#Pill Identification | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

tremendum · 1 year

Text

landmines

pairing: joel miller x fem!reader (afab, use of she/her, use of the word girl once) rating: explicit. (18+. mdni.) word count: 6.2k summary: (straight lines, they unwind you she does a little thing with her eye that says “we’re off soon,” she says the bleeding’s incidental ‘cause she’s so cool she said “I’m no fun if I’ve only a bottle of wine” and now she’s doing it all the time ) or. “he saw how your hands shook when you exchanged rations for those damn pills. hell, at one time in his life he'd felt his own hands shake in the same way. so Joel doesn't get to be all high and mighty with you, after all.” warnings: Pre-TLOU, set in Boston, canon-typical violence, age gap (mentioned & undefined), joel and reader are in love but joel can’t deal with his emotions, mentions of drugs use (painkillers), drinking, brief and minor allusions to religion, angst, alcohol/drug abuse, this is about reader and joel's drug addictions, and about reader's struggle with going clean (PLS DO NOT READ THIS IF IT IS HARMFUL TO YOU. keep yourself safe <3), love confessions, brief mentions of withdrawal symptoms (reader gets a nose bleed), brief mentions of smut (unprotected PiV, creampie, multiple orgasms, soft its kinda vanilla tbh), fluff. notes: this just came to me while listening to Milk by the 1975. heavily based off of the lyrics of that song and just something I needed to get out of my system. also written in both Joel and reader’s POV, but tbh it’s mostly Joel’s

recent joel fics: fever Mr. Miller

★

there was something so conspicuous about the lines you created with your fingers.

soft music crackles odd over the weak signal in the corner of the room. a breeze chills your bare skin over your head as the swell of the concerto sends shivers over the blades of your shoulders, smoothing over your form as you hunch at the table.

you need this.

stray swipes of plastic - marred around the edges from rough use down with FEDRA or from wear-and-tear of jobs in your life; it's the flimsy, pathetic evidence of your existence within this QZ, within this society, within life. you are here.

your own identification name and photograph stare up at you with a bright smile as you scrape strict lines out with your hands.

currently, you are here, but soon, you'll be a little less than that.

the powder slips through a crack in your nail and you wince, groaning at the smidgeon loss that quite literally slipped through your fingers. but sooner than you'd expect, your irritation is eased with the sight of the jar to your right, nearly empty of its bloody red contents. you smile gently - you're almost out. maybe Joel will come to your rescue soon with more refills; you'd traded enough items as of late to be rewarded with something as delicious as his presence.

slipping up towards the cabinet, you remove your glass from its resting place and set it on the table, completing your sweet altar of peace before you.

the glass you pour the crimson into is smudged but still cherished; its place in the cupboard always rimmed with the absence of dust from daily use despite the scarcity of the product itself. you work hard for these small rewards.

but the thud of your door busting open looses your focus and you can't help the yelp that you let out, head turning on a quick swivel towards the entrance, gauging the severity of the intrusion.

the startled movement of your hand sends the glass tumbling over, acetous red seeping over the grains of wood under you and you grunt in irritation, sighing towards the intruder who's now cost you that very last half a glass of wine.

your door swings on weak hinges as the broad shoulders that you'd know anywhere stumble into your small studio, seemingly overestimating the power with which he'd need to throttle the frame open. there's a denim shirt that stretches over the arms and chest of the intruder, the top buttons undone and revealing golden skin kissed with the sweat of the day's work.

you sigh as Joel Miller's sharp gaze hits you.

"you made me spill." you whine. both of you recognize the adoration that laces your words, straining them of any hostility that might flood through you had it been anyone else to startle you.

a moment of peace as he shuts the door and lumbers into your space, face laced with a sort of exhaustion and irritation that you've grown used to. a hand wipes over the facial hair of his mustache, jaw set with unvoiced exasperation as he stalks forward. "you should really be lockin' that thing, you know." he grunts, face ridden with the displeasure of his easy entry.

you sigh, knowing he's right, "but I knew it'd be you that's coming round, Joel. why lock it for you?"

it's a fair statement, because if anybody in this life were to make you safe, it's him. but he clearly doesn't accept that as he rolls his eyes; sometimes, you wonder if he sees you as a nuisance.

the drawl of his slow accent leaks through his words as he stares at your little altarpiece in front of you, the way your your chest is wet with the spilt wine, your face flustered in your embarrassment. "y'can't always be expectin’ me." he mutters and the words should feel bitter to your ears, but there's a ring of falsehoods that lie within each syllable and it just makes you smile.

you just press your tongue to your teeth; "right. I’ll keep my axe by the door." you say, hoping that’ll soothe him.

you don't want to press it with him today, because it seems he's in an odd mood anyways, his eyes trained on your small little art project in front of you. so instead, you stand to rid yourself of the red that stains through your shirt.

"y'got that thing workin' I see." he states, jutting his jaw to the side towards the radio that crackles with the classical music gently in the evening air. streaks of bright orange paint his silhouette from where he props himself, the dying light of another boring Thursday being swallowed by the sweet nighttime air.

you nod, clearing your throat, "y-yeah, um, I fixed it up this morning before heading down to sweep." you explain, fingers keeping the wine-stained cloth away from your skin. you'd seen him earlier today already - he was working down in the other quadrant this week, but he showed up to see Tess and you while you worked sweeps. he had to discuss business with Tess, leaving you sticking out like a sore thumb when their hushed conversation turned their backs from you. it'd taken a turn recently, since the last mistake you made on a run with Tess. you'd almost died and Tess was nearly there with you, saved by the skins of your knees and a shot through a clicker's head.

Joel didn't really like that all too much, and ever since then you'd been kept on the sidelines. only repairs for inside the QZ, now; Joel and Tess would get the parts you needed from elsewhere for you.

"what are you doing here, Joel?" you ask, though at this point it seems futile to ask him something so obvious- just as expected, he ignores your imploring question. instead, his hand sweeps over your table in a confused motion, gesturing pointedly to just where your guilt falls into three tidy, straight white lines of powder.

you bite your lip.

"c'mon," he mutters, shaking his head as your name falls from his curled lip. "what are you doin' with all this? it's more than a week's work."

you send him a heated gaze; a week of your work, not his. you tell him just as much, in a way.

"it's not a big deal," you defend, crossing your arms; as if that'd protect you from the truth that you almost caved in again after several days of going through the motions, starved of the high that you so craved. (you are here.) your eyes are torn from the floorboards as Joel huffs in irritation, this arms bulging as they cross along his chest.

his eyes flicker over your form in a hawkish gaze, his nostrils flaring in anger, "get yourself cleaned up." he snaps.

it's an order, and you're smart enough to listen.

alone in your room, Joel recognizes the piece that plays over the radio, the kind of music you could have heard at a ballet way back before all the shit. some piano piece by some guy- Satie, he thinks you've told him before- something way before your time, before his time, even. he's sweeping the sweet lines you'd created into a baggie and pocketing them while you're gone wringing your loose top in the bathroom bitterly. he knows you’ll be upset with him, but it’s for the better.

you stare bitterly at your shirt; the red rings down the drain in a vague pink trickle.

it's quiet in the small apartment but not in an absent kind of way. it's a more tired, angry quiet. the kind that Joel carries with him everywhere in town; the kind of quiet peace that has befallen your life ever since earning your name tangled in with his and Tess's those months ago.

it's not that life in Boston is peaceful. nothing is, anymore.

but the things that Joel and Tess do for you, for whatever reason - be it the parts you can fix or the items you've found easy to smuggle for your bosses; or even just your personality, your ability to survive and still flourish despite all the rot of the world - it's nice. and they trust you.

you like Tess, you trust her. she's kind of like an older sister to you, in some ways. the world's birthed out a new kind of life for the people like you, who were too young to remember the before of it all, and maybe Tess sees in you a sister to protect, to survive with.

