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marshmallowsqoosh · 2 years ago

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[Ghost (Band) | Pro Memoria 1/10]

Fandom: Ghost (Band) Title (also AO3 link): Pro Memoria Rating: Mature CW: Canon Character Death, Depictions of (Magical) Violence Lesser Warnings: headcanon, not beta read, terzo’s the youngest because the canon timeline makes no sense, terzo and copia are friend-shaped, ghouls are hellsent beings and have magick, Special and Mountain are BFFs, Era 3 and 4 are BFFs, author uses Sodo not Dew, uh... stuff.

Summary: Ghouls are dragged back to Hell when their summoner dies, if they aren't released first. For most, it's a painless experience. For most, they simply slip into a peaceful, eternal sleep, as their summoner ages and passes on, themself. Some are sudden, but still painless.And some... some are a bit more drawn out and not quite so painless. ♥ aka Terzo died from the embalming, not the injection, and his Ghouls got to experience it in their own ways.. A/N: This is probably one of the stupider ambitions I've taken on but fuck it, nothing like a little masochism to get the brain gerbils running. Anyways, I wrote super rough draft death shenanigans to go with the Ghoul Deaths by @vanmec like... jesus that was four months ago? And started trying to refine them into postable chapters... problem is they deal with a lot of headcanon and pacing is hard but I'm trying

This chapter is super chill. Chaos starts in the next chapter. Ideally, I want to post these along with a separate series of when/how each Era 3 Ghoul was summoned. ... Ideally. Because there is a lot of headcanon. .... Ergo ambitious.

Still don’t have a beta reader so if you spot typos/odd spots, lemme know ♥

Extras: Status (and AO3 link!): [ 1 / 10 ] Word Count: ~2700

[Pro Memoria]

Copia's fairly certain he's never been quite so happy to see the Ministry.

Special's waiting in the lobby, just above the door, and immediately knocks Mountain to the ground—or, tries to at any rate. The game hasn't changed in nearly twenty-five years, and Mountain simply dives and scrambles out of the way before he gets trapped. There's a short tumble, where Special manages to yank on his tail; but, all it does is lead to the two scrabbling for the upper hand and soon chasing each other up the stairs with Secondo yelling after them that the Ministry is not your playground! The annoyed look turns on Copia who can only offer a nervous smile in apology. His Ghouls all immediately disperse—Rain making a beeline for the elevators before Secondo's Water Ghoul spots him, while most of the others start tugging on Aether for input on where the rest of the era three Ghouls are, all of them excited to share stories from the tour. Sodo's pressed up to his back, hissing and trying not to get dislodged from where he is… or perhaps hissing at Swiss, who simply leans on the two—more or less squishing Sodo—as he tries to wake up from his nap on the plane.

Copia doesn't get a chance to actually apologise—he sees Secondo roll his eyes before he turns to head upstairs—or try to help Aether with the rest of the group… instead he nearly shrieks when someone barrels into him from behind, trapping him in a tight hug.

"Fratello! You were supposed to call when the plane landed! Welcome home, how was the flight?"

"Terzo, let him breathe."

It's always a bit astounding how easily Omega can pry Terzo's grip loose. Even then, Copia stumbles a little once he's free—Swiss catches his shoulder before he falls into Aether, while offering a sleepy, happy greeting—and tries to smile. He's still getting used to seeing Terzo without his paint, but it's… getting a little easier. Especially since he doesn't look quite so angry all the time, anymore. Still anxious sometimes, still… self-conscious… but not angry. And that helps Copia feel less self-conscious, in turn.

"I'll never understand where you found such energy after Rituals… I'm exhausted." Terzo laughs and Copia finally succeeds at a more genuine smile. "I do apologise, though. They rushed us off the plane when it landed, I didn't even think about calling. I, ah… heard there was something… urgent? I don't suppose you've any idea what it is?"

"Mmm… Father wanted to speak to you, but no one's said about what." Even so, there's a… spark of sorts in his eye that says he knows. "You are the next highest ranking member of the Church, apart from Father…"

"Please don't joke about that." Copia groans and rubs his face. "You and I both know he'd swallow his own tongue before he anointed me Papa."

"Well, then, perhaps he has." Even when he feels Terzo's hands on either side of his face—shockingly cold without his gloves—and follows the gentle pull downwards, the younger man still has to stand on his tiptoes to kiss both of Copia's cheeks, before he waves and heads towards the stairs. "Go see what Father wants! We'll be on the third floor if you'd like to join us! Otherwise, we'll see you at dinner and you can tell us all about it! Coming, Omega? Special?"

"We’ll be along in a moment, if that's alright." Omega's attention turns to the small gathering of Ghouls still in the lobby, his tail flickering curiously. He still doesn't join them until Terzo gives him the okay and Copia just pulls a deep breath, briefly joining the small group.

He's not sure when Mountain and Special found their way back down—probably from running across Secondo's path a second time—but they're standing with Aether and Swiss and Omega joins them soon enough. Sodo's still close by, no longer squished and more cushioned between the two larger Ghouls, with his attention fixed intently on the doors out to the gardens, like he's deciding if he really wants to test Alpha's mood.

"Aether, would you keep an eye on the others, once they've caught up? I'll probably turn in for a short rest after this."

He thinks Aether means to confirm, but Sodo immediately latches onto the opportunity to ignore his own anxiety. "After what? Can we go?"

"Oh, you wouldn't want to come along, tizzone. I'm sure Sister Imperator will be there and I'm positive she'll want all of the technical details, won't she?" He can practically see the Ghoul wrinkling his nose beneath the mask—they all grumble amongst themselves in that moment—and Copia offers a gentle laugh as he leans to give Sodo a gentle kiss on the forehead. "Go find Alpha and Ifrit. I'm sure they will be very excited to hear about the trip."

"Ifrit was reassigned to one of Mr. Saltarian's delegates, so I'm afraid he isn't here at the moment. If I heard correctly, he'll be back by the end of the week; but, in the meantime, Alpha is in the gardens." He can tell Omega's smiling when he tips his head and reaches to give Sodo a gentle push towards the garden. "He won't admit it, but he's been looking forward to hearing about the Rituals. We all have. Please, indulge him."

Sodo looks like he feels a little better with the knowledge Alpha is in an okay enough mood to tolerate him and runs off towards the garden, easily disappearing in the crowd of other Ghouls and lower clergy members. Copia turns his attention back to Omega in those seconds.

"I'm a little surprised he would want anything to do with the Rituals…"

Omega hums; but, Special's the one that answers, even as he scales up Mountain's back to find a comfortable perch on his shoulders. "Terzo's had time to process everything. He did and does want you to succeed, Cardinal… it was just… a blow for all of us." Even as he and Omega exchange looks—guilt, perhaps, for not handling the situation better—he sounds confident in the answer. "Alpha does feel bad about what he did. But… I'm sure you'll find in your own time that Fire Ghouls are… very attune to their summoners. We'll never measure up to Quintessence, make no mistake. But we are that driving spark of passion and dreams. And you know as well as any of us how brightly Terzo burned, even before his ascension. Alpha is a reflection of that. His anger was a simple—albeit violent—reflection of Terzo refusing to let his dream be put out… but, now he's a reflection of a… new-ish dream. To see you succeed. He's very invested."

It… makes sense and he thinks that may have been the most straight forward—if not still rather roundabout and ramble-y—answer he's ever gotten from Special. … It does still bother him a little, though…

"... But then… what about you and Cowbell?"

Special's attention has already drifted to trying to bite Mountain's hand, as Mountain tries to keep him steady, up on his shoulders, and tries to get him to answer. Omega laughs.

"One should probably not attempt to understand Special. Cowbell's purpose was… very specific, to my understanding. I suppose, there was never reason to question him, despite witnessing his summoning, was there? But we can revisit those details after you see to Papa Nihil and Sister Imperator. You've kept them waiting long enough, I'm certain. Would you like an escort, Cardinal?"

"Oh. No, I can manage. I do rather feel like annoying the old man a little more, if I'm honest… though, I suppose dallying will only annoy Sister in the long run, as well, won't it..."

"Ah, of course. … In that case, may I remind you that Terzo suggested a… how to say… dramatic entrance?"

Copia raises a brow and Aether actually coughs to cover a laugh. Swiss looks excited and completely forgets the struggle of waking up from his nap, alertness causing his ears and posture to perk. His tail starts flickering and vibrating from the sheer excitement. "He got it then?"

"He did. I can't believe he did, but he did." Omega sounds amused, if not a touch exasperated, even as Swiss hurriedly gives Copia gentle pushes towards the stairs.

"Go get changed, then! You should look your absolute best! There's a present in your room!"

The fact Swiss seems to know what the dramatic entrance and surprise are is… perhaps concerning. Anything Terzo had a hand in is usually grounds to be concerned and Swiss' involvement fills him with an equal dread; but, he at least trusts that Omega wouldn't adhere to anything that would get all of them in trouble, even if it were Terzo's idea.

♠

The boombox is absolutely ridiculous and Copia wants to find Terzo, immediately, to thank him for the prop. And perhaps question where he even found the thing. But, more than all of that, he feels genuinely happy for once. Nauseatingly excited, but without guilt. Still a small, rippling fear of failure. But excitement.

Even that feels like an understatement—nervous is probably more accurate. Still processing, even after he's been released from the tailor measuring him and showing him the preemptive designs for his vestments. He'd perhaps been hoping to have a bit more input on his vestments—he knows Terzo designed his own and he thinks Secondo and Primo had, as well… but he also knows they're short on time and a new leg of Ritual is supposed to start soon.

He tries to make a note to remember to thank Imperator for the foresight of submitting preliminary designs… surely, if he does well, he can make his own design and changes, soon enough.

Copia wants to run and tell the others immediately; but, the exhaustion—from the tour, from the Rituals, from dealing with Nihil—is finally catching up with him as the adrenaline finally begins to ebb. Terzo already said he could wait until dinner and if Copia has any hope of being coherent and conscious in time for dinner… he should sleep. It doesn't take long to fall asleep, for once—as soon as his head hits his pillow, with absolutely no energy left to even change out of his cassock—he's out cold in a blissfully deep, dreamless sleep.

A blissful sleep that is interrupted—abrupt and violent—by the sound of screaming from outside of his room. Muffled—far from the room and kept out by the walls and shut door, but still loud and concerning and—

And Aether's doing… absolutely nothing to go assist. The only thing he does is stop Copia from leaving—easily matching his steps and refusing to stand aside, even when Copia… tries to order him to.

"Aether, let me leave."

