still won’t let you get out of bed yet, except for a trip to the bathroom for a quick shower. Even though you’ve been dead to the world for much of your ordeal, you’re quickly getting bored with bed rest. But you’ve learned long ago that resistance is futile with Joel. So you shower like a good patient, scowling as the water hits your scabbing cut.

Once you finish, Joel hops in and washes the grime and worry of the past three days off. As you settle back in bed, you can hear him singing softly to himself. Through the patter of the water you can hear his soft rendition of Fleetwood Mac’s Songbird. It’s one of your favorites, too, and you hum along as you settle back into your pillow.

After a few minutes, sleep still won’t come. You toss and turn as Joel finishes getting ready for bed. He comes in to find you still awake. “I thought I told you to get some sleep.” He says it like a loving mother gently scolding their rebellious child.

You flail as you try and get comfortable. You shoot back a moody, “But I’m just not tired.” Joel chuckles as he sits down into the arm chair next to your bed. He smooths back his wet hair and gives you a faux stern look. “Your body’s been through a lot. You need rest.”

“What are you doing?” you ask.

Joel looks confused, wondering what he did wrong. “Sorry I just thought I’d sleep here tonight in case you need anything. I can leave, though.”

“No!” you yell out, completely abandoning any hope of looking cool. You give him an apologetic smile, “I want you to stay but you’re not sleeping in that chair one more night.”

Joel glances to the spot on the bed beside you, then looks to you for confirmation. He sighs, a smile playing at his lips. “If I stay will you promise to go to sleep?”

You nod very seriously. “Of course.”

Joel grins, knowing you too well to believe you. “Liar,” he chuckles but still gets up and makes his way to the other side of the bed. You pull back the blankets so can get in, then cover him up. Settling on your side, you watch as he suddenly looks lost, unsure of what to do now. It’s cute, this powerful man rendered helpless by something as innocuous as sharing a bed.

You can’t help but laugh at him and he looks down at you, eyes wide. Taking pity on him, you make a suggestion. “If you’re not tired you could read to me.” Joel opens his mouth to refuse but you blurt out a quick, “I did almost die, you know.” He glares at you but his lip quirks up. He grabs the book from the other room then flops back down in bed, opening to a spot in the middle.

Frowning, you reach out to touch Joel’s arm. “Do you mind starting from the beginning?” He rolls his eyes but flips back to the first page. You grin triumphantly as you settle into his side. Joel places his arm around your shoulder as he begins to read. “It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife…”

His southern drawl mixed with the Romantic Era style of writing makes for an amusing but pleasant combination. After a few chapters, your eyes get heavy and Joel feels you nodding off against him. Jane has just been invited to Netherfield Park but even that can’t keep you awake. Joel puts the bookmark in to save your spot and places the novel on your bedside table.

You grumble in weak protest as he tucks you in and turns off the light. “We can keep reading tomorrow. But right now you’re going to sleep.” Joel lies down beside you and with the pale light of the moon through your curtains you can see him studying you. He caresses your face and you close your eyes, delighting in the sensation.

“Don’t ever scare me like that again,” he whispers.

You force your eyes open, needing him to see the truth of it when you pledge a soft,“I won’t. I mean it.”

Joel nods gratefully and you reach out for him. He slides into your arms and you rest your chin on the top of his head. He’s watched over you for long enough. It’s your turn to take care of him and reassure him that, in this moment, you both are safe.

For most, an outright admission of affection is needed to understand how you feel about the other person. But you and Joel are cut from the same cloth, stubborn and slow to reveal your feelings. In this world, for people like you, ’I love yous’ are rare and replaced with actions and deeds.

You realize that even though you've never told Joel that you love him, you’ve shown it. Joel has been showing you all this time too and you were just too dull to realize it. While you know you’ll long to say the words to him soon, for now it’s enough to have him in your arms.

Joel’s breathing deepens and you feel him completely give himself over to sleep. Looking at his face bathed in the moonlight he looks like a new man. His edges soften and his vulnerability brims to the surface. It tugs at your heart and you understand how rare of a sight this is for Joel to allow anyone to see.

Smiling sleepily, you close your eyes and nestle into him. This feeling coursing through you is something foreign but familiar, an old friend you thought you had said your final goodbye to long ago. The love you have for Joel will leave you vulnerable. But it’s a price you’re willing to pay a thousand times over.

******

#im on a mission to make joel as soft as possible lol #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller fanfiction #tlou #tlou hbo #pedro pascal #allie writes

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t0ast-ghost · 2 months

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S2 Episode 8 (I, Mudd) Garfield guess who’s here? Please tell me it’s not Mudd. It’s Mudd.

Commence:

- Why are him and Spock just walking the halls together. If I was the crew I’d be going livid, like get this: there’s these two men who are head of the science and medical staff on the ship and they fucking hate each other, they fight all over the ship constantly and you’ve seen them at odds a gazillion times. One day you’re walking the halls to get to your station and you just see them walking together, talking normally, and one of them is even smiling in a sort of fond way. My jaw would drop honestly

- They’re already fighting.. it took less than 30 seconds

- This guy’s on a mission! I wonder who he could be?

- “Mr. Spock we seem to be taking an unscheduled ride” “Interesting.” Spock does not give a fuck about your dramatics, Kirk

- Spock looks at the guy who stops Kirk and just thinks “fuck, McCoy was right.”

- LMAO the electronics in him look like smt from doctor who

- I love Uhura and Chekov almost bumping into the android

- oh god this guy again (Mudd)

- “Jamie boy.” That- that barely even makes sense

- Kirk what is that stance

- “And you’re all going to be here, uh, quite probably for the rest of your lives. *evil laugh*”Spock and McCoy are unconcerned

- Okay I think McCoy is just lording it over Spock that he was right

- Okay there’s a certain joviality that I appreciate to the back and forth of Mudd explaining and Kirk, McCoy, and Spock all interrupting

- this is the greatest line in all of Star Trek

- Kirk: Well, opinions?

Chekov: I think we’re in a lot of trouble

Kirk: That’s a great help, Mr. Chekov. Bones?

McCoy: Well, I think Mr. Chekov’s right. We are in a lot of trouble

Kirk: Spock? And if you say we’re in a lot of trouble…

Spock: We are.

Kirk then gets the most defeated look on his face

- Scotty coming in hot and cursing out Mudd

- CHEKOV DONT FUCK THE ANDROIDS

- Kirk is like an angry small dog

- “No, lord Mudd.” “Wuuut??” Good line delivery

- “How do you know so much?” “I asked them.” “Oh.” Wait wait wait, this is simple deduction. Deduction? Sherlock. Holmes and Watso? MCCOY AND SPOCK AS HOLMES AND WATSON!!! Oh wait Data and Geordi did that..

- “Now listen, Spock, you may be a wonderful science officer, but believe me you couldn’t sell fake patents to your mother!” “I fail to understand why I should care to induce my mother to purchase falsified patents.” I love this man

- The name is doctor practice. Mal practice.

- uhura no! WAIT UHURA YES IM SO PROUD. I love how happy they all are

- hi hello what the fuck is happening. What are they celebrating. How did Kirk convince McCoy and Scotty to do that?

- The androids flirting with Spock. Kirk and the rest have to dance whereas Spock is just causing drama “I love you. But I hate you.” “But we’re identical.” *blows up*

- They’re gonna paradox Norman

- WJAT

- Them imitating phasers takes the cake. I think if I ever show anyone an example episode it would be this one

- “he’s dead.” Damn no Jim. Second time Scotty’s ‘died’ this season

- This is like watching Shakespeare

- I would not be surprised if this episode was inspired by children playing make believe (honestly really genius and fun writing)

- Oooh they’re paradoxing him

- “I aM nOt prOgrAmMeD to reSpoNd in thAt aRea.” The fucking sass. Kirk has been spending too much time with Spock and Bones

- “Which I find eminently satisfactory, Doctor, for nowhere, am I so desperately needed as among a shipload of illogical humans.” Basically Spock loves them and there’s nowhere he’d rather be

- Kirk hates Mudd so much, it’s almost bitchy at this point

- Uhura’s wave to Mudd is so iconic and amazing

Okay one of my favourite episodes, if not my favourite actually. I loved more of the bridge crew interaction (no sulu☹️) especially getting to see Uhura, like I wanna talk more about her character but there’s so little that I’m just trying to pick up the crumbs.

Masterpost

Episode written by Stephen Kandel

#star trek #star trek the original series #star trek tos #tos kirk #captain james kirk #tos spock #s'chn t'gai spock #spock #tos bones #tos mccoy #leonard bones mccoy #tos uhura #nyota uhura #tos chekov #pavel chekov #tos scotty #montgomery scott

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daughter-of-melpomene · 2 months

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𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐑𝐎𝐃𝐔𝐂𝐈𝐍𝐆… 𝐌𝐘 𝐎𝐍𝐄 𝐏𝐈𝐄𝐂𝐄 𝐎𝐑𝐈𝐆𝐈𝐍𝐀𝐋 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐄𝐑, 𝐘𝐀𝐌𝐈 𝐂𝐎𝐑𝐕𝐎

❝ Yami Corvo had lived their entire life surrounded by blood. They had come into the world soaked in their mother’s; they had had it wiped off of them with a warm cloth as a child, after skinning their knees or getting into a fight with other kids. But it wasn’t until they had stumbled across a Devil Fruit as a child and eaten it, gaining the power to manipulate the blood in their own veins and form it into weapons, that the blood that surrounded them had become dirty and tainted. After eating that Devil Fruit, Corvo had become little more than a monster to those around them, even their own parents - they had been taunted, attacked, told that they were nothing but a beast who was only good for killing, until they had even come to believe it themself and run away from the town where they had been born and raised, determined to escape the cruelty of those around them and resigned to becoming a cruel individual themself.

And so they had. Over the years, Corvo had become one of the most feared names in all four Blues, an assassin with a terrifying power who would slaughter whoever they were paid to slaughter and showed no mercy for anyone, the type of person children would use to scare their younger siblings by telling them stories about how the beast lurked under their bed. Not that they wanted to be, deep down, but they had been taught that it was who they were supposed to be, and who were they to doubt those who had told them that for years? So they kept killing, kept fulfilling what they thought was their destiny, hating themself more and more with every job until they were secretly praying that someone would fight back and finally kill them so that they could be put out of their misery… until they were approached with the impossible task of killing Dracule Mihawk, one of Seven Warlords of the Seas.

They had failed, of course - they doubted there were very many people who could possibly kill the world’s greatest swordsman. But Mihawk had also seen something in them as they lay on that beach with his blade at their throat, waiting for the death they had wanted for years, something that made him spare their life and offer them a life travelling with him, causing chaos all over the East Blue and occasionally carrying out the Marines’ dirty work. Corvo would never be able to properly tell anyone why they’d accepted his offer - maybe it was to make him suffer their company as revenge for not killing them the way they’d wanted, more than likely it was because they were desperate for companionship after so many years alone - but they had, and ever since they have travelled the Blues with him, getting into fights and doing the bidding of the Marines where necessary, forming a dangerous duo that has developed a reputation even more infamous than Corvo’s previous one.

And then Mihawk introduces them to Shanks, a pirate captain with ties to the young upstart whose first mate Mihawk has just recently beaten in battle. Shanks, who is bright, jovial, and unfailingly compassionate… and who seems to want to direct his beautiful attention onto Corvo, to spend time with them, no matter how much they don’t deserve it.

The more time they spend in the company of Shanks and his band of Red Hair Pirates, the more light Corvo finds making its way into their world that has been so dark for so long. And the closer they get to Shanks, the more they can feel the gentle, calm waters of his soul washing away the blood that has always stained their own - and no matter how much they’re certain they don’t deserve it, they want nothing more than to let this beautiful, smiling pirate captain break down their walls and wash the blood away completely. ❞

One Piece Taglist: @auxiliarydetective, @starcrossedjedis, @xoteajays, @oneirataxia-girl, @supermarine-silvally.

General Taglist: @hiddenqveendom, @foxesandmagic, @artemisocs, @reyofluke-ocs, @endless-oc-creations, @stanshollaand, @ginevrastilinski-ocs, @luucypevensie, @ginger-grimm, @arrthurpendragon, @fakedatings, @impales, @claryxjackson, @dancingsunflowers-ocs, @eddysocs, @lucys-chen, @ocappreciationtag.