Joel, though... your head peaks around the corner of the bathroom before you slink back out, almost as if you have a tail tucked between your legs, face burning with something between anger and shame. Joel.

Joel is someone vastly, deeply embedded into you. it's something that you never expected, but meeting him only a month after you met Tess, after you survived the trek from Springfield QZ to Boston, there was something within him that just clicked with the two of you.

and he’d seen how your hands shook when you exchanged rations for those damn pills. hell, at one time in his life he'd felt his own hands shake in the same way.

so Joel doesn't get to be all high and mighty with you, after all.

even he knows that.

when you round the corner, shirt wet and stuck to the soft skin underneath, his heart flutters slightly in his cold chest. he didn't want to pick a fight with you; he was fucking tired. and with you and him, it was always the same: he'd overreact about your safety, or your using, and you'd yell at him that he isn't in charge of you. then it'd get all- as he liked to call it - thick, muggy with the words that he cannot, will not say and the words you yearn to whisper.

you never do, though. so it ends with anger until it's somehow resolved and he sees you the next day on the street.

one time, you'd gotten into such a heated argument that you did not speak to him for six days. he'd gotten angry at you for trying to smuggle something too big by yourself. you'd gone and gotten yourself beat nearly to a pulp by a bunch of assholes and Joel was beside himself with the gullibility, the naiveté of it all. and he'd been real fuckin' mean to you about it, enough to spring large tears of anger in your eyes and earn himself a smack across the face - a harsh one, at that, because you know well how to defend yourself.

but then, you'd really shocked him. you'd told him he was weak because he can't love anything.

he wasn't sure where that shit came from, and maybe it was coupled with the resurgence of emotions from his past - something he did not allow himself to think about - but it just made him more angry.

it ended in an ugly roar of anger and unspoken feelings. he didn't see you for almost a week.

Tess stopped by instead of him to trade for parts or pills, checking in on you with subtle questions that turned into blunt statements. you'd pass him on the way to a job in the mornings, eyes sharp as they saw right past him, jaw tilted with that spunky defiance he so admired in you.

his heart had hurt the whole time, even when your birthday came round and you showed up meekly at his front door to ask if he'd get you some sugar and eggs (he realized as you spoke that you were planning to make yourself a birthday cake). instead, with a lot of huffing and ignoring those all-knowing looks from Tess, he'd baked you your own goddamn cake, showing at your door with the shameful attempt at the confection to effectively end your near-week-long standoff.

you'd cried at his knees out of his thoughtfulness, as you'd called it. at his willingness to just pretend, for a minute, that everything was okay. he didn't know how to feel about that.

he knows the anger that he feels towards you is synthetic; a covering that he throws on top of the storage unit full of things that scare him too much to uncover - age, safety, responsibility, affection, happiness, protection, pain, surviving.

but consequentially you bring it all out of him anyways and light the fire of anger more than anyone else, even those goddamned pricks who paint the insignias onto every street sign in the city. and he never knows how to just talk with you, even after all this time.

you make him nervous like a damn schoolboy in the hallways seeing a pretty girl.

this life is cruel in so many ways; unfortunately, happiness is one of the worst. way back before all of this shit happened, Joel would never have favored sadness, or pain, or hurt, nor sorrow. but the twisting, bitter truth is that he's no longer content with that same, dull pattern of emotions which swirl languidly in his chest that have just nested within him. life in Boston is just that - life. and for the last few decades, he's done what he needed to survive, and that's how it was.

but now, he's got you.

and that's not really anything he'd thought were in the cards for him, not after so many years alone. Tess was his partner, and he trusts her with his life. but you - you. his sweet girl, too much for this world yet not enough at all; with your music, that stubborn independence, light of laughter, and those straight lines; the ones that always seem to unwind you and never seem to stop.

you told him once that you're not sure if Joel Miller was the type to love something. he's not sure either.

when you're face-to-face with him again, the sheepish grin melts from your lips. the absence of the crushed pulls, your identification card, the rolled up scrap paper you'd made into a makeshift straw of sorts paints a bitter look on your face as you stare up at him.

you know he took them intentionally, to help - so the warmth in your chest from the gesture of good faith tells you not to bark at him.

he's trying to do the good thing for a friend right now. it's the same thing you would do anytime you come over and Joel's halfway down a fresh bottle of that amber liquid he keeps on him at all times. you appreciate each other.

so you just pour yourself a small glass calmly, aware of his eyes on you. "d'you want some, Miller?" you ask, back turned from him to fish out a glass.

he lets out a chuckle, "no, darlin', wine ain't really my thing." it makes you grin, because yeah, you did know that. you know a lot about him. you shake your head, tilting it slightly as you settle yourself back into the chair you'd perched on before his company.

"right." you smile at him, a glinting in your eyes as you shrug at him. god, that look. you're tempting him all the same, with your eyes or your smile or just you.

"I took your shit." he admits, knowing there's no point in hiding it. he was a very blunt man, always has been. life's easier that way.

you sigh, shaking your head, "I-" you stop yourself from griping at him for being a fucking babysitter, instead trying again. your eye drops down to him in a wry little wink, your mind static with the noise of his knuckles against the scruff of his jaw. "come on, Joel. you know I'm no fun if I only get a bit of wine." you try to joke, crossing your arms as the liquid breaches your lips, head itching for a bit of euphoria. "I just... I need some of that other shit every once in a while." you try to defend. “I’m getting better.” you convince yourself.

something pops gently inside your sinuses, and as you sniff slightly, you feel the gush of movement.

his eyes are hard as he stares you down, but he soon swears under his breath, turning to grab the rag that sits on your counter. your hands rise to your nose to cover as the blood starts to drip from your right nostril - fuck.

you tilt forward slightly the moment you have the urge to lean back; when you'd first met and he learned about your habit, Joel'd shown you to reduce swelling and swallowing blood to lean between your legs. "I'm fine, Joel-" you start to argue as his grip finds your bicep, "shut up, now." he snaps, clearly upset.

it hurts you to hurt him like this.

licking your lips, your eyes fall onto his own, the movement of his jaw as his plush lips clench, brow furrowing in anger. if you could just- if you could be bold enough to just once surge up and taste him, maybe it'd all be different.

maybe.

"Joel, it's-" you break off, eyes flickering to the pocket you just know he shoved your pills into, roaming over the denim, "it's incidental. it's dry outside now, allergies and shit."

he shakes his head in disbelief, growing tired of you skirting around the problem and not outright saying it.

"you think you're fuckin' special, don't ya?" he grunts, storming over to shut your windows, leaving your body with a cold chill of reality.

the rag he gave you comes away from your face bloody. no, you're not yet a corpse, but you still rot away.

he sighs heavy, like he has to make a grave decision in the face of a troubling truth - had you really gotten to a point where this was an issue, or was Joel just protective? you're not sure, but it makes you feel shitty no matter.

"y'know, it won't make anything better." he tries again through a soft, gruff sigh after a few moments. you barely let your eyes flicker to his.

who is he, to say that to you?

"is that supposed to be some kind of joke, Joel?" your words don't have sharpness, instead you're shrouded with that kind of disappointment he often finds in your eyes every time he can't say the things to you he wants. the things he's afraid of, the things he knows you're not afraid of. "don't you think I know that? you went through this yourself, you've told me that you know how fucking hard it is." you defend, knuckles white as you sip a bit of the wine.

he sighs; a deep, heavy sigh as his fingers pinch his frustrated brow. "I know-" he starts to explain himself, but you shake your head, tired.

