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miss-oranje-disco-dancer · 3 months ago

Text

blue butterflies

pairing: jackson! joel miller x reader

cws/tags: 1st person pov joel, angst, discussions of sex trafficking/sexual assault, death, mild smut, au where nothing bad happens between ellie and joel, author has not played tlou 2 yet (donate to kofi lmao), guns, alcohol consumption, light enemies to lovers, cordyceps works different in this one (more predictable and slower-acting)

summary: joel's letter to reader

a/n: i watched the beginning of tlou (joel playing guitar) and it made me cry so hard. so, this is inspired by that, but also i listened to funeral by arcade fire and for emma, forever ago by bon iver while writing this. neighborhood #4 (7 kettles) by arcade fire makes me cry so hard.

wc: 5.7k

taglist: @gothcsz @harriedandharassed @withonly-sweetheart

thank you to @jennaispunk for beta reading/proofreading !

join my taglist | purchase a commission

divider is from @danowh0re

playlist for fic: required listening!!

I thought therapy was a bunch of bullshit - a scam at worst, a waste of my time at best. But, since you left us, Tommy’s been making me go. He keeps saying, ‘it’s what she would’ve wanted’, and I think it is. But, that doesn’t mean I like it.

My therapist told me if I’m not gonna talk to her about my past, I should at least talk to someone. I told her I’d talk to you, if you were here. She told me it was a good idea, that I should write it out in a letter. She told me I could write to you, or to Sarah, but I figured I’d better write to you ‘cause there’s some things a daughter shouldn’t hear about her dad. Even - especially - the most fun times he’s had. I’ll get to those later.

Did you know I hated you when we first met? I never told you, but I think you knew. I thought you were a self-important, entitled bitch who acted like she’d been through hell when I knew she hadn’t because of how well-adjusted she seemed. I thought you had some sort of unearned valor. I know that’s not the right way to put it. I think the word I’m looking for is ‘respect’. Tommy, Maria, even Ellie were so quick to respect you when I had to earn it.

“The reason people don’t like you is because you’re an asshole,” you told me. “You’re fucking scary when you’re mad, too.”

“What’s that saying? It’s better to be feared than to be loved?”

“That’s what Machiavelli said, but that doesn’t mean he’s right.”

I think he was wrong. I was jealous of how much everyone loved you, and they didn’t love me because they feared me. You were so fucking right, and that was one of the things that I hated most about you.

I used to think about how young you were in comparison to an old man like me, how you were only a little younger than Sarah would’ve been, and how stupid I would’ve felt if Sarah was always outsmarting me. Until I remembered all the times that Sarah did just that, and how much I loved her for it, rather than in spite of it. (Note to self: tell Sarah this in your letter to her).

That’s not to say I loved you, not yet. I did love you, but I realized that a little later. I had to learn to like you first.

Do you remember our first day out on patrol together? I begged Tommy to change my schedule. I would rather have spent my time with anyone else in the community -- Hell, I would’ve asked Tommy to give you a day off if it’d get me out of having to work alongside you.

You overheard me talking to Tommy, and said to me, “You could at least wait until I’m out of earshot to bitch about me, you know?”

“I know,” I said.

And we didn’t talk for almost the whole shift. Well, I didn’t talk, but you kept on talking, almost like you were talking to yourself. You didn’t even care that I was ignoring you.

“It’s okay. I don’t like people either.”

“Who says I don’t like people?”

“Your face, your voice, basically your whole demeanor.”

You were so honest, and you had every right to be. It shut me right back up again. I don’t know if that’s what you wanted. Maybe you thought provoking me would make me talk, but I’m a stubborn, old asshole. I don’t think you need me to tell you that.

“What did I do to piss you off?” You asked, after I gave you what you viewed as the silent treatment, and what I saw as peace and quiet.

“Nothing. I just think you’re a little bit... egotistical.”

“So are you. You think you know everything.”

“No, but I know more than you. You haven’t got half the experience I have, and believe me, kid, you don’t want it.”

“You’re so melodramatic. And for what? Has the brooding bad boy behavior gotten you laid yet?”

For your information, yes, it had absolutely gotten me laid.

But before I could tell you that, you stopped me, looked me dead in the eye, and said, “and by the way, you have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Tell me, then.”

“Tell you what?”

“About all the horrors you’ve experienced. If I’m so wrong, then prove it.” I challenged you because I thought you wouldn’t be able to come up with anything. I wouldn’t have said that if I’d known what I do now.

You were so angry that you laughed at me. “Fuck you. You don’t deserve to know shit about me.”

A couple weeks later we knew each other’s whole life stories. I told you more than I’ve ever told anyone else, more than I think I ever will tell anyone else. It started when we got lost in the woods together. We were arguing as usual, and we only got ourselves even more lost. The sun was starting to go down, and I could see it in your eyes - you were getting scared. Maybe, for a second, I took some sort of satisfaction in knowing that you were the one who couldn’t handle it, but I’m still human - it feels a little cruel saying that now - so I wasn’t gonna let you suffer.

“It’s not gonna do us any good to keep arguing, so can we agree to drop it?”

“Truce,” you said, holding out your hand, and when I shook it, you added, “but let it be known that you surrendered.”

“Don’t push it. You know if we stay out here long enough that we have to resort to eating each other’s flesh, you’re gonna be my dinner, not the other way around.”

“I hope I taste good.”

You did, baby. You’re the sweetest thing I’ve ever tasted.

I think we had our first date that night. Sort of. It was late when we got back. Most people were asleep, and the bar was closed, but you had the key.

“Tommy gave you a spare key?”

“Uh-huh. I assumed you had one too, but I guess I’m the favorite.”

“You’re prettier than me. Of course, you are.”

I still can’t believe I said that -- I wasn’t even drinking yet. I can be a real idiot when I’m talking to a beautiful woman.

“Don’t be so hard on yourself. You looked very pretty when you bothered to wash your hair last week.”

“I wash my hair, okay? Sorry I’m old and don’t wake up looking like a supermodel.”

“Who does?”

“I know you want me to say ‘you’, but I’m not taking the bait.”

“That’s okay. I know you’re thinking it, and that’s what matters.”

I was thinking much more than that, darling.

You walked behind the counter, and asked me, “what do you drink?”, and I think that was the moment I knew I liked you. You could’ve --should’ve -- told me to fuck off. You had other friends (not that we were quite ‘friends’), but you chose me that night. I was a real fixer-upper of a companion, but maybe you liked a challenge.

“Whiskey. Neat.”

You gave me that look -- that fuckin’ look -- that raised eyebrow and a tiny smirk. And it made me feel like a teenager caught staring at his crush.

“Please and thank you," I added.

You got up on the stool behind the bar, grabbed the bottle on the top shelf, and said, “you deserve it.”

“No, I don’t,” I said. “But I’ll take it.”

You sat beside me, and sipped your whiskey. (And you looked pretty hot doing it.) After a good minute of silence you said, “thank you for not killing me and eating me in the woods.”

“I’d get pretty goddamn bored if I didn’t have you yapping in my ear constantly.”

“I thought you hated it.”

“Only sometimes.”

“Then, why don’t you ever talk to me?”

“I’m talking to you right now.”

“Barely.”

So, I turned to you, put my elbow on the counter, laid my head in my hand, and gave you the same face you were giving me. I tried to pretend I was mocking you, but I think you knew I was trying to practice being more likable, being more like you.

“Tell me something,” you said.

“What do you want me to tell you?”

“Tell me about you.”

“My name is Joel Miller-”

“We’re not at AA.”

“You’re goddamn right we’re not. This would be the shittiest AA meeting ever.”

“Okay, okay. How about you tell me when your birthday is?”

“September 26th, 1981.”

“So, you’re a Libra.”

“Oh c’mon, tell me you’re not into that shit. I was finally starting to tolerate you.”

“I’m a Cancer.”

“Tell me something I don’t know.”

“Cancer like the crab, not like the disease!”

“Mm-hmm. I’m sure you’re familiar with crabs as well.”

I got a laugh and a smack on the arm in return, and the laugh was worth the smack.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. I know you can’t help being an asshole, so at least you’re making me laugh.”

I didn’t realize your hand was still on my arm until you asked me, “What’d you do before this? You’ve got nice arm muscles.”

“I worked in construction, I was a contractor.”

“Like a carpenter?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s what Jesus was. I bet he had good arm muscles.”

“I don’t think that’s his most notable feature, but sure, why not?”

Despite the fact that we were talking all things Jesus, you were feeling me up. And you weren’t subtle about it at all.

“Do you wanna play darts?” you asked, breaking the tension.

“Okay.”

You walked up to the dartboard all confident, and I expected an instant bullseye. You’d only had one drink and you were focusing so hard, practicing the swing of your arm like a golfer would. The first shot missed the board entirely.

And that’s when I learned you were awful at darts.

“You’re terrible at this.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“Then, why’d you ask me to play?”

“For fun. Plus, how else am I gonna get better?”

You weren’t even close to the bullseye. You weren’t even hitting the board at all half the time. Over the next couple of years, you got better, not a lot better -- I still won every game we ever played -- but you got closer. But, close only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades, as they say. It probably counts in terms of people too -- I like to think our closeness counted for something, even if it couldn't last forever.

“You’re lucky you’re pretty," I said.

“You’re lucky you’re good at darts," you fired back.

“Is that an insult? Because I’m holding a sharp object and I’ve got good aim.” And with that, I threw the final dart, hit the bullseye, and won. “What do I get?”

“For what?”

“Winning.”

“You get to keep your pride.”

I was happy with that, but you turned back to me, stepped closer and whispered, “and this,” before you kissed me.

I don’t know which one of us was more nervous. All I knew was that I liked you a lot more when you were quiet. All I heard from you was a little gasp when I lifted you onto the counter so I could keep kissing you without having to lean down and hurt my back ‘cause I’m an old man. I really thought my brooding bad boy look was gonna get me laid again that night, but you stopped me before I could get your top off.

“Uh-uh,” you said. “You’re gonna have to do more than beat me at darts if you want more than a kiss.”

“Fair enough. What’s your price?”

“I’m not a hooker.”

I didn’t understand why you looked so upset until that day by the water when you told me. I’m sorry I said that, I really am.

“Sorry. What I should’ve said is, ‘Can I take you to dinner on Friday?’”

You gave me a nonchalant ‘sure’, and I assumed you’d keep it hush-hush, but you bragged about getting asked out. Why would you brag about me? That's something I still don't understand.

The next day, I went and asked Tommy for advice because I hadn’t dated in a long time, and he’s more of the romantic type. I thought our dinner date would be news to him, but you’d already told him.

“Yeah, I know. She came in here asking for advice too actually.”

He’s got a bigger mouth than you do. That’s why you two got along so well -- you were like those little old ladies gossiping at the hair salon.

“What’d she say?”

“I’m sworn to secrecy.”

But Tommy always had a certain loyalty to you. He keeps your secrets to this day -- some of ‘em.

“Give me some advice, please.”

“You were married once. You won a woman’s heart. Just do what you did back then.”

“I think you’re forgetting the fact that my marriage ended in divorce.”

“Just be yourself.”

“That’s bullshit.”

“Yeah, it is. How about smiling for once?”

I tried, but I’d almost forgotten how to over the years.

Tommy feigned disgust and said, “I take it back. Keep your usual pissed-off look.”

You taught me how to smile again. I don’t know that you meant to do it, but you did. Tommy says he knows when I’m thinking about you because of the way I smile.

When I came over to pick you up for dinner, you opened the door wearing a bathrobe with your hair in curlers. I guess I was looking at you funny because you made sure to tell me, “Don’t worry, I’m not wearing this out. Go sit in the living room.”

“I’m not worried. You look beautiful already.”

“I do not. I look like my grandmother.”

“I imagine she must’ve been a hot commodity then.”

“She was actually -- or at least, that’s the story she used to tell us. She was Prom Queen and all that jazz.”

You could talk for hours, about anything. I could say one word and you could give me a tangentially related 20 minute long monologue. You were a good storyteller. I don’t think I ever told you this, but I used to think about how you’d be great at making up stories for our kids one day -- if we ever had them. I know I told you I didn’t want to have any, but that’s one of the few lies I told you. I was too scared to imagine that kind of a future with you.

I had you in the present, and that’s what I cared about. I don’t remember what you wore that night because I spent most of our date looking at your face, trying to memorize every dimple, freckle or scar I could see. All the details.

I’m sure your dress fit perfectly, but what I cared about was how your hand felt when I took it in mine as we walked to the restaurant -- it felt right, more so with our fingers intertwined on the way home.

It was one of the longest dinner dates in my not-so-long history of dating as it took you quite a while to finish your meal because you don’t talk with your mouth full (usually). I think our waitress was mad that we were there for so long. They were cleaning up by the time you were done eating.

I don’t remember all the things you said. Even if I did, I don’t have enough paper to write it all down. But I do remember when you asked me, “Can I tell you a secret?”

“Sure.”

“This is my first date.”

I would’ve been less surprised if you’d told me you’d killed someone.

“Mine too,” I said.

“Liar! Tommy said you were married... before all of this.”

“Does Tommy tell you everything about me?”

“No. He wouldn’t tell me when your birthday was. That’s why I asked you.”

“That’s ‘cause he forgot it.”

Really, I wanted to know if he told you about Sarah, or if I’d have to do it myself. Both. As it turned out, he told you before we ever really met. I told you by the river, but that came later.

When I walked you home, we lingered by your door, and when I leaned in to kiss you goodnight, you turned your head, and I should’ve realized how special you were to me ‘cause I felt my heart sink. But, you asked me to come inside. You were always shy about kissing in public, but not on your living room couch.

When we were inside, you let me take off your dress, but only after I agreed to take off my shirt.

“Jesus,” you said when you watched me undress.

“We talked enough about Jesus last time. It’s about you and me now, baby.”

I learned to be a gentleman growing up in Texas, that wining and dining a lady includes putting her first in the bedroom too. But you called the shots -- that night and all of the others we had together. You got down on your knees and gave me the most irresistible face. It was embarrassing how quickly I came. It’s still embarrassing, and you’re not even here to tease me about it anymore. I thought I’d get the chance to prove myself to you that night, but you stopped me. I remembered what you said, ‘this is my first date’, and I assumed you were a virgin.

It was about a week later when I was trying to teach you how to skip rocks in the river that I asked you if you were one.

“It’s not a big deal if you are -- not to me, I mean. I just figured maybe because you said that was your first date.”

“It’s kind of a long story, so take a seat if you want the answer.”

I don’t know what I expected you to say, but I already felt like I’d fucked up by asking. I didn’t want to make this mess I’d gotten myself into worse than it already was, so I sat next to you and waited for you to speak.

“It’s not actually a long story, I guess. Just a sad one.”

It was the first sad story you told me, and you told me more stories than I’d ever been told by anyone else at this point. It was impressive how many happy ones you held onto, especially after everything that you told me that day.

You didn’t look at me while you spoke. You mumbled and picked at the grass beneath you. Like a child.

“I’m not a virgin, but I wasn’t lying when I said that was my first date. There’s just some stuff that you don’t know about me... ‘cause I didn’t want you to know these things about me. But it’s not like I was ever gonna get away with not telling you. It’s better that it happens now anyway.”

You started to cry, so I put my hand on your shoulder, but you shrugged it off. I was so used to the one doing the pushing away that being pushed away was jarring.

“Before I came to Jackson, I used to do things for money. Those sorts of things. It’s not like I wanted to, ‘cause I’m not like that, you know.”

You explained how you’d lost both your parents by the time you were 16 and didn’t have any siblings, so you ended up with whatever friends you could find. Some of the few good people that were left.

“There was a group of men who killed my friends just to loot their pockets, but they realized that it’d be more profitable to keep me alive.”

“So they forced you to...”

“Have sex for supplies, yeah. One of them was my first time, I guess. They did that stuff for a while, but once I’d been with a decent amount of men, they decided I was too ‘used up’ or something to be worth having sex with. I can’t decide if that made me feel better or worse. On the one hand, I didn’t have to have sex with them anymore, but I was also too gross to be wanted.”

“’Used up’ is bullshit. Back when the world was a little more civilized, those bastards could’ve gone to jail.”

“They’re dead.”

“Did you kill ‘em?”

“No, but I thought about it all the time. I remember thinking about strangling a man once. He was alone, so no one would’ve seen me do it, and the guys could’ve taken all of his shit too. They probably would’ve been happy if I had. I think that’s why I didn’t.”

“If you didn’t kill them, then how did they die?”

It probably wasn’t appropriate for me to pry, but the sadistic part of me needed to know that they got what was coming for them. I needed to know there was some justice left in this world.

“They wanted food from some guy who’d gone hunting and they tried to sell me to him, but he said ‘no’. He looked so offended that I thought I was pissed off ‘cause they’d given him a bad deal... but he shot the one standing in front of him. Then, he yelled at me to turn around and I was sure I was gonna die, but I heard him walk into the other room, another shot, and when the third walked in from outside, another shot. He walked over to me, and I started crying and begging him not to kill me. He told me he wasn’t going to, but he made me close my eyes while he led me out of the house.”

“’Cause he didn’t want you to see the bodies.”

“Yeah... and I still thought he was going to kill me, even when he took me with him on his horse, and said he was taking me back to some place called ‘Jackson’.”

I don’t know if I would say you got a happy ending, at least, not the one you deserved, but I saw a hint of a smile when you mentioned Jackson. And you didn’t have to tell me who the man was -- I know him well.