#my ocs #introducing my ocs #ch: yami corvo #oc: yami corvo #fic: blood in the water #queerocs #fyeahocsofcolor #ocapp #ocappreciation #ochub #allaboutocs #fyeahonepieceocs #fyeahoplaocs #one piece oc #opla oc

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thehandwitch · 1 year

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i like to think that ford and fiddleford absolutely hated each other at first.

ford doesn’t want to be there, okay, he didn’t choose backupsmore, he didn’t choose this b-rate school where the professors hardly know what they’re talking about and the students are foolish and careless and there’s more keggers than there are study sessions. he’s bitter. it’s understandable. and it’s easier to be bitter than it is to be sad. his stupidly cheerful roommate with his incessant banjo-playing does not help. ford doesn’t understand how anyone can be so happy here, let alone this happy, and if his roommate jovially invites him to the dining hall one more time he’s going to scream.

fiddleford is excited for a fresh start in the city, getting away from his siblings and the farm. he didn’t choose backupsmore either (there was an incident involving a too-ambitious malfunctioning robot and a very on-fire west coast tech admissions team) but he’s just grateful to be somewhere where he can learn. but the people are strange, communicating in languages of partying and status that he just doesn’t understand. and his roommate is hard and cold and won’t even talk to fiddleford, the arrogant jerk, which is so frustrating because he seems like the only other person at this school who does the readings and asks questions in class and really cares about what they’re studying.

everything changes a few months into the school year. they find themselves arguing over something stupid, like noise levels in their room, because “if you get to play that god-awful instrument all day then me clicking my pen doesn’t matter” “there’s a difference, you’re clicking your pen AND muttering to yourself AND pacing around the room at three in the morning” “i’m doing important work, you just wouldn’t get it!”

and fiddleford just snaps something about how ford’s not better than him just because he’s going to do twelve phds, ford’s not even smarter than him because the calculations on his desk are wrong and ford just goes. What. he storms over to his desk and reads the paper and fiddleford’s right. the calculations are wrong.

and it’s a mix of ford feeling stupid and ashamed and ford going Oh. because the roommate he’s been dismissing all this time as an annoying too-happy hillbilly is the only other person at this school as smart as him, if not smarter. the only other person who cares.

ford apologizes — stilted, but still an apology — and fiddleford accepts it in a heartbeat. from there on out, they’re thick as thieves.

#im still getting a grasp on writing fidds but once i do … prepare for some snapshots of their college years #gravity falls #ford pines #fiddleford mcgucket #fiddauthor #if you’d like to read it as such #rome writes #rome rambles

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apocalypse-shuffle · 5 months

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JASON TODD | RED HOOD (generalized fanon | wfa)

────────────────────

“Past The Time till Midnight” (Jason Todd & Fem!Reader)

| Jason’s a no good bastard and now you’re bored out of your mind.

| SFW, galas, mild(?) discrimination, -platonic!reader & queer!reader

| Could be pre-relationship if you want, I suppose. Background!(Rose Wilson x Jason Todd) & (Rose Wilson x Fem!Reader)

| Pic source — Batman: Wayne Family Adventures webtoon)

| 2k+ words

You’d had zero clue up until tonight just how fun draining a New Year's Eve gala could be. Honestly, you're upset you had to gain the knowledge through first hand experience too, but that only translates to you hip checking Jason when you make your way back to him.

He lets himself rock sideways the tiniest bit for your benefit. You roll your eyes.

“I thought you said this would be fun?”

You pass one of the drinks in your hands to him and he pockets his phone - whatever urgent call dealt with for now.

“Oh did I?” He nods in thanks then knocks back the flute of champagne. “I lied.”

You suck your teeth, “I fucking hate you.”

A burst of brief snickers is all that proclamation provokes.

With a sigh you cross your arms, sipping at your drink at a far more acceptable pace as you people watch.

Jason and you both are largely out of the way by design. You were of the vast majority of people who didn’t see the fun in being scrutinized by droves of rich socialites for hours on end, and Jason was…Jason.

He maybe showed up to two of these things a year - and never without extensive weedling and bribery from some other one of the bats (though noticeably never by Bruce himself who was almost always the host of the Galas that Jason bothered to show his face at).

Two ladies throwing small looks your way, giggling and laughing, catch your interest on your sweep of the ballroom. You squint.

It’s you who redirects Jason’s attention towards them with an elbow to the side. He makes a low irritated sound that makes you laugh but doesn’t even retaliate before following your gaze.

When he does his eyes briefly light up with recognition. Instantly you perk up too.

Finally, something interesting.

The both of you glance at each other - a grin spread across his face and a raised brow on yours - before moving in tandem towards the other duo without another word.

The women straighten, standing impossibly taller, smiles losing their genuity, as you close in on them.

“Hi,” Jason reaches out to take the shortest of the two’s offered hand. He doesn’t bend down to kiss it though, just holds it until the woman frowns at his lack of kiss then let’s go. “We saw you laughing and couldn’t help but want to join in on the fun. These things can be so uneventful sometimes.”

“Oh! Of course.” She laughs, high and melodic and fake, “Any son of Thee Brucie Wayne is always welcome to join!”

“Great.” Watching Jason’s crowd smile spread across his face is fascinating. “No problem telling me what gossip had you laughing and saying my name then? I like to get ahead of the press.”

He caps the sentence off with a jovial shrug, smile still in place, and it works. Even with their reservations in place - and the fact Jason’s never left his pure disdain for the likes of them secret - they don’t seem to catch that they’re walking into a trap, their smiles broadening. Jason has somehow managed a very distinct balance between alarming and painfully boyish and it’s actually working.

If this is what he always looked like when he did this song and dance in the helmet you were going to clown the hell out of him later.

“Well alright, but we were just talking gossip like girls do.”

You exchange another rapid fire look and Jason’s grin dips teasingly, eyebrows raising.

His look says, “You're up. Bet you can’t do better.”

You grit your teeth just long enough he catches your acceptance, then force the corners of your mouth up.

“Oh yeah, about what?” You look between both women. Jason’s already bracing himself, expertly masking his amusement.

Clare laughs in that airy way these types love so much.

“Me and Linda were just discussing how…fitting it is that two people from your backgrounds would come together under the Wayne name.”

“A wonderful coincidence really,” Linda nods along. Any faster and you think her head will fall off. You wonder if it would look like those mannequins that get knocked over at the mall.

You shake your own head, adopting a bewildered expression. “I’m sorry I’m just not seeing what’s so funny. Could you explain?”

Jason chokes - on what? you don’t know - beside you and dissolves into a short coughing fit. You reach around without looking away from your companions to pat him on the back, silently handing him the rest of your drink.

Clare makes an aborted motion as Linda coos uselessly at Jason.

“Well,” she clears her throat, flipping her hair over her shoulder. “Well. It’s not funny per say. I think you may have misinterpreted - um, confused - our reactions. We just think it’s sweet that two…um…uh…. disenfranchised people managed to meet and get so close after being helped by Bruce. That’s all hun.”

You're not her ‘hun’ and you want to burn the patch of skin she touches when she pats your arm. A reminder to settle down; like a half trained dog stepping out of place.

Your teeth grind together but you maintain your open expression, saying your next words cheerily.

“Oh! Girl, I’m not ‘disenfranchised’,” you laugh, head thrown back for a moment and all, before dropping your head to look her in the eye, “I’m just black.”

Instantly the laughter Clare had joined in on peters off into silence on her end. She stares at you a little blankly. You smile, continuing, “Yeah, and I - uh - just met Bruce Wayne today actually, but I do think I get what’s funny now. Now I know you’re just as fake as your smile…and your personality too, probably. Hell, I’d even be willing to bet that whatever charities you deign to donate to you bad mouth on the side too. Gotta keep up appearances though, right?”

Clare goes beet red and Linda freezes, her little smile and nod deal etched in place.

Clare sputters, brows furrowing in an especially non flattering way in a bid to find something to respond with.

Jason hums lowly, gesturing idly with your now empty glass and her mouth snaps shut like a snapping turtle with a baby’s finger in its clutches. “And I think the word you were looking for was ‘homeless’, Nats.”

Clare doesn’t respond, she stops doing much of anything in fact, only getting redder by the second in the face of Jason engaging directly with her. Wayne influence was strong enough that everyone wanted to gossip about them but no one was willing to say a damn thing to their faces about it it seems.

You can’t help the little grin that realization pulls out of you. The way your heart starts to race alongside it makes it hard to tell whether you want to spit in her uppity little face or laugh in it.

Ultimately you don’t get a chance because Jason’s face rapidly shifts from that deceptive boyishness to a sneer that’s very skillfully hidden behind his own even nastier grin.

“I don’t like you Nats, you know that, and we’ve blown up about this before so I don’t want to hear any more of your shitty justifications trust me,” he pauses purely because he’s just that dramatic, huff of laughter falling past his lips, “but you know who would like to hear them?”

Clare scowls, lip upturning. “Who Wayne?”

His sneer drops and all that’s left is that grin. Still just as nasty but clearly mocking. “Vickie would. And she’s always begging for an interview with the previously estranged ‘disenfranchised’ son of Bruce Wayne. She’d eat up every word out of my mouth.”

Jason doesn’t wait for a response, just grabs you by the hand and leaves her horrified face and Linda’s meek cries of: “Jason please,” behind.

You blow out of there so fast that Jason eventually ends up having to catch up with you, long strides barely holding a candle to you fleeing the scene like there’s an active fire up under your ass.

“Don’t bring me back to one of these, Jason.”

“Gotcha.”

“I mean it.”

“I know,” he waits a beat, “and I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine.”

“It’s not.”

“She insulted you too.”

“Yeah but I’m used to rich people’s inability to feel real human emotion, and even more familiar with Clare Nats’ particular brand of it.”

“Fine.” You step over someone's jewelry laying on the floor. You turn back to your friend after giving the diamonds and gemstones a good glance. “And that was definitely a tie by the way.”

“Sure,” he starts leading you towards the other end of the ballroom. “You want something to drink? I need a drink. Hate name dropping Bruce like that; makes me itch.”

You also already knew that from first hand experience; watching him act like he’d quite literally broken out in hives after needing to pull out his father’s name to get through a hospital of all places faster. Steph was hurt so obviously he’d done it but he’d scratched the whole way to the floor she was being held at in Gotham General like he honestly couldn’t help himself. You hadn’t laughed then and certainly haven’t brought it back up to laugh at him after the fact, but you think about it often.

It was a really good pick me up out of context, how could you not?

The two of you hit the bar like sea drifters catching sight of land for the first time in ages, more so because of Jason than you though. You weren’t nearly that thirsty; just dragged along.

He grips the lip of the bartop hard and flags down the bartender. He’s forcing the coolness in his voice, in his posture, when he orders but it’s not like they’d know that.

“Who is Clare exactly?” You gesture to him, unimpressed. “And is Bruce gonna be pissed you mouthed off or something? It’s not like you just ended all prejudice around the world and now he’s got nothing left to fight for or some shit. Why are you drinking?”

“Fuck you, I do not need his ‘okay’ to talk to people.”

You roll your eyes, “Then why, Jason?”

He glares over his shoulder at the way you accentuate his name, roughly emphasizing the vowels, but you don’t do anything more than stare back.

“Nats and I grew up at the same time and she had a lotta opinions about my adoption back then, but I’m mainly irritated cause they’re gonna start…gossiping now.”

You laugh.

“Aww is the big bad outlaw scared of a few blog articles now? I’ll make sure to keep that in mind for when we go up against some asshole with a gossip column.”

The shot of tequila comes, no chaser, and Jason snatches and downs it in one fluid motion. You cringe just as he brings his head down to look at you, pointing with his hand still occupied by the little glass.

“You are…the worst.”

Your facial expression widens; eyes getting big, brows rising towards your hairline, mouth agape - the whole nine yards.

“Me?” You tutt, “I know you fucking lying. You can’t expect me to take your fear of women who sit in front of keyboards while probably sipping on lattes seriously? Come on, man.”

“It’s not just- It’s not just the keyboards okay? It’s the whispers. I don’t give two shakes of a rat’s ass about what these 10% assholes think of me, but having all their attention…”

You find yourself nodding (and mercifully skipping over the rat comment) and hum quietly. “Alright, when you put it like that I guess I get it.”

Jason grunts, sliding the shot glass closer to the opposite edge of the counter, “Yeahhhh. I hate when this happens.”

The bartender takes the glass without even stopping in their rush to the couple flagging them down and you squint.

“Aren’t you 19?”