"don't say anything about it, Joel. I get it." you sigh, "it’s 'not the same', for whatever bullshit reason you can come up with this week." your words are harsh but they're not mad.

you're not angry in the way maybe you should be towards the hypocrite that stands tall and sharp in front of you.

instead you stand, moving to let yourself fall onto the ratty couch that sits miserably in the corner of the room. you're fucking tired - your body aches from the exhaustion of the week's work, of fixing up all that shit for Tadeau who honestly cheated you out on the last payment. worse, though, you're tired of this push and pull with Joel; where he shows up to bring you what you need, stays and watches with commiseration as you try to feel something - sneaking sips of his own liquid gold until his cheeks are a pinkish red, matching the heat in yours.

but you're most tired with how, recently, it always ends with arguing instead of maybe just- being with each other. you're just tired of stepping over eggshells that may actually be landmines.

landmines like I care about you too much and I just want you to feel something like what I feel for you, because you deserve it.

"I'm just-" he cuts himself off with a resigned look. hardened. I'm just worried about you.

he doesn't sit on the couch. your wine is forgotten on the table now, because the most intoxicating thing in your life stands in front of you with his full, undivided attention just on the way you curl up on the ripped sofa.

the sun is setting now and if Joel doesn't leave soon, curfew will pass. you hate it when he stays over, sleeps on the sofa; your bed always feels huge and guilty beneath your body when you can hear him toss and turn all night, air tense either with anger or with the desire to continue to exist within each other's company even after the exchange of good-nights.

"how is this different from your thing?" you ask, the defense rising up like bile in your chest, swirling inklings of doubt and fear within your chest.

perhaps it's because he's right. his fear is real; he's gone through this before, and as badly as you want to believe him you also just can't keep pretending he's just a really good friend. because it's Joel fucking Miller, and he doesn't have friends.

you're tired of the fogginess of which you lately haven't been able to escape. and if Joel is afraid of something... then you know you should run from it like hell.

he doesn’t respond to your attempt to make him, so you purse your lips, shame curling up your cheeks. you try again.

"I have been trying to- to stop." you admit, fingers tangling into themselves. he heaves a deep sigh and makes the trek over to you, dropping onto the sofa next to you. his thigh brushes yours and the both of you tense, though you pretend you don't notice. you know he likes the touches - subtle as they are - because in a world like this, affection was a weakness but it was also an incredibly fierce strength. it was scary, but it felt right.

he was always just like you, in that way.

"I know you have." he resigns with a nod, eyes flickering over to yours with a gentleness that is only ever reserved for you these days. “’s a good thing.” he acknowledges.

you swallow the heavy lump of regret in your throat because you're done hiding all of this shit. "I'm sorry. I don't- I don't want to let you down."

but there it is - the line that Joel had invisibly, wordlessly drawn in the sand of your blurry relationship. especially when the sun is almost gone, and it's not enough to know that you're not together just because words have never expressed it.

any time you do this, toe this line he’s made, Joel has to close up from you. and you understand that. this is the line - where you admit something vulnerable, something you're both feeling, only for him to go completely the other way. because he’s scared.

he shakes his head in almost disappointment. "you should be doin' this for yourself." he says sternly, jaw tightening as he moves away from you. push and pull. and he is right, you should do this for yourself.

and you are; every damn day you wake up, get dressed, go to get some work done for rations so that you can survive in this hell of a life because you really do love this life. the feeling of belonging somewhere, with him and with your friends and Tess. but it's hard to express that to him when it's like talking to a brick fucking wall every time you mention feelings.

you let out a choked sigh, tears rimming your eyes as you huff, "you're right. I am. I just- I don't really want to fight like this," you sigh, heart thundering with anxiety. "not tonight."

he nods shortly, looking across the apartment to your trinkets that lie everywhere. he doesn't know how you do it - the apartment is full of them, just random shit you find around and treasure enough to keep. it brings life to something that shouldn't have it in the small, crumbling studio apartment that should take life out of people - but your place, it gives people life. it's a glimpse into how things should be, how they used to be. your items are a look back into a life that you never got to have; things that he'd see as trash. but truth be told: in your place, they're so you, and he supposes they're treasure to him anyways. "neither do I." he mutters, hand falling into his lap.

you should probably remind him that curfew is soon. he knows it is, though, you know it'd be pointless to remind him; it's clear that this has become one of those many nights he'll spend on your lumpy couch.

you say something else, instead. "I saw Jonah fall on his ass today while shoveling."

he chuckles at that. shaking his head, he looks down at you, at the sunshine in your eyes despite the sun's dip below the crumbling remains of the city; you're smiling up at him, giggling to yourself at the sporadic noise of his amusement. you're amused because he's amused. you want him to smile.

he wishes, fleetingly, that he could be like you, more alive, more full of love and life and - and happiness. naive as it may be.

that was the kind of gift you brought for him each time you came to see him or he came to see you. somehow, you fill him with words he doesn't know how to express. and you never make him explain them, you just feel them.

"he deserved it." Joel decides with a smirk, ignoring the monstrous green envy that licks at his lungs at the mention of that young pup that followed you around for months, nearly begging to have you.

he remembers when you'd shot him down; much to Joel's shock, you'd said you weren't interested in him. you've said that about just near every damn person who has set their sights on you.

you shake your head at him, smacking him lightly on the shoulder and leaving a buzzing warmth on his skin as you do, "stop it, Joel. you're awful." but you're still giggling, grinning nearly ear-to-ear. "he-he did, though." you agree, smiling down to your lap with a laugh.

his face feels warm as you settle into the cushions, lulling your head to settle it onto his shoulder. the light weight of it blankets his heart in a warmth he swears he hasn't felt in decades.

"never understood why people keep that boy around." Joel shakes his head, "he's a dud."

you let out a soft laugh, staring up at Joel with disbelief, "c'mon, Joel." you tilt your head with a stare at him. he blinks back, jaw clenching as he leans back, wincing as he adjusts his back.

you shake your head as you laugh yet again, "he's not a dud. he's actually quite resourceful for those assholes in the square. creepy, but smart enough." you shrug, pulling a stray seam from the couch beneath you. he sighs- you're too kind for your own good, sometimes. "he's just terrified of you." you add, lifting an accusatory brow.

"don' know why." Joel chooses to mutter, and you send him a look yet again. Joel doesn't need you to remind him why that boy Jonah was so afraid of him, he remembered damn well on his own.

he'd just made sure you were safe, was all. and after it’d happened, you’d spent the whole night convincing Joel that what he did wasn't scary, just protective. worried about his friend.

there's a streak of pride that runs through him, knowing the boy wouldn't come near you again. you deserve to be comfortable, to feel safe in this city, this life. and if Joel can try to do anything, it's that.

"yes you do." you say it so gently, it's less than a whisper. but Joel, emboldened by the soft light of your single lamp in the corner, the crackling of the classical music in the corner, the ambiance of the settled sun, nods his head.

you make it seem so simple. he looks around your apartment; at the glass that's filled but forgotten, at the ripped and faded posters for bands that fell from existence before your birth; at the plants that flourish in your care, at the clay pots and spare keychains and old magazines that you've collected for so long. you make it so damn easy, he realizes.

so for once, why can't he indulge? he knows you wouldn't stop him if he were to try and kiss you right now. there have been several times, in the heat of an argument or after a close call during a smuggle route with you where he's almost just leaned down and gone for it. and each time, your sunshine-eyes have called him in, begged him. pleaded with him.

but he's always avoided that; it's like stepping over a landmine each time. and those landmines just seem to pile up and pile up these days.

the landmines; the ones that are starting to seem more and more like eggshells just waiting to be crushed.

so with a shallow swallow of pride, he crushes them all with one sentence.

"yeah, I do. ‘s because he knows you're mine now."

well, this was certainly new territory for you and him.

you stare up at him after he mutters those words. his eyes are sharp, serious, jaw ticking as he searches for your response. your heart thunders at his admission - the willingness to admit anything even remotely close to affection has never come easy for Joel, if at all. it's almost scary.

but he doesn't look dishonest, or regretful. there's a flicker of insecurity, of course; but deeper inside, there's acceptance. you've been patient with him, and likely will be for the rest of your life - he's ready to be patient with you, too. you let out a shaky breath, afraid that any burst of movement or emotion will scare him away like a wounded animal.