He can tell it works—for a split second the Ghoul recoils, shaking his head like he's trying to get water off his mask and his ears and tail twitching anxiously as he rights his posture and refuses to comply, lips set in a thin line. Copia doesn't try again; he's never had to before and… Terzo was right, it feels awful. His throat stings, just from trying, he can't imagine putting actual conviction to the order.

"... Very well. If you won't let me leave, will you at least tell me what—"

He means to ask for any indication of what's happened; but, a moment later, his door knob rattles. Aether doesn't turn to it, his attention still on Copia to make sure he doesn't try to leave. For a brief moment, the short spell the door's open, the screaming gets louder; but, Copia hardly hears it. His attention is drawn to, consumed by, the appearance of two of his Ghouls and he swears his heart almost stops. Mountain and Sodo both look ready to collapse; even with their masks on, they're obviously going through various stages of duress.

Sodo's got one arm tight across his stomach. It doesn't look like he's hurt… but the horns of his mask have clearly been heated up—still scorched and cooling, smudges of soot across the mask. His forearms are darker than normal, like he's recently been extinguished. He forces himself under Aether's arm, pushing up against his side as tight as he can and it very quickly becomes apparent it was only Mountain's hand against his back that was keeping him standing. Aether takes over the task, arm around the smaller Ghoul and hand firmly on his hip to help him stay upright.

Mountain's uniform is… scorched and wet and torn and… covered in what looks suspiciously like splatters of void. Like when he and Special get too rambunctious and actually hurt each other in their games. He flinches away from Aether offering him a gentle touch; shakes his head, sharply, and hugs himself as tight as he can as he retreats to a far corner of the room and huddles down into as tight a ball as he can pull himself.

The others start to file in, slowly, despite the commotion around the Ministry.

Swiss is next, dazed and gripping his Grucifix so tightly that it cuts into his hand. He doesn’t seem to notice, even as he slides down the wall closest to the door, out of the way of it opening, but close to Aether and Sodo. He pulls his knees up, close enough he can rest his elbows there, clasp his hands tight around his Grucifix—in that moment, Copia realises he has a second Grucifix pushed flush against his own—and pushes his forehead against his knuckles like he's praying.

Cirrus and Cumulus are next. Disheveled. Clutching each others hands so tightly their voids nearly melt together. It takes him a moment to realise Rain's behind the pair, hands clasped tight against his stomach like he does when he's fighting down the waves of nauseated anxiety. He settles down with Swiss, his tail curling tightly around the other Ghoul's, while the Ghoulettes shuffle to another corner. He sees Aether flexing his hand, near his chest, like he's only just stopping himself from gripping his shirt there. Copia feels… distress. He knows it isn't just his—he's definitely distressed, not knowing what's going on outside his room; but he can feel it from Aether and from every single Ghoul he's summoned… and he has absolutely no idea how to address any of it because he doesn't know what's happened.

Aether still doesn't let him leave, though. Even when he's taken a headcount and confirmed all seven Ghouls are present, he's not allowed to leave. Even when the distant screaming finally dies down completely. Aether doesn't move until it's been quiet for a long while and Swiss finally speaks up.

"They'll probably still hold supper… they'll come looking for him."

"... Yeah. Sodo, you need to let go so I can go with—"

"No—er…" Copia feels bad that all of the Ghouls flinch and start shaking their head and he realises he put a bit too much force in his voice. "It's alright. You all need rest. It isn't much but… make yourselves comfortable, please. I'll be back after…"

It still takes a moment longer for Aether to move; but, when he does, Copia kind of sees most of the Ghouls moving to huddle around the bed—pulling on the blanket and sheets and pillows to huddle under as they press up to each other. He closes and locks the door behind him. They can get out if they need to but… something in the back of his head tells him to lock the door for their safety. Now that he's in the hallway he can smell… smoke and Sulphur? Soil? It's a mess of confusing scents and dead quiet after the earlier commotion. He has to assume a fire broke out somewhere… maybe another mess with divines?

He hopes the brothers are alright. That it really was just a fire somewhere—maybe a summoning botched—and hopefully… they have answers. Anything he can bring back to help his Ghouls calm down.

#rating: mature #sqooshy writes #ghost band #terzo #cw: canon character death #cw: violence #ghouls era 4 #ghouls era 3 #tagging for future chapters #fic: pro memoria

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thequibblah · 3 years ago

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directors cut for WTRF? 🥺👉👈 not biased at all obviously just objective third party asking for a directors cut hmmm hmmmmm

literally how could u do this every other word in that fic is an easter egg i can't shut up about..... bestie u are about to have regrets

one thing u should know is that 90% of things in this fic have real-world equivalents and its not even like....... hidden equivalents. serie primo = serie a, for instance. this trend is going to continue and i won't apologise <3

fun fact i named the bar the Bar and the drinks after shapes because i was too lazy to come up with something actually clever

this bit

I’m grinning to myself by the time she approaches my table.

was a very intentional fakeout and if you read this and thought "she" would be lily, feel free to sue me for emotional damages

the biggest conundrum of this AU was, how are jily not going to have met in school when magic exists? the solution was, of course, having multiple magic schools. but i couldn't let one of them have hogwarts, that didn't seem fair. i know i did sort of let lily have it..... but i felt more comfortable making hogwarts a university so there was a legit reason why james wasn't there and in gryffindor (if he'd gone he absolutely would have been)

once solved, i did the fun thing of naming them! ottaline gambol's was easy, i just scrolled through the list of ministers for magic and picked a progressive one. peverell hall was a whim, made all the funnier when lily's reaction is:

Much was made at Otty’s — one of the more progressive magical schools, named for one of the more progressive Ministers of Magic — of schools like Peverell Hall and St. George’s. The latter, I know, is chock-full of pureblooded elite. Peverell Hall is supposed to be slightly better, but still.

dang, it's gonna be funny if she ever finds out james is a descendant of the guy it's named after

fun fact, i included this because peter's question was a real thought i had when reading bond and free, your inspiring writing knows no limits:

The first thing you conjure in Walking Wombat is a yellow quill... “Why yellow?” Peter asked. Eddie gave him a strange look. “Why not?”

i realised i'd put jily in the same conundrum they had in tis the fucking season here:

It’s only then that I remember she’s just bought us drinks. I turn back to my triangle. “Oh, shit.” I suppose I can pawn it off on one of the others.

...but of course the resolution is rather different, and i do so enjoy a james with no filter (aka default james)

I briefly lose control of my brain and my tongue. “Is it too soon to say I’m in love with you?”

by the way, no-filter james will be a theme. wild things sure do run fast but not as fast as this boy runs his mouth!

also, another interesting challenge here was making sure james has a reason to be the way he is in AU. i love playing around with james's childhood/background and seeing how that affects his character while (hopefully!) staying true to who he is. i did that in ttfs by having him move around a lot and not meet the marauders until after the flashback timeline, which is why he's less of a git — he doesn't have the level of comfort in a social setting that canon james has with hogwarts, which is basically his playground from day 2 of first year lol

here, james was probably a fkn nightmare all through school, but of course he gets a big ego check when his quidditch career is derailed. i imagine his years in italy as a continuation of that humility lesson.

I will fully admit I used to be a cocky prick. This is what comes of being a kid who grew up with everything. But one useful thing that the whole fiasco four years ago taught me is humility. I’ve learned how to ask nicely for another chance.

and so much of writing him in wtrf is juggling that typical confidence with the insecurity/fear of losing something he's invested so much in (and has seen slip away before). it's really new to me, because typically i give lily uncertain life circumstances, but i suppose it's both of them in this AU.

the car thing was... i swear didn't start out as smutty, it was purely because i wanted a way to establish lily as muggleborn in a world where the connotations of not having magical parents is very different. more to come on that!

also, come to think of it, by this metric...

I’m now in dangerous territory, since that adds another impressive action to her running tally.

...i think james is already in love with her LOL

this bit:

The street is considered indecent and the downstairs hallway would have our landlady come running at once, so if it pleases Your Honour, we would recommend the sitting room sofa.

...was actually because in draft one lily was a lawyer, but then it was funny enough that i didn't want to take it out, but NOW i realise it makes it sound a little like she's addressing james as your honour, which.... hm. but anyway, we move on

Marc Bolan begs us to get it on through the stereo, vocalising my thoughts exactly.

the song here was initially "you shook me" (h/t @keepingupwithpotters) but i chickened out because zeppelin is SO horny dfjkhgkjs

also, it gave me so much joy to read everyone reacting to lily thinking about her ex (the general vibe was "who the fuck is this guy!!! ew!!!!") — rest assured (or, unassured??) that he has a part to play in all this. anyway, this is one of my fave lines:

He’s just a person, and there’s such a relief in sleeping with James and not the myth of a guy.

because as any come together reader knows....

Just James. Just James. It was never just James.

wtrf lily will learn!

literally the whole world knows i'm obsessed with needle drops that have no subtlety at all, but this one...

We just laugh, tangled together in a sweaty heap, as “Heaven Is in the Back Seat of My Cadillac” plays through the car’s speakers. “On the nose, isn’t it?” James says, sitting up.

...was pure luck, because i was looking up the top hits on the uk singles chart for the week(ish) this scene takes place in so that i could find a song that would realistically play on the radio, saw this, and was like omg the stars really do align

i feel like the thing i enjoy most about writing romance is the importance i get to place in noticing/looking/observing (and sometimes, not noticing!). it's just such a powerful but simple writerly tool, and god knows i am obsessed with pithy descriptions anyway, so this bit i am especially happy with:

James is already waiting, leaning against the car with his hands in his pockets. I feel as though I’m seeing him for the first time, the faint light of the flickering streetlamp catching him in profile: the strong slope of his nose, the hard line of his jaw, the curve of his smile. He studies the facade of our building with open curiosity, and I wonder what he’s looking for.

(one can only imagine james's train of thought in this moment. perhaps "ah. here lives the future love of my life"?)