“Twenty; and nobody asks questions when it could mean they won’t get paid at rich people parties.”

“How very criminal,” you say. You wait for that to - predictably - get a smile out of Jason before jostling him. “Now come on.”

He follows you easily when you walk away, catching up to you almost immediately now your gait is calmer.

“Where are we going?” Jason’s hands shove into the expensive pockets of his suit pants.

You get part way up the first flight of stairs leading to the second floor till you answer him.

“We’re gonna make Bruce do something embarrassing so everyone’s too busy talking about him to remember you exist.”

“Gee,” Jason scoffs, “you sure got a weird way of showing you love me.”

“It’s in spite of how lame you are, trust me.”

Once you get past the stairs Jason automatically takes the lead and steers you towards the east wing of the house.

You’re both rummaging in the attic for anything sufficient for the combined goal at hand, and you’ve got a mesh bag of brightly colored marbles in your palm, when Jason stops searching and turns to you with a grave look on his face.

For your part you stop too, facing him fully with the bag bouncing in one of your hands.

“Hey, in all seriousness I’m sorry again, yeah? My plan was for us to be bored together, not angry together.”

You can’t help the way your eyes roll. “We literally made the decision to go screw with them, because they were talking about us, to-ge-ther. Chill out.”

For half a second Jason looks like he’s legitimately fighting the urge to flip you off - or set Artemis on you during y’all’s next sparring session - but ultimately he just ends up shaking his head at you.

His lips undeniably quirk in the low lighting you guys are working with though so you’ll call that a win.

“Alright yeah. The way she changed colors was pretty funny.”

“Wish I’d gotten a picture,” you add, nodding.

The two of you glance at each other before bursting out into laughter.

After that coming up with a plan to fuck with Bruce - and Tim, per Jason’s added stipulation - takes barely anymore time.

Although—

Conspicuously you check the time on your phone and when 11:53 flashes up at you you grin.

“Hey, do you know if Dana is still here?”

Jason’s brows furrow, but he shrugs at you as he’s looking out over the grounds. He thinks Bruce is entertaining people outside right now and is doing his best to locate him from afar.

“Pretty sure she is. Why?”

It’s then that he turns to you and whatever flashes through your eyes gives you away apparently because then he’s practically wagging his damn finger at you.

“You better—”

“—You better hope I don’t get to her before the clock strikes,” you cut him off.

A beat passes where Jason clearly digests the challenge issued and then you’re both fighting to get through the little door that leads to the attic.

Your plans for Bruce - and Tim - could wait for later.

NOTES: Hope you enjoyed!!

This feels slightly all over the place, but whatever. Mind any typos I will catch them later.

Ending off yet another year with a Jason Todd fic. Till next year Lovelies!!!🧡

btw: if you’d like to leave a comment I’d very much appreciate it!

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miss-celestia13 · 1 year

Text

Run Towards the Monster

Dark Richy x Dark OFMC

@hacked-by-jake requested I write a dark smut one shot with Richy in the mine. This is the result! It’s something completely new to me. I’ve never written anyone but Jake with my MCs and this is my first foray into dark romance. Two villainous people find one another and the world will never be the same.

Words: 4.4k

Aylin knows one thing for certain, in this town, it’s kill or be killed. Her whole life has been one shitshow after another until she learned to steal the power from those unworthy of it. Once she was involved in the search for Hannah, she knew she did not want this group of self obsessed people to have a happy ending. No, she wanted to help him burn Duskwood to the ground. A carnal hunger was awoken the moment she figured him out and she is determined to satisfy it.

TW: Dark romance. Rough, twisted sex. Blood. Pain and pleasure. It’s consensual smut, just not my typical type. Wanted to warn you before you read it. They’re insane. I don’t think it’s too triggering though, just not what I’m used to writing. Probably the most gratuitous smut I’ve ever written 😂 p*rn for the sake of it!

Aylin

Jessy: You can’t go! He’ll kill you.

Aylin: I’m the only one that can stop him. You know that

Thomas: If it saves Hannah, I say we let her go

Dan: Could you think of someone other than yourself for once, Thomas?

Jessy: Exactly! Hannah isn’t the only one we care about.

Cleo: Let Aylin decide. It’s her decision, not ours. She has to live with whatever she decides.

Lilly: Don’t go. We’ll find another way.

Aylin: I need time to think. I’ll let you know my decision soon.

The truth was, she’d made her choice days ago. She had quickly figured out who was behind this whole situation, and she had been delightfully surprised to discover the man who seemed to wear sunshine-like armor was rotten to the core, just like her. His “kidnapping” had sealed the deal. She knew he was the mastermind of this farce when Thomas found only his bloodstained hat surrounded by raven feathers. It was far too convenient, and she had been itching to go to Richy ever since. She had liked him before, had sensed a darkness in him that called to the dark in her. Their messages had become more flirty as time wore on, he seemed to both trust and distrust her. It amused her greatly and she wanted to test her theory that he was just as beastly as she. The hacker had gone quiet. She had asked him for space and he’d granted it. He had felt guilty she’d been pulled into all of this, not knowing she had inserted herself and had no plans of retreating.

While her new “friends” had panicked and lived in fear, she had enjoyed every moment of Richy’s twisted game. He had made many mistakes; if he’d asked for her help, she would have perfected his grand scheme. There was still time to do so, and now she was on her way to do exactly that. She had come to Duskwood the day after everyone had messaged her for the first time. Never one to miss out on the macabre, she had hopped on the first flight there. Richy had messaged her from an unknown number, and she hadn’t told him she knew it was him yet; she wanted to do it in person. She hadn’t found him the least bit attractive until it became clear something insidious was hiding under his deceptively jovial surface. Now she was positively elated at the idea of having him for herself. And Aylin always got what she wanted.

All her life, she’d known she was different. Whatever part of the brain made people care or love was missing in hers. She could love, but in a selfish, manipulative way, and no one had been able to withstand her for more than a few weeks. Richy would be different. She felt it in her bones and blood. She was profoundly selfish and thrived on chaos and death. Her own family had long since disowned her, and she’d taken great joy in destroying their lives, piece by scrumptious piece. Now most of them were afraid to even breathe in her direction. It was her proudest achievement until now. They’d broken her first; she had simply returned the favor.

She wasn’t wholly evil. No, she only went after those that deserved it. Rapists, abusers, and the like. The justice system in her country was terrible, and sometimes the world needed someone like her to carry out karmic punishment when the law failed them. The fact she enjoyed it was just a perk to her. Legend said her heart died in her chest long ago. It had putrefied, and now a heavy slime as thick as tar coated her insides and insulated her against hurt or emotion. She had grown scales, fangs, and claws over the years; she kept them honed and knew when to use them.

They weren’t just for meting out suffering and retribution. She particularly enjoyed unleashing them on anyone unhinged enough to get into bed with her. Pain and pleasure. The two addictions of her life. And she felt the familiar heat of desire kindle and smolder low in her stomach as she approached the waterfall. She had told him she would be here, yet she saw no sign of the object of her current craving. Her sharp eyes scanned the forest and waterfall, the rushing roar of the water masking any footsteps that may or may not be approaching her. She scented him before she felt him wrap his arms around her and press a wickedly sharp blade to her throat. Pine and smoke, blood, and the salt of dried tears after Dan shot him. Oh, she already loved where this was going.

“Don’t move,” he warned, low and vicious in her ear, making her shiver, “do as I say, and I’ll let you live.”

She chuckled, leaned into his warmth, and purred, “Oh, I don’t know. I want to see what you’ll do if I don’t listen… Richy.”

A sharp inhale as he heard her words, “How - why… when did you figure it out?”

“The day you staged your own kidnap. Your acting is piss poor,” she smirked as he pressed the knife harder, knowing her blood had already welled over the edge of it.

“Why are you here then? Why didn’t you tell the others?” He demanded.

“Let’s go inside the mine, and then we can talk. I don’t want an audience. Anyone could come around here.” She replied, feeling him tense at her denial.

There was a tremor in his hand, nerves making him feel weak. She sighed. The first vigilante adventure was always the hardest. It took time to shake off the laws and morals that were drummed into everyone from the moment they could understand the concept of crime and punishment. If she wanted him, she had to work fast before he freaked out and killed her in a panic.

“I’m not here to stop you. I’m here to help you. We need to plan our next move, Richy.” She said firmly, and Richy gave a bitter laugh.

“Why would you want to help me when you’ve gotten in my way all this time?”

“I had a part to play. I’m done now. I want to help. Come on; I’ve done this before. I know how to end it.” She insisted, and Richy fought with himself for a long moment.

Then the knife was gone, his hand grasped her upper arm, and she allowed him to drag her over to the entrance to the mine. His manhandling only heightened her excitement. He didn’t let go of her as he heaved open the iron door to the mineshaft, ushering her down first and following once the darkness swallowed her. The clang and clank of metal chains and the weighty door slamming accentuated her slow descent into the mine. Richy ensured the entrance was sealed tight before she heard him begin to climb down the rickety ladder. Putting all her trust into that fragile railing, Aylin smirked into the darkness as her blood heated and anticipation began to sink its sweet teeth into her.

Though she was unable to see, the walls felt too close, too suffocating as her knuckles grazed the rough, uneven walls as she went straight down the shaft. Loose stones broke free as the ladder shook with their combined weight, and she couldn’t yet hear the echo of them hitting the ground. A slow drip of water was audible the nearer to the bottom she got, a phantom breeze ruffling her inky hair as the skittering of tiny paws reached her ears over the roar of her blood. The air was cold and stale. Standing water, musty air and dry rot intermingled to create an offensive perfume that made her hold her breath, her revulsion was strong but she was set on seeing her insane idea through.

Dust and sweat coated her fingers despite the chill. Sweat dripped down the back of her neck when she missed a rung and, for a brief moment, thought she was falling. It didn’t frighten her, she laughed, and Richy made a disgruntled noise that she ignored. The railing was so riddled with rust and rot it trembled as she clung to it, her foot trying to find another step and feeling only dead air. She realized she’d reached the bottom and took a deep breath before she let go and jumped. Landing in a low crouch with a muted thud of her rubber-soled boots, she backed away from the ladder so Richy could follow.

Playing the part of submissive captive, she waited patiently as he jumped, and the dull smack of his feet as he strode toward her, matched the beat of her poisoned heart. Again, he grabbed her upper arm and tugged her through a narrow passage. It resembled a yawning black hole, a gaping maw of some long extinct beast as they moved through it. Her brain was filled with bats and ghosts, knives in the dark, and ruby-red blood spilling across the uneven treacherous ground. Gooseflesh flared over her skin as Richy pulled her into a small alcove that opened into a manmade cave.

Flickering candles illuminated the stingy space, haphazardly placed on jutting rocky ledges and the dust and rubble-strewn ground. He released her, backing up a step as he crossed his arms, arched a brow, and said, “Let’s hear it then. Make it quick. I don’t have long left.”

She smiled like a snake, “We have plenty of time. The others don’t know I’m here. They are waiting for me to decide.”

Richy snorted, “Why would they listen to you? All they care about is finding Hannah and fuck everything else.” He spat bitterly, making her bite back a grin.

“That’s precisely why they listened. My life means nothing to them, and so they mean nothing to me. I think that makes us allies, don’t you?”

“Allies?” Richy barked a laugh, head shaking, and she was utterly entranced by the intensity of the hate in his dark eyes as he said, “You’ll only stab me in the back.”

They were circling each other. Drawing close, then springing apart, invisible elastic bands pulled to their limit as they metaphorically sniffed the other out. Tension was building thickly, a thrum in the air turning her into a creature of base instincts. Richy’s eyes were locked on her, pupils dilating as she licked at her lips and curled her hands into fists. Fight or fuck? Both. Definitely both.

“That would be cowardly. If I ever stab you, you’ll see it coming and thank me.” She crooned, madness taking over as she dropped the mask she wore to be more palatable to normal humans in polite society.

“Why did you come here? Clearly, you don’t care about Hannah.” Richy asked, his voice filled with smoke and dark, dark lust.

“Because you and I are the same, Richy.” She teased as he drew closer.

“You don’t know me. No one does.”

She smiled, “I do. Better than you think... You and I masquerade as humans every day. I wear the skin of a woman to hide the monster underneath it. I see much of myself in you and want to see what you look like without that mask.”

Richy stopped their restless prowling, crowding her against the cave wall as he bent down to mutter, “Monsters in human skins? Poetic. Is that why I couldn’t stay away even though I knew you were dangerous for me?”