"yeah." you utter, mouth dry, "I'm- I'm yours." you agree.

it was never spoken out loud before; it wasn't really even suggested except for by the prying eyes of others along the street, noticing the one and only soft spot Joel Miller has: you.

hell, even Tess hadn't mentioned it to either of you out of fear of hostility, fear of cannon-balling feet-first onto a landmine the size of the whole QZ.

you and Joel.

but there is simply no alcohol or pill on this planet that will taste the way his lips do, and you know it. you yearn to taste him. "Joel..." you mutter softly, leaning forward as your arm curls around his bicep. your chin tilts up and his eyes, lidded low, meet yours.

he ought not to do this. there are reasons he's held back from touching you, kissing you, making you his before. there are hundreds of reasons that this is a bad idea, but as you stare up at him with the warmth of the sun in your eyes, warming his cold bones, he caves in. he would give you anything you want.

that's just the way it's always been with you and him, he realizes.

your face is close to his, and you stare up at him with longing, desire, need dripping from your whole being. his hand falls onto your denim-clad thigh, his thumb rubbing light patterns as you lean closer.

"why would you let me do this?" he whispers, a ghost against your lips. tilting your head, you furrow your brows, "l-let you?" you shake your head with a soft smile, "I have wanted this since I met you. I've ached for you." you admit feebly. "isn't this right?" you ask, insecure. your brows are pulled together in anxiety and he wishes to smooth out the frustration with the pad of his thumb. "shouldn't we be together?" you ask, almost broken.

his stomach curls with emotion at the tone of your voice, pleading with him. his groan vibrates through your entire body as he sighs, "darlin', you're askin' the wrong man that. y’know I'd tear the world apart to be with you." he admits, feeling the grace of your smile over his own.

"I want to feel-" you beg, hands roaming over his chest, "I want to feel you. please." you ask him gently, and his stomach twists because you know he'll always cave for you.

"I'm a bad man-" he starts with the spiel he's given himself every single night, laying on his mattress or on your shitty couch begging his mind not to dream of your soft, supple skin.

"stop that, Joel. you sound foolish." you shake your head, sunshine in your eyes lighting the whole room. "this life is just how it is, and you are how you are. I am yours, and you deserve to be mine, too."

he swallows roughly as your lips brush against his, and his heart feels the trigger of a pressure plate; he knows he isn't going to be able to stop the words from falling from his lips as soon as they part.

"you're- you're everything." he admits breathlessly, eyes searching yours.

the world explodes around you and even with Joel's shitty ear he can still hear the ring of your laughter, of your smile, of your happiness. his words are broken and choked up from disuse; he's not sure when the last time he said those words were, and he cannot open that closet full of skeletons right now.

but it doesn't matter, when you say your next words with a smile bigger than the whole world. "I love you too, Joel."

and when he takes you on your lumpy couch, your moans are sweet. saccharine. he swallows every single one with his own lips, your fingers tangled in his curls.

you taste different than he'd expected - more sweet, more caring. your skin is soft and your touches on him breathe new life into him.

sure, there are a lot of things that Joel cannot and probably will not ever be able to say. you know that, though, and as you come undone around him, spasming in bliss and sobbing out his name as if it's the only thing you can remember, it's all he can do to pull you closer into a tight embrace.

it's fully dark outside as he pulls orgasm after orgasm from your strained body, gone limp from his love; your lips are bruised and so are your hips, but there's still that sweet smile on your face as he moans your name out, finally able to let go. the couch is on its last leg, crumbling beneath your bodies as you wrap your legs around his lap, squeezing him tighter as you pull your chest to his, your lips to his own. his words are dirty, uttered into the shell of your ear as his hand trails down the line of your spine, pumping up into you until he's shooting spurts of his seed deep into you.

he paints you with his love, and though his words are never enough, yours are. he can't believe those things that you left unsaid for so many months would taste so damn good after they were detonated. both of your fears, entangled with each other in a life nothing like what you'd hope for, are enough to keep your hands entwined even after you're both spent.

his hands are gentle and intoxicating as they clean you up, wiping down your slicked thighs and your spent body, his lips soothing over every mark he'd left in his wake.

and finally, as sleep overtakes the both of you, Joel finally slides under your covers with you. he pulls you tightly into his warm chest, the lumpy couch forgotten. his lips ghost over your neck even after you fall asleep.

your hand twitches in his when you mutter his name in your sleep. he can't help the smile that grows on his lips.

maybe, you could guide him through all of those landmines.

requests open.

#Joel Miller #joel miller smut #joel x reader smut #joel miller x reader #joel miller x reader smut #tlou #tlou fanfiction #the last of us smut #the last of us x reader #the last of us #pedro pascal x reader #the last of us (hbo)#the last of us (tv)#joel miller x you

832 notes · View notes

wmarximoff · 2 years

Note

DFTR! How would WANDA react to R Carving her Initial into her skin? I feel like Wanda would go Feral and Desperate for it like realising that R is finally warming up and just being as equally obsessed with her as Wanda is with her?

cut me up | w. maximoff

summary: Wanda finds out that it wasn't just your initial that ended up carved into her skin.

warnings (18+): serial killer!reader, stalker!wanda, graphic depiction of injury, strap-on sex (Wanda receiving), heavy degradation, slight breeding kink at the end, face slapping, daddy kink, choking, toxic relationship, bottom!Wanda, top!reader.

pairing: Wanda x fem!reader

word count: 3k

A/N: this is so twisted and sick and sinful i'm genuinely ashamed omg

|main masterlist| |series masterlist|

༺ᱬ༻

“Okay, stay still.”

The beam of pale alabaster skin glistening beneath the digits of your industrious fingers, soft to the touch and tender in temperature, was glimpsed through the thin strap of the warm red lacy lingerie that Wanda draped around her torso; the pair of breasts shyly tucked into the microfiber bra, the piece that hugged the mounds and made them look just as inviting to knead and squeeze in between your palms.

Long strands of ebony dark hair brushed her sharp collarbone beneath her skin, and with your right knuckles gently tucked into the palm of your hand you swept that lock behind Wanda's shoulder, moving your elbow joint, revealing in that region a piece of porous gauze screwed tightly to the skin by strips of tape in a well-made bandage. A pair of emerald eyes blinked at you from behind long, thick lashes.

Both you and Wanda were snuggled into the center of the bed in your bedroom, your legs crossed inside your thighs, your ankles draped over the pearly vanilla-cream satin sheets. Her dark miniskirt left the tops of her thighs exposed to your watchful gaze, and it would take very little effort to find a red lace there between her skin that matched the bra worn by Wanda.

Next to your right thigh, there was a small white plastic square suitcase, the lid open and tilted to the side, revealing, inside that box, a handful of the most varied items related to immediate first aid in the face of a possible daily injury – inside there was 10 ml saline ampoules, a package containing disposable nitrile gloves, one or another long rectangular box containing plastic tubes of ointment, and small and variegated silver cards containing several polychromatic pill tablets.

“Don’t move.”

“But I wanna see–” Wanda whimpered.

“No,” you asserted sharply, your eyes raking the height of her pale collarbone, “I told you not to move.”

With the expert fingertips of an avid med student you peeled the tape off Wanda's skin, and a detachment sound could be heard. A nervous caesura was then revealed, inflecting the skin of the region in shades of reddish pink, about three centimeters long. Your irises gleamed in identification with the mark carved with a knife's edge into the velvety flesh just below the collarbone that protruded hard beneath Wanda's epidermis.

“Well look at this. I did a great job with this one,” you hissed in a delightful whisper, a gleeful shiver that almost made you nibble the skin of your lower lip with your incisors.

“Does it look pretty?” Wanda asked, her gaze trying to search for the mark beneath the hanging gauze soaked in a thin layer of dried pus.