“Thanks,” she tacks on at the end. I tip my head to one side in confusion. “For what?” “For, I don’t know. Being nice.” She laughs awkwardly. “I don’t do this very much.”

it wouldn't be a quibblah original tee em without some discourse to come about the nature of romantic/sexual relationships, would it? one thing i enjoy about this AU ("one thing" i say as if this isn't the billionth thing in a list) is that i get to write a romantic lily who's squaring that romanticism with what she perceives as the culture of the times. (this is a bit of a staple in all my characterisations of lily, but it is not often paired with casual sex, the complication of all complications!)

oh this bit literally wrote itself like i didn't even pause to think just vomited it out:

In the morning — and it must be early still — the sun streams through Lily’s sorry excuses for curtains with aggression that cannot be ignored. I crack open an eye to find myself sprawled out across her bed, quite literally spread-eagled. She’s attached to my side like a barnacle. Or a very pretty barnacle, anyway.

i'm especially proud of james's voice in this story. i don't often write first-person fic and i was worried how it'd turn out, but i think james as a character/narrator typically colours his own 3rd-person narration so strongly that it ended up a smoother transition than i'd feared!

also i just. i can't resist throwing in comic relief and i hope that this whole segment was a gentle enough preparation for the awkwardness that followed LOL

All of a sudden, the balcony door bursts open. I nearly drop the mug. “What the—” Mary pokes her head around the corner, sporting a righteous smile. “Morning, handsome.” Over her shoulder she shouts, “He’s on the balcony!” I blink. There’s a sound from inside the flat, as if something very large has just been dropped. Then a swear. “Oh, shit,” I say, realisation dawning, “you weren’t looking for me, were you? It’s so loud out here—” Mary cups a hand around her mouth and stage-whispers, “Lily was frantic.” She’s quite violently yanked back, and Lily herself appears in the doorway, slightly out of breath. “Should’ve checked the balcony first,” she says, and closes the door before Mary can insert herself into the space again. “Hi,” I say, which is agreed-upon best practice for greeting a woman you’ve just had fantastic sex with and ideally would like to have sex with again.

to this day i don't know what lily dropped. let's hope it wasn't expensive!

Captained the under-17 English squad at the World Cup some years back, Serie Primo’s lead goal-scorer of last year… Only an injury in what should’ve been his first season at Puddlemere mars his record. I wince reading about it and comparing it to a heap of press clippings. James Potter was hurt, and Puddlemere didn’t fancy paying for him not to play, so they shipped him off to Milan.

(you cannot imagine how much pointed interrogation of my brother it took to gather this intel.) i constantly worry that i've got dates or timelines wrong somehow — you might notice i tweaked under-17, which used to be under-19 until i realised that made no sense (even though in terms of its career importance i would much preferred it to have been u-19.... anyway). i also found out that u-17 football squads don't actually have captains but i said fuck it on that count.

but obviously i started writing this AU for the sports possibilities, only to discover i'm going to have to interfere a great deal with the Timeline (you shall see in future instalments).

god i really went through the whole fic. like i reread the whole thing to do this. here u go clare jfbghjfd

#this has no right to be this long #wtrf #clareee75 #ask me #director's cuts

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rosethornewrites · 3 years ago

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Monday’s T & G fics

Here are the fics I read today! Some of these are ones I’m subscribed to (and behind on).

Finished:

Rated T:

Encounter - Grass Butterfly, by ArchiveWriter

LWJ POV - set just after WWX's death and LWJ having suffered his punishment.

Context: Timeline mash-up. In my interpretation of events, Wen Quing and Wen Ning go to Jinlingtai alone; a lynchmob of clansmen led by Jiang Cheng besiege Burial Mounds whilst WWX is away with little Wen Yuan to try and get them back; when he returns, he can only hide the child in the charred tree before flying to face the massed clans in his last battle. LWJ chases after him – trying to find him after learning of the Wen siblings’ fate, he races to the old mountain, finds the child and rescues him to Cloud Recesses, then flies to the battlefield at Nevernight where he defends WWX and injures the elders of his own clan, who on behalf of his brother and uncle try to capture him and whisk him to safety before the clans overwhelm WWX (and potentially LWJ with him), then gets dragged off to Cloud Recesses after WWX jumps off the cliff.

two scheming babies scheme murder, by anxiouswreck0_0 (second in a series)

SangYao get married! Knowing how the last wedding went, how will this one go?

Mourning for Love, by bingolin

Lan Wangji had not thought about him in a while. But all who looked at him could almost see the ghost embracing him from behind and weighing him down- regardless of whether they knew to whom the ghost belonged.

Lan Wangji had not thought about him in a while.

But tonight, he was thinking about him.

Home is in Your Arms, by kitsyu

Lan Wangi is trying to grade papers; his husband is a welcome distraction.

(Just a short bit of post-canon fluff and domestic life in the cloud recesses. Minor spoilers if you squint)

Rated G:

In Which Lan Xichen Finds His Brother’s Behavior Concerning, by AshurbanipalJones

“He drank the wine he drank, suffered the wounds he suffered.”—Módào Zǔshī

But you're somebody else, by hamlets_ghost (second in a series)

Two brothers reunite for the first time after many, many years...

Wei Wuxian's plan for sneaking alcohol into the cloud recess is less than successful

Now I can't stand to be alone, by hamlets_ghost (third in a series)

Wei Wuxian is out night hunting alone and bites off more than he can chew.

Luckily a handsome rogue cultivator comes to his rescue.

Don't need you, by Poitre_4

Prompt: 178. "Don't do it. If you attack now, then I won't be able to keep you safe"

Character: Jin Ling

The Best Medicine, by BaconnEggs

Wei Wuxian knows something is wrong when he wakes up before Lan Wangji does.

It's nine in the morning. Waking up at this time is par for the course for Wei Wuxian, but absolutely unheard of for Lan Wangji. Wei Wuxian turns over to look at him, and even in the dim light filtering in from the curtains, the drawn paleness of his skin is hard to miss.Wei Wuxian grazes a tentative hand over Lan Wangji’s forehead and he seems to wince at the touch, face tightening as a low groan escapes his lips. The knuckles of Wei Wuxian’s fingers are met with dry, unpleasant warmth.

A fever.

(AKA Wei Wuxian takes care of a sick Lan Wangji because dammit Lan Wangji deserves to be taken care of and given soup as much as Wei Wuxian does)

Alternate Evil, by enchantingmiranchahalo

Post-canon Wei Wuxian time travels to the moment he's reunited with Lan Wangji and Jiang Cheng after the Burial Mounds.

Serial Killer, by nirejseki

“So what are you going to do about it, Xichen?” Jin Guangyao heard Nie Mingjue demanding, and paused, tilting his head to the side to listen rather than proceeding to enter the room.

Nie Mingjue had gotten increasingly irascible as of late, no doubt in large part to the growing influence of the Song of Turmoil that he’d been playing for him, and much of his ire was (correctly, although unknowingly) aimed at Jin Guangyao. It therefore would be better to stay outside and listen, to figure out what argument Nie Mingjue was using and design appropriate countermeasures – to convince Lan Xichen that Nie Mingjue was, as usual, making a fuss when there was no reason, and that it was safe to simply ignore him or downplay his concerns.

“Da-ge…”

“Don’t da-ge me! He’s killing people!”

Jin Guangyao tensed.

intersections, by sasamelons

He had just made it to the streetcar stop when he heard his name being called.

“Lan Zhan!” Wei Ying clattered his way down the street with his hastily-thrown on jacket and wild shoulder-length hair falling out of his ponytail. Lan Zhan had given up on trying to fight his way across the crowd before he left, had only managed to catch Wei Ying’s eye and wave from the other side of the room. His heart sped up at the thought that the other man had run out of the bar to say goodbye.

"Lan Zhan, Lan Zhan,” he said in between pants as he caught his breath. Despite his exhaustion and eagerness to get home only a moment ago, Lan Zhan had the sudden thought that he might be happy to stand on this street corner forever, if Wei Ying kept saying his name like that. “You’re leaving already?”

Growing up, at five intersections.

A Game of Chess..., by Ladycroft4evr

Just WangXian hanging out at Cloud Recesses, Life after Yi City... specifically after that insanely adorable bunny lantern/heart eyes at Tanzou market <3

Of course WangXian have a heck of a lot of free time between then and the Epic Confession @ Jinlintai :D So A bored Wei WuXian suggests a game of Chess (Weiqi/Go), small bet between WangXian...juniors make a cameo too lol.. Have fun, folks :)

Unfinished:

Rated T:

I've Heard of Second Chances, but This Is Ridiculous, by velvet_green

One of Wei Wuxian’s experimental talisman arrays sends himself, his husband and his brother to that mythical land of long ago – the Gusu Lan lectures of their youth.

Wei Wuxian is amused. Lan Wangji is silent. Jiang Cheng is angry.

And their younger versions are mostly just very, very confused.

Muted, by Akabara_13

Jiang FengMian thought the boy would talk again once the storm passed, but Madam Yu praised his silence. The boy would not talk to anyone, but his brother and sister.

demons run when a good man goes to war, by Miranda_Aurelia

In their attempt to consolidate power, Wei Wuxian is framed and executed by the Jin Sect.

A pity, because Wei-xiong was possibly the only person that could have stopped Lan Wangji from razing Koi Tower to the ground, thought Nie Huaisang uncharitably. As for him? They really should have left his brother alone.

Serendipity, by midnight_soul

Lan Wangji is tired of his family’s passive-aggressive persistence in his love life. He will not go on another blind date; the first two times were disastrous enough.

Wei Wuxian has had enough of his family telling him no one would want to stick with him, no one decent at least.

One trying to live his life peacefully and another wanting to prove his family wrong, how can their plan fail? They’re practically meant for each other.

Decay exists as an extinct form of life., by Amanie

Wei wuxian dies after years with the people he loved.

And then he woke up.

——

A jar of emperor’s smile crashed to the ground.

And Wei Wuxian screamed.

“How do you kill an immortal?”

Rated G:

The Undesirable Son, by FragranceLotion97

Wei Wuxian has been living with his Master, Baoshan Sanren, ever since his parents died at a Night Hunt when he was ten years old. Years later, his Master sends him off to join the lecture in Cloud Recesses for a special secret mission to save the entire Cultivation World from the heinous dictator, Wen Ruohan.

Wei Wuxian's journey in finding the real meaning of family and love in Cloud Recesses.

Patriarch, by nilavu

In which Hanguang-jun sends a letter to the Yiling Patriarch inviting him to Jin Rulan's one-month celebration and receives a surprising letter back.

#the untamed #untamed fanfiction #mo dao zu shi #chen qing ling #cql #mdzs

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gingersnapwolves · 5 years ago

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So Untamed looks really cool and I want to watch, but I have a problem and idk if you have any tips maybe? I tried watching the first episode (didn't get very far, maybe 15 minutes) and was utterly confused. I think I'm having a hard time keeping track of characters/names? Partially because I'm not used to watching non-English media and partially because it's hard to get an unfamiliar name to stick in my head the first time I see it, maybe? Any tips on figuring out what's going on in ep1?

Friend! I’ll have you know that I had NO FUCKING CLUE what was going on for the entirety of episode one. Literally SO CONFUSED. Nearly stopped watching. However, luckily for you, I am pend-up and bored right now so I have made a guide for you.

First things first: just accept you will be confused during episode one. Or skip it entirely. Along with most of episode 2.