“Tommy,” I said, confident in my guess.

“Yeah.”

After I dropped you off at home, I went by his place and thanked him. And then I went home and cried. For the first time in a decade.

“You know it doesn’t change how I feel about you, right?”

“How do you feel about me?”

“I like you… most of the time.”

What I meant was, I love you. I just didn’t know it yet.

“I guess I owe you a story too, then.”

“You don’t owe me anything... but you can tell me whatever you want.”

I think part of me wanted to tell you, or at least, part of me wanted you to know. “I had a daughter.”

“I know.”

I should’ve known, considering how close you and Tommy were.

“Tommy told you, didn’t he?”

“To be fair to him, he told me he had a niece.”

“Yeah, he did. She’d be a little older than you. It’s crazy to think that she’d be in her 30s when the last time I saw her she was 13.”

“I know saying ‘I’m sorry’ doesn’t really do anything, but I’m still sorry”

“In a way, I’m glad she doesn’t have to see all these things. All the infected. She died before we ever had to go to a QZ.”

When you told me about the first QZ you lived in as a kid, it confirmed that for me. It pained me to hear about you watching your dad get bitten and leaving him behind, saying goodbye without knowing he was dying -- in one way or another.

You told me later about how the only person you’d ever killed was your own mother, how she used to sell herself like you did, how you missed the first shot and you saw how scared she was to die. I think you had it worse than I did.

“I think she was mostly scared because she knew I couldn’t do shit with a gun, and that I’d end up surviving the way that she did... and she was right.”

“Neither of you deserved it, and I bet she’d be proud of you now.”

“Why?”

“’Cause I’m proud of you.”

You cried, but you finally let me hold you. You cried so long that I thought you’d never stop.

Do you remember your last day? I told you I wanted to be with you until the end, but you reminded me about your mother. You told me that even if a shot to the head had to be the way you went out, I wasn’t going to be there to give it to you. We had two choices: either wait until that day came or let you go before then. I said I wanted to go with you. I wanted to ask Tommy to give me the same cocktail he was gonna cook up for you. You said no. It was your last wish that I stayed.

“I don’t wanna live without you.”

“I don’t wanna die, but I don’t get to choose. If I could live longer, I would. But just because I’m dying doesn’t mean you get to leave everyone else behind.”

Yeah, you brought Ellie into it. I wanted to tell you not to bring her up. I’m glad you did because as much as it hurt to think about her watching me die the way that I watched you die, it made me stay. I’m glad I stayed. Things are okay, but our last day is still my favorite day.

We got up early and watched the sunrise, and I told you I loved you for the first time.

“I know,” you said with a smile on your face.

“How?”

You just lifted your coffee cup. When you moved in -- something I didn’t realize was happening ‘till it had already happened -- I started making coffee every morning before you woke up, and I started buying that French Vanilla bullshit creamer. I hated it. It was so sweet it made me nauseous. I could’ve gone and bought my own, but I’m still stubborn, I’m still a cheapskate, I’m still me -- even without you (which is something I thought I’d never be able to say). But that wasn’t why I started taking my coffee the same way you took yours.

It was one day when you’d already left for work but my shift didn’t start until later. I hadn’t slept at all the night before -- and not for any good reason, not for more time with you -- so I was tired when I woke up. I made myself some coffee, but I wasn’t even thinking straight, so I hadn’t noticed that I had put that creamer in my mug until I tasted it. But I wasn’t disgusted. I thought maybe you’d left yours behind and I’d absent-mindedly picked the wrong one up off the counter -- I very well could’ve gotten caught up in putting the toaster on the right settings (that’s something we could never agree on) -- but when I looked down, it was my mug. Yours was dirty in the sink. You were gone for the day. I was stupid to think otherwise. I was fantasizing. That was new.

So, just as I am right now, I take my morning coffee like you took yours. It tastes like you, like you kissing me.

I waited anxiously for you to say you loved me too.

“Are you not gonna say it back? Do you not-- do you feel the same?”

“What do you think?”

“I hope so.”

You gestured for me to come closer so you could whisper in my ear and I thought maybe you’d give me a wet willy. But you said, “Joel Miller, I have loved you for a long time.”

I didn’t say anything. I don’t think I’ve ever been very good with words -- talking was your thing. I grabbed your hand and squeezed. We went out onto the porch and sat in silence. I wonder what you were thinking about.

“Will you sing me something?”

You know I don’t take requests, and you know I don’t like an audience, no matter how small that audience is.

No one would refuse the wish of a dying woman, but I couldn’t refuse you even if I knew you’d be there tomorrow and every day after. I only protest because you look cute when you beg. Not in that way -- you look hot when you beg like that.

“What song do you want?”

“Surprise me.”

I sang Peaceful Easy Feeling because, as much as a part of me felt a sense of urgency, knowing our time was running out, most of me was just thinking about you, and I love you. Simple as that.

You gave me a standing ovation just to see me blush.

We all planned something special for your last dinner. I know you like simple things, so I tried to make it as simple as I could while still making it special for you. Maybe it was selfish to make it a night to remember when I’m the one who gets to remember it.

Tommy and Maria were chef and sous-chef (you can guess who was who in that scenario), and Ellie was the waitress.

“What are your specials tonight?” you asked.

“We have either the steak and baked potato or the steak without the baked potato.”

“In that case, I’d like it with the baked potato.”

We probably lit a hundred candles to fill the room with enough light to see each other -- we had time while you were getting ready, since you’re a bit of a slowpoke. We picked flowers from the garden and put them in an empty wine bottle because we couldn’t find a vase, and conjured up a decent tablecloth. We had ice cream sundaes for dessert -- or at least, you did. You know what I had for dessert.

“How about you, sir, would you like anything for dessert?” Ellie asked.

“No, I think I’ll be having dessert when we get home.” I tried to subtly wink at you.

“Ew! That’s disgusting. I don’t wanna hear about your sex life.”

“You’re the one assuming I was talking about sex. How do you know I don’t have a tub of ice cream waiting for me in the freezer at home?”

There was ice cream in the freezer, but the sweetest thing I’d ever tasted was between your legs. The moment we got home I picked you up bridal style and carried you up to our bedroom.

“Baby, I know how long you spent getting ready, and I’m sorry to do this to you, but this needs to come off,” I said before I yanked down the zipper of your dress. You laughed as I ripped off your clothes.

You gently undid my tie and when I watched you fumble with the buttons on my shirt, I said, “Just rip it, baby.”

“I don’t wanna ruin your clothes.”

“I don’t want you to worry about me or my clothes tonight. I want you to have me however you want me.”

“You’ll do whatever I want?”

“Within reason.”

“How do you feel about roleplay?”

“I suppose it depends -- what are the roles?”

“Husband and wife.”

“As long as I can be the husband.”

And then you kissed me -- with your typical tenderness but a new level of dedication. Slow and passionate, showing me what our lives could’ve been like.

“I’m an impatient husband, and I want my beautiful wife to lie down because I think I’m gonna lose my mind if I don’t get to taste her.”

My mouth is useless when it comes to talking, but we both know I have other uses for it. I tried to go slowly, but I couldn't help myself. I swear your pussy was so perfect it made me reconsider my views on God. Though, I don’t think I am a man deserving of an angel. I think I just got lucky.

That night I couldn’t care less about how loud you were. “Joel- fuck- you’re gonna have to slow down, or, or, put your hand over my mouth ‘cause - oh!”

“’Cause you don’t want anyone to hear? What’s the problem with them hearing, darlin’? Married couples make love all the time, it’s what we’re supposed to do.”

Without a condom, too. We weren’t worried about you getting pregnant, so we went out with the best bang of ‘em all. I think the last time I’d done it like that was when Sarah was conceived, and based on how easy that was, I was always cautious.

Husband and wife roleplay wasn’t very different from the sex we typically had. I guess we were really only a piece of paper and wedding bands away from being those ‘characters’.

Earlier that day, I was worried I wouldn’t sleep that night. I didn’t want to sleep. I wanted to savor every moment with you but when you curled up in my arms I fell asleep before I could even consider staying awake.

Waking up next to you was my last clear image, even our goodbye kiss was a little blurry ‘cause I was already a little teary-eyed.

But before that, over breakfast, you mentioned something that I’ve thought about every day since.

“You know how sometimes people see a bird or something and they’re like ‘oh, that’s my dead relative’?”

“Yeah.”

“I’ll come back as a butterfly. One of the blue ones. You don’t see those too often. I don’t want to be something too common, like a bird, then you’ll probably mistake someone else for me.”

I don’t think I had seen a blue butterfly in Jackson until after you’d left us, but there’s one outside my window right now.

In case it’s you, I’ll read this all aloud.

Forever yours,

Joel

#joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller x y/n #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller smut #joel miller fic #joel miller #tlou fanfiction #joel miller angst

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venus-haze · 1 year ago

Text

Sinnerman (Father Paul Hill x Reader)

Summary: You can’t even see your old life from Crockett Island, but nevertheless it weighs on your conscience like an anchor on the ocean floor. Father Paul Hill tries to pull the anchor up, only to sink your whole damn ship.

Note: Female reader, but no other descriptors are used. Reader is a lapsed Catholic for plot reasons. I also played with the show’s timeline a little bit for this fic. Anyway, 10 years of Catholic school later and this is the result. Inspired by the Nina Simone song. Do not interact if you’re under 18 or post thinspo/ED content.

Word count: 7k

Warnings: Brief mentions of blood and violence. Reader’s morals are all over the place. Obviously a lot of Catholic themes (especially guilt) and imagery. Sexually explicit content between a member of the clergy and a lay person. Do not interact if you’re under 18.

Unlike pretty much everywhere else in the country, houses on Crockett Island garnered very little interest. There were no frustrating bidding wars or last minute phone calls made to real estate agents. The available houses barely registered on the listings you scrolled through, some having been on the market for years. When you called about a two bedroom you’d never even stepped foot in, offering to pay upfront in cash, the agent on the other end of the line almost hung up on you, assuming it was a scam. No scam. You just wanted to disappear.

To the world, you were gone, a vapor who abruptly quit her incredibly well-paying job with a generous severance package. Painting was a hobby that got increasingly pushed to the backburner as you focused more on your career until you couldn’t remember the last time you touched a paintbrush. Of course, that wasn’t why you quit your job, but it sounded a lot nicer than the reason that ate you alive. You hoped that if you disappeared, the guilt that made its home in your gut would go away too. On Crockett Island, however, you were far from invisible.

Despite the unforgiving ocean wind that raged the day you arrived, you were met with nothing short of a welcome party. The mayor, his wife, the sheriff, and the elderly monsignor of the singular church on the island accompanied by a woman who constantly hovered. Nice enough people who greeted you with a mixture of delight and disbelief that you were moving onto the island instead of off. You shot yourself in the foot the second you mentioned you had been raised Catholic, as everyone but the sheriff extended offers to join them at mass that you awkwardly declined.

Sheriff Hassan gave you a sympathetic look when he left your new home, the last of the informal welcoming committee to do so. Get used to it, his eyes said. You almost asked him to stay for coffee if you could dig your pot out of whichever cardboard box you packed it in. You decided against it. On an island so small, coffee could turn into something else quickly enough.

It took a week or so to get into a comfortable routine. Wake up early, make coffee, take your time eating breakfast, then head out to some new part of the island with your art supplies in tow, only to be held up for fifteen to twenty minutes by someone inevitably stopping you to talk. Usually small talk, but you could tell a lot of people were just happy to have someone new to tell old stories to instead of regurgitating them to the same handful of people all the time.

Some days, when the fog made it almost impossible to see your outstretched hand in front of you, you’d find yourself drawn to St. Patrick’s, painting or sketching the church. The fog would inevitably roll away, and in the distance you’d see the monsignor, sometimes with Beverly and other times by himself. He’d always wave at you, though his face betrayed his confusion as to who you were. Poor guy. You thought the parishioners were crazy to send him over to Jerusalem.

The day after he left for his trip was another foggy one. You made your usual trek out to the church to draw. It was a nice, informal ritual. Spiritual enough for your tastes without the risk of bursting into flames if you stepped foot in the place. With the monsignor gone, mass wasn’t being held, and the area was quieter than usual. Not completely, though.

“You know, you’re always loitering outside of the church, but I never see you in it,” Beverly said while you were sketching the weathered wood building.

You kept your focus on the page you were working on, not sparing her a glance. “Not my thing.”

“At one point it was, though. You said it yourself on the day you moved in that you were raised in the faith.”

“Not my choice.”

Her lips pressed in a thin line, her voice strained, “Well, you’re always welcome at St. Patrick’s. I’m sure when the monsignor returns, he’d be overjoyed to see you in the pews. We all would.”

“Thanks for the offer.”

“Yes, well, have fun doodling.”

Your jaw clenched. Doodling. You shot her a glare over your shoulder when she walked away.

Luckily, you weren’t the focus of the islanders’ attention for much longer, because the Flynns’ son had returned home from prison on the mainland. A quiet guy who kept to himself despite Annie excitedly introducing you to Riley. You were polite, but didn’t pry. It seemed like he wanted to keep to himself too. Then, the following day, the parish was in a tizzy over the unexpected arrival of a new pastor, a temporary replacement for the aging monsignor. You didn’t know the old guy very long, but he wasn’t quite with it. Doubtful the replacement would be temporary. Maybe he said that to soften the blow of not being able to give their monsignor a formal goodbye.

You had mixed feelings about the new guy. The evening following his first mass on the island, Father Paul had sneaked up on you while you were trying to paint an old fishing bungalow. He startled you so bad that you jumped, arm jerking and leaving a green streak on the paper in its wake. He was nice enough, apologizing profusely for scaring you. Still, you felt the pit in your stomach that’d become somewhat more manageable recently threaten to engulf your psyche again when he said that Beverly mentioned you were a lapsed Catholic, because of course she would, and expressed disappointment at not seeing you at mass.

“You’ll be at the potluck at least?” he asked. “Sounds like a lot of fun.”

You laughed. “Yeah, the Crock Pot thing. I’ll be there.”

“Fantastic, maybe we can talk more then. I’ve bothered you enough, nearly ruined your painting.”

“Happy accident. I can make a tree,” you said.

“That’s a nice way to look at it, but really, I’ll be going now.” He smiled. “It was nice meeting you.”

“You too.”

You caught his profile as he walked away, handsome in the golden hour. Setting your painting supplies aside, you grabbed your sketchbook and a pencil and began drawing. Maybe the guilt you felt was for finding a priest attractive and not the resurgence of your past sins. The word weighed heavy on your conscience. You could sleep better at night convincing yourself you’d made some mistakes. You could learn and grow from mistakes. Sins held magnitude beyond what you could manage on your own.

The day of the potluck, you slept in, only rolling out of bed an hour before it was supposed to start. When you walked over to the gathering, you felt that pit in your stomach causing you trouble again. The islanders’ devotion left a sour taste in your mouth, and seeing the physical embodiment of it in the form of ashen crosses on their foreheads didn’t help.

You made small talk and wandered around with your plate of food, taking a seat on one of the benches. One huge perk of living on the island was the fresh seafood and dozens of people who knew how to cook it all perfectly. Everything on your plate would’ve cost at least sixty dollars in a nice restaurant on the mainland. You got it all for your five dollar donation.

While tearing apart a piece of bread on your plate, you could hear hushed voices arguing to your left. They were either speaking louder or getting closer to you, but either way, you recognized Beverly and Father Paul’s voices.

“Her? Father, she doesn’t attend mass. The church should not be—“

“I’ve made up my mind, Bev,” Father Paul whispered loudly before waving you over. “Y/N, I have something I’d like to run by you.”

You gave him a hesitant nod as you got up from your seat, leaving your plate to walk closer to where he and Beverly were standing.

“I’d like to commission you to paint a mural on the west-facing wall, where the sun sets. I already discussed the idea with Monsignor Pruitt, and he raved about your talents.”

“Are you sure? I don’t wanna end up being the next monkey Jesus lady.”

He gave you an amused smile. “I’ve seen your work. You’re more than capable of what I have in mind.”

“As long as it’s not that godless abstract nonsense,” Beverly interjected.

“Tell that to Alfred Manessier,” you said.

“I don’t know who that is.”

You scoffed. “He was one of the most celebrated modernist painters of the past century. He created some of his best works using St. John of the Cross’ Spiritual Canticles as inspiration.”

“See?” Father Paul interjected. “I can’t think of anyone better for the job. I made a mock-up, a crude sketch, really. I can show you when you have time to go over some of the details I have in mind.”

“Sounds good.”

“You haven’t given your price.”

“Why don’t we work that out afterward?” you said, not sure if you were even going to go through with this. “I am going to need supplies, though. Different paint and materials depending on the type of mural you had in mind.”

“Yes, of course, whatever you need, we’ll have Sturge bring it from the mainland.”

Not long after that, the festival ended on a heartbreaking note as Joe Collie’s dog died, was poisoned more like it, but there was no proof. You didn’t get much sleep that night. It didn’t matter. Early the next working, you were pulled from your half-slumber by a rapid knocking at the door.

Without thinking, you shuffled over, opening it to find Beverly standing on your front porch, less than impressed with your wrinkled pajamas and dazed expression at the sunlight in your face.

“Yeah?”

“Father Paul has time this afternoon to speak with you about the mural.”

“Okay.”

“Will you be there?”

“I guess, what time is it anyway?”

“Seven-thirty, I wanted to come by before the school day began. If you’re not serious about this, don’t waste his time.”