“Oh it does look pretty, dear. It's healing very, very well,” and then the phantom touch of your index finger traced the regular cut marks on Wanda's skin, as lingering in your actions as you'd allow yourself to be, only to sip the benefit of that moment to the last possible drop, “For sure this will leave a very nice scar.”

“Of course it will be pretty,” she smiled then, in a slow and jovial way, rapture traced by the purest and most genuine love glistening in the jadish green of her irises turned towards you, “It's the mark you left on me, Y/n. The mark of your love.”

“Yeah,” you smiled back at her, “You're right, I think. You look beautiful with my brand on you, so everyone knows you have an owner. Though I would really like to see you on a leash...”

It was that symbol the first letter of your own name, ingrained in open, red flesh for all eternity in your girlfriend's existence, like branded cattle—a reminder to her of who she belonged to (nothing Wanda really needed, though), while a warning to the other prying eyes that might someday come to look at her with glances of concupiscence. If something belonged to you and only to you would be exposed, then it was only right for you to point out to other possible admirers of your girlfriend's beauty the fact that that body was already someone's possession. Your possession.

“You're mine, right Wanda? Mine. Only mine. Mine to have,” you whispered, your gaze never leaving the outline of the letter etched into her skin, “And mine to do with what I want to do. I own you.”

Wanda smiled so that her upper teeth sank against the length of her pink lower lip, leaning with her spine to run the tips of her nails along the line of your neck. Slowly she slid her pale, bare thighs, which rubbed and bumped with impatience, over your own knees, then settled herself snugly on top of your lap; her crossed legs with her heels brushing the hem of the shorts you were wearing. And you were able to take advantage of the position to brazenly stare down the length of Wanda's breasts squeezed so appetizingly in that lacy red bra.

“Oh, I'm surely yours,” she mussed, smiling against the pulp of your lips, her hooded emerald eyes staring into your pupils from behind lashes mottled in a lustful sheen, “Completely yours, daddy. My soul. My body,” and then, she moved closer to the shell of your ear, breathing warm air against your skin, “My pussy. All of this is yours.”

“Good,” your steady hands, slow and studious, ran over the girl's silhouette brushing the tops of your thighs, “Because you'd be in serious trouble if it weren't mine. Now hold still,” you deferred two light taps with your fingertips against her left knee as a pair of hands touched the bottom of your shirt, “We need to change your bandage.”

“No, we can do that later,” she moaned against your left earlobe, the tip of her nose tucked between your strands of hair, her fingers encased in a handful of silver rings fidgeting with the hem of your white cotton shirt, “Let me play with you Y/n, please? C’mon, I wanna feel you inside me.”

“Wanda,” your right fingers, steady from wielding tennis rackets to hit green balls (or raising and lowering axe-handles), screwed into the outline of her thin, gnarled wrist, catching it in midair before for her to complete the action of lifting the fabric hem, “Your bandage. Now.”

“Baby,” she pouted like an upset child, “It's been so long since you let me see your body. I wanna see you! You don't even let me shower with you lately! I like to see your body, Y/n. You are so beautiful. So, so beautiful baby...”

And she started to move that wrist one more time, but your grip was even more pressurized on her skin, holding her in place.

“It's nothing you haven't seen before,” you grumbled grudgingly into your girlfriend's face, “And I never let you shower with me, every time you just walk into the shower without even asking first.”

“But now you lock the door.”

“Because you aren’t exactly known for respecting boundaries, are you now Wanda?” your irises dipped into Wanda's emerald gaze, who pressed her lips together in a slightly limp line, yet without untying her hard gaze from yours, “Now stop being an annoying fucking brat and let me change your damn bandage. C’mon, now.”

But she looked at you in silence, a contemplative silence. She just looked at you, as if something in her was processing a command, as if something inside her was reprogramming itself to externalize a thought that had germinated deep inside the walls of her skull, emerging into explosive abstractions that pressed something icy into the pit of her chest. Her jawbone twitched into a sharp edge.

And then the well-shaped dark brows creased between them a crack of furrowed skin, and Wanda's chin turned at a half-broken left angle as she tilted her head vaguely to the side, the emerald color inside her irises eclipsed by that haze of opaque darkness that could always be pointed out the moment her mind began to conspire with itself, overgrown fears that so tormented her twisted spirit. Her hands hardened into a firm grip over the cotton of your shirt, pressing the fabric stiff between her rings.

"You're hiding something from me," was a shrewd, guarded statement, said in a low, lugubrious tone of voice, not in the form of a dubious question, “There's something about you that you don't want me to see.”

“Wanda,” a warning tone was employed in your hard voice, your eyes hooded like an angry dog's before her, like the terrifying thunder harbingers of a cataclysmic storm, “Don't you even fucking dare to start. I'm not in the mood to put up with your childish tantrums right now, so stop being so annoying and just do what I’ve told you to.”

“You're fucking hiding something from me,” she reiterated just as pointedly, disregarding everything about his scolding admonition, “I know you are. I know everything about you. I can see right through you, Y/n. And unlike the others around you I know when you lie, because you do it all the fucking time—”

A sharp slap crackled hot against the skin of her left cheek, jerking her chin away, causing such violence to ruffle the strands of her dark hair, which all swung to cover her face in one swinging motion. From the side, through slits of long hair, Wanda's green irises flickered in a dark glow toward you.

“So it's true,” she hissed in an icy voice, “You're hiding something from me, I fucking knew—”

The words were constricted in Wanda's throat as your right hand screwed your fingers in an upright violence against the pale skin of her jugular, squeezing the oxygen into her pharynx as you jerked your wrist up, “Ungrateful fucking bitch.”

A sudden dry choking sound crashed through her partially parted lips, and then your vigorous forearm slammed her back against the length of the mattress in an uncomfortable thud, the insides of her thighs hooked to the sides of your hips, your nose almost touching hers over the top due to how close you forced your faces to be. Your fingers were still solidly squeezing the soft flesh of your girlfriend's neck like it was a thread you meant to snap soon – the weight of your body pressing hard against her ribs.

“Who the fuck do you think you are? Huh, who do you think you are to talk to me like that, you fucking slut?!” you spat in front of her sharp cheekbone, pressing the back of her head against the mattress.

“I can just squeeze the life out of you if I want to now, do you hear me you ungrateful brat? I owe you Wanda, your life is mine, everything about you is mine. And I do whatever the fuck I want with what's mine, and you don't complain! Ever! You don't question me! Do you fucking understand me?!”

But a mischievous smirk appeared between her lips, the insides of her thighs pressing tight against your hip bones.

“Harder...” Wanda moaned looking at you from under hooded eyelids, hooking her left fingers on the length of your forearm from that hand that was squeezing the outline of her neck, “Squeeze harder daddy...”

You looked at her for a second (dark hair splayed across the sheets, tight pink mouth glistened with a thin layer of saliva, red bra and so tempting). How she seemed to want to beg so much for something only you could give her. She didn't scream in fear or terror. She just moaned and asked for more.

Something about her passive submission urged you to stop and reason like a functioning human and not an untamed, primal animal. It urged you to breathe, to breathe in her crimson scent, to think about her, really think about her – how different she was, how it was just transiently pleasant to ruin other girls who came and went and left behind only the emptiness that would just grow and burst in you; and then there was Wanda, beautiful and sycophantic and soft, just a little pestilent. How she truly satisfied you, with immeasurable delight, a creature as twisted as you could be.

How she knew how to keep up, ever so willing to submit to your most sadistic disturbances, attend to your needs, satiate your desire without giving up on doing so at any time. How she pushed your buttons and urged you to do more and just be worse. You didn't need to mold her because her defect came from the cradle, something had gone wrong with her long before you did – just as your evil was also paramount. Sick, obsessive and ill. And then, you blinked once at the emerald desire bubbling within the darkness of her eyes. And an incredulous smile spread across your face.