She nodded, eyes heavy-lidded as he leaned ever closer and breathed in her scent, “I sensed the shadows in you. They speak to my own. It would be foolish to keep them apart, don’t you think?”

Spellbound, she watched in hypnotic wonder as his facade finally slipped, and she saw the predator lurking inside him. There were many monsters in this shit world. She had learned from nature that some predators needed predators of their own. And he was hers. Their demons would dance together, tangled and bloodthirsty. They would wreak havoc upon any who stood in their way. She couldn’t wait for it. Her blood sang as he brushed his lips over hers, a ghost of a touch that set her nerves alight. Gentleness wouldn’t do. She needed to feel it; she needed it to burn, ache and bleed. The next time he did it, she surprised him, catching his bottom lip between her sharp teeth and sucking it into her mouth.

Richy groaned, the sound so filthy and luscious that her head spun. Suddenly, his hand was around her throat, and he shoved her against the wall hard enough that she hissed in pain and smiled against his mouth.

“This is wrong...” He tried, not moving away, and she knew he was only saying what he thought he should.

“It would only be wrong if you stopped.” She taunted with a challenge in her eyes.

Her breath quickened, heat crept up her chest and neck as his head lowered so slowly she thought it would have turned her insane if she weren’t already there. Adrenaline flooded her body at the animalistic and venomous lust she felt radiating from him, and she knew this would be a fight. A battle of wills and power. Who would submit first? She was about to find out as determination flashed across his face. He finally crushed his mouth to hers, quickly forcing his way inside her mouth. The first brush of his tongue made her cling to his shoulders, nails digging into his skin over his hoodie. It was too late for her. The clumsy kiss soon turned into complete ownership of her mouth, so deep and violent she felt it from the roots of her hair to the tips of her toes.

She was pushed harder into the dry rock, the hand around her neck burying in her hair and pulling hard, the pain licked over her scalp deliciously, and she again bit into his lip, drawing blood. The taste was akin to melted butter on her tongue, salty yet slightly sweet, with a slight iron tang that made her moan, and he tugged on her hair again. The blood in her own veins had been replaced by fire, so hot she was surprised she didn’t scald him as he blindly fumbled with the zip on her jacket. She chuckled when he sighed, earning herself a nip on her lip and a thigh pushed between hers. Liquid flame shot down her center to pool between her legs as she was crushed so tight the air was expelled from her lungs in a gasp. She was grateful, doubted she would’ve been able to stand without his weight holding her up.

Grabbing, greedy hands and fingers tore at their clothing. Breaking apart only so they could pull each other’s shirts off. Her chest heaved, covered in maroon lace that both annoyed and pleased him. A look of full possession appeared on his face as his eyes obsessively wandered over her, and she felt that gaze like he was clawing blunt nails over her skin. Shivering, she beckoned him close again and pounced, legs locking around his waist. She was pressed against the wall again, unsure how he’d moved so fast but glad all the same. She mouthed and nipped along his jaw, loving the salty taste of his skin, and thrilled as the unforgiving stone abraded her back.

Only scant lace protected her from the hard length she could feel through his jeans. She was grateful she had thought ahead and worn a skirt as she reached between them and flicked his fly open, hand diving inside to wrap around his thick cock and she began to awkwardly stroke him. He retook control of her mouth, bruising and ruthless. He didn’t let her breathe as she teased him. The wetness between her thighs soaked her underwear as she sank her hands into his hair and scratched at his scalp, smiling into the kiss when he shuddered. His fingers toyed with the fastening of her bra, struggling for a time as she did nothing to help. With an impatient noise, he succeeded in undoing it and her breasts soon popped free, and she let go long enough to take it off completely.

She was shameless as he abruptly pulled back, arching against the stone to offer herself up to his hungry mouth. He took the bait, mouth closing around her hard nipple, teeth biting hard enough that she cried out and threw her head back. The pain only added to the inferno in her core, her wetness slipped down her thighs, and a delectable burn spread over her as an ache built within her. She would ignite if he touched her, so riled and crazed she lost control of herself. Her hands turned to claws, raking down his chest, drawing blood she so badly wanted to taste again. His starving mouth pulled, sucked, and nipped each breast in turn, each vulgar sucking sound making her lose herself even more. His smothered desperate noises as she tormented him with unsatisfying strokes, sending a lick of nerves down her torso as he let go of her with a lewd noise she wished she had recorded.

Letting go of his cock, she arched in a sensuous slide, the scrape of the rock making her moan. She rubbed herself against him, frantically seeking friction as he smirked at her distress. The ache of overwhelming need beat like a war drum as her molten blood rushed straight to her cunt. Her volatile desire mirrored his haunted gaze as he held her pinned against the wall. Reaching under them, his long fingers slid inside her underwear, slipping through her soaked folds. He hooked his fingers around the delicate fabric and tore them off her. She growled, slapping his arm while he laughed, and she felt the fat head of his cock at her entrance.

Without warning, he was buried inside her, the stinging pain of her abruptly rent flesh making her toss her head back and howl it was so intense and consuming. She was very tight around him, knowing it hurt them both as he snapped his hips and grimly smiled at her wide eyes. She was suddenly very vocal, her back torn to ribbons with every thrust that shoved her up the cave wall. Sweat prickled on her skin and her many abrasions stung, she gave herself over to the madness of the flesh, letting it control her as he marked her throat. When he met her eye, he looked as dazed as she felt, his eyes like black burning coals as he claimed her mouth again, and his punishing thrusts caused a torrent of her essence to flood her sticky thighs.

It was exquisite agony. Her skin was inflamed as her nerves fired, making her jumpy and incapable of doing anything other than keen and wail. Richy was panting, and his jaw tensed so hard it could cut glass. Her torment was so complete she barely noticed when blood dripped down her back, his hands sliding over her skin as she whimpered and viciously pulled his hair, initiating a kiss to silence the noise she was making. She had hoped it would be like this. Ferocious and insatiable, each plunge of his cock inside her taut channel made the hair on her nape lift. The pain merged with the fire in her core decadently.

Stealing his breath, she tasted his fervor like spiced honey on his tongue and urged him to fuck her harder, clutching his shoulders hard enough to bruise when he did. Brutal and merciless, he forced her to a familiar peak, using her body just the way she liked and she revelled in the fact she would hurt tomorrow, looked forward to it more than was healthy. Soon she was walking on a blades edge, inner walls fluttering and clamping around his cock as he sensed her nearing release, her body going tense as he tore his mouth from hers and snarled in her face.

“Every moan you make belongs to me. You’re mine.”

She managed a short chuckle, pleasure surging so fast she was breathless and shocked. They were fighting each other with every kiss and thrust, spinning her so high she closed her eyes against the onslaught as he growled into her ear that she was his to use, his to keep. She would have agreed to anything then if it meant he kept fucking her. Their kind didn’t love. They owned. And the thought was so sinful and demented she could only nod, mentally claiming him as hers too. Toxic and unstable, it fed her chaotic self and it was all she ever needed from a lover. The warning pulse of release snatched a wanton moan from her black soul and a dark laugh from Richy. Prying a hand from his shoulder, she let it fall between her thighs, fingers slipping through the mess he’d made to feel where he split her in two, keening when he drove into her impossibly harder.

Circling her clit, she was sobbing and quivering in his hold, the wall at her back not enough to keep her bound to reality as red bursts of light obscured her vision, and he ordered her to come. His command, her fingers, and his cock worked in tandem to send her freefalling. A loud and fierce scream erupted from her and seemed to go on forever as the echo bounced off the stone. Richy groaned and chased his own end, ignoring her pleas for respite as she fluttered and spasmed in his hold, the force of her orgasm almost terrifying in its ferocity. Every pore on her skin sparked, her nerves exposed as her muscles jumped and tensed. It was almost unbearable as he slammed into her again and again. He gave a strangled, pained moan and one last cruel thrust, impaling her on his cock as he came inside her.

Her name was a curse on his tongue as he sunk to his knees. The scratches on her back worsened as she was pulled down with him. The wound Dan had given him had reopened at some point, and she saw her bloody handprints and fingerprints tattooed into his pale skin. She smiled lazily, brazen and bold, as he blinked at her in amazement. Nothing more was said. There was no point in sweet nothings or platitudes. Neither would mean them; she’d rather spend that time doing anything else, like plucking the hair from her underarms one by one. Richy seemed to feel the same as he cleared his throat and shifted her weight a little, wincing in discomfort as he softened inside her.

The aftermath was funny, as she usually found it as they hastily redressed and adjusted themselves as best they could. Her skin felt flayed and too hot each time she moved, and her jacket irritated her sore back. Every part of her ached in some way, and it kept her smiling as Richy explained what he planned to do. He wanted to release Hannah and then stage his death by burning all the evidence he had moved into the mine. She agreed with his plan, except for one detail, and Richy’s sadistic grin when she proposed her changes made pride flare in her ruined heart.

“Let’s untie Hannah, but we won’t let her out. She killed someone and covered it up. She has to earn her life. Give her a taste of death before she gets her freedom.”

“She may get more than a taste,” Richy murmured.

Aylin shrugged, “Then that’s what she deserves… Come on. We best get moving.”

Richy left her with multiple gasoline containers while he went to untie a drugged Hannah, who had woken due to the noise they’d been making. Fractured rainbows sparkled on the dusty mine floor as she laid her trail of destruction. Richy soon joined her, and they moved swiftly as Hannah could be heard weeping, her sluggish footsteps ran away from them as the cloying scent of gasoline saturated the air. Richy had chosen a different exit, both agreed it would be the rankest stupidity to use the one they entered through. They ascended the rickety ladder. She stopped halfway up; Richy rushed the rest of the way up to shove the wooden board covering the exit aside as she took out a Zippo lighter, igniting its perfect flame before letting it fall into the gasoline pool.

Scrambling up the ladder as quickly as she could, she still cried out in shock as the shockwave of heat washed over her, the flammable liquid catching with a thunderous whoosh that deafened her as Richy hauled her out of the mine shaft and into the forest. Sirens blared in the distance, and they shared a look, knowing their “friends” had given up waiting for her to decide, and they must have called the police. Without a backward glance or thought of Hannah’s fate, they turned their backs on the magnificent sight of the fire spewing out of any crevice or hole it could find. Neither knew how far they’d get or how long they’d manage to stay free, but both were determined to have a marvelous time ruining everything until the day they were forced to stop.

Maybe she would end up killing him when he grew tiresome. Or he would get there first, and she would finally know what it felt like to die. Either way, she was determined to make the most of it as they bolted through the forest and ran as far as their feet would carry them. It was over. She had solved the case. It was a shame that only she knew it. At the very least, whatever became of them would be worthy of a true crime documentary. And that was all she had ever wanted from life.

Very unsure of this. I hope it was fun for anyone reading! I wanted a challenge, lol. Don’t tell me if you hate it 🤭❤️

Part Two: Kiss With a Fist

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dwellinginsilence · 2 days

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Just a few of my favorites to go along with my -

🪄Wizarding World Alphabet🪄

🦊Animagus: For most witches and wizard, their Patronus and animagus are very similar if not exactly the same, however there are some Patronuses that are magical creatures like dragons, thestrals, and such. There have been no reports of any magical creatures being an animagus. So, if a person’s Patronus is a magical beast, their animagus would end up being a magical animal closest to their personality that is not magical. Sebastian’s animagus is a fox and they tend to be cunning, resourceful, intelligent, charming, a bit of a trickster, and (can be) manipulative. Although, independent at heart, foxes are social creatures. They are playful, mischievous, brilliantly charismatic, able to speak to any and everyone and seamlessly blend in and adapt to any conversation or environment. They’re also very unlikely to sacrifice their personal beliefs for any reason.

😱Boggart: losing his loved ones by death, but also losing them by him doing something (or not doing something). He does everything he can for his loved ones so they won’t leave him.

🍎Class: Favorite class is Defense Against the Dark Arts. He’s always been intrigued by the dark arts and enjoys learning about them and how to defeat them. His favorite teacher is Ronan. He enjoys Ronan’s jovial personality and his hands on approach to learning. His favorite spell to cast has always been Confringo. He is entranced by fire, enjoys the heat, and the amount of damage it causes.

💀Dark Magic: has no objection to using dark magic until he’s an adult and has seen consequences. Even then, he thinks it’s important to know what someone is actually fighting against. And if he’s a professor, he isn’t afraid to ask his students the tough, morally gray questions.