The timeline goes like this:

Episodes 1+2 -> jump back 16 years! -> episodes 3-32ish -> these take place over the course of about 3 years -> jump forward! 13 years! back to where episode 1 started! by this time you have forgotten everything in episode 1 and 2 and you’ll have to rewatch it anyway!

I’m not saying you can’t watch it in order but boy is it easier to understand if you watch it in chronological order instead. But unfortunately the flashback starts about five minutes before the end of episode 2, not just at the beginning of episode 3, so you have to skim through that episode and wait for Wei Wuxian to faint in a field.

Now, a quick guide! I’ve made snapshots from early on in the series so these are the outfits they’ll be in when you meet (most) of them. Here are your protagonists:

Wei Wuxian aka Wei Ying

Precious ADHD child. Wants to be friends with everyone but also is ready to Throw Down at the drop of a hat. Classic disaster bi.

Lan Wangji aka Lan Zhan aka Hanguang-Jun

Mr. Stoic. Usually seen annoyed with Wei Wuxian’s antics. Classic repressed gay.

Quick note on names: almost all the characters have two. They get a name at birth (Wei Ying, Lan Zhan) and later when they come of age they get a courtesy name (Wei Wuxian, Lan Wangji), and if they’re super cool they get a title (Hanguang-Jun). I could write a long, long primer on what names are used in what situations but it can basically be summed up as the courtesy name is more formal and respectful, and the title is even more respectful than that, and when Wei Wuxian calls Lan Wangji ‘Lan Zhan’ in episode 4 he’s doing it SPECIFICALLY to be a little shit and get a rise out of Lan Wangji, and oh boy does it work.

Additional sidebar: in the book at least, they are 16ish at this point, I know they don’t look it, but teenagers never look like teenagers on American TV either, so, whatever. Anyway that explains a lot of Wei Wuxian’s behavior lmao.

Their families:

Jiang Cheng also but hardly ever known as Jiang Wanyin

(sidebar: these are not really the best caps because my computer was being a jerk so I was just grabbing the first one that came to hand, sorry for not catching your best side JC)

(Because the story is from Wei Wuxian’s point of view, and he grew up with Jiang Cheng, the less formal name is used even in the prose, hardly anyone ever calls him Jiang Wanyin)

Jiang Cheng is Wei Wuxian’s younger brother (although Wei Wuxian is adopted) who is angry almost all the time because Wei Wuxian gets away with Literally Everything including things he really shouldn’t, and Jiang Cheng has massive jealousy and resentment issues which are pretty much his mother’s fault. He’s not a bad guy but oh boy, board the Issues Train.

Jiang Yanli (women do not get courtesy names)

(or maybe this is her courtesy name? Please correct me if I’m wrong)

Jiang Yanli is their older sister. She is made of sunshine and rainbows.

Notes on this family: Clan Leader Jiang was friends with Wei Wuxian’s parents. When they died, he took in Wei Wuxian. His wife is Big Mad About This because she suspects (probably correctly) that Clan Leader Jiang was in love with Wei Wuxian’s mother. However, as Wei Wuxian’s mother is now dead, she should Get Over This. Spoiler alert: she doesn’t. This causes lots and lots of problems. Like. Half the series probably could have been avoided type of problems.

Lan Xichen aka Zewu-Jun

Lan Wangji’s older brother. Not Actually a Himbo because he’s not actually dumb. He possesses multiple brain cells. He just Never Uses Them. Very soft and gentle, would like to protect. He’s the Clan Leader even though he’s much younger than most of the other Clan Leaders because their father is either dead or in seclusion depending on if you’re in book or TV show canon.

Lan Qiren

Their extremely strict uncle who raised them and probably didn’t mean to fuck them up for life but probably did.

He’s known to be a good teacher which is why everyone in the teenager arc is there in the first place for Sword Wizard school.

Sidebar: nobody in this show really ages. They’ve done some stuff with makeup and hair to show the time change before and after the skip but that’s all. This is a genre thing; once Sword Wizards have attained a certain level of Sword Wizardry, they stop aging.

Other Important Characters:

Nie Huaisang

Young master of the Nie clan. He is Their Soft Friend during Sword Wizard school.

Jin Zixuan

Heir to the massive Jin clan. He is a dick in the first arc. Gets better later but boy does it take some time. He is betrothed to Jiang Yanli but feels it’s below his station so he’s a jerk to her a lot of the time.

Meng Yao

Jin Zixuan’s illegitimate half-brother. Their dad is a slut. And I don’t mean to slut shame, but he is a Bad Person also, and doesn’t care about his illegitimate children, which tends to cause problems. Meng Yao tried to join the Jin clan when he came of age but Dad Slut refused to allow him in, so he went to serve the Nie Clan instead. But, he is not technically a young master like all these other characters and is more of a high-ranking servant.

Wen Ruohan

The Big Evil of Part One, easily identifiable by his outfit, Lava Palace, and propensity to make zombies

Wen Chao

His super obnoxious kid who goes around threatening people and pissing me off.

Wen Qing

Badass doctor with a big heart who’s serving Big Evil because a) he took her and her brother in after her parents were killed, and b) her brother is basically a hostage.

Wen Ning

Her brother who nearly had his soul sucked out by a ghost one (1) time and as a result is kind of delicate and fragile, but always wants to help others.

Xue Yang

An Edgelord who works for Wen Ruohan and just wants people to stop kinkshaming him for his homicidal tendencies.

These are all the characters you really have to known for the first arc (Sword Wizard school) and by the time you get to episode 6 or 7 you will have gotten used to the names and stuff, I promise. It just takes some time. The rest of the characters are introduced slowly, one at a time, so you don’t get as overwhelmed.

Anyway! I hope this helps! I would really recommend just skipping to the end of episode two (again, watch for Wei Wuxian fainting in a field, that’s your cue that the flashback is about to start) and watching from there, then when you get to the time skip, just go back and watch episodes 1 and 2.

Let me know if you have any questions as I’m always happy to answer them!

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millennial-star-gazer · 4 years ago

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A Fire Dragon, His Princess and The Not-So-Terrible Party Aftermath: Chapter: 1 (Nalu Week 2020)

A Fire Dragon, His Princess and The Not-So-Terrible Party Aftermath

Nalu week 2020 Prompts: Voice, Flirt, Charm & Smile(All implied)

Genres: Romance, Humor, New Adult Fanfiction

Pairing: Nalu/Endlu (Natsu x Lucy & E.n.d. Natsu x Lucy)

Rating: M for language, steamy and mature/adult sexual content (all consensual) in these and future chapters. Reader Discretion is advised.(You've been warned!)

Summary: God knows it was all fun and games at an outdoor guild party until a drinking contest results in a not-so-great time for a certain celestial wizard much to the dismay of a protective dragon slayer and company. Even worse is Lucy's hangover with some kind of mild flu and busted ankle to boot . At least a doting Natsu is more-than-willing to provide his mate plenty of TLC. One of my entries for @nalu-week 2020 and part of the Nalu-centric anthology series The Dragon Demon and His Celestial Princess anthology series (slight au/ canon divergent).

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Chapter 1: A Worthwhile Distraction

A/N: Hey guys, it's me again with my third entry for @nalu-week 2020 in the form of a new story and is also part of The Dragon Demon and His Celestial Princess anthology (TDDAHCP); series which is set shortly after the events of 100 years quest with said quest being completed in a matter of weeks or a few months (hence why it's slight au/canon divergent). Special thanks to @mannyegb again for helping me to edit and further develop this chapter. Now without further ado, here's the story-enjoy!

Scroll Down Past The Read More Button/cut for designated links and the actual chapter.

Disclaimer: I don't own Fairytail which instead belongs to the one and only Hiro-sensei instead!

Read More of This Fic and on other Platforms

Note: Copy and paste links into another browser tap if reading on desktop site

1. A Fire Dragon, His Princess and The Not-So-Terrible Party Aftermath

A. Tumblr

Chapter: 1 Next (Chapter) (Click Here:) (or here: https://millennial-star-gazer.tumblr.com/post/624773467606319105/a-fire-dragon-his-princess-and-the)

B. Fanfiction (Click Here:) (or here: https://www.fanfiction.net/s/13623735/1/A-Fire-Dragon-His-Princess-and-The-Not-So-Terrible-Party-Aftermath)

C. A03 (Click Here:) ( or here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24802591/chapters/59983813)

3. Master Post Of All My Writing And Profiles (Click Here:) (or here: https://millennial-star-gazer.tumblr.com/post/179665258923/master-fic-rec-post)

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Legend

Italics: Fantasy, flashback & literary/ song quotes

Bold: First Person Thoughts

Bolded Italics: empathized word

Bolded Italics: outside of main story): A/N

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" The friction between my words and your fantasy is making the atmosphere erotic."

(Soraya Marcelo: Twitter)

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"There you go baby - everything's ready now. It should be perfect for tonight. A guild picnic at dusk and bonfire under the stars, was it?"

"Yep, that's what Mira told us. Even said so on the Magicbook * page for the event. My friends from other guilds like Sabertooth will be attending too— a bunch responded."

"Awesome baby!"

"It really is. Thanks for helping me get ready by the way, Cancer!"

"Anytime. Have fun tonight!"

"Will do— thank you! "

"All right-catch you later, baby!"

"See ya!"

" Wow—- You look beautiful, Luce."

Natsu's arms encircled Lucy's waist from behind with the soft pressure of his lips on her shoulder; which sent a tingly shiver down her spine.

"Not that ya' didn't before. He amended, a fond smile tugging at the corner of his lips. Not to mention those striking emerald eyes the celestial mage could drown in. "You always do."

Major fan of this whole look.

"I still can't believe I got such a gorgeous angel as my mate and queen. How am I this lucky?"

"Dunno. How'd you ever get so sentimental?" Lucy shot back, a teasing lilt to her words. (She couldn't help but lean back into his arms ). "If Gray could only hear you now ...but yeah, I really like all this too ."

Golden half-braided hair framed the face of Lucy's reflection in a floral-mini, skater dress; who was gazing back through a mirror. Topping the whole ensemble together was a pair of Grecian-style wedges on her feet that were to die for.

"Still can't believe you're officially mine" the dragon slayer breathed, voice thick with reverent awe. "I love you so much."

"L-love you too... hmm."

The celestial wizard let out a soft hum of bliss from the peppering of feathery-light kisses on her neck leading to her collarbone just after a nuzzle.

"Y-You trying to distract me Natsu?" she inquired, voice coming out as breathy to her own ears. God, the sensation of Natsu's scorching lips on the celestial mage's creamy skin was scattering all train of thought— almost too much to handle!

It's really hard to think right now...