“You really are so beautiful… and so fucking sick in the head,” and then, again bending down in front of her, bringing your face closer to her hot face, you placed a warm little kiss on the tip of Wanda's nose that scrunched up involuntarily in the face of your action like a curious little bunny, “It makes me want to fuck that madness of yours out of you, you crazy bitch.”

Your hand was still squeezing the skin of her throat as fingers hooked into the nape of your neck, nails cut short, coated in a peeling black, digging in poignantly as they pierced your skin there just below your hairline.

“So fuck me, Y/n,” Wanda mussed, her mouth throbbing dangerously close to yours, breathing in the hot air that wafted from your nostrils, “Fucking ruin me daddy.”

Something bristled inside you in need and hunger. And you looked at Wanda's grim face down at you – you just wanted to feel her close, all to yourself, dismantled in your needy grip. It scorched you with will and greed sharpened by your veins, and your hands just wanted to rip her apart completely, leave her in ruins, destroy and tear everything inside of her. And then you had been compelled, in an act permeated between needy demand and execrable eagerness, to postpone the detachment that compromised your lips and Wanda's, thrusting your tongue firmly through the velvety commission of her mouth with a taste of passion and her madness.

Through a set of rosy lips on the part of the girl below you a tongue was broken, and that tongue laced itself with yours tenaciously, needy and passionately. It was bestial and shameless. It was carnal. It was animalistic. She bit your bottom lip until the metallic blood she had dissolved from inside your mouth drained from it. The taut palms of your hands pressed her swollen breasts hard into her red bra as you both let go for air; but you didn't want oxygen, you wanted her. And she wanted you. She craved for you.

You saw, beneath dark, voluminous lashes, two dark spots of green immersed in wild labor, overflowing with liquid pleasure. Desire bubbled in your guts invaded and screeched by Wanda's red color that, like the most noxious of plagues, infected your bloodstream, hypnotized you according to the erotic whims of the demanding and sinful libido of that girl lying beneath you.

“C’mon daddy,” Wanda whimpered performatively, “Wanna see you.”

The silence was momentary and fleeting because unimportance soon took possession of you. All right, you thought, fuck it. You dropped back to your knees in the mattress and, perhaps using a purposeful and provocative delay to rouse the sensitive dark-haired girl below you, you crossed your arms as you gripped the hem of your garment and pulled the shirt over your head, then unbuttoning the clasp of your own bra, exposing, to Wanda's in-need-to-touch glow, your mesmerizing, alluring figure—a dangerous bandage attached to the side of your left breast, just above your ribs.

Your hunger raced up your spine like an electric shock, driving you to want more, to want her all to yourself. Wanda wanted you, and you wanted Wanda. With your fingertips you removed the gauze stuck to your own skin.

“Is... Is that…?” Wanda's gaze strayed to the side of your breast, where a large W was etched into annoyingly reddened, jittery skin, a healing self-inferred scar like the one that marred her own skin. Her index finger lightly brushed in admiration the silhouette of that three-pointed letter forever embedded in you.

“I’m yours,” you stated, firm in your words, “As much as you are mine. Never forget that.”

“You're mine,” Wanda repeated, full of feeling in those inflated words that made her mouth tingle, “You… you're mine. Only mine. My everything. You are everything I need in my life.”

She was the one who reached for the scarlet silicone strap-on from the dresser drawer next to the bed and buckled it just above your pelvic bone. Panting hungrily against the bristly skin of her ivory neck, teeth scraping the battered, reddened skin, you shoved yourself against the inside of Wanda's wet, hot cunt, who immediately felt a comforting sensation in her belly, you biting a small, barely audible “Mine” out of your nose as you sank deeper and deeper into her womb.

Wanda moaned during penetration, “F-fuck daddy!” she suddenly screamed when you, without even giving her time to get used to the sensation, constantly moving inside her, touched a specific spongy spot within her velvety walls.

“Take it,” you groaned, “Take my cock, you slut. Take my cum. Take my bones. Take my blood. My meat,” and then, you growled like a ravish dog, “I'm gonna mark you in a way that not even your dead fucking body will forget how I feel inside your worthless hole.”

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck– daddy!” Her black-painted fingernails raked the length of your back to your tailbone, leaving in their wake a hotly pleasurable sensation, “You're mine! You are fucking mine! Please tell me again!”

“I'm yours!” you scolded against her ear, “I'm yours! Yours!"

“A-again!”

“I'm yours,” you gasped, “And you're mine. Mine and no one else's. I'd gouge out the eyes of the motherfucker who even dared look at what's mine.”

And Wanda smiled against your shoulder just at the thought of you hurting someone for her. That certainly wasn't the first time she wished you could come inside her.

474 notes · View notes

anarchywoofwoof · 7 months

Text

it's been a while since i've done a particularly egregious ACAB post, so i guess it's about time. trigger warning for racist violence, death and police brutality.

on March 14th, 2023, in Hinds County, Mississippi - the most populous county in the State of Mississippi, an area i used to dispatch tow trucks to for a roadside emergency service company and know well - Bettersten Wade reported Dexter Wade, her 37-year-old son missing.

what Dexter's mother did not know at the time and would not know until an unacceptable and heart wrenching 172 days later is that 9 days prior, on March 5th, 2023, Dexter had been killed less than an hour after he’d left home, struck by a Jackson, Mississippi police vehicle as he attempted to cross a nearby interstate highway.

police knew Dexter's name, and Bettersten's, but did not contact her and the body went unclaimed for months in the county morgue.

the following October, she was directed to the Hinds County penal farm to meet a Sherriff's Deputy, who lead them into fucking woods, where her son was buried in a grave simply marked with the number "672"

now, after the police neglectfully took this man's life, failed to inform his family, and attempted to cover it up... it turns out that his wallet with his home address, a credit card and a health insurance card was in the front pocket of his jeans at the time of his death.

this is after the Hinds County coroner's office reported that they did not find identification on Dexter Wade's body, but found his name on a bottle of prescription pills that they used to ID him several days later. undoubtedly, this was to provide police ample time to cover up their tracks.

the Mayor of Jackon, MS, Chokwe Antar Lumumba (a self-described Progressive, Socialist and "political revolutionary") said last month that Wade was "without ID" and that police were unable to identify him.

this is about to get, somehow, more fucked up.

in addition to the disrespect shown already to Dexter Wade, his family and his memory, officials from the State of Mississippi exhumed his body on Monday without his family in attendance.

On Monday, authorities exhumed Wade's body following calls for an independent autopsy and funeral. But his family said officials failed to honor the agreed-upon time approved by a county attorney for exhuming the body. “Now, I ask, can I exhume my child and try to get some peace and try to get a state of mind,” Bettersten said. “Now y’all take that from me. I couldn’t even see him come out of the ground.” Civil rights and personal injury attorney Ben Crump told USA TODAY Wade's mother was notified last week by the attorney for the Hinds County Board the exhumation would be at 11:30 a.m. Monday. The family, along with their attorneys, members of the media and community advocates had planned to attend, but Crump said Wade’s body was exhumed at 8 a.m., hours before the scheduled time and without notice. “There is no excuse for the way this case has been handled. Every time Ms. Wade takes a step toward getting answers as to what happened to her son, Jackson officials bring her two steps back,” Crump said.

this is a heavy post. but as usual, the point here is: the institutions we currently in place throughout this country are corrupt, soulless and have no respect for you in life or death. the state and the police are corrupt and will kill you - intentionally or unintentionally - and then bury the evidence as deep as they possibly can. and the slime will insulate them from within. it's unacceptable. it cannot be reformed.

#us news #mississippi #dexter wade #black lives matter #civil rights #bork bork thoughts #united states #tw racism #tw police #tw death #acab #ftp #1312 #all cops are bastards #fuck the police

85 notes · View notes

creedslove · 11 months

Note

Haiiii i was thinking if you could write something about the readers death and pedro grieving?