🌀Expecto Patronum/Patronus: If he learns the Patronus Charm before finding his significant other (SO), he’d cast a dragon. But he’s the type of person that his SO becomes his reason for everything, without losing who he is, so once he falls in love with his SO, truly in love, his Patronus changes to whatever their animagus form would be. If he learns the Patronus Charm after finding and falling in love, he would cast his SO’s animagus form from the start. His all consuming, obsessive, addictive personality would make his s/o the most important thing in his life and where all his happiest memories come from so it only makes sense that his Patronus would reflect that. Dragon Patronuses are full of passion, ambition, instinct, impulsive, fury, power, and dominance and they’re often associated with fire. They can be temperamental and impulsive, but that’s what causes them to be fearful and respected. Dragons are fiercely protective and strong. They will face any challenge, even if violence is necessary. They have good instincts, rarely regretting their decisions, and tend to keep their emotions encased tightly which could make them seem cold. They are natural leaders that don’t tend to back down when challenged. They have a strong sense of their own morals and stand firm in their convictions.

🧹Flying: Loves flying. It’s one of the rare times he feels free. His broom of choice is the Wild Fire Broom which he worked exceedingly hard to be able to get. His obsession with fire is clear in his taste of brooms. He prefers flying by broom but will happily fly on a hippogriff, he never completely warms to thestrals but will ride them if necessary.

🏏Game team: Favorite quidditch team is the Montrose Magpies, a Scottish team.

🏠House: Slytherin but the sorting hat seriously considered Ravenclaw because of his curious nature. Not only did he want Slytherin because of Anne and his parents being placed there, but his ambition and cunning mind made the Hat choose Slytherin.

🔵Imperio: his favorite unforgiveable. He rarely feels in control of his own life and enjoys that control over others.

💼Job: He always wanted to follow in his parents footsteps and be a professor. After Anne got cursed he considers curse-breaking. He doesn’t want to be an auror because of Solomon. He distrusts them and refuses to be anything like Solomon.

💋Kiss: his first kiss was first year. He charmed (nonmagically) a cute 2nd year Gryffindor into kissing him behind the Gryffindor bleachers during a quidditch game. Nothing came of it, but he remembers it fondly.

🧠Legilimancy: he never is able to read anyone else’s mind, but he fortifies his mind enough to keep others out and break out of the Imperius Curse.

🐉Magical beasts: He’s always been fascinated by occamys and would love to see one some day.

📝N. E. W. T./OWL: barely studies and still manages to pass with “Exceeds Expectations” or “Outstanding” in all tests.

🦉Owl: their family had one owl that he took care of after Solomon’s death since Anne left without notice or telling him where. The owl is a Great Horned Owl named Athena because both him and Anne love mythology.

🌱Plant: Herbology isn’t his favorite subject, but he does see the purpose of magical plants. He loves how vicious the Venomous Tentaculas are.

🏉Quidditch: will play and can play any position but his favorite and most skilled is beater.

💭Remember: his favorite memory is when his parents took him and Anne on a picnic on the coast. It was their last family outting before their parents died.

🩸Status:blood: Half blood because his mother came from a muggle family. Hates pure blood supremacy, one because he believes in judging someone on their character and two because he hates what it did to his best friend.

🍬Treats/Honeyduke's: he’s got an insatiable sweet tooth, always charming the house elves for extra desserts. His favorite treat from Honeyduke’s are “Fizzing Whizzbees”. He hates Bertie Bott’s ever since Anne made him try a horrible one that he’s positive were dirty socks.

❌Ugly bad habits: besides being a bit addicted to dark arts, he taps everything. With a quill or his fingers he’s always making noise. The boy can’t sit still.

🙊Veritaserum: has no qualms about using the potion on himself or others. For as daring and carefree to break the rules as he is, he makes it a point not to lie. Maybe stretch and manipulate the truth, but never lie. So if he’s subjected to the potion, he’s confident that nothing would come of it.

🪄Wand: dragon heartstrings- most powerful wand core, capable of “flamboyant” spells. They learn quickly and bond deeply with their master, may change allegiance if won. Easiest turned to dark arts and prone to accidents because it’s temperamental. 14 1/4 inches- longer wands tend to choose bigger personalities. Unyielding- tunes itself to its masters preferences and usually won’t change even in the hands of another. Good for combat and healing magic. Aspen- closest wood to white, best used for martial magic and charms. Handle-green plaid, was his father’s handle. He refuses to use any other handle, ever.

➕Xtra: He hates bullies so he tries to defend anyone being picked on. That’s also why he makes it a point to tell the house elves “thank you” and that he appreciates their work. It’s another reason why he hates Ominis’s family, because they bully everyone. He can see thestrals not because his parents died since he didn’t witness it, because he witnessed a childhood friend drown. He’d gone to a lake with his friend and their family. His friend kept encouraging them to swim out deeper, but Sebastian had a bad feeling and tried to encourage them both back. His friend wouldn’t listen and kept swimming out. By the time his friend gave up and tried to follow Sebastian back, his friend had gotten a cramp and couldn’t swim any longer. Sebastian yelled for his friend’s parents but everyone was too late. His friend’s parents made it clear they didn’t blame him, but Sebastian always felt somewhat responsible. To this day, he won’t swim if he can’t touch the bottom.

🤢Yuck: Even though he doesn’t mind Garreth, he tends to have a distaste for male Gryffindors. In his experience they’re aggressive and arrogant. (Female Gryffindors he has no issue with and thinks are bold and charming.)

😜Zonkos: he doesn’t tend to use pranks, but if he did his favorite would be frog spawn soap. One time, Anne took advantage of his sweet tooth and gave him hiccoughing sweets. He had uncontrollable hiccoughs for two days because of how many he ate. He still says the sweets were so good it was worth it.

Under the break I have this blank if anyone is interested in doing it for themselves, their MCs, or any other characters. If you do, tag me, so I can see them!

🪄Wizarding World Alphabet🪄

🦊Animagus:

😱Boggart:

🍎Class:

💀Dark Magic:

🌀Expecto Patronum/Patronus:

🧹Flying:

🏏Game team:

🏠House:

🔵Imperio:

💼Job:

💋Kiss:

🧠Legilimancy:

🐉Magical beasts:

📝N. E. W. T./OWL:

🦉Owl:

🌱Plant:

🏉Quidditch:

💭Remember:

🩸Status:blood:

🍬Treats/Honeyduke’s:

❌Ugly bad habits:

🙊Veritaserum:

🪄Wand:

➕Xtra:

🤢Yuck:

😜Zonkos:

#hogwarts legacy #sebastian sallow #hogwarts legacy fanart #wizarding world #harry potter #slytherin #hogwarts #hogwarts legacy fanfic #sebastian sallow fanfic #Wizarding World Alphabet #Dwelling In Silence AI

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tinyvoicejill · 11 months

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For the prompt thing I don’t think this is very vague but superpowers? (I’m back in a supercorp era I fear)

(I am too babe there’s no shame… unfortunately this is not like Supercorp at all lmao. Also some content warnings on this one for descriptions of drowning/death experiences and some general body unpleasantness?)

----

Talk of the people with gifts resembles that of boogeymen or ghosts. They’re not real things, just threats you tell your children to keep them in bed.

“Stay asleep,” they warn with a jovial tone too light for terrified children to identify. “Lest the monsters get you.”

Children grow up and stop believing in the monsters, at least in their minds. But their hearts and bodies never forget, not fully, and so when they do in fact encounter something - someone - who their minds know should not exist, they’re left with a confusing, skin crawling sensation they can never quite explain. They hate and they fear, but they don’t know why.

That’s how it’s always felt to Carson, at least.

Like they didn’t really understand where their intense dislike for her came from, just that they all feel it. It’d been like that with her mother too, growing up. People feared her, and they feared Carson along with her. Her dad had helped temper the hatred some - the gifted are always easier to tolerate around others. Like a lion in a zoo - you can sense the power they hold, but you feel protected from them. It’s when you’re caught alone with one that the primordial parts of your brain really sense the danger.

Nothing is scarier than being alone with another person: for them first, and then for Carson as a result. The safest she can be is invisible. Carson tries to stay lost in crowds or completely alone whenever possible, though crowds bring their own dangers as well. After all, the more people there are the greater the chances some future atrocity is lurking ahead for one of them. And whatever horrors lay ahead for these strangers Carson will know. Will feel.

That is her gift and curse: foresight. She feels it beneath her skin like a slithering vine whenever she’s near one of them. It whispers warnings in her bones, and its whispers grow louder the nearer they are to her or to their fate. For as long as she’s been able to tell, Carson has always known when bad things were about to happen to others. Their future anger, their terror, their demises - all of it calls out to her before they’re realized. Sometimes days ahead, sometimes hours. Sometimes seconds. She’d cry into the night as a child, pillow wrapped tight around her head, and beg her mother to make it stop. Beg her to take away the gift.

“The gift is not a part of you, my love. It is you. You can’t stop it. I’m so sorry.”

Her mother carried so much guilt for her gift, for creating her at all. Carson always figured that’s why she left them. The guilt was too much. Carson was too much. Something her mother never told her, perhaps never even realized, was that there was something Carson could do to end the devastating grief of the gift.

She could stop the bad thing from happening.

She realized as a teenager when she felt the impending assault of a classmate. When the pain felt too large to ignore and she followed its guiding pull behind the school moments before the attack. When she was able to hit the man before he could harm. Her classmate had hugged her, thanked her, and all the pain she’d felt for hours vanished. That’s when she knew the gift wasn’t a punishment. It’s a responsibility.

She’d become a small-time hero of sorts, though few knew to what degree. People in town seem to loathe her less, even if they still fear her. Their hatred is mediated by her helpfulness. Preventing horrors before they can occur does not gain the same attention as intervening during a crime can. Most of the work she does to protect people prevents them from ever even knowing they were in danger at all. It makes the pain lessen inside of her, though, and that’s enough.

Her life is small but manageable, and her heroic interventions dull the ache to a background buzz. Living in a small town keeps things easier, too: the one time she’s visited a big city she nearly fainted in the streets under the pressing pain of the thousands of lives around her just waiting to suffer or end. Lake Valley is easier, the suffering fewer and farther between. Life is tolerable. Sometimes even pleasant, if she’s lucky. She can handle it.

Then one day she wakes in the middle of the night and it’s like her soul is ripping from her body, gripping hard at her bones in its effort to stay. Her body breaks out into hives, she finds herself retching fruitlessly into the toilet. Every breath she takes feels damp, her lungs sloshing and stuttering around water that isn’t there. She’s drowning. The terror of it nearly consumes her - her fingertips feel raw like she’s been clawing at the walls to escape, her head aches like she’s bashed it against something hard. She’s felt people die before, hundreds of times, but she’s never felt it like this. Her gift screams within her body so loudly her jaw aches: Run. Go now. Find her. Save her.

Her feet are moving before her brain even tells them to do so, taking her into the kitchen until she has a knife in her hand. She didn’t mean to grab it, yet she knows she needs it. Out of her house she runs, racing down the country dirt road that takes her from her isolated cottage to the rest of town. The gift guides her till she’s on the paved road and racing across it, down the grassy hill until she sees it, there, sticking out of the water: the tail end of a compact car, its headlights shining up as it sinks.

Hurry. Save her now.

Carson splashes into the water, passively aware of the jagged rocks tearing at her skin - she hadn’t put shoes on, hadn’t had time - but all she can focus on is her grip on the door handle of the front seat. She tugs and it opens easily. The unconscious woman’s hand is still tangled around the handle on her side. She’d tried to open it, it seems, but couldn’t against the water’s pressure. The car is filled with water now, though, and the pressure is gone. If it were not for the pulsating panic exploding through Carson at the sight of her, she’d think the woman was already dead. Carson reaches around her and tugs at the seatbelt only to find it unyielding. Knife knife knife, the gift chants, and she slashes at the belt with frantic jagged swipes. Carson cuts the woman free and lets the knife fall with the sinking car. She focuses her hands on pulling her body out and away. Nausea roils in her as she drags her to shore, wave after wave of flickering pain as the woman gradually dies in her arms. Another car has pulled up she can see on the road. The taillights sinking deeper into the lake must have caught their eye, and Carson prays they are calling an ambulance now but she can’t stop to ask, not while she feels the woman die, and so instead she lays her on the grass and she presses on her chest and she breathes into her mouth and she feels a deep gnawing emptiness settling into her bones as the woman fades, and a death has never felt like this before. She’s never felt this emptiness before. And then the woman gasps out a mouthful of water and a euphoria Carson has never known floods her body. She rolls the woman onto her side as she throws up water and nearly collapses under the feel of it. Carson presses her head to the woman’s shoulder and cries. What devastation she’d felt this whole time has been flipped on its head with a rush of endorphins so powerful she trembles. Carson’s never felt joy before, not like this, not with someone else. The ambulance arrives soon after that. EMTs come to load the woman onto a stretcher and Carson stiltedly tells them what she knows. They’re not surprised to see her. Carson is often there at scenes like this, pulling people from the brink of death. They look at her like she’s something to be feared, to be respected, and all Carson can see is the woman she’s saved. She’s beautiful, Carson realizes, especially now that color is returning to her skin. Her red hair lays tangled and plastered against her face and around her oxygen mask, and all Carson wants is to brush it aside.