“Alright, I’ll be there around two.”

You didn’t wait for her to respond, shutting the door in her face and heading back to bed. If you woke up in time to make it to the church, you supposed you’d do it. When you lifted your head from the pillow later on and checked the time on your phone, it was a quarter after one. Damn. You were actually doing this.

The otherwise unassuming church seemed to loom over you as you approached. You sighed. It was just a building. Still, you hesitated outside of St. Patrick’s for a minute or so before building up the courage to walk inside. No hellfire or spontaneous combustion upon your arrival. Though, there should have been, with the way Father Paul was sitting on the steps leading up to the altar, legs splayed out in his jeans. Your mouth almost went dry. Suddenly his eyes were on yours. You panicked, dipping your hand in the font and making a sign of the cross with the holy water. That had to absolve you of thinking a priest looked hot for a split second.

He practically jumped up from where he was sitting, closing the distance between you with an excited smile and a folded up piece of paper that he handed to you.

He spoke animatedly and used sweeping motions in reference to the wall and what he wanted it to look like. “Call it divine inspiration, but I had a vision of an angel. It’s burned into my mind. It needs to be up here for the parish to see.”

You looked at his sketch, tilting your head as you took in the monstrous creature that resembled Nosferatu rather than an angel. Still, it wasn’t like artists regularly were commissioned to paint elaborate church murals anymore. You supposed the prestige of being able to say you did such outweighed the odd nature of his vision.

“I was thinking just on the wood wall here. That shouldn’t be too difficult, should it?”

“No, but I think for the best result, I’ll have to strip the existing paint off the wall and then prime it to paint over. That may take up to a week, depending on how much of the wall you want the mural to take up.”

Father Paul chuckled humorlessly. “Bev’s going to have a heart attack when she hears that. Why don’t you write a list of what you need, and I’ll give it to Sturge.”

You would have been surprised at how quickly he agreed if he weren’t so enthusiastic about his vision coming to life. He kept talking, rambling was more like it, about the angel and his vision. There was an air of conspiracy to his voice, almost as if he was telling you something that was meant to be kept between the two of you. His rambling was interrupted by Beverly’s appearance. You took the opportunity to slip out, claiming you promised your mom you’d call her to catch up before dinner.

By the end of the week, you had all of the supplies you needed, and Father Paul gave you free reign of the church when mass wasn’t going on. You hadn’t expected him to be such a big help in the preparations, figuring you’d be scraping the stripped paint off the wall yourself. It made the process go by faster, even though Beverly looked constipated every time she saw the bare wood wall in contrast to the rest of the church. Father Paul had to remind her it was temporary.

The hours spent with him felt almost natural, like you were talking to an old friend. At least, he was nice enough to let you ramble about art and the mural techniques you read about on your phone the past few days. Though, you didn’t miss his offhand comment about how so many great artists were Catholic. You wanted to clarify that you weren’t Catholic, not anymore. Besides, there were great artists of all faiths. The Catholic Church just had the money to bankroll some of the more prominent ones. Deciding it best not to stir up any unnecessary tension before you even started on the project, you let the comments roll off your back, not bothering to acknowledge them. Things were going great, otherwise. At least, they were until it was time for you to actually start painting.

That pit in your stomach started acting up again as soon as Father Paul told you that he went ahead and primed the wall already, so you could start painting the mural.

“I’ll leave you to it. I’m sure you’ll work better if I’m not breathing down your neck. Let me know if you need anything,” he said.

You smiled, giving him a silent nod as he left. Hesitation overtook you, soon followed by dread as you looked at the wall in front of you. There was no way to back out, at least not without drawing the ire of the growing number of devout islanders. You hadn’t witnessed Leeza Scarborough’s miracle, and as much as the skeptics tried to talk circles around it, you couldn’t think of any other explanation for what had happened. It scared you, how real the faith you were raised in felt here.

As soon as your brush touched the primed wall, you nearly passed out. It was a holy place, meant to reflect the power and glory of god. You didn’t feel worthy to alter it in such a significant way, as if you were Michaelangelo or DaVinci and not some corporate flunkie who only got such a big severance package because—no, you couldn’t think about it in this church of all places, not one where god seemed suffocatingly present. The brush then fell from your hand with a clatter that seemed to echo through the church, through your ears.

Father Paul spoke your name softly, tentatively, like you were a wounded animal. “Why are you crying?”

You weren’t sure how long you were in your fugue state of despair for him to find you like that. “I don’t think I’m the right person to do this. I’m sorry.”

“No, it’s you. It has to be you.”

Shaking your head frantically as he approached you, you threw your hands over your mouth to muffle your sobs. He outstretched his arms, not forcing you to accept his comfort, but you felt inexplicably pulled to him, to the absolution he offered if you’d just accept it.

“Do you know what St. Teresa of Avila said about prayer?”

“What’s that?”

“She said that prayer is allowing yourself to be loved,” he said. “Pray with me.”

He took your hands in his, bowing his head and closing his eyes. You did the same, though you were unable to focus on his words, not when your mind was racing so much. Too loud, too overwhelming, you couldn’t take it.

In the middle of his prayer, you blurted out, “At my old job, my boss did a lot of illegal stuff, and I helped her cover it up because I knew if I did that I’d be set for life. Except it’s been eating me alive ever since. She offered me this huge severance package if I’d sign an NDA when I quit. I can’t–I feel like it’s gonna drown me one day.”

“What did you—surely it can’t be that bad.”

The cry you let out was akin to a howl. “Father Paul, I can’t—I’m a horrible person—“

“How long has it been since your last confession?”

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s been—“ you paused. “I’ve never truly confessed in my life.”

He nodded, understanding and encouragement in his gaze rather than the judgment you expected.

“My boss was one of those cutthroat types. I admired her for it for the longest time, even when she got indicted. I used to work late nights, so I told her if she gave me a raise and a promotion, I’d testify that she was in the office with me on the days the prosecution had her doing some of the stuff she got charged with,” you said. “I thought it wouldn’t bother me. I’d been screwing people over to claw my way up the corporate ladder for years and learned how to shake it off, but this shit—it might as well be in my veins. Some people lost everything because of me, because I lied.”

You were hyperventilating, and all you could focus on was how tightly Father Paul was gripping your shoulders.

“The worst part is, I thought it’d make up for the emptiness. I spent so much time working that I pushed people away, and I wanted something to show for it. I’d give anything to feel that emptiness again,” you choked out. “I am sorry for these and all my sins.”

“It’s okay,” he whispered.

“No, it’s not.”

“It is. I promise it is. The bible shows us time and time again that god can use our past sins to glorify him, to show the power of forgiveness in the blood of Christ. You feel guilt, regret, and sorrow. That’s good. Your penance,” he said, pointing to the blank wall. “God brought you here knowing you needed absolution, while this church is on the verge of a renaissance. I don’t think something like this happened by chance.”

“Okay,” you breathed. “I—I’ll do it.”

You fumbled your way through the Act of Contrition, Father Paul guiding you through the short prayer you’d embarrassingly forgotten most of the words to. In his name, my god, have mercy.

“God, the Father of mercies, through the death and the resurrection of his son has reconciled the world to himself and sent the Holy Spirit among us for the forgiveness of sins; through the ministry of the church may god give you pardon and peace, and I absolve you from your sins in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit,” he said, making a sign of the cross over you.

You nodded, making a sign of the cross. “Amen.”

You nearly jumped out of your skin when he brushed his thumbs along your cheeks, wiping away the tear tracks that’d begun to dry. He smiled kindly, warmly, and you felt warm too. Taking a deep breath, you brought the paintbrush to the wall, making the first stroke of what would become Angulus autem Crockett Insulus, the Angel of Crockett Island.

Work on the mural went smoothly after the roadbump the first day, and you felt better than you had in months. The guilt that’d tethered itself to you for so long had vanished. You’d never received so many compliments on your art in your life. Suddenly dozens of people were admiring your work, regarding it with awe as if it were in a cathedral rather than a small fishing town’s wooden church. Erin even had you come to the school and teach an art class for the students. It helped that Father Paul took every opportunity to talk up your skills whenever someone would mention the mural.

While the lighting in the church was undoubtedly better during the day, you’d work at night sometimes, just to get an idea of how it’d look when no one was around to see it. The shadows that fell over Father Paul’s angel made it appear almost sinister. You wondered if it was something you could fix in the morning, soften it a bit to not be as harsh and imposing.

You almost laughed when you saw Father Paul standing in the door of the sacristy, knocking on the door frame as if it weren’t his church the two of you were standing in.

“I know it’s late, but do you want coffee? I’m about to brew a pot,” he said.

You smiled. “That’d be great. Thanks.”

“Door will be open, just let yourself in when you’re finished here.”

“Oh, in the rectory?”

“Yes, but if that makes you uncomfortable–”

“No, of course not. I’ll be there in a few.”

He made his leave, and you grabbed a paintbrush, noticing an odd, shadowy spot on the angel that wasn’t due to the lighting. You winced a bit. Your hand had started cramping recently. Of course carpal tunnel would catch up with you, working almost non-stop on an elaborate mural would do that.

The last thing you wanted to do was take a break on the progress you’d made. Father Paul’s enthusiasm was infectious, and you didn’t want to lose the inspiration you were running on to bring his vision to life.

Taking a step back, you frowned. The shadow over the angel almost looked worse. You set your brush down, figuring you’d have a better idea of what to do with a fresh set of eyes in the morning.

You kept your supplies on a plastic tarp to avoid getting paint elsewhere, and so it could be easily moved out of the way for mass. From what you’d heard, there was a full house every Sunday, and daily mass actually had decent attendance. You could remember seeing only Beverly, Annie, and Leeza making their way into the old church for the early morning services during the week.

The lights were off in the sacristy, and you took a few tentative steps toward it. You knew there was a door through there that led out back toward the rectory, but something in you hesitated at entering that part of the church. Instead, you walked out the main doors and around the building.

There was an eeriness to the lone house not too far off in the distance. You’d learned from your time on the island that lighthouses were meant to warn incoming ships that they were nearing cliffs or rough waters, not so much welcoming them in as advising them to stay at arms’ length, be aware and alert. The light that shone from the rectory gave you a similar impression.

You walked up to the small house, finding the door open for you. A staticy oldies station played in the living room, Father Paul leaning against the kitchen counter as he waited for the coffee to finish brewing.

“All of this stuff is so old. Radio barely picks up any reception,” he said bashfully.

“It has its charm. This whole island does. I feel like I’m really starting to be part of things.”

“You are!” he exclaimed. “Our resident artist. Everyone’s wondering when they’ll see you at mass.”

“Maybe next Sunday,” you said unconvincingly.

“I think you’ll be impressed at how different it is from what you remember growing up with. Things are changing—for the better,” he said. “How do you take your coffee?”

He grabbed a mug from the cabinet, older and chipped with a faded ‘Crock Pot 2003’ printed on it. He poured the coffee, preparing it to your liking and handing you the mug. You followed him over to the kitchen table, taking the chair next to him rather than on the other side of it.

The radio became the slightest bit clearer a few notes into Dusty Springfield’s version of Son of a Preacher Man. It was one of those songs you grew up hearing, but never truly understood the lyrics until you got older and really listened.

“You know, growing up, I didn’t know Protestant pastors could get married. I thought they were like priests where that wasn’t allowed,” you said. “Do you think it makes that much of a difference? Not being married, or even romantically involved?”

He paused, furrowing his eyebrows before giving you the non-convincing answer of, “It allows me to devote myself to God and focus on my congregation.”

“Yeah, but the Catholic Church is so pro-family, saying all that crap about not using contraception. Why not lead by example? Isn’t it natural to do that?” you asked, stopping yourself before you could go on talking about pregnancy with a priest. “I overstepped, sorry.”

“No, they’re good questions. I’ve thought about them myself.”

“Have you ever wanted to have your Sound of Music moment? Y’know, how Julie Andrews just says ‘Fuck it’ and gives in to her feelings for Christopher Plummer?”

He huffed out a laugh. “Maybe not Christopher Plummer specifically, but in more or less words, yes.”

“Do you ever feel lonely?” you asked softly.

He didn’t speak, only reaching over to squeeze your hand. The suddenness of the tender gesture sent a shock through your system, and you could feel your heart skip a beat. Whoever was the late night DJ at the oldies station must have had it out for you as Roy Orbison’s Only the Lonely started to play.

You squeezed his hand in return. “So do I.”

He stood up, murmuring something about refilling his cup. You kept your slight grip on his hand, standing up from your seat at the table. You shouldn’t have even been thinking about it, not when you’d finally rid yourself of a guilty conscience. The corners of his lips quirked up, and he tilted his head slightly, a silent inquiry as to what you were going to do next.

You kissed him. You kissed a priest, and it didn’t even feel wrong. Father Paul pulled you closer by your entwined hands, releasing it when your chest was pressed against his. He was a bit clumsy, but you’d have been surprised if he weren’t. You opened your mouth for him the slightest bit, feeling his tongue on your lips, inside your mouth, a hesitancy behind his actions still.

Pulling away from him, you caressed his cheek. You couldn’t absolve any guilt he may feel, but you could keep it at bay, only if for a night.

“I want this, Father,” you assured him. “I want you.”

His eyes searched your face for any indication that your words weren’t sincere, and finding none, he pressed his lips to yours with more confidence than before. Still, you took the lead on deepening the kiss as he became more comfortable with how you felt, his nose brushing against the soft skin of your face. His hands held onto your hips, fingers digging gently into your jeans. Your tongue gently swiped at his lips, and he opened his mouth, allowing you access.

Your lips curled into a smile when you finally pulled away, but only to divert your attention to his throat. His breath hitched upon feeling your hand on the side of his neck, thumb pressing into the base of his throat. You bit into the crook of his neck, sucking and biting the same spot until he made a pained noise of protest.

“Don’t worry, Father. I won’t leave a mark,” you whispered, proud of the way he reacted to you, to your touch, feeling his length pressing against you through his pants.

You kissed his neck again, gentle this time, though you slid your hand from his neck, down his torso, to his crotch. Palming him through his pants, you lifted your gaze to see his eyes hooded, head tilted back a bit. He was still holding back, you could tell that much, so you squeezed a bit, feeling his cock twitch against the fabric, his hips involuntarily thrusting.

“Bedroom,” he choked out to your surprise.

Your hands were still on him, groping his crotch, his ass, the softness of his belly as he clumsily led you to the small, sparsely decorated bedroom. He kissed you again, barely managing to shut the door behind him. He moaned into your mouth as you began unbuckling his belt, unzipping his fly and relieving some of the pressure from his hard cock.

His passivity didn’t last long after that. He pushed you onto his bed, lustful determination in his eyes as he undressed you, hesitating just a moment when he reached your panties. As soon as his fingers hooked beneath the waistband, it was like a switch flipped. You watched as he rid himself of his clothes, your fingers teasing your wet pussy when he pulled off his clerical collar and unbuttoned his shirt.

You laid back as he climbed on top of you, allowing him to take the lead. He fondled your breasts, his thumbs brushing your sensitive nipples, making you gasp.

“You’re so soft, honey,” he murmured.

You smiled. Honey. Too sweet for you, what you were doing. Taking one of his hands, you guided it down to your pussy, making him feel your wetness, velvety between your folds. “Softer,” you whispered.

“Fuck,” he groaned, sliding his index and middle fingers inside you.

He pumped them in and out, almost cautiously before you lifted your hips for more. His thumb brushed your clit, rubbing it as he curled his fingers drawing a ragged moan from you. A groan escaped his lips as he felt your pussy clench around his fingers, wet and wanting for something more.

“Father, I need you,” you moaned. “Inside me—I—“

You choked out a gasp as he slid his cock inside you, your pussy clenching around his length as he thrust into you. He pressed your hands into the bed, intertwining his fingers with yours, loving and intimate. You whimpered beneath his intense gaze.

“You’re so good,” he whispered, his voice a bit husky. “Feel good. Take me so well.”

A harsh thrust, and you cried out, throwing your head back on his pillow. He kissed your open mouth, greedy for you. He released your hands, and you immediately grabbed at his forearms, digging your nails into his skin as your body began to tense up before its release.

“I’m close. Father–fuck–I’m gonna—“

“Let go, honey,” he moaned. “I’m there too.”

He came inside you, his cock pumping his cum into your pussy, his thrusts sloppy as he hid his face in the crook of your neck. Your orgasm followed the brief, scandalous realization that you’d let a priest cum in you. Tangling your fingers in his dark hair, you tugged at it as you rode out your orgasm on his cock, not as hard, but still buried inside you.

After a few moments, he pulled out, lying down next to you. His eyes didn’t show any regret or guilt, and he pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead.

He traced your features with his fingertips, softly, mindlessly, as if he were in a haze until he whispered. “How long have you wanted to do this?”

“Since golden hour.”

“Golden hour,” he repeated softly

“When you first came to see me, I was working on the painting of the fishing hut at sunset. Artists call it golden hour, when the natural light is perfect, like liquid gold.”

“I think I’ve always wanted to, it’s come and gone in waves, but it’s always been there. You—you’re something else.”

“You’ve done this before,” you said, an observation, not in judgment.

He closed his eyes, exhaling as if he were about to make a confession to you. “You asked me earlier if I ever wanted to have my Sound of Music moment. I did. I should have. That mural you’re painting, the angel. It’ll make things right.”

The church bell chimed its midnight tune, and you sighed, reminded of where you were, who you were with. “I should go.”