Agent Whiskey (Jack Daniels) x f!reader

A/N: Hai anon, I had to change it to Jack because let's be honest that's just canon whiskey at this point and also a happy ending because no one is hurting Jack on my watch 🔪

When Jack got the news of your death, he honestly wasn't able to assimilate it properly, he just went shocked and didn't say or do anything for several hours

His heart refused to believe you were gone, though his mind tried to remain rational, he could feel you were still alive, hating how people didn't believe him and only pitied him for believing you weren't gone

But when Jack got to your shared home he broke down

He was taken by rage and sadness and he just smashed all the whiskey bottles he could find, he was broken, red bloody eyes out of crying, he just couldn't believe his disgrace of losing two wives, the two people he'd loved most in his miserable life

Technically you weren't his wife yet and the thought you would never be gutted him, because he didn't have enough time to show you how you meant to him

And for the next days Jack was a mess, he didn't eat, he didn't shower or shaved, but he couldn't sleep either, he spent the days staring at the wall, lost his thoughts and daydreaming you were still there, and would walk in at any minute

Jack couldn't even get out of bed, let alone plan the details for your funeral so Champ asked Ginger very kindly to plan a beautiful and respectful ceremony

Jack refused to go to your funeral, the mere thought of having to face you in a casket made him even more depressed, he just didn't want to go and didn't want to face reality

And when someone let it slip next to Jack the casket would be sealed because you were unrecognizable after the accident, it was enough for the melt to have a meltdown and Ginger had no other option than to give him sleeping pills

And that's how Jack grieved you for the next week

Until Ginger came knocking on his door, taking him out of his drug induced sleep where he sometimes dreamed of you

She explained to him there had been a terrible mistake with the body identification and that the woman buried under your name wasn't really you

And that another person involved in the accident was staying in a hospital with no identification

Jack jumped off the bed and was ready to go to the hospital, but Ginger stopped him and forced him into shower first

But once he was done, they rushed to the hospital and Jack wasn't able to hold back his emotions when he saw you lying in that hospital bed

Yes, you were bruised, connected to all kinds of tubes and it would take a while to recover, but you were there, alive and well

Jack rushed to you, hugging you tight and he cried, not caring if people would see him shed his tears, he was so thankful to see you alive and he promised you as soon as you were discharged he would marry you

So Jack spent day and night next to you, he'd hold your hand, always talking to the doctors and nurses to know more and more about your condition

Feeling extremely happy to see you recovering and getting stronger each day, he would just spoil you rotten and buy you so many things

Including snacks and other treats the doctors forbade you from eating but Jack would just ignore it and bring it to you, anything to see your smile

He did anything he could to see you happy, it was all that mattered to him, after he pretty much lost you, he was so thankful to have you in his life ❤️

_____

96 notes · View notes

seth-shitposts · 8 months

Note

I just remembered that in your au Kallus kind of raised Ezra for like 3 years before Ezra joined the Ghost Crew and like.... how pissed off was Kallus in your version of "An inside Man"? Because Ezra DELIBERATELY let himself get captured with no way to get out immediately

Thank you so much for this ask!! I love sharing about my AUs as much as possible.

And I uh, rambled twice over so breaker:

---

The Bridger Raid was when Ezra was around 7, and then the Seige of Lasan happened when Ez was around 12 (which in the AU is when Kallus defects and has to separate from Ezra for the kid's safety). Then things continue similar as they did in Canon, the crew meeting Ezra at 14.

*Note as I was in the middle of working on this post, for some reason my brain supplied "Through Imperial Eyes" instead of "An Inside Man", so I'm giving some thoughts and current notes on both. They aren't set in stone, but these are approximations for each of them.

____

It agitated his nerves for sure. He had a strong hunch since the moment Lyste informed him that two laborers slipped from the lines unnoticed. And he was already set in a state of higher stress because he had been close to Sumar.

Before Sumar was pressured into work for the empire, Kallus had collaborated "hypotheticals" with him. Sumar and Ezra are the only ones who know that Kallus is working against the Empire even if they don't know the extent.

When Sumar had started work in the imperial factory, Kallus offered an escape, but Sumar chose to stay. So they made plans together. At one point Kallus brought up the idea of a back up plan to Sumar. They both know the dangerous game they're playing by doing their work so close underneath the Empire's nose. So kallus began to ask Sumar about, if or when the time came, what the plan should be to get Sumar out at the chance of something happening (such Sumar being asked to demonstrate sabotaged equipment). Sumar said that if Kallus can do so covertly, absolutely. But if he has to compromise his own position, that he shouldn't dare. They've both worked too hard for them both to lose their positions. It was a rough pill for Kallus to swallow, but he accepted Sumar's terms.

So putting that into perspective for the lead up to Kallus finding the rebels, who he has his suspicions about their identities.

Kallus had just watched someone he would almost call a friend die in front of him, again. So within the same hour, he gets the hunch that Ezra and someone important to him had probably infiltrated the line, escaped, their escape got brought to the attention of Thrawn (so now thrawn would be intent on finding them), and they were walking around disguised as imperial soldiers or scouts, and surely without any type of forged identification.

So yeah, when he's helping Ezra and Kanan get the classified documents, he is a little more than pissed to find out that they don't have a secured escape.

And, in this AU, Ezra has been trying very hard to keep the knowledge of Kallus’s true intentions and identity to himself. So when Kallus is the one to give the code phrase, Ezra is hit with a wind of relief, that this isn't something he has to keep from his family anymore. Kanan questions Kallus’s word, cautious that this could be a trap. Chopper says he trusts Kallus and Kanan is about to say something else, but Ezra speaks up for the first time since entering the lift. "Kanan, he's telling the truth." And this is most certainly a conversation that will be had once they are out of the facility.

It's on the way to the comms room that Kallus asks on their escape plan and Ezra gives him his signature nervous chuckle before saying it's a work in progress. Kallus doesn't have the time to react as they have to ambush the comms room (pretty much the same way as they do in canon). As soon as the personnel are incapacitated, Kallus begins to get on their case about their lack of a complete escape plan.

Groaning as he brings himself up from the ground. Persistently ignoring the dull ache as worry takes more priority. "What do you mean, it's a work in progress? Thrawn is breathing down our necks here and the escape route is a work in progress?"

Kanan interrupts, saying that things turned unexpected with Thrawn coming unannounced. Kanan doesn't have to mention Sumar having been their original in and out for a cold rush to halt the heat on Kallus’s nerves. Kallus continues on to saying that the droid (Chop) can open the comlinks with the port, continuing on with the Canon exchange. (Still debating on if we're going to continue with the same or a similar "look convincing" sequence for the au or do something different.)

____

And while he was a bit more than miffed about the lack of plan in "An Inside Man", it was worse in "Through Imperial Eyes". Because of the fact that Ezra got himself captured as a scavenger and brought to a light cruiser where escape is significantly more dangerous.

Kallus was PISSED. This was reckless. It isn't just Kallus's life on the line, but Ezra’s because he is a known rebel of the sector. Ezra should count himself lucky that Lyste has one of the worst facial recognition skills of anyone Kallus has ever met. Kallus is more than understanding of Ezra becoming a rebel, proud of him even. But to INTENTIONALLY get captured while having the reputation he has? Is the kid actually trying to get himself killed? There’s no easy escape off this light cruiser and the transport that nearly GOT BLASTET OUT OF THE ORBIT is too damaged for him to make a successful escape off of.

He maintained the act of not recognizing him, telling the troopers ro bring him to the detention cell.

The moment they're alone, Kallus immediately begins to let Ezra know how reckless he was being, even threatening to shove him into an escape pod himself. Ezra backed him off by saying there is a plan, it's being made as they speak.