“We’ll take it from here, Miss Shaw,” the EMT says nervously as they begin to wheel her away, and every step they take from her pulls the ache back into her. It’s only when they’ve gotten a ways away that Carson realizes how the last few minutes of contact have felt for her. How the moment the woman came back to life, the pain of her gift went away. That’s never happened before. And now she feels that distance like a wound, and the panic sets in with it. “Wait!” she calls out as they load her onto the ambulance. “I’m coming with you.” They seem hesitant to let her but she doesn’t give them a chance, instead climbing aboard like she belongs there. Like she belongs with the woman. On instinct, she grabs the woman’s hand. Instantly the panic lessens, the pain. The world fades into just this moment, just the soft beat of a heart that had moments before been still.

“Do you know this woman?” they ask as they wrap her in a shock blanket. She’s soaked and shivering, though she hardly feels it. Yes, the gift aches within her. Yes yes yes.

“Not yet,” she says. “But I will.”

#I lost control of myself and wrote a lot lmao #I deleted my post being like 'send me prompts' because it had no notes and I was like oh damn what a flop #only to then check my inbox and see three prompts sitting there alndfoaiwefnkalef #so I may remake it but basically if you wanna send me vague non directive prompts I might write little things based on it #gretson #aloto fic #mine #my writing

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hard-deck-confessions · 9 months

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I See You - Chapter 1

Pairing: Hangman x Phoenix

Word Count: 2k

Warnings: enemies to lovers (not yet tho), slow burn, slight swearing, for sure some military inaccuracies, third person POV

Summary: Phoenix hates Hangman's guts. But she cares about her friends more, and Hangman is making her best friend miserable. About a month ago, Hangman started picking on Bob again. No one knows why he started his jeering up again, but Phoenix is willing to pay anything to make it stop. But what happens when that price is a date? And what happens when it turns out that Jake Seresin actually isn't the worst company?

A/N: I had the idea for this fic after I saw a fanfic quote prompt somewhere: "I brought you a juice." (I can't find the user it was from, but if you do please let me know so I can credit them!) From there I wrote a cute little Hangman x reader incorrect Top Gun quote post, but I realized it was such a Hangman x Phoenix interaction so Jabber and I collaborated over some ideas and this baby was born!

This story is written fully in 3rd person, so omnipotent narrator who reads the other characters minds occasionally, but it takes place mostly from Phoenix’s POV.

Also I may have completely made up correction sensors, but they’re based off whatever targeting system that malfunctions during the “mission” in the movie. They never get mentioned again, please leave them alone. They are sensitive and valid.

Chapter Song(s): Mean, NO, CHOKE

****

"That’s a kill!" Bob’s excited voice came crackling through the radio in the Daggers’ break room.

The room erupted with cheers. No one had been able to down Hangman in this week’s exercises on targeting without the correction sensors so far, but Bob’s quick thinking and steady hand had finally done it. Hangman’s gloating would be replaced by cheers of Bob’s name that day in the lockers. A welcome reprieve.

Back in the air, Phoenix was pumping her fists in the air and flipping off an unknowing Hangman. "Suck it, Bagman! We got your butt good!" the aviator called through the radio. "That’s how we do it over here with the smoothest duo in the Daggers! Great job, Bob! MVP of the exercise for sure.”

The shy backseater blushed lightly beneath his oxygen mask. He still got flustered over the smallest compliments, no matter how many times his supportive squad mates clapped him on the back or clasped his shoulders singing his praises. He stumbled over his words as he squinted against the sun in his eyes, making getting the words out even harder, "I, uh, you—you basically lined up the shot for me, Phoenix, I just pressed the button."

"Nah, that was all you, Bob. Don’t sell yourself short." Phoenix insisted proudly.

"No, please do sell yourself short, Baby," Hangman interjected with a laugh, the cockiness and resentment were practically dripping from his voice, even through the radio.

"Please go screw yourself, Bagman," Phoenix spat back. "Ignore him, Bob, you did amazing."

"It’s okay, Phoenix; he’s just joking." Bob said, always trying to keep the peace, especially between Phoenix and Hangman. Bob was getting pretty good at standing up for himself, but the two of them always seemed to be at each other’s throats and Bob found that he was usually, unintentionally, the reason.

"I wasn’t, actually," Hangman quipped again.

Phoenix’s blood was about to boil; if it wasn’t likely to get both her and Bob a court martial, she’d dive on the cocky blond's plane just to give him a good scare. Instead, she settled for some "playful" verbal abuse.

"Bagman, everything everyone says behind your back is true."

"Was that meant to hurt my feelings, Phoenix?"

"I swear the only reason they let you fly solo is because your WSO would purposely sabotage you both just to get some damn peace."

"Oh, really? That the best you got?" Hangman taunted.

The breezy jovial feeling that had filled the air of the jet just moments before had gone stale, and instead a thick layer of smog-like anger had fallen over the aircraft cockpit. The temperature within had surely gone up by at least a few degrees with all the red hot words flying from Phoenix's mouth into her mic.

Bob's cheeks glowed to a flaming red as he listened to the two pilots bickering, entire body tense, helpless to remove himself from the mid-air argument, just waiting for the right moment to interject. He’d been in this situation many times before—he knew the drill. But that didn't make him any less uncomfortable. "Okay, c’mon, guys—" he began timidly, yet a level of assertion still came through in his voice.

"Great work, aviators!" Mav’s voice came like a shock over the radio, squashing the argument before it could manage to turn physical. No student had died on Mav's watch so far, and he wasn't looking to change that any time soon. Especially because 'purposeful collision due to mid-flight training disagreement' would not go over well on an accident report. "Let’s get these birds back on the ground. It’s quitin' time!"

Steam filled the empty locker room. Phoenix breathed deeply as she stepped out of the shower. She always felt like she had gained a new life after her shower at the end of each day; the amount of sweat produced under those flight suits was ungodly. She also liked to imagine that the boiling water was washing away all the boys’ BS that she had gone through that day. She loved, almost, all of them—though she’d never tell them that—but being the only girl on a team of men, Navy men, was rough. She was sure at least two of them truly were raised in a barn, and she knew Bob and Rooster were the only ones who even knew what the word "filter" meant.

She thought on her boys fondly, unable to hold back her smile, as she toweled off her hair behind the emotional privacy of the her locker door. She'd never dare show this side to them. This was still the military, after all, and she was still a woman. No matter how many times she proved herself tougher than the men around her, her and soft emotions were not allowed to coexist without ridicule. Wiping the condensation off of the mirror, she looked at her own face in the tinny glass, it had been hardened over her time in the Navy, and it reminded her of the look of rage on Hangman’s as they clambered back into the hanger. She laughed lightly. That was without a doubt the best thing she’d seen in weeks. She wished she could’ve had it photographed so she could look at it when she was having a bad day.

She didn’t truly hate the cocky pilot, but she had been nearing the line between it and mere distaste with his recent antics. After their first mission together, it had seemed like all grudges between any of the Daggers had been squashed; Hangman and Bob had been fully civil up until a couple weeks ago when Hangman decided to make the younger pilot his verbal target practice. Everyone had noticed the shift, but no one could tell exactly what triggered it. Bob had finally started to stand up for himself in the past couple days, which Phoenix was thankful for because any time anyone else said anything to Hangman, the treatment just got worse. It needed to end, and soon. Phoenix was ready to string Hangman up, but she knew acting out would only risk getting both her and Bob disciplined. She didn’t know what she was going to do. But she was sure as hell going to do something.

She finished getting ready to head home and slung her backpack over her shoulder. She tossed her hair into a loose bun as she walked out of the lockers, preparing to face the scorching heat already constantly present even this early into the California summer. Fanboy intercepted her in the hall outside the locker rooms. His face immediately told her that whatever he was about to say wasn’t another corny joke about his favorite tv series.

"There’s something you should know," he said.

"BAGMAN!"

Lt. Jake "Hangman" Seresin might not have finished at the very top of his classes, but he was smart enough to know that that yell could only mean one thing: he was about to get the chew out of a lifetime from one Lt. Natasha "Phoenix" Trace. He pulled his signature toothpick out of his mouth before turning on his heel to see the livid brunette storming down the hall, fire ablaze in her eyes.

If anyone else had been in the vicinity, they would've sworn they felt the temperature shift.

"What the hell, Hangman?" Phoenix barked, shoving a hand roughly into his chest, and sending the unprepared man stumbling back a couple steps with an unsophisticated mix between a "WOAH!" and "HEY!"

"What do you mean ‘what the hell'?" Hangman shot back, gathering himself and stepping forward, squaring his broad shoulders towards her. "You can't just attack a man without telling him what he did to provoke it."

Phoenix's face was now inches from his. Hangman could feel the rage on the heat of her breath.

"Watch me," she said, her voice dripping with venom. "Don't even start that crap with me. You know full well what you did."

"Humor me." Hangman said with the same tone he would have used in a casual conversation with a friend, which this situation very much was not.

There was finger in his face. He pretended there wasn't, looking past it directly into Phoenix's face.

"I am so fed up with your immature little grudge against, Bob."

"I didn't know I ever had one."

Hangman's tone was aloof, and it drove Phoenix crazy. How could he be such a prick? All she wanted to do was punch him in the jaw. She didn’t know why she always felt like she was about to explode with Hangman, no one else made it so difficult for her to keep her emotions in check, but she held it together—this time. She wasn't going to make herself any promises for the future.

"You two were supposed to be cool after the mission, I thought you had agreed to lay off him! I don't know who you think you are, but Bob is just as, if not more, qualified as any of us to be here. And you know it! But your fragile little ego just can't take that he's smarter than you, can it?" She practically spat the last words, ensuring they hit Hangman square in the face.

Phoenix saw his eyes soften for just a second and knew that she'd hit a nerve, but his expression didn’t change. He just continued to look at her with that same stupid, smug expression he always wore.

"And I have laid off him. He's not my concern any longer." He shrugged, popped the toothpick he'd been holding back into his mouth, and started to turn away. Phoenix forcefully grabbed his arm.

Her grip was stronger than Hangman assumed it would be.

"Really? 'Cause that's not what it looked like to Fanboy when he saw you corner him in the lockers after that last flying exercise. He said you looked ready to throttle Bob before he stepped in. That's low, even for you. We got you fair and square in that exercise. If you don't want to lose, try not making stupid mistakes. And one more thing," Phoenix said, leaning into Hangman's face, fists clenched so tightly at her sides they were pure red. "If you ever try taking your sore loss out on Bob again, we will be having a very different conversation that will not be much of a conversation at all."

"Is that a threat, Trace?" Hangman said coolly, a smirk on his face.

"It's a promise," Phoenix snapped, pushing past him forcefully, her shoulder smacking into his.

Hangman dropped his head and laughed, his tongue twirling the toothpick in his mouth. Head still lowered, he called after the receding footsteps, "Wow, I didn't know you had a heart, but since you clearly care so much about him, I'll leave Bob alone."

The footsteps stopped. Hangman turned to face them, shaking his head lightly.

"But it's gonna cost you."

Phoenix cocked one eyebrow in an ‘I knew this was coming' fashion.

"Really?" She said, crossing her arms over her chest, taking a step closer.

"Really." Hangman shot back joyfully, also taking a step closer. He was clearly enjoying this.

"Fine. I'll bite. What's your price?"

"Go on a date with me."

Phoenix scoffed, staring at him agape as if she hadn't heard him correctly or refused to believe he'd actually said what she thought he said.

"That's the worst joke you've ever made, Bagman, and you've made a lot of bad jokes." She scoffed again as she turned and continued toward the exit.