He gave you a sad smile. “I’m sorry. I wish things were different, that you could stay and—“

“Hey, it’s alright. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

You hastily threw on your clothes and gave him one more kiss before cracking open the front door. Glancing around briefly, you didn’t see anyone else around, and slipped away into the night. The overwhelming guilt you expected to feel never manifested. Instead, you felt almost giddy at the thrill of what you and Father Paul had just done.

When you returned home, you let out a laugh in disbelief. You had no expectations of it becoming a regular thing, that it’d even happen again, you having sex with Father Paul. The subtle intimacy that had coiled around your relationship with him from the start had only magnified with this. Perhaps once was all you needed, but you secretly hoped it’d devolve into something far more torrid.

Bright and early the next morning, you woke up feeling light, almost wanting to chalk up the past night to an unusually vivid wet dream, if it weren’t for the ache between your legs. You decided to detour from the church for the day, opting to work on something else temporarily while you were in a great mood. A smaller part of you worried things would be awkward with Father Paul. He didn’t seem guilty or regretful when you left, but he still had plenty of time to overthink.

You ran into Father Paul as he was leaving the Gunnings’ house, an odd expression on his face as he looked back at the place briefly.

“Would you mind coming by the church later tonight?” he asked. “I have something—it’ll be easier to explain there.”

“Yeah, of course,” you said. “See you later, Father.”

For the rest of the morning and into the afternoon, you sat at the docks, sketching portraits of the fishermen as they came and went. They were all so expressive, their weathered skin and deep lines in their faces betraying the decades of hard work they did. You’d heard from the islanders how difficult things had become for the fishermen between the oil spill and restrictions on what they could catch. Still, the ones who recognized you from St. Patrick’s smiled, stopped and talked to you despite being busy. Maybe you really would go to mass on Sunday.

Your stomach reminded you that you’d missed lunch, so you headed back to your house to get something to eat and look over your work from the day. Tonight. Father Paul wanted you to meet him at the church, but didn’t give a time, just at night, after dark. You wondered what he was going to tell you. Surely if it were about the two of you having sex, it could be said privately in the light of day.

Around nine o’clock, you left home again, heading for the church. It was dark. The rectory too. Was he even there? You walked up to the building, opening the front door to near pitch black. For some reason, you stood there, not bothering to call out for him.

The only light in the church came from the sacristy. Your eyes were drawn to your mural for a moment. Somehow, the angel looked like it was enrobed in shadows, far more sinister than when you’d started painting it. Your attention was soon returned to the sacristy. You could hear shuffling, low murmuring, and something almost like a strong gust of wind. Your brow furrowed. Maybe some of the local kids sneaking communion wine.

You took a cautious step toward the illuminated room, and for the first time in years, you truly prayed to god that none of the old wooden floorboards would creak and give you away. Not that you deserved his favor, having repented of your sins and then turning around and sleeping with a priest. The light only grew brighter as you approached, your heart in your throat as you peered into the room where the priest and altar servers would prepare for mass.

Father Paul stood in front of the communion wine. Your eyes were glued to the creature by his side. It looked like it could hardly fit in the room between its height and the width of its wingspan. Huge, imposing, sickeningly pale. It opened its mouth, razor-sharp teeth in full display.

You nearly gasped at the realization of what it was. The angel from the mural. Monstrous, otherworldly in a way that made you want to vomit. Surely even Beverly would regard something like that as demonic. In either shock or self-preservation, you weren’t screaming, though your brain was howling for you to leave. Get the fuck out of there while you still could.

Father Paul looked inexplicably calm around the thing, comfortable, even. You didn’t know how. There was no way you could ever look at something like that and consider it holy. You held your breath as you retreated, internally begging god for enough mercy to get out of the church alive. A floorboard creaked just as you got to the door. You ran.

The cool night air stung your eyes as you bolted down the unpaved roads, too afraid to look back and see if you were even being followed. Aside from a few porch lights, the island was pitch black. All you needed to do was make it home, and you’d be safe. No. You needed to get the fuck off of Crockett Island. Then you’d be safe.

You may have been a shitty person and an even shittier Catholic, but you knew things like this weren’t acts of god. He was a wolf in sheep’s clothing all along, a power-hungry false prophet intent on turning the whole island to fit his corrupted vision of holiness.

With a final push of adrenaline pumping through your veins, you sprinted to your house in the distance. As soon as you got inside, you locked the door, pushing one of the kitchen chairs in front of it. Realistically, it wouldn’t do much to stop the angel if it were coming after you. At least you could say you’d done something.

Grabbing your suitcases from under your bed, you opened them on top of your comforter, considering what to pack. You wouldn’t be coming back to Crockett Island. Soon enough, there wouldn’t be anything to come back to. You could tell as much. That thing you saw, the monster in the mural, it couldn’t mean anything good for the islanders. They deserved some kind of warning, even if they didn’t believe you.

You paused for a moment. Your mural was their warning. They could see the grotesque angel materializing for themselves, and they praised it, full of wonder and awe. A voice in the back of your mind said it wasn’t enough, it was a cop-out, another way to shirk responsibility for your actions, falling into old cycles all over again. You drowned out the voice with a bottle of wine you’d kept around for cooking, and shoved clothes and painting supplies in your suitcases in your half-drunk stupor.

Pale, golden light filled your bedroom as the sun rose. With a shaky breath, you looked around your house for the last time. In the weeks you’d been living on Crockett Island, it’d become a home. You should have known it was all too good to be true.

The suitcases in your hands made your fleeing the island appear less conspicuous, going on a short trip with the intention of returning rather than abandoning the community that had taken you in, leaving them at the mercy of the creature that was waiting to pounce.

You bought a round-trip ticket for the Breeze’s morning voyage back to the mainland. Round-trip. As if you’d be coming back.

“Father Paul know you’re headed back to the mainland?” Sturge asked, helping you with your bags.

He’s just a priest. It’s none of his business, you wanted to snap back. Instead, you gave him a small smile. “Yeah, my mom’s come down with pneumonia. I’m gonna help her around the house for a week or two.”

“Late in the season to get pneumonia.”

“Her immune system isn’t great.”

“Maybe bring her on over to the island. Miracles happening here every day.”

You knew your smile didn’t quite reach your eyes. “I think she’d really like that.”

As you watched the island shrink on the horizon, the guilt that settled back in your gut felt comfortably familiar. Maybe you weren’t meant for absolution.

#father paul x reader #father paul hill x reader #midnight mass #father paul hill #slasher x reader #for my own blog organization sorry

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asexualzoro · 8 months ago

Note

Hello, I'm from Gaza City because of the war,my house was destroyed. We lost everything,my family and I did not have anything left. We left our homes in search of a safe place and we were displaced three times to different places to survive, but unfortunately there's no safe place in Gaza. My mother is very sick and she's a kidney failure patient in need of treatment outside. She suffers from LS. Help me and my family to survive. Please, your small donation can make a huge difference. A friend outside Gaza has come in to help me run the donation program so that my mother can be evacuated. My friend Mr. Fred Odhiambo is receiving the donations on our behalf to help us organise how to evaluate Gaza in the next four days

i’m posting this ask instead of just deleting it like i normally would with these kinds just so everyone else can see and be aware: this is almost certainty fake, and you should watch for similar frauds

how do i know? this account is about 13 hours old. there’s maybe 10-20 posts on it, all reblogged today—enough it looks like a real account at a glance, but so few that you can scroll to the bottom and see the age of the oldest post in less than a minute. this person also followed me immediately after sending me the ask

this is exactly what any scam account ever looks like. the people who send asks for help with their “sick pets” look exactly the same—relatively new accounts you can scroll to the bottom of on maybe five minutes max, pinned donation posts, following you immediately after begging you for money. the advice for those scam pet donation questions is always “there is no cat,” and i’m inclined to assume the same of this

the link in this asker’s pinned post links directly to some guy’s paypal, not a gofundme or similar, and this person claims to have raised hundreds of dollars and to be so close to their goal despite the post having, at the time i looked at it, only 18 notes. donation posts don’t work like that, no donation post gains donations that quickly

there are a lot of people who need help in gaza, with a lot of reputable campaigns and charities and aid groups. but when people need help and money, you’re always going to get scams. people like this are hoping you want to help—we all do, right now—and are also hoping you’ll be moved do so without checking too hard. trying to profit off of a genocide through low effort tumblr scams like this is fucking vile, but use this as a reminder to check your facts before you send your money anywhere. and, if someone sends you, as a random fandom blogger without much wide-reaching influence, an ask begging for money, remember: nine times out of ten, there is no cat

#ask lew #feels bad to point at an ask like this and say it’s fake but it looks like every fucking fraud tumblr i’ve ever seen

27 notes · View notes

neechees · 1 year ago

Note

Ello mate, love ya blog. You do a service to the tumblr populace. Do you know if the user destrawberry is a scammer or not? They seem really sus to me.

Hey!! Thank you <3

And yeah, that's a scammer. Either this is someone pretending to be a dead woman, or the person behind this blog has always been a scammer & faked their down death.

First off, this person is not a "new member" like they say in their donation post, so there's our first lie. These exact same photos have been circulating on tumblr since at least November 2021, so they're not recent. They were originally posted on the new deleted blog @imgonetoofar & @imthegonetoofar (which is still literally up), both of which you can find screenshots of in the waybackmachine archive here, and below are screenshots.

& here's destrawberry using the exact same photos

Secondly, I was warned of two scammers on September 18th, 2022, of the blog @/alexaaaus potentially being a scammer & had hijacked a blog, & this blog had alleged that the original owner of imgonetoofar, "Alexis", had died & they were fundraising for her funeral. Below is the ask I got about this blog

& here's the post of them fundraising for her alleged funeral

So either this is someone who stole imgonetoofar's photos and is impersonating them, or this is the same person behind imgonetoofar & lying & pretending these photos are recent when they've been using them for almost two years.

But thirdly, the imgonetoofar blog would often promote, tag people in, & verbally encourage people to reblog the donation posts of (later outed) scammers, but wouldnt do this with credible/longtime tumblr users who genuinely needed help. You can see this on the imthegonetoofar blog & on the wayback machine of imgonetoofar.

The implication here is that the blogs that imgonetoofar was promoting was likely other scam blogs they were running. And another reason why this is relevant is because now ANOTHER user (who's evidence is coming) @/sheeyancjoje, who has been called out, & is suspected of most likely being the scammer Laura, has also started promoting destrawberry the exact same way imgonetoofar used to do for scam blogs, & they both have a very similar way of speaking. Below on the left is a screenshot of them doing this with another blog I called out, where you can see my reply calling this blog out, and on the right is @/sheeyanc doing this for destrawberry

Imgonetoofar had also promoted one of Laura's blogs, but I don't have screenshot evidence for that, so you'll just have to take my word for it. But even if you don't believe that, I think the above will suffice.

Also note that the alexaaaus blog is now empty, so either the person allegedly associated with imgonetoofar deleted all the info & they still have control of that blog, or the original owner possibly got their blog back.

#pls help me get the word out & warn anyone you mightve seen rb this <3 #justin's scam list #scam #donation scam

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astercontrol · 1 month ago

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I see posts saying "don't be self-deprecating about your own creative work! know your value! be proud and let others know you're proud!" and it always feels like the poster thinks this is some kind of self-esteem problem, when people talk their work down or don't talk about it at all.

But if you actually look at it from both the artist's perspective and the potential viewer's perspective for like 5 seconds each, you will see the problem.

I have made posts talking up my own creative work, and even linking to places where some of it can be bought. Those posts have pretty much never gotten more than a few notes, and have never led to any sales. And I think I know why, and it's not a problem I know how to solve.

I suspect this is because our minds are compensating real fast for the fact that ad blockers are getting less and less available/effective. Our Bullshit Detectors are getting active to the point of maybe overactive. If I see a post enthusiastically talking up something the poster has done-- my brain says THIS IS AN AD.

If it's blazed, that counts extra. If it has lots of notes, that counts extra. If it contains a link to something, that pretty much cements it.

And on one level it's true! Talking up something you've made, and encouraging others to go see/buy it, is the definition of advertising. And this is not necessarily bad! I am sure a lot of those self-promotional posts are from awesome people making something I'd actually be interested in!

BUT when my bullshit detector has flagged it, the warning tells my brain I need a reason to believe that, instead of the default conclusion that it's a scam or a mass-produced piece of soulless crap trying to pretend to be personal.

Only if OP is a person I actually know, will I trust it automatically. (Not the most recent reblogger, I know my mutuals can be duped sometimes. It has to be the Original Poster.) And once I've reblogged it, it's at one more degree of separation for the next person who sees it, and therefore less reason for them to trust.

Other reasons I can be persuaded to consider trusting it-- well, those are mostly things out of the creator's control. Like if other people are spontaneously commenting on the post saying that they like what the poster has made, and if those comments mention specific things they like about it, and those things are also things that specifically interest me.

And I'll still be reading those comments with a suspicious eye, because I know that they may be sockpuppets and/or people that the poster specifically asked to comment and help promote them.

And I think part of the reason that I'm unsuccessful at selling my (theoretically) sellable work is that I can't bring myself to cross that line. Because sock puppetry is obviously dishonest, and asking others to help promote my work feels like it's on the very edge of honesty-- my brain tells me that if they actually liked my work enough to promote it, they would not wait until I requested it (putting them in the coerced position of having to either hurt my feelings or say things that aren't from the heart).

(I'm from the Midwest, so almost every form of asking for anything feels like coercion to me for that reason. This is a topic for another day. Do not @ me about how I should handle it differently because that is NOT as easy as you think, and I have entire essays about why. You can ask for those if you really want to see them.)

If the post is primarily about something else-- like the process of creation in general, or the difficulty of reaching an audience and making a living as a self-employed artist-- and the link to the artist's own work is somewhere in there-- I can imagine giving it another look. Like, if this post included a link to something I make to sell, I can imagine someone checking it out.

But I'm not gonna do that, because my BS detector is already side-eyeing that sort of link, because there ARE posters who will use that as a sneaky vehicle for a promotion, and even if I agree with the whole post I'm not particularly likely to click a link just because of that-- if the post says nothing about what's actually in that link or whether I'd like it.

Honestly, it feels to me like a lot of positivity posts about self-esteem are missing the point. It feels like there's this default assumption that the reason someone doesn't reach for their goals is "a feeling that they don't deserve it"-- as opposed to "a well-founded belief that society is stacked against everyone who isn't already rich and successful, and that reaching for their goals will get them nothing at best and will result in society actively punishing them at worst."

Which is, in my experience, more common than you'd think.

#notron anyvirus #userworldproblems

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liminalweirdo · 2 years ago

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How to spot a scam on tumblr

Scammers are getting smarter and in light of the recent “help my cat” scam posts going around which @meluvcheese22 has a pretty detailed post on here I just thought that this might be a good time to help people know what to look for.

Those message requests that come through your askbox that look similar to this:

[image id: a screenshot of a tumblr ask from user catgirlmacaroni that says:

catgirlmacaroni asked a question

“Heeeeey im really sorry, I know you might find this a bit strange but I really do have a huge favor to ask but im so embarrassed to ask for it but I guess there’s no harm on trying, right? Can you consider boosting/sharing the post I pinned for my cat please? We’re in desperately need of help rn. Im so sorry for coming across your inbox like this. Please also consider answering this privately or send me a msg instead! Wishing you well and I hope that you’ll have an amazing year ahead of you (hear emojis)”

end image id]

Posts like this are almost always a scam. Especially if they’re coming from someone you don’t know.

@you-reblogged-a-scam has a great post on this

How can you spot a scam?

Go to the user’s profile and type [their username].tumblr.com/archive you can see that they have only been posting on tumblr for a couple of months before they made their crowdsourcing request for their cat. That should be a red flag as they’re only giving the illusion of being a tumblr user. (This is also a good way to vet for bots that aren’t just empty blogs.)

The fact that they weren’t using a Crowdfunding platform was suspicious to me, especially because those platforms crack down on scammers and afaik, offer protection to people who have donated if they discover it’s a scam. This isn’t failproof as I know a lot of people do use just P*aypal or V*nmo but this should still be a red flag.

Search the P*ypal account user’s name through Google to see if they’ve done anything like this before. As you can see here, and here this user has posted VERY SIMILAR cat stories under different tumblr accounts but they all go back to the same P*ypal. You can also reverse image search included images or search parts of the text they’ve written to see if it appears as “original posts” under different Tumblr users’ accounts (or whatever other social media you use)

The notes being turned off was also suspicious as you can see that some people got the word in and the scammer realized their mistake.

[image id: a screenshot of the cat post’s notes with the tumblr message stating that Replies have been turned off for this post and Some replies may have been hidden, blocked, or removed.

tumblr user eatingcroutons writes: “Weird how this person had a different cat in a different state needing money for a different treatment just a week ago: http://www.tumblr.com/axellhere/705044183042392064/pay-axell-cruz-apuyan-using-paypalme”

tumblr user hoodiedeer writes: @ eatingcroutons and the oldest posts on their account are a bunch of reblogs a day before this post lol”

end image id]

If you notice something’s a scam, please please say something in the notes and try to spread the word. Please report it to tumblr and report it to P*aypal or whichever cash transfer source they’re using. Make a Tumblr post about it, just get the word out.

Please be careful out there. I know we all want to help, but please make sure your money is actually going to people who need it, and not people like this.

Also, please add to this post if you have any other ideas for how to spot scams.