"Hmm.. just maybe I am, sweetheart," came the dragonslayer's reply, timbre, a languid drawl against her skin. "Is it working?"

"Yes," was all Lucy could utter, eyes drifting shut from the sweep of his hand up the curve of her neck in a single caress. Oh and the appealing sensation of a blonde tendril being dragged through his deft fingers was an added bonus too!

"Good," The vibrations of the fire wizard 's throaty chuckle sent sparks ripping across the summoner's nerves; which effectively turned the celestial mage's knees to mush.

"That's what I was aiming for ."

"It is?"

"Yep. Did I mention how amazing you smell?" He rumbled, pulling another shiver out of his mate. "Your natural scent now permanently mixed with mine..."

Dear God, the enticing charisma of this man- so natural! Who was she deny the incredibly overpowering ecstasy exploding through her veins with how the demon hybrid's nose was pressed against the crook of her neck?.

"And is that a hint of jasmine perfume I'm catching a whiff of?"

"Mhmm..." Goddamn- how extremely apparent that Lucy was pretty much rendered incapable of forming any type of response other than a single ,answering hum.

"Thought so-pretty intoxicating if ya' ask me."

"Um..."

It was then Lucy couldn't help but wonder what Natsu's ultimate end game was. No doubt the man was successful in efforts to ensare her with his devilish charms— but where did he intend for it to all lead? Did any of his plans entail steamy kissing marathons on the couple's bed? Slow-burn love-making beneath the sheets, wild romps all over their apartment? Just what if it could be?

Holy hell— that pulsating of liquid heat pulsating that shot between to the keyholder's core from the scintillant flash of images flooding her mind .

Supple digits unzipping the back of her dress, an insatiable Natsu pinning her against a wall, being lightly tossed onto the bed by said dominant dragon slayer, all-too-welcome lips leaving a high-voltage trail of electricity down her bare form before...

"Crap... the time."

Just for that little fantasy bubble to burst once Natsu pulled away from Lucy; who bit back a noise of protest at the loss of contact.

"Eh sorry, Luce," he apologized, rubbing the back of his neck with a sheepish grin. "Didn't mean to lose track of the time like that. Either way, we should probably start heading over if we don't wanna be late."

"Okay..." Lucy let out a sigh, not able to stop the wave of mild disappointment from washing over her.

"Aw come on now, weirdo!" Natsu wheedled, light-hearted amusement coloring his tone. "No need to be so glum! Tonight's gonna be fun, remember?"

"I know." Lucy conceded, with a faint smile tugging at the corner of her lips. "Should be great to spend time with our friends from Fairytail and other guilds. " Her spirits couldn't help but be lifted by the pyro's sunny mood.

Him and that infectious grin of his...

"Great! That's the spirit!" He crowed , planting a light peck on Lucy's cheek;aka the reason for the slight flush of scarlet .

"Tonight's gonna be awesome !"

"It sure will ."

"Definitely!"

"Oh, and one more thing," Natsu paused to shoot Lucy a lingering glance. "Just a little tiny something."

" What that might be?"

"Your outfit. I was thinking that maybe it could use a little extra piece to complete the look? Like, say that necklace I gave you?"

" Oh… that gorgeous pendant? You know what, yeah! Great idea-Thanks Natsu!"

"My pleasure. And pretty sure I saw said pendant in your jewelry box. Lemme' grab it for you."

"Sure thing!"

"Great then- so it's settled!"

"You bet!"

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A/N: Magicbook is a fictional social media app and site for all magic users and citizens in Earthland- aka the Fairytail equivalent of its counterpart in real life Facebook- in case anyone was wondering. Just a little sidenote about the chronological order for the timeline each fic in my TDDAHCP anthology series.

1. Fire And Gold(prequel)

2. Tantric Flames

3. A Dragon, His Princess and the Not-So Terrible Party Aftermath(this fic)

Figured I'd provide a little guide about the chronological order in terms of how each fic in this series takes place. Anyway, that's pretty much all for now until the next chapter. Hoped you enjoyed the first installment and please free to let me know what you think by dropping a review/comment!

Once again, don't forget to check out my other Nalu week entries along with the rest of my writing! Also be sure to stay tuned for chapter 3 of Fire and Gold which will be posted ASAP once I have a chance to finish the edits and format! Did I mention my other upcoming Nalu/FT projects in the works! Bet you're all fired now as Natsu would say! Oh and why not check out the rest of Nalu week submissions from the other incredibly talented writers and artists while you're at it? (Corresponding links to all my writing and profiles can be found above in this post, the navigation bar and bio if reading this on tumblr. Also on my respective FF and A03 accounts.) Thanks again to everyone for their incredible show of support ! Until next time-take care!

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darkmagic-sweetheart · 5 years ago

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My AHWM Yancy Theory: A Truth About Love~!

Disclaimer:

This post will contain spoilers on A Heist with Markiplier

This is a headcanon theory so please do not think I am stating any of this as fact

I was able to complete AHWM on the first day it came out in about 4 to 5 hours. I wrote down every ending and posted about all of them as I went on Twitter. A week later Mark and Amy had their stream on Youtube talking about the behind the scenes and process of making the videos. I was able to watch almost all of it, I probably only missed around 20 minutes all together. So this is the kind of information I am working with as I write this down.

Now the theory I am proposing today is that Yancy actually becomes Illinois and Captain Magnum through paradoxical time shifts based on the similarities between them and how Mark has formed his previous characters in other works.

It all begins with the Scientist ending that is the canonical ending to AHWM. In this ending you receive the end credits and behind the scenes snippets. The Scientist, during her time on screen, explain that there is some type of anomaly out there causing all of these strange things to happen. These strange things include paranormal/supernatural phenomena, events overlapping, repeating, and skipping, and overall time manipulation. Taking the paranormal phenomenon out for a moment, let’s focus on the elements related to time. If say that no matter what time line you go through this artifact you have stolen, despite it’s content, could still be causing a temporal paradox as you are the one carrying it around. If so, my theory could totally be happening.

In Mark’s stream on the filming production he mentions how the first day was the jail house, so Yancy was the first character besides Mark himself he focused on (not yet called Yancy though). We could also see this as the secondary timeline a player should go through when diverging from the true ending. Now Yancy as a character is a showman, he is playing a game of pretend in an environment he feels comfortable in. As seen through his tough guy act even though he’s from Ohio. He admits that he has killed his parents, he has killed people he loved, and in one ending he even kills his fellow inmate (who he cares for) to stay in jain in order to remain inside this constructed delusion. So love is a big part of Yancy’s character and it’s actually apart of the other two as well.

While interacting with the character Illinois he mentions two key things, one of them being that all those who fall in love with him tragically die. Now this is obviously a reference to a popular film series we probably all now about, but what if they don’t actually die in these so called tragic ways? What if, Illinois is Yancy years in the future where he actually falls in love with you, decides to escape prison, and make up for his crimes by doing some good in the world? Yancy is able to find all the nooks and crannies of a location and you have experience in stealth, together you go all over the world looking for treasures to share with the world. Obviously, he’ll have to change his name since he escaped so why not go with another Midwestern state to stay true to home.

Yet, tragedy really does strike and you die somehow and Yancy, who is now Illinois, breaks down in grief. He no longer has the jail , a comfortable and familiar place, or you to cling to. You were still his connection back to that lifestyle of routine and control. Now, there is no control so he has to make it all over again as Illinois. Back to that first key point about how all his love interests die tragically, what if it’s all a fantasy? What if he has gone back to his old ways of killing those he loves? Illinois is actually killing all his lovers in a similar manner to how you died in order to keep this new delusion stable and concise. You don’t die; however, because you never actually did fall for him like you did with Yancy in another timeline.

Now what about that second key thing Illinois mentions, well that deals with Illinois’s love for treasure and adventure. It’s time to talk about how Illinois, once Yancy, becomes Captain Magnum! Illinois at this time is a serial killer that has now scoured the Earth, but he can’t keep it up forever. One day that boulder that follows him everywhere (probably possessed by all the lovers he killed) finally catches up to him and takes away his feet. This breaks him down even further into his own delusions as he can no longer go exploring the way he used to. He has to find another way to reconnect with you and now sees treasure as a means to do so. Killing lovers like you is no longer an option, but collecting treasures is. Illinois, now without feet, has to wear large log peg-legs to maintain his balance. decides that the best way to collect large amounts of treasure is to become a pirate. Thus, going back into his criminal roots.

However, this time he works to make no human connections and finds it easy to toss away his crew or neglect them. You can see his uncaring and awkward expression as his first mate cries and prays for his fallen friends. Additionally, Yancy is a showman at heart so he decides to create an eccentric character like Captain Magnum in order to appear dominant and in control. As the leader he can maintain his delusion himself unlike in the jail when the warden dictated his life or with his solitude and grief as Illinois. Yancy has always had a problem with authority, but now he is the authority. You could also say Captain Magnum is Yancy/Illinois’s magnum opus of a character and the final character.

In another timeline you do end up meeting Captain Magnum and as well takes a shine to you as Yancy and Illinois did (at least over time). If you pick the right path you end up as part of his crew and you can see the Captain start to develop some kind of feelings for you, but more as a parent since he is older at this time. He trusts you enough to pick which island to go explore next for more treasure and as you end up on the Island of Golden Treasure (a choice the Captain agrees with) you are sacrificed for his beloved treasure. Yet another person he loves killed by his hands.

This is the story I’ve put together around my theory/ headcanon. I’d love to know if the first character besides himself that Mark came up with was actually Prison Mark, because that would be amazing!

Either way I think the way Mark writes and develops these characters follows a pattern of looping. The idea that each character influences the other and that eventually a loop will be created. This can be seen in all of his fleshed out characters! Damien and Celine in a loop of revenge, the Colonel aka Warfstache in a loop with madness, Warfstache and the Detective in a loop of vengeance, the Colonel, Celine, and Damien in a loop of tragedy, etc. Mark’s characters become other characters, but at the same time retain parts of who they used to be.

So it’s not strange for this idea to be unintentionally true. I’m not saying it is, but it’s kind of interesting to notice. Nonetheless, I had a good time writing this theory and I hope it blows your minds even a little bit!

Thank you!

P.S. @markiplier is going to hate this.��

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xtinadoesstarwars · 5 years ago

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I don’t know why I’m doing this but I am.

Background

So I recently finished my master’s degree at the University of Oklahoma. You would think after writing 140 pages worth of research, I would not want to start yet another writing project but here we are.

I have been a Star Wars nerd since I saw Revenge of Sith in theaters three times because I could NOT get over Anakin Skywalker in May 2005. I think I was in seventh grade at the time, just on the precipice of my teen years. To be honest, my infatuation with Anakin (Hayden Christensen) had more to do with that than how amazing I thought the Star Wars universe was.