"Maybe because it wasn't a joke." There wasn't a drop of sarcasm in his voice.

"You’ve got to be kidding me," said Phoenix, turning back to him again.

"You want me to leave Bob alone? That's my price. One date, and we'll never have this issue again. I promise." He held up three fingers in a "scouts honor" kind of way.

"You’re insufferable, Bagman," Phoenix said. With that, she turned and walked down the hallway, silently fuming.

#top gun #top gun maverick #jake hangman seresin #natasha phoenix trace #hangman x phoenix #fanfic #robert bob floyd #phoenix x hangman #hannix #hangnix #seresin x trace #top gun fanfiction #fanfiction #i see you

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simplegenius042 · 10 months

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WIP Wednesday

Tagged by no one. For I am the one doing the tagging!

Tagging: @socially-awkward-skeleton @strangefable @direwombat @adelaidedrubman @shallow-gravy @wrathfulrook @snake-in-the-garden @alwayssunnyinedensgate @gaeadene @chazz-anova @cassietrn @josephslittledeputy @josephseedismyfather @voidika @poisonedtruth @detectivelokis @henbased @purplehairsecretlair @g0dspeeed @inafieldofdaisies and @vampireninjabunnies-blog + anyone else who wants to join.

Sharing two WIPs. The first is of chapter two of the Jurassic World Before The Storm fic, chapter one of which will be released in SIX days now, while the other WIP is of my FC5 fic Silva's Hope.

Here's the snippet of my Jurassic World WIP below:

“Now that introductions have been made, it’s best to get moving to cover more time for the day,” the woman, Zara, replies.

Joaquin didn’t need to look up at Lisa to know an annoyed scowl was in the midst of forming. Cautiously, he reached out a hand to her crossed arms, a gentle weight on them.

When she shifted her attention to him, the scowl had left, replaced with her soft gaze of hazel acknowledging the nervousness in his small brown eyes.

The eye-contact did not last long, for Joaquin strained to keep hold of the tender look he knew Lisa struggled to share even in her happiest moods. The comfort he should feel turned into distress as she kept staring at him. Overwhelmed and not wanting to have a “panic” in public, Joaquin broke the direct contact and looked away.

Joaquin disliked the prolonged action, how it rubbed him the wrong way when others stared at him for longer than he felt was necessary. Especially when the look into his eyes like they’re searching for some hidden secret. Made him feel sick, like if butterflies were flapping around in his belly.

He also felt as if he had done wrong against Lisa. It wasn’t her fault; his “anxieties”, his “shyness”, his “meek nature”. Just like her “happy moods” and “sad moods” weren’t within her control. His sister was aware of his skittishness, he knew that, and best of all never shunned him for it.

But he sometimes wished that he could give Lisa the comfort she deserved to have.

With her focus no longer on him, Joaquin heard Lisa conversing with Zara once more, much to his relief.

“Ms Dearing had agreed she’d meet us in person,” Lisa gritted out with renewed patience, “What changed?”

“Ms Dearing has been held up by unfinished affairs,” Zara replied, a small smile tugging at her lips as she softly shook her head fondly, “But nothing has changed. I will tour you through the park and show where you will be staying.”

Joaquin saw Lisa’s crossed hands clenching tightly. He also saw Lisa chewing her cheek in contemplation.

Hopefully she doesn’t bite it too hard again, he worried privately, and was unable to stop the stray thought as more came with it, Too hard and her sore might reopen. Then blood would pour out. And she’d be in pain, red slipping out, and he wouldn’t know what to do! She would get an infection, and the carers would come back and take him away from her and he’d be left alone without his sister, and she would be left without him, and it would be all his fault-!

Joaquin snapped out of the rapidly growing panicked thoughts as Zara’s voice speared through the air, looking towards the older woman, who had received no acknowledgement or response from his sister, “Will that be alright, Ms Cobalt?”

Joaquin barely heard the teeth-clenched confirmation from his undoubtedly agitated sister, “Just dandy.”

The agitation seemed to not bother Zara, or maybe it flew over her head, it was hard to tell.

“Wonderful. If you would kindly follow me to the monorail, I believe we can make it to the great lunch specials,” Zara spoke with a pleased and jovial voice. Though that could just be her music that seemed lay on her voice.

Zara turned tail and started walking towards the monorail station. Lisa and Joaquin glanced to one another, the former failing to contain her annoyance, the latter waiting for his sister's next move as he recovered from his own frenzied menagerie of anxious thoughts.

And here's a snippet of Silva's Hope (again this is under heavy development, this is just what I feel confident with so far, even if it the final product might be different):

"So," Kamski's voice returned from the static of the walkie talkie, finally arriving at the topic of importance, "Were you hired?"

Silva sipped again on the hot liquid of her brewed coffee, undeterred by the strong smell tingling her nose. She had gotten used to it.

Brushing a strand of dark hair back, Silva pressed the button and relayed the news she knew Kamski was dreading to hear, "I had been. Answered questions, kept to the story, no problems occurred. Interview went on without a hitch. Sheriff said I begin at the week's end."

Silence befell the kitchen, the lamps strewn throughout Silva's home now the only source of lights left to illuminate the rooms. She made her way to the maroon couch, seating herself in the middle. She brought the mug to her lips once more as Kamski made his reply.

"Not that I don't trust your judgement Silva, but are you sure you should be interacting with the locales Americanos? They can be quite... divisive."

Kamski's voice was steady as he spoke, but Silva could pick up the underlying hints of worry underneath the gruffness. Despite this, she could not hold back an amused snort at his words, "And we've never been?"

"You know what I mean Silva," Kamski responded, tone stern and serious, "This isn't la Minas. The community can be unpredictable if they acquire certain information."

Gulping down the last of her coffee, Silva settled the mug on the table before countering, "And this isn't the Archipiélagos either, Kamski. You and I are more likely to die in an automobile accident because we got distracted looking at something new, shiny and different before anyone decides to aim a weapon at either one of us for petty and meaningless mierda."

Kamski grunted over the transmitter, and Silva exhaled a breath out. This had been a common back-and-forth. It wasn't unwarranted, especially with two of the worst tragedies Silva's ever faced years prior. But Silva had been tired of it. The grief. The anger. The empty loneliness.

#fic: jurassic world before the storm #jurassic world #oc: joaquin cobalt #oc: lisa cobalt #zara young #the untitledverse #the perfect storm saga #wip: silva's hope #far cry the silver chronicles #far cry 5 #oc: silva omar #oc: kamski neon #wip wednesday

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hyungseos-cafe · 5 months

Text

the letterbox series ; chapter three - protective

paring: the boyz sangyeon x gn!reader

genre: time travel au, fluff, angst

warning: mentions of teasing and bullying

word count: 850

taglist: @deoboyznet @winterchimez @mars101 @cloverdaisies @uwu0clock

series masterlist

The living room looked as if it was from my childhood– wait, childhood? I stood in the living room which was now filled with childrens toys. The walls were painted a muted yellow with white window drapes.

It felt familiar, like from when I was younger–

“Y/n! Where are you?” The loud voice shook me from my thoughts, the voice seemed oddly familiar, almost as if it was coming from my childhood friend… Sangyeon?

“Y/n! There you are, we’ve been looking all over for you” Sangyeon wrapped his arm around my shoulder, I appeared much younger and more jovial. This wasn’t right, why am I here again? Why am I back in the house, why am I younger and why is Sangyeon here?

I went along with the flow, partaking in whatever activities that were prepared while questioning why I was there. The thought of grandfather kept plaguing my mind, what happened? The memories of the previous day before coming back.

As soon as I set my grandfather’s journal back on the ground, that was when everything changed– I was younger. My childhood best friend was back, and I was there to see him, but why?

It was not until night came where I finally began to connect the dots. I traveled back in time to see my childhood best friend; Sangyeon.

Sangyeon was my very first friend when my family moved into the neighborhood. We were utterly inseparable, completely attached at the hip. The day my mother said we had a new neighbor, I ran outside to greet said neighbor.

We became fast friends, best friends even! The next morning, I awoke to Sangyeon knocking on my door, apparently we had school today. I pushed the blankets that once kept my body warm to the side and washed up. My mother had prepared us breakfast in the kitchen before rushing us out the door to be picked up by the bus.

“Good morning squirt!” Sangyeon smiled, his pearly whites shined bright in the sun

“Stop calling me that! Just because you’re my best friend doesn’t mean you can call me that”

“Of course I can!”

Sangyeon and I were always put in the same classes in school, the teachers loved us together because we always had the best ideas. Although we were also known as the dynamic duo, we were always causing a ruckus.

We became even closer when the kids in our school began to pick on me. They made fun of me because grandfather had “run away”, what a darned thing to pick on a kid, amiright? They even had the audacity to say my shoes were ugly, well news for you kid, so are you!

Anyways, back to the story! Sangyeon has always been like a brother to me. He was fun, mature and very kind, especially to my mother.

On one particular school day however, the boys at school were picking on me again, but this time, they had a different motive

“Sangyeon doesn’t like you” One boy shouted

“He thinks you’re dumb” Another one chimed in and soon enough my ears rang with the incessant remarks the school boys threw at me “Was it true?” I thought to myself. The image of him leaving my side practically haunted me.

After the bell rang, I ran to find him, deciding to confront him about the situation no matter how heated things may get.

“Sangyeon” I inquired, gently kicking the pebble under my shoe before turning around “Do you think I’m dumb?” The question stung the poor boy more than it should have, his eyes began to water as he turned away. His shoulders began to drop, almost drooping from the sudden change in the environment.

“Wh– who said that?”

“The boys did, the boys from class did” I stomped my feet, arms flailing in anguish

“They’re wrong! I lo- Like yo–”

“You love me?”

Sangyeon huffed, sweat slowly dripping down the nape of his neck, his mouth ran dry and he was speechless, “What have I done?” he thought to himself.

“No, you were just hearing things! What a funny thing to say, right?”

“Yeah, haha” Your heart broke, why did he say that?

“Let’s go home! I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”

The walk home was silent, almost eerie as the conversation ran through your mind. The prospect of him liking you back excited you, but unfortunately he didn’t seem to think that way.

The following morning, a letter had been delivered to Sangyeon’s door

“Sangyeon,

I have to go, you won’t see me again. I’m sorry, I have to go. I love you, but you probably won’t love me back. I will see you in the future. Please don’t forget about me, okay? If I meet you only to find out that you forgot who I was, I have every right to kick your shins, okay?”

The letter read, his heart sank again, why did she have to leave?

That same morning, Y/n woke up again to the same basement, but this time, it looked different, again. Was this deja vu?

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masterwords · 1 year

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something like sanctified

Summary: Hotch & Morgan have a little accident while messing around. Now, their bed is broken and Hotch is a little broken too. Shopping for a new bed is more than a little embarrassing with your arm in a sling. (Alternate summary: they're too damn old for this shit.)

Pairing: Hotch/Morgan

Words: 3k

Warnings: sex & a shoulder injury (no explicit sex, just obviously that's kind of the theme of these hijinks)

Notes: Today we're using a prompt from my forever muse @unionjackpillow - "Shopping for a new bed because the old one - that they got only 2 years ago - broke. Now they’re trying not to tell the sales person why exactly the frame is no longer in one piece." Oh. Well. I don't think they needed to say anything at all, do you? This fits into the Chicago Timeline, so they're older and have creaky bones but they're definitely not wiser. (The title sounds very serious but it's a line from "Let's Get It On" by Marvin Gaye so...)

Read on AO3 if you prefer!

“They don't need our whole life story,” Hotch said, perhaps a little too stiff as he tried to pull himself out of the car. He didn't mean for it to come out that way, but it did need to be said. Most people would assume that to be the case...not Derek. Not the man who could charm his way into a new friendship any place he went if he was in the right mood. Today seemed like one of those dangerous days. “Okay? You're not on the market for a new best friend, just a bed. Because you broke the last one...”

“We broke the last one. And why are you so mean anyway? You were having just as much fun as I was.”

“You’re right. I'm sorry. I’m tired and my shoulder hurts, I probably should have stayed home. I shouldn't take it out on you, even if it is your fault.”