#tumblr scam #scam posts #psa #internet safety #online safety #we look out for each other on this website

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12timetraveler · 1 year ago

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We Were Never Made to Run Forever

Chapter 64 of Campfire Stories

Summary:

Hosea and his sweetheart were separated after the Blackwater job and have been searching ever since.

Notes:

This idea was given to me by @spurz, who is another amazing writer in the fandom. So go check them out. Thank you again for the idea. This honestly really helped me deal with those post-convention blues after the Tombstone event. ~~~~~~~~~ Word Count: 9004 CW: Light Angst, canon character death, vaginal sex

As always below is just a preview. Read the whole thing on AO3

~~~~~~

It had been a month. An entire month since Hosea had last seen you. You, his beloved, his wife in all but name. The morning of the Blackwater Ferry job the two of you had spent some quiet moments in camp together before you went your way to help Dutch, and Hosea and Arthur went their way to follow up on their little real estate scam. Hosea had a bad feeling about the job but he'd never imagined it would go so wrong. So many dead, such a high price on everyone's heads. And he had no idea what happened to you.

You'd never returned with the others. No one could even tell him for certain if you'd made it out of town. Your job had been to keep watch as a sniper from the top of a building in Blackwater. You'd fired a number of shots, by all accounts you'd been integral in a number of the gang surviving the event. John said after he was shot in the arm the same lawman nearly got him between the eyes, before your bullet shot down from the heavens and bought him enough time to flee. Lenny told him you'd cleared a path for him to carry out the mortally wounded Jenny. Dutch recounted your deadly accuracy every time you were mentioned.

Hosea would have been proud, had any of them been able to say "and then she rode off out of town" or "and I saw her slip away on a boat". But no one could say anything more than that you'd been an incredible shot and an important part of everyone's survival. But what about your survival?

He'd had to fight every instinct, every muscle in his body that begged him to turn his horse around and go back to find you. But he had to be reasonable. If you were hurt or under arrest he'd be no use to you if he got himself injured or captured. Rushing in blindly would do no good to anyone.

He also had a responsibility to your found family. He needed to get them safe, take care of them. He knew you'd kill him if he abandoned them to go look for you. Hell he'd never forgive himself if someone else was hurt or lost because he left them.

Beyond all that, he knew he had to have faith in you. You were smart, wiley, strong. Those were some of the characteristics he'd always admired in you. A true outlaw and con-woman. If anyone would escape in one piece, it was you.

So he went with the rest up to Colter. The cold nearly killed him, but he held on. He had to know that you and the others would be okay. He couldn't just roll over and die.

After almost two weeks on that mountain they'd finally migrated down to Horseshoe Overlook. Only then did Hosea begin his search. He began slowly testing the boundaries of how close he could get to The Great Plains. Surprisingly he could cross the state border into West Elizabeth without issue, but he couldn't get too close to the river separating him and Blackwater. There were patrols everywhere.

So he started sniffing around on the west side of the river. He asked after you at the Flatneck and Riggs train stations. Any traveler he encountered, any homestead he came upon he asked after you. Carefully of course, tactfully. He didn't want to get you in any trouble, bring too much attention to you. But he needed to know if you were alive.

Some nights he'd camp out, but he tried to return to camp often, if only to make sure they were all okay and let them know he was as well. And to check and see if you'd found your way to camp. Unfortunately you never had.

Trelawny had been found sniffing around. He'd had great information about Sean's whereabouts. Hosea begged him to look for you too. Even got a little threatening when Trelawny teased him. But even the man with a thousand connections could not find you.

Somehow there was not so much as a whisper to your whereabouts. It was like you'd just disappeared, evaporated like mist in the air. He tried to put a positive spin on it. The lack of your dead body being reported by the newspapers was a good sign. At least it meant you hadn't been found dead in the streets. It gave him some hope that you were alive somewhere.

After searching for another two weeks or so, he still had no leads on you. He was trying to remain positive, trying not to let the thousands of "what if" scenarios take root in his heart. It was too much for him to bear thinking about.

Finally he made his way up to Strawberry. He had tried to avoid the town, having heard of the carnage Micah and Arthur had caused. The survivors would be jumpy, paranoid. He didn't want to just ride in and start asking around. But he knew there wasn't a lot of other choice if he wanted to find you.

And he'd burn heaven and earth to find you.

#Hosea/reader #hosea/f!reader #campfire stories #rdr2 fanfic #Rdr2 fanfiction #ao3 fanfic

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mettywiththenotes · 1 year ago

Note

hey, please consider deleting your reblog of that cat donation post about Pirate the cat. it's fake and a scam.

the account (@ hinderswives) was created 1 day ago and you can find those cat images on a reverse google search. did you get an ask from the op asking you nicely to check out the pinned post (and not to publically answer the ask)? I did, and it's the second almost identical one ive gotten in the last few months, also by an account that only existed for one day before posting the help request (who had never interacted with my blog before, either).... basically, this is 100% a scam.

They ask you to reblog their post *but not answer their ask* so that anyone who follows you thinks that you know this person is legitimate (which is exactly the opposite of the real situation). They ask you to use 'friends and family' on PayPal so you can't get your money back if you figure out it's a scam (always be suspicious of people who do this!)

i found your reblog by going through the notes on the scam post. i'm going to send this ask to other people who reblogged it, too. (in anon mode so that the scam op can't block me, which happened last time before i could get the warning out, rip).

please don't let your followers be tricked into wasting their money! there are plenty of real people and real cats that could use their help out there, if they want to be generous.

thanks.

I didn't receive an ask from hinderswives asking to reblog the post, I reblogged because someone I follow tagged it with the tags "mutual aid" and I assumed from that that it was their mutuals post asking for help and real

Thank you for letting me know! I just tried to find my reblog and I can't rn (stupid tumblr) but I'll keep looking and if and when I find it, I'll delete it

#also looked up hinderswives and there's all these posts pointing out they are a scam #apparently they deleted reblogs that pointed out they were a scam and also changed their url #thank you for the ask!😊#asks with metty #scams #anon asks

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rosiebyrnjun · 10 months ago

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Profiles (2)

LETTERS AND WHITE ROSES - PJS, SMAU

park jisung (02) ; first year sociology student. Would be in the same year as Chenle, but unfortunately is also part of the “wait listed” gang. A bunch of girls get the hots for him the second they see him. But he’s too quiet and shy to notice anyone. But while ignoring girls, he somehow ended up infatuated with a certain short haired girl.

mark lee (99) ; fourth year literature student, he is well known amongst the student body for being a really hard worker, and helping those around him. He tutored almost all of the boys and became friends with them during his tutoring sessions.

huang renjun (00) ; third year graphic design student. He’s well liked around campus, everyone knows him and adores him. Very artistic and is usually always in the art gallery working on a new art project. Short temper and is always scolding someone for something, even for something really petty.

lee jeno (00) ; third year criminal justice student, and the only guy that Jinri is close to out of the whole friend group. He is also the first to suspect that Jinri and Jisung have something for each other. Very patient and kind, everyone loves him.

lee donghyuck (00) ; fourth year philosophy student and also very cocky. If confidence was a person, Haechan would be it. Has scammed some poor college students by cat fishing as a sugar daddy. Gaslights people, but somehow very well liked, he’s just a really nice person when he isn’t scamming or gaslighting someone.

na jaemin (00) ; fourth year biomedical student, he’s an absolute sweetheart. He loves helping people, and always looks out for his friends. Very playful and also teases his friends a lot. Always calls his friends sexy, and you would think he’s into guys by the way he flirts with them.

zhong chenle (01) ; third year accounting student, he’s crazy rich. Haechan once asked him to be his sugar daddy? He obviously said no, but that moment became a funny moment in their friendship. He’s really sweet, but also brutally honest. Will shut down anyone’s delusions, and will always judge you if you do something stupid.

master list — profiles (1)

authors note - I wrote this during my photography class, so I’m sorry if this doesn’t look good, I was very rushed. Also I am currently in the process of writing the first part of the story. If the descriptions doesn’t match the members, please imagine them as described, after all this is FICTION.

©rosiebyrnjun

#kpop #nct dream #nct 127 #le sserafim #ive #chenle #mark lee #park jisung #renjun #yunjin #wonyoung #haechan #jaemin #jeno

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yulin-pop · 3 years ago

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⤷ ✧ Sadist

- order 6 | Headcanons | Heartslabyul, Pomefiore + Idia

Gender neutral

Sadist (noun) — A person who derives pleasure from inflicting pain, suffering, or humiliation on others.

Note: Personal headcanons again! I did characters that I think would pair terribly (or perfectly depending on how you see it) with a sadist. Also this is sfw, I just think sadist characters are funny.

Small warning: You’re picking on all of them and making some of them cry. Also a bit of slapping

Riddle Rosehearts

You seem so normal at first glance. He truly believed you were a normal person, actually he thought you were kind. But, he was extremely mistaken. He found out by when you began teasing him. It’s Floyd all over again! He saw how you giggled and smiled in genuine satisfaction in seeing him frustrated. He would thrash endlessly when you would lock him into place by grabbing his wrists and making him face you. You would make comments about how red his face was.

“Aw~ are you blushing? Do you enjoy me teasing you?”

“I AM NOT BLUSHING.”

Though after the first incident, you acted so different than the person that teased him almost to tears the other day. You offered him your slice of the tart at the unbirthday party.

“Trey’s tarts are tasty. Have some of it!”

It scared him how you acted so sweet and caring one time, but the next time you would go out of your way to make things harder for him. It was be roulette everytime he spoke to you. Was he gonna get a sadistic jerk or a loving friend?

He thought it was some sort of alter ego or someone was controlling you.

Though, he was always too scared to ask you or tell anyone about it.

Trey Clover

He is also a sadist. Though compared to you, he’s nothing. He can see your thought process and try to make you loose interest but in doing so, makes you more eager to see him get angry. He tries to hold himself back from showing any negative reactions around you. You would go as far as to sabotage his cooking.

“Trey—! Why is the tart—?!” Riddle coughed and covered his mouth, “Spicy?!”

He immediately turned to you as you waved a half empty hot sauce bottle in the air with an accomplished grin.

Yet, you can be an angel. Like the time he ran short of money at Sam’s mystery shop. You paid for his items out of pure kindness. You also praised him for his cooking skills.

“Trey! Your pastries are always so delicious. I’m jealous of your skill. Could you teach me sometime?”

It always threw him off. He didn’t expect you out of all people to be a secret sadist. Well, it’s always the people who you least expect.

Cater Diamond

Definitely not prepared for it. He was so caught off guard. Luckily, he did not have to experience it first hand. But he saw how cruel you could be.

“My, my it appears neither of you have gotten anything done. Are both of you so pathetic you can’t solve one question?”

“I-I’m sorr—“

“Awww you’we sowwy, aren’t you? Continue to apologize, come on I’m waiting.”

You slowly moved the two poor freshmen to tears while Cater listened pitifully from another room. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Are you really the same person? You’re the one that asked for help when creating a MagiCam account? You didn’t even know what to put for a username or bio!! You were so lost and innocent (in his eyes).

“Cater, someone …DMed…? Me. They said that they want me to be a model?”

“Yikes, that’s a scam! Don’t reply to it!”

It was rather sweet seeing how unaccustomed to were to the internet. But just to make sure… He made you take a sadist test.

“Just answer the questions!”

“Wait what is it about?”

“You’ll see, you’ll see.”

He handed you his phone and watched as you tapped the answers.

Do you like seeing someone in physical pain?

Yes

Do you like seeing people cry?

Very much yes

Do you like seeing people frustrated?

Yes

Do you like being the cause of somebody’s pain?

Extremely so

Needless to say, you were officially deemed a sadist no matter how much you protest it.

Ace Trappola

He’s one of the unlucky subjects that saw your sadistic side at its peak. He thought you were light hearted and easy going when he first met you, you didn’t even bat an eye when he insulted you and mocked you.

But he found out otherwise after inviting you to study. He thought he could mess around a bit and drew something on the side of your paper. Your eyes spotted his pen on your paper and you immediately flicked your hand at the pen, sending it flying into the air. You raised up your hand and slapped his hand, a smack noise went throughout the room. The pen you flicked fell back down and hit his head as he withdrew his hand.

“Ow! How did you do that?” He squeezed his hand.

“Quit messing around. You look totally pathetic.” You said with a glare. He swallowed and continued on with his work.

After about an hour or so, you decided to see how far along Deuce and Ace have gotten. Deuce was doing fine, even though most of his answers were wrong, but Ace hardly had anything done. Ace brushed you off as you scolded him for his laziness.

“You’re the one who invited me. Don’t you dare waste my time.”

“C-Chill out—“

“Kneel.”

“What are you tal—“

“On your knees, Ace.”

He reluctantly complied and you stared down at him. “Now, I want you to explain how within one hour and 27 minutes you only got 14 questions done. What were you doing the whole time? Deuce is on question 28 and I’m already done.”

“Errr… I was—“

“Goofing around, I know that.

Let’s see, there’s 45 total questions. So how would you like 31 slaps on your wrists?”

Ace shuttered and rapidly shook his head. “N-No please!”

After that lesson, he strongly believed someone was influencing you with magic. It has to be. You’re too chill to ever to that!!

Deuce Spade

He should know from experience that appearance doesn’t always match personality. But you looked so polite and nice! You were very nice too! At least that was until that one study meet you he had with you and Ace.

He knew you were serious about studies but you took it to another level. Ace’s wrists were as red as the roses he painted by the time it was over. Deuce saw you the next day and you were acting completely normal.

You smiled at him and Ace and gave him an extra eraser.

“This eraser is in the shape of a flamingo! Ace, here’s a hedgehog one!!” You said enthusiastically. Ace, still resentful from last night, took it and stuffed it into his pocket. You smiled all the same. It scared him. When was gonna be your next out burst..?

He was always in his toes around you. He tried to decline every study meet up that you suggested but when you’d ask, Riddle would be right there saying “you could learn a thing or two from them.”

Leading up to where he’s at. It’s not even his fault! It was Ace who started it!

“My, my it appears neither of you have gotten anything done. Are both of you so pathetic you can’t solve one question?”

“I-I’m sorr—“ Deuce was quickly cut off before he could explain.

“Awww you’we sowwy, aren’t you? Continue to apologize, come on I’m waiting.”

“I-I! I-I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to waste your time b-by messing around. But it was only because Ac—“

Deuce yelled as he felt his wrist burn bright red after being slapped by your tough hand. Tears slowly started to form in his eyes and he looked down in defeat.

Vil Schoenheit

Your beauty was one of an emperor, it was the best way to describe it. You took authority if needed and kept up appearances. He tolerated you. But, he really didn’t expect to hear all these rumors flying around.

“Have you heard, that magicless prefect is a total sadist! They even have enough guts to mess with the housewarden!”

“Rosehearts?! And he let them get away with it?!”

Vil was disappointed in Riddle for that but soon came to an understandment after witnessing your odd tendencies up close.

“P-Please, where did you find that?”

“In the classroom, you don’t happen to know who it belongs to, do you?”

“It’s mine! Please return it.”

“Hmmm… Should I? Maybe I will if you get down on your hands and knees and beg. Go on, beg for me to return your precious little journal.”

Vil watched in utter disbelief as you made this poor boy plead with you while on his hands and knees.

After that, he was unsure what to think of you. Your caring attitude became sickeningly sweet and unnerved him.

“Good morning! Thank you for the skin product suggestions, everyone has been saying I look a lot better!”

“No problem at all..”

“Anything wrong?”

“Not at all. Get along now, I have duties I must attend to.”

Rook Hunt

Ah, the beauty you possess is ethereal. He wishes nothing more than to see every part of you. He enjoys the way your personality can flip like a switch and you can conceal how you really feel so well. A wolf in sheep’s clothing, you are. He praises your every presence and loves the way his compliments throw you off.

“Ah~ please use those words on me, Roi du Sadisme!!”

“P-pardon? What do you mean?”

Simply because of that, you never break character in front of him. You are an Angel around him. You even talk to him and converse about many things (He’s a bit handful but he’s interesting). He wants nothing more than to see your show your sadist side, preferably towards him. He makes small comments about it and you act oblivious.

“I don’t call you Roi du Sadisme, for nothing.”

“Hehe I sure hope not!”

The thought of him being so utterly obsessed with being talked down by you intimidates you. Enough so you want to avoid him. You sometimes drop by other people he’s also infatuated with and then flee when he’s distracted.

“Good morning, Leona!” You said as you felt Rook’s beaming gaze on you avert.

“What do you want herbivore?” He said with a tired voice.

“You ought to get more sleep.”

“Are you just here to waste my time?”

“Ah, I’m sorry. I’ll be leaving now.” You spun around and ran away.

You looked behind you and there stood Rook.

“AHH!!”

“Oh? Did I spook you, Roi du Sadisme?”

“S-Stop calling me that!”

Epel Felmier

Oh no, you’re one of the many people Epel would like to avoid. Not only are you the type to make fun of his appearance, you’ll physically pick on him. You know exactly how to push his buttons to make him react the way you want him to.

“Your hand is so very small, isn’t it?”

“Grrrr…”