My mom and her college friends took me to see Phantom Menace and Attack of the Clones but honestly, elementary school me was not into scary red man with horns OR Jango Fett clones.

Anyway, after I started thirsting for Anakin/Hayden, I became utterly OBSESSED with Star Wars. I can’t remember if I saved money or asked for the special edition DVD set of the original trilogy, but after that, it was over for me. My Xanga (remember that?) page became a Jedi-worshipping page. I watched the movies over and over and over again. I never touched the books or comics because well...that was a lot to cover. I was content using Wookieepedia or whatever the equivalent was in the 2000s to look up any lingering questions I had.

And then Disney bought Lucasfilm. At first, oh I was angry. I was appalled. They were going to ruin the SANCTITY of my beloved Star Wars. It was announced that the books and comics and other "Expanded Universe” media were going to become part of the “Legends” brand, therefore non-canonical. For those of you who don’t understand canon, here’s an explainer:

Canon: Describes people, events, times, places, etc. that have actually appeared, been mentioned, or happened in the movies, TV shows, and certain media.

Non-canon: Relationships, people, events, places, etc. that have never been shown, spoken of, or hinted at in movies, TV shows, books, etc.

From Wallaroo Media:

Since Disney bought Lucasfilm in 2012, there has been a substantial amount of new STAR WARS material, including comic books, novels, TV series, and games. What casual fans may not know is that all of these productions and publications are now officially part of the new canon, meaning that they are included in the fictional history of that galaxy far, far away. With this new STAR WARS canon timeline, you can now stay current on everything STAR WARS, and how these materials are connected with both the old and new films.

I perked up at this because it meant that I could conceivably “catch-up” and be the Star Wars know-it-all I’ve always wanted to be but never had the time. Obviously 2012 was 8 years ago and all I’ve managed to do is complete two degrees, watch the movies, and read a couple of books.

To get to the true heart of why I am doing this, I have to get personal with you, reader. The world is a pretty fucking depressing and anxiety-inducing place right now and I suffer from depression and anxiety. Sometimes I take medication for it, other times I’m just out here raw-dogging life, as a meme once so eloquently put it. So I know what it’s like to feel like there’s nothing worth living for, even though logically I know that there is, and the anxiety of losing something that you love. If I don’t give myself huge projects to do, my depression and anxiety cause me to want to give up, to lay in bed for days on end, to not eat, to shut down. I need things to be excited about and commit myself to (other than work and my other hustles). As a nerd, I’ve used fandom to pull myself out of a lot of dark places throughout my life. As a child, I was shy and lonely and used books to escape from reality and to imagine wonderful worlds to different from ours. I guess I’m doing the same thing again now.

After I watched the Rise of Skywalker, I felt an intense wave of depression come over me. I can’t seem to accept that it’s over. This particular saga has ended, the stories I have come to know and love will no longer have additions for me to consume. There is a big reason why this specific episode affected me so much, but we’ll get to it later. It’s a story and explanation for another time and also filled with spoilers so I’ll give you more time to GO SEE THIS MOVIE.

Methods

This is how I know I’m a nerd. I organized this post starting with my introduction and background, and now I’m moving into my methods, aka how I’m going to conduct my project. Some things never change.

My idea is to start with the chronological beginning of the canon timeline according to this webpage. I started a spreadsheet which records the title and author of the media, the type of media (book, comic, movie, etc.), era, short synopsis, release date, when I started and finished, what I learned, what I liked, and what I didn’t like. I’m sure that this spreadsheet will expand to include other things but my goal here is to create something that will help me track my knowledge of the Star Wars universe. I’m a researcher by nature, what can I say?

I’m giving myself one year to do all of this but I’m not holding myself to it. If it happens, cool, if not, I’m gonna keep going until it’s finished. I don’t know if anyone else has ever tried this before but it’s an idea that I can’t get out of my head so I might as well just try it.

If you made it to the bottom of this post, congratulations and thank you. You a real one! If you have any questions or comments leave them here or catch me on Twitter @ tina_ffg or on my personal Tumblr @odasjimi.

#star wars #xtina does star wars

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demonslayvr · 6 years ago

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VERSES RUNDOWN.

'fore blazing home came atumbling ; there was a family of four ( childhood v. )

PRE GAMES / NOVEL’S / MANGA’s. pretty clear -- this is any interaction that has been plotted or otherwise during dante’s childhood til the fire. by default he’s going to be about 6 - 8 years of age with the latter age at least a couple months before the fire.

quite indeterminate yet the bang of a gun and the slash of a sword still remain a constant ( undetermined v )

PRETTY OBVIOUS. i haven’t made a decision where shit goes yet thus its undetermined. will change during thread once we plot more on it or i figure something out myself.

not everything has a simple ending. crashing demons is easy but other things ? that can be tough ( multifandom v )

GENERAL CROSSOVER / MULTIVERSE v. pretty generic verse for when either dante himself or another character outside of the devil may cry canon gets tossed comes inside it. i’ll probably branch off if and whenever i make verses for in - fandom specific threads when i build something for each one of them but this is it for now. sometimes this verse tag will accompany another one ; which just means whichever verse he’s in and what you should follow development wise is connected. basically just a multi - fandom tag for crossover threads, lads.

die trash man ; take your sword and SHOVE IT ( crack )

GENERAL CRACK. as the package says it’s just a verse / tag for crack whenever it happens. sometimes it may

a flash to a past that holds bitter air. pain was a story here. you wish not to go back ( post dmc5 / alternate interaction v )

ALTERNATE INTERACTIONS. pretty much like with the multifandom verse tag this one is simply going to go with any other version of himself dante interacts with. might get latched onto with another verse tag just for my own sanity but . . yep.

low feelings ; simply moving along to find dangers and distractions ( devil may cry one v. )

SET JUST BEFORE, DURING OR AFTER DMC1 AND BEFORE FOUR. pretty much as the previous sentence says lads. he’s an angstee boy but not as angsty as his two self i guess lmao. but yeah, this verse is a huge back track in terms of development and how he is in the verse below this one.

bang bang bang kiss of the gun & blade ; where are we? ( post dmc5 - main )

POST DMCV. follows the full OG dmcv canon til end - depending on interaction this could mean that any vergil written with and dante are in hell still doing whatever the fuck they please or after the fact and home and going on with their lives. or trying ; considering vergil is back in his life and alive. this is also the DEFAULT verse of the blog.

there's a fire in your veins that speaks your losses yet you continue to bend in remembrance ( atla / lok v. )

SHUNNED. known for killing his twin brother, his very name and even more so in taking jobs to pay the bills -- jobs that more so upset the delicate balance between the human and spirit realms.

dante sparda comes from the fire nation -- his father a previous high general in the army ; one that tried to broker peace in a time where it was unheard of while the fire nation ruled. his father met eva when he was traveling the earth nation and secretly begun a relationship with her. their love was beautiful, eventually in as much secret as possible eva bore two young boys: vergil and dante sparda.

happiness was not to last however as wind was caught of the affair and the children, leaving eva and the young sons to go on the run with sparda defending their escape. the name sparda was drug through the mud as the man was never heard from again after that night. unknown what became of him as deflected firebending set the house ablaze.

short years pass, spending it on the run from those who want to end the chapter of embarrassment -- but it finally catches up. one evening eva comes running, telling her boys to go -- to run and hide. forget their names but stay at each other’s side. the twins do as told and don’t look back ; the last time they see her. however in their escape they end up separated, captured by soldiers of the fire nation. dante’s anger and despair of losing his entire family causes him to lose control ; lashing out on the soldiers that caught him and running away

“ you must change your name ; forget your past and start a new life as someone else. “

that he does. he changes his name and disappears, alone. fast forwarding a couple years he’s a spirit hunter ; taking jobs that rid “ evil spirits “ that cause issue or problem for anyone that pays a good amount. a mercenary that cuts down those who’ve wronged the wrong person ; non and bender’s alike. his father’s sword, rebellion, at his back to assist and create a dancing display of fire just as much as his bending. he’s a difficult one to get close to but once you cool him off ( haha ) he’s a loyal friend and ally.

with the war over at the end of the series he’s more vocal of who he is -- even though he was previously but with some of the fire nation’s “ norms “ kind of relaxing from fire - lord zuko’s rule . . he’s his father’s son. his mother’s son.

lok verses are basically . . kinda the same. except i guess he’s older . . ??

pay off the debt to save your skin ; something within broke and former gentle soul crushed under weight ( dmc 2.0 v )

CANON DIVERGENT. dante snapped, perhaps it was inevitable - perhaps losing too many people tore what little the cambian could handle to pieces and the person that emerged from it was more a threat than he was before. after the events of devil may cry 1 after realizing that he had ( supposedly ) killed his brother there was something in him that couldn’t handle it and everything begun to crumble.

in this timeline something in him changed, and while it wasn’t immediate – little things when he would have been understanding over a situation didn’t sit as they should. but it happened quickly. with trish’s betrayal he didn’t help her, allowing her to get crushed by the tumbling rocks ; simply standing there and watch it happen. its drawn out, with him coming over to crouch beside her as she struggled to heal. in his allowance bore cruelty, snarling that she should have known better to betray him – mundus shouldn’t have done what he did and expect him to now not try and go after him.

he, as he does in the normal timeline, states that while she looks like his mother that she has no soul, no fire and for that she’s just a puppet. he shoots her more than once, killing her – the last time he sheds a tear. he reaches mundus, who commends him for his actions yet the hybrid isn’t having it. the fight with mundus goes about the same but with dante killing him for ultimately forcing him to murder his brother, being the one who set the orders to burn down his home – twice – and turn his life upside down.

he goes through the portal mundus opened to try and escape and ultimately assumes himself as the new king of the underworld. he still runs his business since even though he’s king there will always be factions that don’t like it due to his bastard blood and he’s more than happy to snuff it out.

his attitude is mostly intact ( though this is said loosely since he’s less talkative and jovial ) though now it’s unsettling at times since his jokes and humor can be a bit morbid – let alone how his aura feels. its dangerous and uncomfortable to be around ; his care for humans as a whole is almost non - existent except for a small inkling for lady.