Kallus, after a long and seething silence: You got yourself captured without securing your escape route? Again?! Ezra Bridger, I swear I-

Ezra, knowing full well he has to explain because Kallus won't calm down until he has information: Chop and AP are here too, and there is an escape plan. It's on the way here now.

Kallus, desperately working on trying to stay rational about this: why are you here? The faster you get what you need, the faster you leave.

Ezra, chirpingly: Cool! Then you're down for the plan then.

Kallus: yes, just hurry so you can go.

Ezra: not me, we.

Kallus: what are you talking about.

Ezra: we think the empire was monitoring your last fulcrum transmission.

Kallus, worried, confused, still slightly angry: So you got captured to *warn* me?

Ezra: Nope, to get you out of here. >:3

Kallus sighs deeply, traying to think quickly. The plan of framing Lyste already forming in his mind. Kallus tells Ezra that this isn't the first time he may have gotten close to being discovered, he's been doing this for years now. Ezra argues back with how it may not be the first time, but the empire is only getting closer to figuring him out. That he should get out before he loses the opportunity to do so, before he does get found out and executed for treason. Giving the teen a tired, reassuring smile, Kallus tells him that he is a very stubborn man. He'll escape before he gets captured. And when he does escape, he'll make his way back to Ezra’s side. Kallus offers out his hand, and that's when Lyste can be heard from the otherside of the door and Ezra moves to act as though they were in the middle of a interrogation.

And when Thrawn arrives, Kallus begins to work on prioritizing Ezra’s escape.

At the end, when Kallus reveals his intention to stay, Ezra is the one who’s upset. Because Kallus is literally inches away from being discovered, from facing execution. And he's still prioritizing the good for the rebellion over securing his own life.

------

#star wars rebels #swr #alexsandr kallus #star wars #ezra bridger

44 notes · View notes

spencersawkward · 2 years

Text

potential//spencer reid blurb

summary: gn!reader works late with Spencer and begins to question their feelings about him.

pairing: gn!reader x baby!Spencer

word count: 1.1k

content warnings: literally just fluff!

a/n: hi guys!! sorry it’s been so long i’ve had a long spring. but i’m with Pri rn in Europe and i’ll be writing nonstop for a program so i’m getting back into cm rn. i miss being on here and i’m so excited to share more. anyway enjoy this fluff!

masterlist

you slip a headache pill into your mouth before taking the first sip of your coffee, looking up at the mostly empty bull pen. you probably should have switched over to chamomile tea or something, but you're not sure when you'll get to go home. there's been a bunch of paperwork today, and you're determined to finish it. something about a stack of disorganized and empty sheets on your desk gives you anxiety.

from here, you can see Hotch sitting in his office, the lamp casting a warm glow over his scowling face. JJ has just gone home, but the floral scent of her perfume still lingers in the kitchen area. you lean against the counter and try not to watch the clock.

just as you're about to return to your desk, the shuffling sound of footsteps in the hallway startles you. there aren't usually many people around this late. you set the mug down gingerly and listen. the footsteps stop for a moment, then start again, sounding closer.

you try to think of who else might be here late and come up empty. everyone seemed like they had plans for whatever free time they were given here. it wasn't helping that someone had snuck into the building not too long ago. they didn't try to reach the BAU's floor, but it shook you regardless. such a fortress-like workplace was incredibly difficult to get into without proper identification.

you shake your head at your own paranoia. the chances of it happening again are a sliver at best, and even then you know Hotch is here. it's not like you'd be alone.

still, you find yourself moving slowly through the kitchen area, holding your breath as the footsteps stop and start again.

you're about to turn the corner to see the elevators when you run right into someone. you know it's Spencer before you even have the chance to look up. you know his wrinkled button-up and his thin frame and his coffee-grounds-and-ink scent. and you especially know the uncomfortable sound he lets out when the collision startles him.

"oh god." you shake your head, your hand instinctually resting on Spencer's arm. you straighten to look up at him, his expression slightly flustered.

"sorry." he glances down at himself as though worried you've put yet another wrinkle in his shirt, then at your hand. you drop it.

"I didn't know you were working late." you can feel your lips turning up in a grin as you say it.

you and Spencer have gotten close since you started working with the BAU— or as close as Spencer really lets the people he hasn't known long. you like the earnestness and honesty of his disposition. it makes you feel safe.

"I just wanted to pick up some food." he lifts one of his hands to show a takeout bag with the receipt still stuck on front. Chinese food.

"I was worried you were another intruder." you set a hand on your chest, heart rate dropping to a healthier level. Spencer just frowns.

"the likelihood of that happening again is nearly infinitesimal. they've practically doubled security since the last time." he finishes the statement with a smile, like he's trying to assure you.

"ah, well that's good." you nod slowly. the delicious smells wafting from the takeout bag make your stomach growl. to your horror, Spencer notices it.

"I got too many egg rolls, if you'd like to have some." he offers. you know he doesn't usually share food, so the genuine kindness in his eyes softens you up even more. he seems like he's been having a long night too.

"sure. thanks." you turn to head back into the office, Reid at your heels. quickly, you turn around and whisper in his ear. "you should bring some to Hotch."

your friend practically shudders at the idea. "no way."

you laugh and head to the kitchen to get some plates for the food while Spencer unpacks everything with care. there's the box of egg rolls, but also tons of noodles, rice, and delicious-smelling chicken that make your mouth water.

"I was hungry." Spencer seems like he's trying to defend himself with the way you're staring at the spread of food. his brow is furrowed as he watches you get utensils from the kitchen drawers.

"I didn't say anything." you laugh.

"you were thinking it."

"just put some egg rolls on a plate for me, would you?" you roll your eyes playfully as he does what you say.

before long, the two of you are eating in silence together, your feet resting on the edge of an empty chair.

"how's your mom?" he asks as you polish off a box of dumplings.

"good. she really liked meeting you guys last week," you smile. your mother had come to visit and gone out to dinner with the team for about half an hour, when you were all called onto a new case. she knows your job is demanding, though; she just wanted to put some faces to names. especially Spencer, who she thought was God's gift to earth. "she loved you."

"really?" he lights up at this.

"yeah. you remind her of someone from her childhood, I guess."

"they must be really funny and smart." he smirks down at his plate, but the joking tone still lands and brings a smile to your face.

"did you just make a joke, Dr. Reid?" you look at him with surprise.

"maybe."

"wow," you shake your head and pop open another takeout box. "you are not the man I thought you were."

"and what man was that?" he raises an eyebrow, the smile still in his voice. you can tell he's genuinely curious, though.

"serious all the time, hates fun."

"I don't hate fun."

"sure." you wink at him over the food. just before you look back down, you notice the blush creeping up his neck and over his cheeks. it's subtle. you find your heart beating a bit quicker. you like the effect you have on him. it spreads a warmth through your stomach, the kind of blush he wouldn't be able to see.

you watch him for a moment, struggling with his chopsticks and finally getting it right, his focused expression melting into one of quiet triumph. there's something about him that reminds you of home. whatever your mom saw, some glimmer of nostalgic affection, you see it too. it's the kind of feeling that makes you want to grab his hand; but that would be unprofessional, of course.

instead, you look back at your food and try to push the thought away.

taglist (add yourself here!):

@katexrichardson @ashcakes1918 @xoxospencerreid @willowrose99 @lelifesaver @dr-spencerr-reid @spenxerslut @gingeraleluke @satanxklaus @chasemoonlight @spencerreid9 @deansdoll @sydeekomspacekru @go2sleepducky @queenofthepouges @wheelsupscenehater @vladsgirlxx @velociraptor8 @bottomoftheketchylisy @totallyclearwitch @megsradiosilence @gublerscherry @muffin-cup @rougewamchop @mmotionlessgirl12 @mochionly @this-is-doctor-and-its-calm @honeyboysteezy @zooaliaa @spencer-reid-am-i-right @spencerscumrag @mystical-and-modern-marauder @strawberrycherrykisses

398 notes · View notes