He didn’t bother hiding his true personality around you considering you didn’t make an effort to hide yours. He gets to see the worst of you, you get to see the worst of him. Sometimes it gets to the point where Epel can’t control himself. Not even Vil can tick him off this much.

“Wouldja just’ stop?!”

“Why would I ever do that—“

SMACK

You froze for a second and held your cheek. “Oh wow, you really just did that.” You said with an amused smile.

But when you two aren’t showing aggression, people say you’re a good combo.

“Epel and MC are a perfect match!”

“True, they look like really good friends!”

Epel’s soft, quiet boy appearance and your nice, angelic personality makes it appear so, apparently… (Yall can be enemies to lovers if y’all would just work it out)

Idia Shroud

Eek! He’s officially scared of you. He is naturally distrusting and suspected your kindness was nothing but an act but for once he was right? It even shocked him. But no matter what you say, it can’t hurt him. He already degrades himself.

“You never leave your room, how does a robot have more a social life than you?” You snarled at him. But no response. You were put off by this and crossed your arms.

“Yes…”

“Huh?”

“You’re right. I don’t have a social life. But… please say more!!”

“W-What the?!”

He actually loves the way you speak to him. He admires how you can so confidently talk down on people. People also tend to like you even with your rude personality. Teach him your ways!

“Sadist, please teach me how to be like you! Teach me how to be confident but likable!!”

“I-I-I have to go.” You said as you ran off. You nearly tripped.

People are difficult, and he ends up being rude because he doesn’t know how to react, leading to people disliking him. But you’re rude and people still love you!!

He sometimes finds himself stalking you. He’s painfully obvious about it and always makes you stop what you’re doing.

“I studied all night and still only got a 55/60… What did you get Ace?”

“I got a 55 too, Deuce here got 47!”

“Hey! I studied hard too!”

“Maybe next time we should study together?”

“N-No that’s ok. We’ll get Riddle to help us!”

“Aw that’s uh— uhhh…” You quickly cut yourself off as you heard someone muttering loudly behind you. You didn’t want to turn your head but you already knew who it was.

699 notes · View notes

spacedykez · 2 years ago

Text

so good at selling lies

Branzy's scars are an interesting story. You see, the way he got them was kind of… anticlimactic, really. It was what happened afterwards that was the real story. Featuring: your boy Branzy being a COMPLETE idiot & Clownpierce being worried. Did I mention Clown is worried. Seriously. I think I wrote the worried like. fifteen times. it's warranted though, branzy's being a total idiot. oh yeah and did i mention he's an idiot /affectionate

your friendly reminder that reblogs > likes. i spent a week on this.

cw: graphic description of an infected wound | ao3 link | wc 3701 notes: spoiler alert: branzy is not in fact, good at selling lies. Also I have been working on this for SO LONG it is FINALLY done. longest one yet.

You wouldn’t think Branzy, of all people, would have scars.

See, Branzy wasn’t a fighter. His specialties were varied, from pranking and scamming to redstone, but the thing they definitely weren’t were PVP. He rarely engaged in direct fights of his own choice, and really almost never directly fought anyone. That was Clown’s specialty! Branzy was just the trapper.

In fact, you’d probably think someone like Clown would have a lot more scars. After all, he was always in some sort of battle and he was known for being the server’s top fighter. It was only logical that he would have a few scars here and there.

But Branzy did, in fact, have scars- quite a few, and even more obviously than Clown. The most notable were on his arm, and Branzy swore they were still red with blood that had never quite been washed off his skin.

How he’d gotten them was quite underwhelming, in reality. On a server like Lifesteal, you’d expect some epic battle story, or even a revenge trap! But it hadn’t been either of the two. Branzy hadn’t even been fighting anyone- ironically fitting, actually.

It was meant to be a simple test of a trap he’d planned out beforehand. He’d done it hundreds of times before, and the setup went perfectly, exactly as normal, up until that one moment.

The trap was almost complete, TNT minecarts in place and redstone all laid out in the proper place. Branzy reached out to set the last block in place, which just so happened to be a lit redstone torch. But then he got the tiniest bit too close to the TNT, and-

Uh-oh.

The redstone brushed the TNT the tiniest bit and it dropped into the bottom of the minecart, giving Branzy zero time to react before he was thrown backwards. The ground exploded around him, dirt and grass and metal flying away from the explosion wildly.

His ears rang with the sound of stone breaking around him as everything was thrown outwards. His outstretched arm was sliced with something sharp, and chunks of rubble scratched him as they went by.

Branzy landed hard on his back with a small grunt, arm alight with pain. The rest of him felt awful too, but his arm was burning. He almost didn’t want to look down at what he’d done to himself.

And, well, that was definitely not good.

His arm was covered in blood, deep, ugly scrapes weeping crimson. The color blended with the dirty brown and grey of soil and stone thrown up by the explosion in a way that was probably not great. To make things even worse, tiny rocks in hundreds of shades of rust and metal and asphalt were embedded in the wounds, stabbing him every time he shifted even slightly.

He probably needed to heal that, fast. But the issue was, Branzy hadn’t brought a lot of healing supplies! He’d just been testing a trap, he hadn’t expected to get hurt very badly. Or at all.

Of course, he should have remembered that you always prepared for the worst.

And sure, he could message Clown and ask for healing stuff! That would probably be the smart thing to do. But then Clown would worry, and Clown could get… overprotective. And Branzy didn’t need to worry him over a little injury.

Or… you know, a big injury. But it wouldn’t kill him, so he was perfectly fine! This wouldn’t come back to bite him at all, nope!

Branzy sat up dazedly, wincing at the pain. The destruction in front of him was something he definitely didn’t have time to fix. Well, he just had to hope that nobody minded another crater (it was Lifesteal. They wouldn’t even spare a second thought)!

Branzy stumbled to his feet and looked around. Nobody was in the area at all, so nobody had seen him fail spectacularly. That was great!

But his arm hurt, and it was only getting worse. Again, the best course of action, of course, would be to tell Clown. But since when had Branzy done the reasonable thing? No, the reasonable thing was no fun.

So he headed back to the casino, doing his best to ignore the blinding pain coming from his side. He didn’t need to look at that right now. If he didn’t look at it, it wasn’t a problem, right? Definitely, totally, 100% how that worked.

Branzy snuck carefully into the casino (he might not be able to fight, but he could certainly hide). There had to be bandages somewhere in here, surely! And hopefully Clown would be busy.

Luckily for him, Clown was somewhere else. Where he was, Branzy didn’t know and quite honestly probably didn’t want to know, but for now all that mattered was that he was free to bandage his arm without Clown knowing what he was doing.

Branzy dug out a long roll of cloth bandages from a disorganized chest stashed in the corner of the room. Already wincing at the pain he knew was about to come, he walked over to the sink in the corner of the little room and turned on the water (thankfully clear and steady).

He stuck his arm under the flow- yep, there was the pain, fun! The water ran a dark, rust-red with blood and dirt. After an agonizing few minutes in which his arm felt (quite ironically) like it was on fire, his wounds were slightly cleaner. They certainly weren’t clean, but at least he could wrap them up without as much debris being trapped in them.

His new problem, once his arm was wrapped up, was that Clown would definitely notice a very large, very obvious bandage on his arm. So, how to hide that in a way that wouldn’t make Clown suspicious?

The answer was really quite simple. Branzy was still an absolute genius, though. Anyone who said otherwise was clearly just jealous they weren’t this smart.

Long sleeves! They fit his outfit anyway (they really did look quite nice). He just had to hope Clown wouldn’t question his fashion choices too much (the man dressed in an old-fashioned, ridiculous circus outfit. Branzy didn’t think long sleeves would be too wild in comparison).

Now he just had to hope his arm didn’t get worse. Spoiler alert: ignoring massive wounds that were most definitely infected did not end well. But that was future Branzy’s problem (Future Branzy really, really did not like Present Branzy).

The next week was was a long several days. At least Clown made no comment on Branzy’s new “fashion choice,” but Branzy was fairly sure Clown had noticed the slight dizzy spells he had started to have. He hadn’t said anything though, so Branzy went on pretending nothing was wrong.

He pointedly ignored the fact that he was starting to shiver with fever. Branzy didn’t need to deal with that today, thank you.

Branzy should really have known a mining trip wouldn’t be a great idea in his condition, unsteady and weak as he was. But he wasn’t letting a little thing like an infected wound stop him!

He was lucky he was quite the distance down the tunnel from Clown when he inevitably slipped and knocked his arm into the wall. Branzy let out a quiet yelp and instantly bit his tongue to muffle the noise, automatically grabbing the injury.

Clown still turned worriedly towards him and Branzy dropped his arm to his side to hide what he was doing.

“Branzy, are you alright?” Clown asked suspiciously. Branzy felt his heart jump, only making his slowly growing dizziness grow. Clown had noticed that! That was fine, he could play it off!

“Oh, yeah, I’m great!” Branzy lied easily with a small anxious chuckle, his absolute worst habit. It always clued everyone in when he was lying, which he hated. How was he meant to trick people when he gave his own tricks away!?

“If you’re sure,” Clown replied, not seeming very convinced. But he didn’t ask any more questions, which Branzy was thankful for. Thanks, Clown!

“Yeah, just gonna go check out this section over here!” Branzy called casually, hoping the nerves, tension, and weakness filling his body weren’t obvious in his voice. He could totally pull this off. Who had ever doubted him?

The tension is his voice was apparently not obvious, or if it was then Clown was choosing not to mention it, because his only reply was an equally casual “alright.”

Once he was around the corner, Branzy collapsed against the rough rock of the wall, out of sight from Clown. His arm was stinging, and he couldn’t go any longer trying to keep up his usual bright personality in front of Clown. Gosh, who knew being happy could be so tiring?! (Or maybe the exhaustion was the fever that Branzy definitely didn’t have. But he wasn’t going to think about that).

He tore off the hurriedly-done bandages and a new wave of nausea hit him at the sight. He swallowed back the taste of vomit and closed his eyes to steady himself.

The wounds had gotten much worse. Dirt was caked in the dried blood, making for an unpleasant sight and a painful sensation. Yellowish pus rose up in bubbles clinging to the edges of the cuts, which were barely dried over and still erupted in pain whenever one of the rocks trapped inside them moved.

Branzy couldn’t just let this heal and be okay. He had to get help or it would only get worse (and it was already pretty bad- he was starting to get some sort of headache, which- not ideal. And that wasn’t to mention the fever and dizziness).

But did he? No, of course not, who did you take him for, someone with actual self-preservation skills?! His only help was Clown, and Clown would probably kill him for hiding this from him. And he could barely find the courage to talk to Clown on a good day. This was decidedly not a good day.

So Branzy clenched his teeth, squeezed his eyes shut, and wrapped his arm back up, pretending that blackness didn’t tinge the edges of his vision. He could pretend. Acting was one of his few great strengths.

He gasped quietly at the way the wounds stung, but he couldn’t make a sound or Clown would definitely hear.

Branzy stood up, letting himself lean against the wall for a minute until the dizziness passed. Once it did, he reluctantly crept back into the main tunnel Clown was in, trying and failing to put on a fake smile.

“You all good?” Clown asked. Branzy’s feverish paranoia shot up- why was he asking!? Had Branzy accidentally made a noise of pain? Had he finally decided to ask about all the dizzy spells?

“Oh, I’m alright!” Branzy assured him, not turning towards Clown. He didn’t want Clown seeing the obvious grimace on his face.

“You know, you’re a terrible liar, Branzy,” Clown signed, an affectionate note in his voice. Branzy turned slowly, glancing down at his arms- the sleeves were still there. His head swam and everything was spinning, but he was fine! Right?

“Uhm- what? I don’t know what you’re talking about! I wouldn’t lie to you-” Branzy rambled. He hadn’t lied to Clown lately, had he? He didn’t lie to Clown! That was like a death sentence! And Clown didn’t seem like he was about to kill Branzy, but you never know!

Clown stared at him for several seconds, then pulled off his mask and set it down. Branzy watched its movement nervously, then his glazed purple eyes flicked back to Clown’s sharp, worried red ones. “Branzy, you look like a ghost.”

“I’m fine!” Branzy assured him. His burning arm, pounding head, and burning body would disagree, but really Branzy would be alright. Somewhere in the back of his mind he knew they had plenty of resources, they could afford to spare a few, but you never knew when they would be needed! What if a war broke out and Clown needed healing potions and they’d been wasted on Branzy?

“Really, I’m…” A wave of dizziness painted the edges of his vision with dancing black spots, creeping inwards. He felt himself swaying slightly, head suddenly feeling very heavy. “Oh… pretty…”

A giant black blob grew steadily larger in Branzy’s view and it took him several seconds to realize that this one was Clown. “Really, Clown, I’m okay-”

The blackness at the corners of Branzy’s vision were growing again. His skin prickled like he was back in the middle of the explosion, tingling sensations running up and down his arm, which still felt like it was on fire. And not just on fire, but aching agonizingly, almost like there were things crawling inside his wounds (which he knew wasn’t true, because he’d made sure of that much at least). The rough bandages pressed tightly against the swollen cuts and he wanted to rip them off, but he couldn’t. Not if he didn’t want Clown to know.

“Branzy?” Clown called his name faintly, fearfully. Fear was an emotion Branzy had never heard in Clown’s voice before, and he didn’t know quite what to make of it. What did Clown have to be afraid of?

Branzy didn’t even have the drive to tell Clown he was okay anymore. He couldn’t keep lying, and besides, he just wanted to sleep. Escaping the pain sounded… very nice…

“BRANZY!” Clown yelled with such force that he scrambled up to his feet instantly, automatically (oh, he’d sat down sometime. Huh). Were they being attacked, or… Oh, he was falling over again.

He landed on something much softer than the hard stone ground he should have fallen onto. Worried eyes the color of roses stared down at him, red lips stark against pale skin as Clown said something to Branzy that he was too unfocused to hear.

He thought he must have fallen asleep, because he was lying on something soft when he drifted back into consciousness, and everything hurt, even more than before.

Branzy opened his eyes slightly, waves of heat washing over him. It felt like he was submerged in the lava ocean of the Nether; so, so warm but unable to do anything about it.

He groaned unhappily, barely aware of his surroundings. He didn’t have the energy to open his eyes or do anything besides lay there, feeling only his body, every part of it screaming in pain or fever.

There was a quiet mumbling near him that he couldn’t make out the words of, and then his arm was being touched, moved, and the rocks he’d never gotten out of the wounds were stabbing into irritated flesh and his mouth was open. Maybe he was screaming. He didn’t know.

He drifted away gratefully into the blackness of sleep, although not for long.

Branzy woke disoriented, drenched in cold sweat. He was half-convinced he was dreaming, especially when Clown leaned over him and draped a cold, wet rag over his forehead. “Oh, Clown, have I ever told you your eyes are gorgeous?”

Dream-Clown blinked in surprise. Why would he be surprised? Was he truly so oblivious to his own beauty? “Thank you,” he replied simply, cheeks flushing slightly red, matching those beautiful eyes.

“Mhm,” Branzy hummed. “They match your lips,” he added, staring at Clown’s face, which contorted indecisively, flashing through surprise and adoration before finally settling on embarrassment.

He went cherry-red at Branzy’s comment and replied with a meek, “Really?”

Branzy wanted to kiss those lips. They stood out, bright crimson clashing with Clown’s ashen skin, large and pursed and pretty and he was down so bad for Clown-

“Can we kiss?” he asked bluntly, because gosh was Clown gorgeous. Clown surprisingly didn’t blush or hesitate to reply. Definitely a dream, then. Real-Clown would never be so nice.

“Only if you promise to drink this.” Branzy looked curiously at the potion Clown was holding out to him. Anything for Clown. He trusted Clown with his life (and his love). And nothing could hurt him in a dream!

“Okay!” Branzy said cheerfully, downing the potion unhesitatingly in one giant swig. Clown’s hand darted out to grab it and tilt it away from Branzy.

“Don’t choke on it!” True to Clown’s warning, Branzy nearly instantly started to cough harshly as he struggled to swallow all the potion he’d just drunk. “Branzy!”

Branzy managed to slowly choke it down. Clown watched him anxiously, eyes darting around quickly but always focused on Branzy. He wondered vaguely if Real-Clown would ever care about him as much as this Dream-Clown did.

The next time Branzy woke, his head was thankfully absent of the fog that had been plaguing it for days. Which really wasn’t a good thing, because that meant that he realized just how badly he’d messed up. Oh, Clown was not gonna be happy.

Well, time to see just how quickly Clown would kill him!

Branzy slowly opened his eyes, sitting up and looking around groggily. He was laying in a makeshift bed in a room he barely recognized. It was undoubtedly a tiny storage room they’d carved below the floor of the casino, never meant to be anything permanent, but it had been redecorated while Branzy was sick.

Clown sat beside his bed- had he been caring for Branzy? That was nice of him! And also not great, because that meant Branzy would probably have to pay him back somehow- Clown wouldn’t do that for free.

“Branzy, why didn’t you tell me you were sick?” Clown demanded immediately, not harshly. He sounded like... well, like a worried lover if Branzy was being honest.

“I was fine!” Branzy insisted unconvincingly (especially given that his arm was aching slightly and he still felt shaky). “Just a little cold-”

“Branzy,” Clown sighed, pressing his free hand to his face in exasperation. “You passed out.”

“Totally fine!” Branzy repeated. Sure, maybe he’d passed out, but he could have managed it! Probably! And he was definitely doing fine hiding his injury-

“Branzy, you were rambling about how pretty I was,” Clown groaned with a wince. Branzy didn’t see how that was a bad thing; he would ramble about that when he wasn’t sick, just not to Clown. Oh. That, uh. Hadn’t been a dream, had it.

“Okay, I will not apologize for that- I mean, um-” Branzy scrambled for words, his face turning red now. He definitely didn’t have a massive crush on Clown! Not Branzy!

“And care to explain your arm, Branzy?” Clown continued, skipping over Branzy’s reply completely. Uh, yeah. Shoot. His arm. Of course Clown had probably been the one to fix it, and it had been bad.

“I didn’t want to use up our supplies?” Branzy explained meekly. It was an awful excuse now that he said it aloud, and both of them knew it.