BIG NOTE: THIS TIMELINE IS SET AFTER DEVIL MAY CRY ONE, KIND OF SKIPS FOUR ( though it IS likely nero still exists but dante doesn’t care much about it or know ) SLIGHTLY INVOLVES TWO ( aka: dante gets annoyed that some idiot human is making helicopters messed up with demonic juju and wants to become king. so he kills arius ) AND INVOLVES SOME CONTENT OF FIVE.

to enact your revenge most had been taken ; body & mind broken so it could begin ( witcher v )

———– destiny. you hear it more than you’d like to admit. destiny is what brought your parents together ; one monster and the other a witch. two were born, twins and raised in care by the witch til fate came to pass and ripped the three of you left apart. in trying to halt destiny the father, sparda, had done his best to hold it off ; disappearing one afternoon when the boys had been young ——– so long ago. his hope ?? that staying away would bring a kinder reality and future.

fire and blood, a mother doing best to protect her children was found disemboweled on the floor within the crumbled castle foundations. the youngest child was told to hide, hide away and if the mother didn’t resurface . . to run. she didn’t, but the youngest fought his way out of the castle —- skills of his mother surfacing with an aptitude for beast slaying in the same scope. his father’s sword, created by hellish and beastly means was his and aptly used to start a revenge — to KILL demons in his mothers name. and in his brothers — as both were believed to have perished in the attack.

in a short time and with training the young hybrid killed demons for a price ; eventually catching the eye of a witcher. the nature of the hybrid himself and the skills he held were of interest — brought to kaer morhen to be trained as a witcher. almost losing himself in the process yet he endured, it further altering his physiology that was already different with the hybrid nature he had.

with the trials and effective torture to be a witcher an astounding success he buried into the extensive training to pursue the beast that slayed his family while also being a monsterslayer for hire.

———– destiny. you hear it more than you’d like to admit. destiny and fate has brought you here. brought you a thought lost ache in your heart for the family lost all to avenge them and kill the beast that killed them. you feign your disinterest, your lack of care but there is much of it in soul. destiny is a cruel mistress, son of sparda. yet perhaps she may gift you the KINDNESS to provide retribution if you are to live long enough.

Notes 1: with his father’s blood and how he is part beast, his body temperature is more abnormally hot than normal – able to reach just below lava temperatures without it seeming to create any problems for him. Notes 2: his magic is mostly fire based, secondly offensive ( akin to geralt’s in show how it can push things back, etc ). with the fire being used to distract he’s referenced to a dragon at times which he ignores. Notes 3: dante’s still trans because i say so ; while magic used to be used to help him pass he’s since has procedure through coin to get effectively top surgery — the scars easy to pass off due to his occupation. bottom surgery hasn’t been attempted but with becoming a witcher, like the rest, he’s infertile. Notes 4. he’s school of the wolf because i said so, wolves are cool and it has geralt so sue me ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

you wished you could forget ; everything else seems to blur but not him. not the brother you lost. ( IT v. )

AFTER THE FIRE you found yourself in foster care with your brother in tow. foster turned into adoption with the family that adopted the two siblings ended up bringing the two of them too derry, maine. immediately the youngest sibling knew something was off about the town ; the atmosphere unsettling but kept it to himself, not wanting to blow the change he had with his brother at having a new life. ( he and vergil are still cambion’s, but their power is, like, kinda not as Large as it is normally. still half demons tho folks. )

the youngest had trouble settling in a new town, smaller than the last – economically ( as he and his twin were upper class before this ) and town size in general with more seeming conservative values. he was lucky to find himself in a slightly liberal and understanding household as he was a transgender kid who no one knew any less of. something he was more careful to keep to himself.

everything was fine, the brothers settled in and all was well until it wasn’t. exploring the woods and the barrens – finally opening up to his brother that things were strange in the town and he could feel something off. they went looking but in doing so . . there had been an opening of weakness for the two – distractions and a trap. their mother, burned and in pain asking for their help ; of course the two came closer. there was a small difference in this faux recreation and trauma that dante noticed – calling out for his brother to stay away but, unfortunately the youngest saw the eldest fall victim to the trap – terrified and running away when he couldn’t do anything but possibly fall victim too.

time passed, school continued on with whispers and comments on how the twin had probably did it himself, causing the kid to isolate himself from everyone even though he knew what he say. adults didn’t believe him but there was a group that seemed to have had a run in with this . . fuckin’ clown.

( going off: smol™ dante getting involved with the losers after he straight up talks to one of them about what happened and what he saw / big™ dante having gone off like the rest of the losers doing his own thing aka kill other demon / eldritch things as normal kinda sorta and then re - meet up with them ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ )

same person but different mistakes ; still wrought pain upon brothers ( altered outcome / divergent v. )

CANON DMC DIVERGENT. pretty much a what if / reversal if dante led the life vergil did instead of vergil himself. it’s pretty much the same events but with dante the cause of them or involved instead of vergil. his attitude is close to what 2.0 dante is but not entirely there in terms of destruction. however he is still trying to deal with the aftermath of nelo angelo fame and dmcv’s whole thing.

ARISE ; for you are reborn into something greater. ARISE baricontralto angelo - fight. ( post dmc 5 div. nelo angelo dante v )

HE HAD BEEN COCKY. the cambion had been cocky upon returning back with his twin from the underworld ; cocky that with his twin that nobody could beat them if they simply worked together. and he was right. he was right up until he was wrong and time, well . . time wasn’t kind. it had been nine months since their return from the underworld from cutting down the qliphoth and in that time a familiar blue amulet found itself back in dante’s possession. it had been lost for several decades, having been lost to the boy during the day he had come home to find gavreel and the family slaughtered on the lawn.

he kept it close, he knew the meaning – he knew that there was peace again but . . he knew the danger of once again having this but would not dare get rid of it – he’d ride the coaster until it stopped. he’d be happy to have this shred of happiness and he felt he was finally allowed to have something – happy to have his brother back and have some semblance of family.

that was, well, until he lost the amulet. he didn’t notice that he did, believing it was still in pocket during a small run in with demons ; a job that he had taken alone – it seemed that fate was playing her hand that day. it had been dropped during an evasion and was lost upon his shift ahead – he didn’t even spot it. the job became less easy, it tiring him considerably as the small group of demons became larger – and while it was initially a challenge . .

it soon became taxing. as the larger the numbers the more exhausted the demon hunter became, the more he started to slip up.

it was only then did he realize that this was no job. it was a trap and he was caught in a net he couldn’t tear himself from. a familiar feeling emerged, one he hadn’t felt for decades. a demonic force that he had thrown fury at that same time. he hadn’t been this week before. he knew who this was and . . he was in trouble. this trap had been calculated and he had fallen into it hook, line and sinker.

the distraction of the feeling, of the demonic energy rising in the space leaves him vulnerable – attacks slicing at his back, his arms and legs – a lucky slash to his throat leaves him struggling and gripping his throat. he hits his knees before he realizes he does ; he ultimately — unintentionally — bows to the demon king before he passes out, demonic weapons and claws slashing into his back.

the next redacted years in the demon world are a nightmare that post angelo dante would have trouble remembering for all that happened are buried deep in repressed memories. the years blur together, but dante holds for a long time – dante suffers, he burns, he aches, he struggles – he perseveres. for a time anyway. he recalls and holds onto the trade out . . that this could have been vergil here instead of he. last minute changes, bouts of laughter as he accepted the job and ran out the door.

see you soon he had said. but the jovial air had long past. memories begin to muddle, to ebb and fade in and out as things became foggy. a struggle to remember – a struggle to fight but . . not all fights can be won. this one eventually was lost.

out of years of torturous pain and bloodshed arose a new pet, a puppet that was loyal and true. one that slaughtered doppelganger after doppelganger of brother and self, of friends and allies that the king knew that the former knew. he was satisfied that his little puppet would do just fine. that perhaps he could lure in his old ; have the complete set – for use of the younger did fine in breaking the elder.

this soldier has two forms ; one that fed to his devil trigger ( generic nelo angelo – not much power is used for it – basically it’s dante on the regular tapping into demonic power with his first devil trigger. he’s stronger than normal, having given into his addiction to human and demon blood and grown more powerful because of it )

and another that feeds into his sin devil trigger ( essentially the ‘ dragon ‘ - esque look. however its almost imperfect in how the black scales have become the darkish red / brown ; something not quite right. scales do fall off without warning from time to time, revealing a near lava like flow underneath. )

baricontralto . . a name to be used to not arouse suspicion ; a soldier that would destroy armies and bring cities to their knees in the name of his master. time would be swift for the pawn to be used, for the king himself was pleased. he was cocky with his new toy . . and it wasn’t long before he was to be used . .

despite all your losses & destruction ; despite trauma & trials . . my darling boy you’re still you. ( undertale v. )

[ fight ] [ act ] [ item ] [ mercy ]

↳ [ dante sparda ] ↳ [ check ]

IT WAS UNPRECEDENTED. a human and a monster coming together and falling in love. falling in love after the war to a human witch that found herself in the closed off underground after a tumble. sparda protected eva from the monsters at first, keeping her under his care – yet the umbra witch found herself using her powers and skills to assist in healing a monster in peril.

keeping eva out of harms way was . . difficult due to her humanity being a source of contention. monsters wanted to escape. eva rather enjoyed being alive. in the end eva’s healing magic to save and protect those around her and her love and the fact that she was older and not prime use to open a proper exit to the human world. asgore swore eva off limits to monsters as she was kind and a healer to them all.

in time sparda and her married and she bore two children ; hybrids – part monster and part human.

but not even the king’s word could stop those who still feared humans and humanity. those who held rage toward a species that had caused so much trouble and locked them away for thousands of years, if not more. a fire erupted into the underground, started at the quaint yet spacious house and spread further throughout the underground. by the time it had been put out – eva had been recovered, dead, in the home attempting to escape herself but the boys nowhere to be found. with her last ounce of magic she had sent her boys away, far away and out of the underground and topside.

now alone and separated from his remaining family and traumatized by the attack to his home the hybrid remained alone – growing up such until he found himself protecting humanity against other monsters ; demons. demons and monsters that had managed to stay in the human world but grew dangerous and lost themselves. dante sparda grew to love his humanity yet slowly accept the monster part of himself.

with a job giving him whispers of the brother he thought he lost through his own hand now somehow residing in the underground . . he flew in to investigate, still holding some anger over what had been done to his family yet . . holding determination and patience to deal with the rumors and what he’s about to come across.