Derek rolled his eyes dramatically and hooked his arm around Hotch's waist, careful not to bump against his sore arm. He did have a point, they had been a little rough the night before and when you’re on the bottom of some intense acrobatics when your bed breaks and your arm takes the brunt of two people’s weight against an unforgiving hardwood floor...Derek supposed he had a fairly good excuse for being a little on the grumpy side. “I'm gonna tell 'em everything. About how you dislocated your shoulder, about how I offered to set it back in place and you growled at me to keep my hands off...about the trip to the ER at 2am, everything.” Hotch wasn’t proud of his reaction but the injury had blindsided him. He was nearly finished, his mind was way out in the stratosphere and then WHAM! His entire world exploded in bright hot agony. It took him nearly a full minute to even figure out what happened and in that minute he did not want to be touched. He’d already apologized about one hundred times.

“I would prefer you didn’t.” How was that for diplomatic? What he really wanted to say was the fuck you are, but he didn’t swear often and he really didn’t think it would come across as (almost) playful as he meant it. Better let that one die on his tongue. Derek’s jovial mood was hanging by a thread, too, and he was a lot better at hiding it but Hotch knew how easily they could devolve into a bitter argument.

They ended up at the mall, purely because Derek was hungry and planned to send Hotch on a mission to grab them some lunch and wait at the food court while he talked his way around the furniture store. The problem in that plan, he discovered, was that Hotch with only one useful arm wasn’t going to be able to easily carry trays of food on his own, not without risking some very embarrassing public mishaps. Like he needed to draw more attention to the humiliation of the injury.

Derek did plan to be vague, he wasn’t a complete maniac, but it was fun to let Hotch think that their antics would be center stage. Hotch turned down the food court idea promptly, insisting that they go together or not at all. The pain in his shoulder was making him feel a little sick, and he wanted nothing more than to stand beside Derek quietly observing. There wasn’t much Derek could do when Hotch looked at him with those sleepy dazed eyes, the look of a man who was just beginning to feel the effects of the pain medicine he’d taken before they left the house so he could get through the day as comfortably as possible. There was a time, years ago, when he wouldn’t have touched the pills but he was too old for that now. His body already hurt whether he injured it or not, and dislocating your shoulder is a young man’s game as the doctor had said. Scolded. It was kind of a scolding. “How do you dislocate your shoulder at this time of night?” he’d asked, and Hotch had no good answer. In his days as an FBI Agent that answer was always easy, it hadn’t occurred to him that he no longer had that safety net. Derek wasn’t even in the room with him, just to be a little less obvious. It didn’t matter. “Take it easy, you’re no spring chicken. This’ll take a little longer to heal.”

Longer to heal spelled trouble anyway. He’d dislocated his left shoulder which meant writing was going to be a challenge down the line. Hopefully taking longer didn’t mean past Spring Break, or at least that he would have some command of his arm by the time classes resumed. He hated to have to add taking time off to the list of indignities he was suffering for having a little too much fun with his boyfriend. Lesson learned. Maybe. It was fun.

“Just time for an upgrade?” the salesman asked with a wink, eyeing Hotch in his sling with a knowing look. Hotch felt the flush of utter humiliation rising like the tide in his neck. How did he know already? Were they that obvious?

“Yes.”

“Anything in particular you're looking for?”

Derek grinned. “Can we look at the ones with the padded headboards?” He was tired of hitting his head on hard wood, he’d been complaining about it for months. Now was the time to make a change if there ever was one.

Hotch wanted to die immediately, this was only getting worse. He should have gone to the food court. Dropping a tray of soda and pizza in the middle of hungry families eating would have been preferable to the horrors of this interaction. The salesman glanced from one of them to the other and nodded sagely. “Of course. We have some very nice ones, just got ‘em in.”

While they walked toward the showcase area, Hotch rubbed absently at the back of his hand resting in the sling. His fingers were tingling, they felt the way he imagined the inside of a snow globe might feel all liquid and glitter swishing and moving around. It wasn’t quite static, it was less intense than that but still unnerving. An unfortunate but temporary side effect of the injury they assured him would pass within a day or so. Sometimes nerves got jostled or pinched, but as long as it wasn’t painful or numb it was probably fine. He didn’t care for the word probably being used in a medical capacity. Come back if it doesn’t go away in 24 to 48 hours, that’s the drill. Hotch flexed his hand and sighed. At least, for the first time that day, he didn’t feel his tendons pull angrily at his injured joint. It was blissfully unaware of the movement below.

“I like the gray one,” Derek said pointing to a dark gray tufted headboard. It was nice. Looked like a bed and a wing back chair had an elegant baby, and he didn't mind it. Didn’t particularly like it bu the didn’t hate it either, and he wasn’t terribly picky about what his bed looked like. He cared a lot more about the mattress. “What do you think?”

The bed frame was upholstered in the same dark gray fabric, low to the ground, with no foot board. Metal, not wood. “It’s nice. You choose, I really don’t care as long as I can sleep in a bed tonight.” He was grouchy, running on about three hours of sleep and he was in pain...not really his shoulder, but every overcompensating muscle group that surrounded his shoulder ached deep and complained loudly. He wanted to be sitting down. He couldn’t possibly keep it still enough to be comfortable otherwise.

“Looks sturdy.”

“I've heard plenty of stories of beds being broken,” the salesman started with a sly smile. Hotch turned away. “If you can imagine it, someone has told me about it. Of course there’s the naughty stuff, but there’s also animals and kids and people rearranging a room, earthquakes…” he was rambling, he’d already clearly decided they had sex, he kept eyeing Hotch’s sling and the bags under his eyes. You don’t end up in a sling because your dog jumped on your bed, or your kid, and there hadn’t been an earthquake in Chicago recently. It was a pretty sure bet. “But not this style. Indestructible. How’d you hurt your arm anyway? Looks fresh.”

Derek, sensing the way Hotch immediately bristled at the question and moreover the implication, stepped in. “Work accident. I think we’ll take this one, it’s nice. Matches the rest of the bedroom. How soon can it be delivered?”

They’d told Jessica and Jack the same thing. A work accident. Jessica just gave them that look, wondering what kind of a work accident a professor of law could possibly get into (especially while his students were on spring break) and Hotch was sure he would fold if she asked for details...he couldn’t lie to her. But she didn’t ask, and Jack only rolled his eyes and said yeah, right, whatever. Hotch couldn’t tell if it was the kind of sarcastic yeah right that said he knew exactly what they were doing, or if maybe he thought Hotch had been doing something stupid like climbing a ladder without Derek there to support him...wouldn’t put it past him. Could go either way. He hoped for the latter of the two. In any case, the two of them were back in Virginia so Jack could spend his spring break with Roy. The broken frame was removed from the house and Hotch could live with that lie. Of course they’d have to answer for why they had a new bed once Jack returned to Chicago but that was a problem for next week.

“This afternoon. You’ll be sleeping in your brand new bed tonight.”

“Do we have to build it ourselves?” He sounded like a wuss, he knew it. He could build the damn thing himself he just...didn’t want to. He wanted to sit with Hotch on the couch and not worry about it. He wanted to throw a nice big tip at someone who was willing to do it for them.

“We can send someone out to put it together,” the salesman said, leading them toward the cash register. “It’s a two person job, and it appears you only have one able to work so I get it. They’re booked out a few days but I’ll see if I can’t get someone out there for you today.”

The bed was delivered and built without issue while Hotch took a much needed nap on the couch with Hank. Hotch needed the nap more than Hank did. Fran was fussing over him, knowing exactly what happened and not shying away from shaming her son for his childish antics. “You two are grown men, you have children who live in this house…”

“There weren’t any kids here, ma. We had a night free to be grown ups and do what grown ups do. We’re not allowed to have a little fun?”

“That is not the point, Derek Morgan. Look at him. That poor man. Was it worth it?”

Derek, glancing into the living room at Hotch sleeping with Hank on his chest, carefully tucked into the crook of his good arm, smiled. They were huddled beneath a blanket that left only the fluff of Hanks unruly hair and the top half of Hotch’s face visible. “I dunno. It wasn’t not worth it. You see that new bed?”

She smacked his arm with the pot holder and shoved him out of the way so she could get into the oven for her roast. She had insisted on making them dinner, as if Hotch’s minor injury meant they couldn’t do it for themselves. Sure, at least for today, Hotch was more or less useless but if he had to do something he would have. He just didn’t have to. He had the luxury to lay around with a toddler tucked against his chest and sleep off a good night that turned a little sour. Sleep off sore muscles and joints and a late night hospital visit.

“I was going to offer to keep Hank the Tank again tonight so you could take care of Aaron but I’m a little afraid you’re going to misunderstand me. Can I trust you?”

“No,” Derek said with that infuriating smile. “Of course you can’t. But you can probably trust him. I don’t think he’s planning on any hanky panky for a while.”

“Well at least one of you is using the brains God gave you.”

“Aw, ma, don’t bring him into this. Go sit down with your coffee and I’ll finish up here. I’m perfectly capable of making dinner for my family.”

She rolled her eyes but set the pot holder down, lifted her coffee and made a beeline for their bedroom to see the new bed (it was very nice, she had to admit) before wandering back to the living room to have a seat and wait for him to ask her help setting the table or waking the sleepyheads.

She did end up taking Hank back to her place for the night, just to make things easier. She also loved having him stay the night, he made every part of her house more cheerful just by his presence and she was missing Jack’s afternoon visits a little more than she thought she would while he was back in Virginia. She had a countdown on her fridge with a big circled date for her biggest grandchild’s return. It was partially for her, partially for Anthony, they both missed him fiercely. Their afternoons spent playing board games and drinking lemonade were a lot less fun without Jack and his unique brand of humor.

“You wanna give it a shot?” Derek asked as they started the arduous process of getting ready for bed. Hotch was struggling to pull his t-shirt off around an arm that he didn’t want to move. It wasn’t exactly stiff, the joint just felt weak and achey. And the tendons felt weak, like if he moved too far or too fast his shoulder would slip right back out and he’d be in a world of hurt all over again. His entire arm felt like it was hanging by a threat, unstable and dangerously close to blinding pain. He’d abandoned the cumbersome sling sometime around dinner time, deciding instead that he would rather just rest the sore arm in his lap or against his chest, engaging some muscles made it feel a little more secure.

Reaching out, Derek grabbed the shirt and helped maneuver it around the swollen mound of his mottled purple and red shoulder. He slid it down around the elbow and off, trailing warm soft kisses in the wake. He started at the deep bruising, the odd stretch marks in the skin where it had popped, and followed the line down to his elbow before standing up and finding eager and waiting lips instead. Maybe his idea that Hotch would be against hanky panky was a little off. It was a delightful revelation. “I’ll be gentle. I promise.”

“What would your mother say?” Hotch asked with a small smirk, already on board.

“Uh-uh, don’t you dare invoke her name in this bedroom…” Derek warned, already undoing Hotch’s belt and then his pants. Hotch was content to let him do all the work. He just watched with that amused little smile while Derek undressed him eagerly. “You trust me?”

“Against my better judgment…” Hotch whispered against Derek’s lips. “Always.”

That night, shoulder injury notwithstanding, they gave the bed its maiden voyage. Slow and steady, Hotch still riding the last bits of his paid med high.

Not a squeak, not a shift.

Derek had propped Hotch up on pillows, he really was less an active participant as he was a very involved observer. Eager and willing to let Derek do whatever he wanted. He did what he could, he wasn’t a cold fish, but ultimately found himself met with Derek chiding him, telling him to be still, to just enjoy the process. He barely even felt it in his wrecked shoulder or the angry muscles holding it in place. It was so comfortable, so quiet that they went at it again almost immediately before hopping in the shower to clean up. The discussion was limited to “yeah?” and “yeah”, monosyllabic and quick. Derek helped Hotch wash his hair and had trouble restraining himself when their hips brushed and rolled against one another, when their fingers touched, when Hotch sagged against him tired and finally, having exceeded the length of his medication and badly in need of another dose, feeling considerable pain. The muscles running the length of his spine ached as they worked twice as hard to hold his arm still.

“No more?” Derek asked and Hotch shook his head. He was tapping out. Derek wouldn’t argue.

“I’m ready to sleep.”

Derek was too, he wanted to lie down in bed, prop Hotch up with as many pillows as it took to make him comfortable and crowd in on him. Absorb his heat, give him heat, touch him and breathe him in. Tangle their legs and drape his arms and drift off. He wanted all of that too, but he feigned disappointment anyway. Because that was fun.

“Yeah...alright. I am a little tired. Guess we should see if the bed is good for that too, huh?”

#aaron hotchner #derek morgan #fran morgan #hotchgan #hank morgan #criminal minds #fanfiction

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