Clown stared, then yelled at him. But it wasn’t a yell of anger; his voice was laced with terror. “We have plenty of supplies, Branzy!”

Branzy didn’t have a reply to that. “You scared me.” Clown admitted, cheeks tinging like roses once again, a very different red to the bloodstained crimson of his costume.

“Oh,” Branzy said simply. Clown had never struck him as the compassionate type, but he supposed he really should have picked up on the hints by now. “You really… care?”

“Of course I care, Branzy!” Clown retorted, edging closer to and taking Branzy’s hand in his own. Branzy looked down, electricity racing over his body as their skin touched, because Clown didn’t have his gloves on-

Clown stared down at their connected hands, and then looked up, just as Branzy did. Branzy coughed and looked away awkwardly. A matching red blush spread across both their faces- neither was quite used to such closeness (and neither quite wanted to admit they wanted that closeness).

“I’m sorry,” Branzy admitted quietly. Clown’s breath shuddered from an emotion Branzy couldn’t place.

“Branzy, I- I thought you were going to die,” Clown confessed. He supposed it made sense that Clown wouldn’t want his ally to die (or maybe there was something more. Was it possible Clown had another reason for worrying? No. He didn’t dare let himself hope).

“Just another day on Lifesteal, right?” Branzy tried to joke. But Clown didn’t laugh. Well, that was… awkward.

“I really don’t want you to die.”

Branzy had to admit, he couldn’t really deny that Clown cared anymore. No matter how hard he tried, there was no explanation for Clown’s words besides the obvious truth (the one he didn’t want to admit). “Well, uh, thank you-”

“I’m serious, Branzy.”

“Really, thank you, I do appreciate it,” Branzy assured him. He took a deep breath in and decided he had nothing left to lose- and so he asked the question. This would probably backfire horribly, but-

“Do you love me, Clownpierce?”

Clown stared at him, face unreadable behind his mask. Then, wordlessly, he lifted the mask, revealing beautiful cherry-colored eyes and cheeks flushed peach.

“I do love you.”

“How much?” Branzy smirked cheekily, feeling his heart flutter with nerves, like the rush of adrenaline during a thrilling dash for his life. Romance was a dash for his life, really, just in a different way.

Clown inched closer silently until Branzy was frozen, sure he was going to have a weapon pulled on him any moment. But instead, he simply whispered something conspiratorially in a voice so quiet Branzy had to lean in to hear.

It was only once Branzy was being pulled into Clown’s lips that he realized the words that had been said.

“This much.”

‘This much’ was quite a lot, really. Clown’s touch sent shivers down Branzy’s spine (much more enjoyable shivers than fever shivers, he had to say). He melted into the warmth of Clown’s lips on his. The feeling was like a fuzzy blanket, giving him comfort he hadn’t known he needed, but desperately craved.

Branzy was sure this moment would last in his memory forever. It was impossible to forget the tingles racing through him, setting his nerves alight with pleasure.

His new scars would always be red, not with blood, but with love.

#branzy #branzycraft #clownpierce #clownzy #branzypierce #writing #fanfiction #the otter scribbles

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tinalbion · 2 years ago

Note

Hey so whenever you have the time, could you do and imagine where you have a fear of sex, so you go see Dr.Andover. When the two of you meet there is a mural attraction. Instead of using the fear simulation, he decided that he would be your treatment.

Oh anon, you are a genius and you know he'd be SO into you asking him to be your treatment? The ego on this man would skyrocket, you can't convince me otherwise. But having such a phobia just takes a lot of careful actions and very open communication. Imagine how SOFT this would be?! Omg, well, I hope you enjoy this~

"Show Me How" ||

Doctor Peter Andover x GN!Reader

Rating: Explicit; gender-neutral sex (kept it as vague as possible since it wasn't stated in the ask, I hope it's okay!), masturbation, doctor x patient 'relationship', consensual sex, guided masturbation

Length: 3k

Dr. Andover had seen very many things come in and out of his office, but never did he see something quite like you as you sat across from him.

You came in with a case of genophobia, which was normal in most cases, but yours was incredibly elevated and the mere thought of any sexual intimacy had sent you into a spiraling panic. This was ruining any relationships that would blossom, it kept you feeling alone and isolated, and even your friends felt awkward whenever they would ask you to come and hang out when they invited their significant others. You wanted to see if there was a way you could at least lower the intensity of your phobia, you figured there was no way of truly curing you from it, so you heard through word of mouth of an incredibly talented doctor that could cure people of their worst fears.

You did try many other ways with much trial and error, so you were desperate to find a way to cure yourself from the panic attacks, you at least wanted that.

So your roommate set up an appointment and got you in to see the doctor this week, and here you sat before him, curled into yourself on the plush chair in front of his desk.

"Hello, I'm Doctor Andover, you must be Y/L/N," he greeted and held out his hand.

You took it hesitantly and shook it quickly, then retracted your hand almost as quickly as you offered it. You noted how soft his hand felt in yours but immediately shook that thought away.

"Hi," You replied simply. "I heard you're the best at helping cure people's fears. And I uh, well, mine is kinda heightened."

Doctor Andover chuckled and nodded as he sat back against his chair. "How kind of you to say," his voice replied smoothly. "I will admit, I do have a reputation to uphold, so I'm the ammunition to go to in these extreme situations." He leaned forward and looked at you over the glare of his glasses, giving you a small smile. "Well, it says here," he scammed his eyes over the paperwork you filled out, "that you have genophobia, the fear of sexual intercourse. It's very common in trauma patients, and also confused with erotophobia, which is the fear of any aspect of sex. There's also a common shared phobia of haphephobia, a fear of being touched. So tell me about it so we can make sure it's the right one we're treating."

You sat there uneasily and picked at the skin around your nails while you stared at the smooth surface of his desk. "Well, as a kid I wasn't really one to like hugs or kisses from family members and they found it odd, but they'd always say 'it was rude not to hug your aunt', so I was forced to hug my relatives up until I started fighting back physically. They stopped making me after an incident…

"And that's when…something else happened with a family member… I just don't wanna talk about that right now… but otherwise I was able to hold hands with someone when I was in high school, they asked me out and I wasn't sure which the right answer was, so I said yes. They wanted to take things so quickly, but I asked them to at least ask me when they wanted any affection. That didn't work out so well…"

Dr. Andover nodded along and kept solid eye contact with you as you spoke, and he kept an open mind when you kept your answers semi brief, he understood the gist of it. "Unfortunately that sounds all too common for your situation, Y/N, but we do have several options for people with your case. How far have you gone with someone you've been in a relationship with? As in, what did you do with them to the point you were okay with?"

You sighed and recalled your past. "I've held hands, been kissed on the cheek, and a few times on the lips, but after a while, I got very uneasy when my ex would force me to kiss them out in public. I haven't had actual sex with any of my exes, they either dumped me for not doing anything with them or I broke it off because they expected it whenever they wanted and I told them no."

You looked defeated and seemed as if you wanted to cry as you curled your legs closer to your chest. The doctor reread through your file and remained silent for a moment, gauging what exactly he could do here.

The way you looked at him though, he felt as if you trusted him wholly to help you, and he couldn't help but look at you as if you were such a fragile creature. Sure, he'd seen many walks of life in his office, but you were a very pure soul who looked for help and had been denied or let down so many times, he wanted to be the one to help you completely.

He leaned forward and let out a sigh as he thought, exhausting every idea he could in his mind until you spoke up.

"Doctor Andover-"

"Please," he interrupted you, "call me Peter."

"Okay, Peter, I know that my case is extreme, but if you can't help me, I'd understand. I just want to be able to enjoy my life to its fullest, you know?"

His eyes stared down at you and he couldn't help but smile. "I know, which is why I'm willing to personally see your case over. This is an escalated situation and you're so young, you deserve to feel everything that's included in that. But you have to trust me, and if you can't continue with our sessions, I want you to be one hundred percent honest with me, okay?"

You nodded and felt that you could absolutely trust him, especially when so many people had recommended him to help with your fears, it would be stupid not to trust him.

For the next week, he oversaw your treatments and you had gotten into the large tank he had, wondering just how something like this would help you, but you listened and did everything he asked. But as time went on, nothing really helped you and you'd get incredibly anxious whenever you came out of treatment, but you found yourself to be calm around Doctor Andover. He would sit with you for long periods of time in your room, talking about his work or just talking about you and the things you enjoyed in life.

He definitely wasn't expecting the next sentence to come out of your mouth, though.

He looked shocked as if he couldn't comprehend whatever he was hearing. "I beg your pardon?"

"Look, I know it's sorta drastic and a little weird, but it makes sense, right?" You sat up straight and looked at him expectantly. "How else am I supposed to move forward if nothing else is working?"

"To be clear, you're asking me to, uh, assist you personally in overcoming this fear?"

You nodded matter-of-factly and placed your shaky hand over his. "I haven't felt this comfortable with anyone in a very long time, so maybe you are the answer."

"I'm the treatment for you," he repeated. Then he laughed nervously and pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose and sat there wordlessly. "I will be quite honest with you, Y/N, I did feel a connection to you when I first met you in my office, but after hearing exactly why you were here, I couldn't exploit that. I've never done this before with a client."

"Hmm, I don't believe that, you're incredibly handsome…" You shifted closer to him on your bed and bit your lip gently, chewing on it as you sat beside him closer than you ever thought possible. "I appreciate that Doctor, I really do. But I've been thinking a lot about this, and if you think this is too extreme, I'd understand."

He turned to look at you and actually took in your features for the first time this close. He wasn't sure how to react around someone of your caliber, but he'd be sure to take things slow and use open communication.

"Alright, well, I'll tell you before I'm about to do anything, okay? I'll be sure to walk you through it, but for now, you can close your eyes and concentrate on the sound of my voice. Breathe in and out slowly several times, then look at me when you're ready."

You nodded and shifted to look directly at him, the white wisps of hair that hung around his face covered some of his features, but it all soon went black as soon as you closed your eyes. You trusted him and he wouldn't steer you wrong. Then you took several long, deep breaths and opened your eyes again.

Peter had to fight the urge and the uncomfortable strain in his dress pants as he thought about you in so many ways, but he promised you he'd take care of you and that's what he'd do. He smiled and spoke gently.

"I'm going to grab your hand and hold it, okay? Just simply hold it. If you want me to remove my hand, please tell me."

You watched as he reached for your hand and placed it in his, his fingers entwined with yours and held them softly. You breathed in and out slowly, convincing yourself that this wasn't the end of the world, he was just holding your hand. Another platonic action that many people did.

You smiled and nodded at him, urging Peter to continue. He began to stroke your hand with his thumb, taking it slow and easy for you, and his intense eyes were on you, waiting for any indication of discomfort. When you gave none, he upped the stakes and allowed his hand to skate up your arm, letting it rest on your elbow as he urged you to scoot forward.

"Please tell me if-"

"I will," you breathed, "promise. Just please, keep going."

Doctor Andover pulled you forward until you sat in his lap, and that was one of the biggest steps you've taken so far, and you felt no discomfort while you were here with him. You slipped your legs on either side of him and sat comfortably straddling him, your heartbeat quickened as you felt him beneath you, shifting from how uncomfortable his election was becoming. You could see his breathing hitch whenever you moved against him, you could tell he wanted you badly.

The sounds that came from him only made you want to continue, and it was incredibly hard to push yourself to do this, but the way Peter allowed you to take control over him like this had really helped you, taking your actions at your own pace was something you never really had the option for. While you watched his face relax as your hand drifted down his chest, your attention was stolen once he made a very guttural growl as your hand barely touched just an inch away from his inner thigh. You could tell the pain he was in when you saw just how tight his pants were, so you placed your hand on his belt buckle.

"Did you want me to take these off? You seem to be in some discomfort," you smiled and tugged at the belt.

"Yes, oh my god, please," he begged, his breathing picked up once your hands fumbled with the black leather, but he watched intently.

He sprang out from his pants, his underwear already ruined with pre cum seeping through. You weren't sure how to really handle yourself for this, so you looked up to him and bit your lip. "I'm not really sure how to continue, show me?"

God, he was having a hell of a time trying not to pin you down and take you all for himself, your innocence only made him hungrier for it. He hadn't been touched in a long time by someone else and it showed.

"We-well, you can go about it several ways," he began, "it all depends on you though. Foreplay is uh, important, it helps prep both people for one another. So if you were to either lick your hand or spit in it and then slowly start stroking, it-"

You cut him off by placing your hand on it and stroked him gently just once, and Peter threw his head back, letting out a low moan. You then licked your hand like he explained and experimented again, stroking him once, twice, and he was already bucking his hips upward.

"I'm sorry!" He barked. "It just feels so amazing, you're doing so-so well. Did you want to stop?" He brought his head back to look at you and you shook your head.

"I think I want to try," you said firmly. "Please let me know if I'm doing it right." You pushed yourself off of him and began to strip, naturally, his eyes were on you and he fought hard against helping you.

When you were standing bare before him, you felt yourself slowly leaking down the sinside of your thighs, Peter took notice of it immediately and licked his lips as you climbed back on top of him.

"Can I sit on you?" You asked softly.

He held out his hands and helped you ease yourself onto his cock, the groan that tore from his throat was almost animalistic as you sunk down slowly onto him, he stretched you out and you took your time to fully push him all the way in until he was buried inside of you. You leaned forward and sighed as your head rested on his shoulder, just easing yourself into this as your hands began to shake a little.

"Am I doing good?"

"Fuck, Y/N, you're doing so good, ahh, yeah just take it one step at a time. When you're ready, you can rock your hips and go at your own pace."

You did as he told you and slowly, you began to gently rock back and forth against him, and you felt that the way he stretched you out felt better than you expected. Peter's hands sat on either side of your waist and he couldn't help but tighten his grip whenever you pushed yourself fully back onto him.

You let out a few muffled sounds of your own and moaned his name, which he found incredibly hot.

"Yeah, I love when you call out my name like that," he purred as he threw his head back.

"Mhm, I think I like calling it out," you confessed. "Ahh, Peter, please, show me how it's done, fuck-"

At that, he warned that he was going to have you move to where your back was against his chest, then he eased himself back inside of you, his hands on both of your thighs. While he lay back against the mattress, he thrust his hips upward as he held you still, and the feeling of him constantly hitting your spot just right over and over again drove you wild.

"Oh my god, Peter- FUCK!"

He slowed as he was about to ask you if he should continue, but you bounced your hips against him, causing him to stop mid-sentence.

"Don't stop, please, keep going!"

He continued to thrust upward into you, his hands gripping your chest, your arms, anywhere that he could hold onto you so you wouldn’t slip. He was so close to his end but knew better than to ruin you the first time, so he begged you to slow down so he could reposition you again. When you knew that he was close, you lay back against your mattress and stared up at him, his face was slick with sweat while his hair clung to him, and his breathing was heavy as he took a moment to check on you.

“You’re still okay?” he asked softly.

You nodded and gave him a gentle smile. “Yeah, I feel… I don’t know how to explain it, but I feel that I can trust you.” You reached your hand up and played a bit with his hair. “It’s almost like I didn’t even think that my phobia was real…” Your words trailed off while Peter leaned in close to you, his face shifted from thoughtful to kind.

He stroked the side of your face and smiled before asking once again if you wanted to continue, and once you gave him the go-ahead, he slowly eased himself back inside of you, the feeling of you clenching around him made him shutter. You reached your arms around him and held him to you as he began to build his pace up again, and you could feel yourself getting that odd feeling in the pit of your stomach. Peter warned you again that he was getting close, his voice almost taken from him as he groaned your name over and over again.

“Y/N, I’m going to– ahh fuck, I’m about to cum,” he growled.

“Then cum, Peter, please.”

He quickly pulled out from you and wrapped his hand around his cock, the pressure that built up during your session finally released all over your bare chest and stomach, his heavy panting and pathetic groans filling the room. You hadn’t been completely satisfied yet, but you didn’t expect to be, this was only the first time you were able to push this experiment onto him.

Doctor Andover collapsed beside you on the bed and couldn’t help but lift his head to look at you. “I’m sorry it didn’t go as long as it could have, like I said, it’s–”

You laughed and shook your head. “Are you kidding? This was the first time I’d done anything like this in so long, I don’t expect either of us to know what the hell we were doing. But I want to thank you for indulging my silly treatment idea, it’s definitely shown me it’s possible that I can trust someone.”

He smiled and let out a breathy laugh. “Guess you could say I’ll have to keep providing you this treatment, hmm, Y/N?”

With a large smile, you turned away and stared up at the ceiling, your heart still pounding wildly as you lay there. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

This was going to prove to be a very interesting session.

#tinalbion writings #anon request #slasher requests #slasher community #slasher fandom #slashers x reader #slashers imagines #slashers headcanons #peter andover #doctor andover #fear clinic #peter andover x reader #peter andover imagine #peter andover headcanons #peter andover x you #gender neutral insert