#{ this will be added to as i make more verses / plot with others to make locked - }#{ verses but yeah }#🔥 // i'm here because a jackass devil dragged me in kicking and screaming. howdy demons its ya boy ! ( mun )

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stillgotclaws · 7 years ago

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under the cut are my verses for mobile users.

verse \ MAIN VERSE ! Reyna Hill is a dedicated handmaiden who was born and raised in the Crag . Sent by Lady Westerling as a gift of good faith to serve ‎Lady Dorna Swyft & Ser Kevan Lannister. later on, she is sent to King's Landing to serve the acting Hand of the King Joffrey Baratheon , Tyrion Lannister with the sole purpose of keeping an eye on him & informing Ser Kevan on Lord Tywin's behalf. this verse follows the events of both the show && books canon, set anywhere in the series, and Reyna's own timeline. this is the default verse & most first interactions are set in this verse. leaning slightly more on the books. so far, i've finished the first and second books & just started the third book. in the series, i have finished the first two seasons & plan on starting the 3rd soon. do not worry, i can catch up with you as i do not mind spoilers. this verse is open to any and everybody. \\ faceclaim : charlize theron \\

verse \ LADY LONGCLAW ! NOBLE AU;; follows Reyna’s own timeline ( & the canon timeline as well ) all the same, however —- instead of being sent to King’s Landing, Reyna marries Raginmund Rivers, a lowborn sworn sword five years older than her that claims to be son of the late Lord Reynard Reyne & Greta, a butcher’s daughter from the riverlands that went back to her family as soon as the REYNE-TARBECK REBELLION took place. Born under the Tully domains, it was no wonder that the boy grew up to be a loyal servant of said house —- earning the title of knight & being allowed to choose a name for his own: LONGCLAW. Albeit not all too bright, Ser Raginmund was sweet & not even once suspected that the only reason why Reyna married him was for his ( allegled ) bloodline. they’ve met when he was assigned to secure the safety of a package Lord Tully sent to Lannisport to pay a debt. serving him, she found out his story & worked on getting under his skin. the couple married two years before King Robert’s death & went to live in a small property nearby The Blue Fork. as lady Longclaw, Reyna gave Raginmund three sons & a daughter —- ambrose and hoster, twins that died at childbirth, and a year later little roberta, followed by gawen a year later. Roberta was a weak child & ended up succumbing to pneumonia and died. Once the war for the iron throne started, however, Reyna sent her only living son to her grandfather Earl in a weak attempt to protect him as she stayed beside Raignmund —- of his fate, it’s unknown if he is alive or dead. her grandfather’s small ship sinked after an attack of an iron islander ship, way before they arrived to their destination. as Raignmund left to join King Robb’s army, lady longclaw wasn’t allowed to follow him as she was with child and the early stages were risky. the news of the lord her husband being killed by the Kingslayer’s army were enough to make her take a difficult decision: she would go & serve the King in the North to honour her husband’s memory. this verse follows the events of both the show && books canon, set anywhere in the series, and Reyna's own timeline. this is the default verse & most first interactions are set in this verse. leaning slightly more on the books. so far, i've finished the first and second books & just started the third book. in the series, i have finished the first two seasons & plan on starting the 3rd soon. do not worry, i can catch up with you as i do not mind spoilers. this verse is open to any and everybody. \\ faceclaim : charlize theron \\

verse \ HEIRESS OF NOTHING ! without money, all they had was their name aka that noble au in which the Reynes weren't all murdered & Lord Roger didn't die of his wound. against all odds, he and Ambrosia marry & raise their daughter as an actual Reyne. their happiness is cut short when Ambrosia dies before giving birth to her second child, apparently poisoned. it is later known that Lady Elly was the one behind this, ashamed that her brother had taken a maid as wife. Reyna grew up knowing she wasn't liked by her own aunt & uncle but still, she tried her hardest to be like Lady Ellyn, always trying to please her. that ended up being rather harmful to her as Lady Ellyn used the girl for her own schemes. Reyna's destiny is unknown in this one as i have yet to finish the books. this verse is seletive, but will eventually be open later on. \\ faceclaim : sasha pieterse \\

verse \ THE SILVER LIONESS ! LADY LONGCLAW!AU Reyna's husband doesn't die as in the Lady Longclaw verse & instead they live a long life together. in this verse, Reyna reaches old age with her kids beside her ( bc i need at least one happy plot okay ? ) . contrary to her younger self, Lady Longlcaw is a very smily person & seems harmless. this verse is seletive, but will eventually be open later on. \\ alt!faceclaim : probably vanessa redgrave, but that might change \\

CROSSOVER VERSES

verse \ A LITTLE WICKED ! harry potter / fbawtf verse ! Reyna Hill is a dedicated auror. half-blood & perhaps too ambitious for her own good, she found her happiness in her work as private detective after she lost her job as an Auror due to an indiscretion with her former boss. a variation of this verse is the hogwarts au in which she is a slytherin. the timeline might change according to the plots. \\ faceclaim : charlize theron ; young!fc : sasha pieterse \\

verse \ METAMORPHING ! mutant!verse - Reyna Hill was a normal girl till her 10th birthday. after that, everyone she touched she got a bit of their looks for a few hours. this was her powers starting to show. she started trying to control her powers on her own. it was hard, but now, at age of 40, is able to use it at her will, shapeshifting into anyone she touches ( incluiding their voices) - a pit she doesn't know how to handle these talents too well when she gets emotional and things get rather awkward from time to time. this verse was specially made for DC / Marvel / superhero characters. \\ faceclaim : varies, actually charlize theron ; young!fc : sasha pieterse \\

verse \ IN A GALAXY FAR AWAY ! star wars / alien / predator / general sci-fi verse ! Reyna Hill is a former pilot who, after having her son Gawen lost her job in the company she worked for. now she does all sorts of odd jobs in order to get money enough for her son, who lives with her mother in an human colony. a variations of this verse occur. the timeline might change according to the plots. \\ faceclaim : charlize theron ; alt!fc for the alien verse is Jessica Chastain \\

verse \ MODERN ! modern!verse - Reyna is a fashion blogger who is currently unemployed && yet she spends more money than she has, buying clothes of well known labels to fill the gap that her life has even since her mother died & her father kept her in a boarding school. her father is Roger Reyne, a rich banker who barely remembers he has a daughter - well, he does when the bills come to his door. modern!westeros applies in this verse. this verse is deeply insipired by hbo's sex and the city. \\ faceclaim : charlize theron ; young!fc : sasha pieterse \\

#mobile navigation.#verse \ MODERN !#verse \ IN A GALAXY FAR AWAY !#verse \ METAMORPHING !#verse \ A LITTLE WICKED !#verse \ THE SILVER LIONESS !#verse \ HEIRESS OF NOTHING !#verse \ LADY LONGCLAW !#verse \ MAIN VERSE !

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thelastofhyde · 2 years ago

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the likeability paradox.

pairing. joel miller x fem!reader

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

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

word count. 12.9k

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

read on ao3. series masterlist. next chapter.

Distaste is not new in the life of Joel Miller.

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

If anything, he’s made himself more empty.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Joel's unamused, too keen to think of what a nuisance that would be. As if incapable of feeling the buzzing energy of disinterest, the German Shepherd drops its head further up his lap, begging for a morsel of anything that sits atop the table.

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

Frank is quick to shush him.

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

There you sit, parallel to him.

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

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

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

“You, sit. No one should have to clean up the food they made.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

To envy a creature that licks its own shit off its ass is a new low for Joel.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

With you as its protector.

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

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

But I could keep you safe.

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

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

He never imagined her working in a bank.

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

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

But you weren’t smiling.

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

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

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

“-Could fix it, you know. I’m good with my hands.”

He almost chokes on his own breath.

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

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

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

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

“Your watch, it’s broken.”

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

You pull a face, brows furrowing and lips pouting. Confusion.

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

“I don’t keep it for the time.”

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

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

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

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

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

Nature falls silent.

Skies grow dull.

You juggle sadness.

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

Joel wonders what the mutt’s practicing for.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-N’t tell me you’re a virgin.

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

A protest rings true in his head and his ears.

Was gonna say. Knew you were young, but not that young.

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

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

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

Neither of you make any acknowledgement of him.

“Not much to miss?! Sweet Christ, you’re breaking my fuckin’ heart.” He’s learnt over time the common traits of a drunken Tess. Each word becoming an exclamation, curses becoming more frequent, and that irritating habit she’s picked up of imitating his own accent. There’s no need to bother opening his eyes, Joel’s already sure he’ll find his companion with flushed cheeks and glassy eyes. “I’d give up a hand for some head!”

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

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

“You’ve got to be shittin’ me.”

“It bores me!”

“It bores you!?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

He does so, regardless.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And you’re the one to blame.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The currents grow more violent whenever he closes his eyes.

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

You take up no space of this room.

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

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

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

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

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

I don’t like you, Joel.

Those words stop him from trying.

He tells himself it’s for the best.

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

The refrigerator.

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

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

She never lived long enough to get either.

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

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

Beneath the light, you shrug. “Could ask you the same thing, Texas.”

He curses Tess for teaching you such a nickname.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I don’t like you, Joel.

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

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

I don’t like you, Joel.

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

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

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

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

You may leave your marks emotionally, but Joel’s will always be physical.

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

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

He scoffs, “I don’t.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not one bit.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s his turn to respond with a hum.

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

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

Even upside down, your beauty is striking.

“No, unlike you I don’t care what you think about-” Joel tugs on your hair once more.

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

“You’re hurting me,” you whine, Joel growls.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He doesn’t specify.

He doesn’t need to.

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

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

You say nothing. Joel pulls harder.

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

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

“Who said anything about an offer?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

You breathe in, you breathe out.

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

Inhale, exhale.

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

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

Where he expects protest, he receives more breathing.

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

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

In and out, shaky breathing comes from above.

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

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

His fist curls tighter, pulls higher.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So he does the same.

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

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

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

“You’re the most infuriating man I’ve ever- Oh!”

A tongue meets skin.

The knife clatters onto the counter.

You lurch forward.

His hand pulls you back.

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

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

‘Could keep ya satisfied.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What a perfect excuse you are, for Joel to remaster the arts of lust.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Except, the oven door is made of glass.

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

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

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

“D’ya touch yourself, Sol?” You don’t answer him, but that’s okay. In a sweet change of pace, Joel Miller’s perfectly fine with talking enough for the both of you. “Yeah, bet ya do. Late at night, right? Once you’re all alone in bed. Ya seem like the kind who can make herself scream.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He hears you before he sees you.

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

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

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

So instead, it sends you.

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

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

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

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

“No worries!” You’re so kind, so good, smiling at him with a cheerful chirp in your voice. He can’t wrap his head around how you can bring yourself to treat him this way. “Oh, actually, that’s why I came out here, I was looking for Tess-” Of course you were, when would you ever be looking for him? “Hold on!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

So he tries again, louder.

“Why don’t ya like me?”

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

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

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

"Answer the damn question, girl.”

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

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

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

Joel says nothing.

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

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

“A dress.”

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

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

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

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

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

His feet remain glued to the ground.

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

“She ain’t my-”

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

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

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

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

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

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

I don’t like you, Joel.

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

Till then, he needs to find a dress.

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