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jiminrings · 4 years ago

Note

I REQUEST A SOFT BADBOY DRABBLE WITH SHY READER AND HES TEASING HER BUT SOMEONE ELSE JOIMS IN AND THEYRE DOING IT TO BE MEAN BUT HES LIKE STFU BEFORE I PUMCH UR FACE ONLY IM ALLOWED TO BULLY SHY READER GRR 😡😡😡😡 and soft readers like 0.o but *squeals incoherently* 😭😭😭😭

last name, jeon.

drabble week: day two

drabble week masterlist

pairing: badboy!jungkook x shy!reader

wordcount: 3k

glimpse: "can't you tell that i really don't want you to be here?"

notes: a tiny change on the plot!! also: frat boy!jimin from day four makes an appearance :D

feedback + support mean the world to me!!

“do you wanna form-“

... yes

you DO have an alliance with jungkook

it's a very fair trade honestly

he pretends to be your boyfriend!! there's no specific boundaries to it, but he springs into action as soon as you're put into an inconvenience

in exchange, you whore him out to your friends!!! :D

no but literally that's how he called it

the whole reason this came to be in the first place is because you hATE confrontation with a burning passion

especially when it comes to those "i have a crush on you" moments that people spring on you all of a sudden

you don't like them back!!! that's the truth!!! but the problem is that you aLWAYS feel guilty letting people down

you obviously don't have the obligation to like someone back just because you sit next to them in class :// IT'S JUST IN YOUR NATURE TO FEEL THAT WAY

you wouldn't get into a relationship with said confessor to ease your guilt, clearly

do you plan on denying their advances? yes

but hOW????

you always take the passive-aggressive approach

you get jungkook to carry your bag and hold your hand, walk in front of said person and pretend not to see them, jungkook makes sURE to put some snide eye contact in there aaaaand the whole ordeal is finished :D

you've managed to let someone down slowly without having to speak to them in-person!!!

jungkook comes more handy than that too

you take him when you want to eat out because you're too anxious to eat alone

you take him when you want to go somewhere in which lining up is essential and you're also too anxious to stand by yourself

you take him when you want to go shopping when there's a sale but you're almost always intimidated by the barrage of people and salespeople so he asks and answers the questions for you

jungkook, in hindsight, is the perfect fake boyfriend for you <3

ALSO jungkook wants something from you

"whore me out to the girls from the families your family's friends with, and it's a deal :D"

that alliance and exchange is going pretty well so far

you mAY be on the more-reserved side but that doesn't mean you're self-aware!!!

you know that your parents are loaded and your shy nature could be somehow chalked to that since you didn't really have anyone that wasn't as non-superficial as you'd like, since they were the overprotective helicopter two-rotor seven-blade parents :(((

jungkook, however, is the only constant you have in your formula

you've known him since childhood and have been friends ever since

his mom's your mom's personal assistant, and one day when mrs. jeon couldn't find a babysitter for jungkook, your mom didn't hesitate to let four-year old jungkook come with her to work

jungkook's your fIRST actual friend that hates gold spoons with you because of how tacky they look :-) he's your emotional support person basically

your emotional support person who was sO close to running late from picking you up during his free day >:( you were about to break into a sprint if he arrived a second later, because you managed to spot a jock coming to you from the corner of your eye awhile ago

You Do Not Like Him <3

"and i even changed into a short-sleeved shirt to ward off your suitors. how romantic of me, don't you think?"

now that he mentions it, it's only now when you can drink him in in full-display

... wow

his right arm's the only one with his tattoos while his left's completely blank, but something about the balance just makes you !!!!!!!! even more

his arm's not completely covered but it was coming to be, something about the blank spaces of skin that are yet to be inked being a nice touch

"very romantic, kook."

now tHAT'S the answer he wanted to hear

he forcibly on your helmet for you to showcase, your grunts of annoyance being drowned out by whistling

(he's even looking left and right and making eye contact with anyone who has their eyes landing on you!!!!)

your cheeks smushed is a look he'll never be tired being in awe of, but he'll never tell you that, of course

"do you ever wonder if your parents would kill me if i misplace even a single hair on you?" jungkook thinks out loud and you don't even flinch with how sudden his thoughts could be, sitting on his seat first so it'd already be balanced when you do, "you sure you’re okay riding with me?? on a motorcycle????"

he usually uses yOUR family's vehicles (they let him and insisted he just takes one at this point) but when you called him, he was en route to kim kradle (it's a one-stop vehicle shop apparently) to get new rims for his motorcycle, bUT NOT ANYMORE HE GUESSES????

you come first compared to the booking he's waited on for three weeks

"i have insurance, i think."

no that's the wrong answer

why did you even bother.,,.,

jungkook flicks your nose because your forehead's protected by the helmet, his face contorted in half faux frustration

"you were supposed to be mad at me for asking that — not logical!! don't even joke about that."

"... my life insurance? like, in the instance that i-"

oW THAT HURT

he flicked even harder this time!!!

you roll your eyes at him and it doesn't go unnoticed, a hand outstretching instead of his fingers flexing

“wallet, please.”

????

jungkook's surprised that you even look confused, this time rolling his eyes at you

“you rolled your eyes at me. you need to bribe me so i won’t rat you out.”

right

he has a never-ending knack for the you're rich jokes

you also know that he likes the cold and would turn the fan on even if it's too hot for a blanket, just because he wants to feel cocooned

you also know that he picks from the fourth row of drinks from the front because it's always been a habit

("the germs cling on to the first row!!!")

you also know that maybe, just maybe, you can't stand it tonight when he's putting himself out there instead of being your faux boyfriend

you keep on zoning out and hoseok, perhaps the only tolerable fellow rich kid you can tolerate within your circle, finally connects the dots in his head and snickers

he's been talking about finding the vintage sneakers he's always wanted on depop and how he almost got scammed for like tWENTY minutes already

in reality, all your nods and scowls aren't towards his story

it's to jungkook and... who's that? jihye whose dad is so colossally shitty, that this one rapper wrote a diss song for him? oh yeah, that jihye

"you like him. like actually 'lose your virginity to him' love him."

WHAT???

there's no way

"how did you-"

"you blush like one."

alright that answer was too quick

hoseok should've ATLEAST tried to wait for a few seconds before answering

"a-and the love part?"

"babe, jungkook may not be the richest one here and that should say a lot," you peer up at him nervously and he actually chuckles, peering to everyone at this function, "dude's humble — he could also just be dense to not see you love him."

okay very true

hobi's making a dig rn at how jungkook coinicidentaally happens to be blonde and maybe this is your cue to leave

hobi does not realize that his hair is aLSO dyed blonde while talking shit about jungkook and his hari

okay this is it

once again, you are NOT listening to hoseok and he's figured out what you're doing by now

you're psyching yourself up with a couple of shots and your heels are digging on the carpeted ballroom

MAYBE YOU SHOULD TRY TO BE MORE OUTGOING!!

"pretend to wobble. it doesn't help that nothing can sink you."

oh okay makes sense

if you're gonna try and charm jungkook while trying to play it off as just being tipsy playfulness, atleast make it believable

hoseok snickers because this is just A+ content with the things that you choose to do in your way

shy girl with high alcohol tolerance mannn coming of age film writers would LOVE you ://

you're about to cross the distance between you and jungkook, but something knocks you on your shoulder with a gentle force that seemed intentional

is that-

hold on a second

"what a coincidence :O"

jimin?

jimin???

as in, wholesome yet slightly fuckboy-ish frat guy jimin???

he looks dashing and composed, meeting your eyes perfectly and he doesn't let your confusion startle him

"i know that look. what am i doing here?"

he says it eloquently as if he's practiced it

AND HE DID!!!

you must've looked so shocked that you immediately apologized, shaking your head no

"i-i didn’t mean-..."

you're confused, sure, but that doesn't mean you're immediately judging

it's just that you never saw jimin here or any function of the like, but you wouldn't put it past him if he does go to these things!!! he looks like a million dollars anyways

"relax, doll. you’re so far the only other person i know that i've seen in these type of things."

he looks calm and collected, but maybe that's just because he spent the last five minutes waiting for you to stand so he could bump into you

this place is just sO suffocating and a familiar face is gonna be his relief from something so fancy that it became mundane

"have we been in the same event before this?"

"not that i recall, no. i get invited but this is only the first time after awhile that i went."

jimin drinks from his champagne flute, wiggling his eyebrows playfully, "wanna know why i'm here?"

you're curious!!! what can you say!!!!

you never really interacted with jimin at all before this, but a familiar face like his is comforting

because hoseok's already engaged in another conversation and jungkook's,,,, being jungkook and is fawning all over jihye

jimin chuckles at your insistent nodding, leaning closer to whisper to your ear

"my stepdad’s loaded as fuck."

oh so that's why

he tugs you down to sit at the nearest possible empty chairs, all its occupants gone anyways because they're in the dancefloor busting tRULY horrendous moves

maybe it's because jimin feels lonely too like you are, and it's him feeling comfortable because he's pulled you like ten seconds ago and not once asked him anything out of bounds

maybe that's why he fell into conversation with you easily because you're always intently listening

"might love me as a real son too. maybe that’s a bonus? you don’t really expect that shit in the things you see."

this situation is actually pretty cute

you snort because maybe you’re nOT that shy when you drink,, that’s the only thing that changes in you probably

this whole conversation that sprung from boredom was unknowingly the subject of many stares, including jungkook who you were initially supposed to go to

“you’re worthy of love, jimin.”

jimin sPITS his drink because where the fuck did THAT come from???

why did you say that and why does he feel that he needed to hear that

“i-i think — i think you need more,” he raises his own glass to your lips hurriedly, caught in surprise but you still gulp nonetheless

“you’re-“ you keep sputtering as he keeps making you drink, but he rubs circles on your back at the same time and it's when you realize that jimin the frat guy may not be that bad, “what??? don’t think you’re not the only one with daddy issues! shouldn’t we have like, a radar for each other?”

jimin snorts at your counter and his eyes crinkle to the point where he can't see anything, not being able to see how you're still trying to recover with all that fizz down your throat

wow ur really enjoyable to talk to

“you’re insane and i think-“

listen

you're not really big on feeling beyond a sense and all that stuff, but you feel as if the aura around you just got dark all of a sudden

"who are you calling insane?"

jungkook appears at your side in an instant, hands wrapped around your shoulders while you remain seated

you've honestly forgotten that you were supposed to go to jungkook, but you're reminded of that vERY clearly now

"go away, jimin," he mutters through his teeth, looking at him dead in the eye

hold on

wait

THAT'S JIMIN???

okay now he's confused

sometimes jungkook's mouth just moves on its own without loading the thought process

"why are YOU here?"

jimin furrows his brows, shocked that he'd even see jungkook here out of all people

the guy barely even attends classes!!! and that's coming from him!!

"why’s he here?"

he crouches to your ear, eyes still furrowed at the younger guy

"long story."

nO???

jungkook scowls bitterly because jesus fuck

YOU’RE ON WHISPERING TERMS NOW????

he left for one second, and the moment he comes back, that's when this fucking frat guy approaches you?? was he waiting on him to leave??

you and jungkook only act as a couple when the need arises, and even if you don't feel it, hE feels that this is the need!!! this is the need and it is arising!!!

"get back to uh, alpha bravo charlie or something, park. beat it."

why’s he reciting the nato phonetic alphabet???

jungkook sounds half-angry and half-sad at the same time, and you don't know which side should you focus on

“move,” he repeats this time again but more sternly, making jimin much more confused since jungkook's trying to pull him away from his seat

jimin doesn't budge and it makes the frown even more evident in jungkook's face

what is he FEELING

“can’t you tell that i really don’t want you to be here?”

“i’m not here for you, though. i’m here for y/n.”

he answers honestly, shis gut telling him that there's definitely something going on between the two of you

“y/n doesn’t want you here," kook argues back surely, only noticing your bitten lips now that makes him realize that you're not exactly sober; just a happy kind of rush

he sees you raise your hand timidly, an equally cheeky smile on your face that's only directed to jungkook like it's meant for him

"i-i actually don’t mind."

you don't,,,

you don't mind?

HOW'S THAT POSSIBLE

WHAT ARE YOU DOING

why aren't you signaling him to commence the faux boyfriend act!!

"y/n has a boyfriend."

“... i’m not hitting on her.”

alright this is more than the entertainment that jimin wished for lol

“yeah, well she has a boyfriend still so beat it.”

you do??

the last time you checked, jihye's gonna have jungkook as her boyfriend within the night!!

“i don-“

ALRIGHT THEN

jimin decides to indulge jungkook, knocking his knee with yours as he winks slyly, urging you silently to watch on, turning to look at you and ask

“what’s your boyfriend’s name?”

you don't answer.

that gives him all the more reason to do so.

“last name, jeon.”

jungkook looks the most determined you've ever seen him, eyes characteristically angry with his arms across his chest that his suit tightens, “first name, me.”

....

......

the three of you know that’s not the truth

jimin takes it in, sighing when he sense that something else is about to be unfold and he does noT want to be a part of it

not before whispering to your ear again for the last time, of course

“pretty weird name if you ask me,” you laugh automatically, momentarily forgetting that jungkook's standing by you on just your opposite side and could hear you

he leaves and that only leaves you with jungkook, looking up at him as he's too frantic to even sit

“what are you doing?”

“being a social butterfly," you quip just as fast, drinking your water afterwards

jungkook only clenches his jaw by then, being taken-aback when you speak again

“who are you doing?”

://

“i’m busy being mad at- wait a minute, WHO???”

who instead of what??

the short-lived enthusiasm you had with jimin left with him, crashing just as hard when you're reminded of jungkook's presence

“jihye’s a pretty nice girl. you should go home early tonight.”

his brows furrow, trying to get you to look at him but you avoid his gaze insistently, “what? what are you talking about?”

“she’s not my girlfriend though.”

you're not at all satisfied with the answer because it sounds so wrong, knowing that jungkook's a handsome guy and everyone wants to be with him!!!

and he probably wants to be with everyone else besides you.

“then who-...”

“don’t know yourself anymore? jimin must’ve really swept you off your feet, huh?”

jungkook huffs as he qualifies for a rebutt, your internal wallowing being cut short

“he’s not my boyfriend.”

...

....

“well would you look at that,” jungkook snickers, sighing through his nose as your eyes finally meet his, directly stubborn yet soft around the edges

“she’s not my girlfriend, and he’s not your boyfriend. what a coincidence.”

god did he feel so threatened the moment his eyes couldn't find you besides hobi and instead next to jimin, eyes crinkled in laughter without hesitation

have you been chasing after one another this whole time?

jungkook silently grabs you by the hand and you wave no opposition to it

maybe it's your liquor-influenced vision or maybe it's you hyperfixating on such a warm moment, but your eyes immediately lock to see the matching red thread bracelet he wore like yours

you're dressed in next year's spring collection line, and the structured silk black gown that has a train behind it doesn't exactly scream to have a simple red thread bracelet as its accessory according to your mom's designer and everyone else —

but you don't have the heart to take it off

there's no need to take it off

jungkook drives your car and no one says a single thing about anything

his hand’s on your thigh and you don’t question it, eyes locking into the way his hand looks perfect and the way the bracelet looks meant to be wrapped in his wrist in the first place

you're sure this time that it's not the newfound courage you have, but rather the need to do it

you kiss jungkook's cheek on a red light.

it's on a red light that jungkook realizes he could fit the visage of his world within one hand, finally kissing you like he's always wanted to

“yeah. what a coincidence.”

#drabble week #jungkook imagine #jungkook imagines #jungkook oneshot #jungkook oneshots #jungkook x reader #jungkook x y/n #jungkook au #jungkook headcanons #jungkook fanfic #jeon jungkook imagine #jungkook angst #jungkook angst imagine #jungkook fluff #jeon jungkook oneshots

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robininthelabyrinth · 3 years ago

Note

Prompt~ hoping you'll like it ♥️

Things between the Nie brothers are not always nice and happy, they fight, just like any other pair of brothers, and sometimes things are said, sometimes these things are heavy and painful. Sometimes they're said in the wrong moment (maybe at the eve of a battle? Sunshot campaign?) and huaisang doesn't know what to do with the broken look his brother gives him before leaving the unclean realm. Because what if he doesn't return? What if the last thing he said to him was how much he hated the man he became?

Labyrinth - ao3

“But I didn’t mean to wish him away!” Nie Huaisang cried out.

“That’s really too bad,” the goblin king said, looking pleasant and humble and charming the way he always did, even in his cape of glittering gold and high-browed hat. “I wish there was something I could do for you, but the rules are the rules. You wished him away, and I took him.”

“Aren’t you supposed to only take babies?” Nie Huaisang demanded.

“Your brother’s enough of a crybaby to count, it’s close enough.”

“It is not!” Nie Huaisang wrung his hands. “You don’t understand, the last thing I said to him was that I hated him! Meng Yao, please!”

“It’s Jin Guangyao,” the goblin king corrected. His smile looked a bit strained. “Listen, do you think I’m happy about this? He’s my sworn brother! I’m only doing what I have to –”

“Oh, save it for Lan Xichen,” Nie Huaisang growled. “Show me the labyrinth already.”

“You’re going to face the labyrinth,” the goblin king said. His voice was very polite, and yet still expressed significant doubt. “You.”

“Yeah, me!”

“You remember that it goes ‘through dangers untold and hardships unnumbered’, right? Not ‘through a nice teacher and a forgiving grading system’?”

“Yeah, well, your father is a fragging aardvark. Let me at the labyrinth already!”

“You know what,” Nie Huaisang said thoughtfully. “Thanks, but no thanks.”

The life-sized animated puppet blinked at him. “You – don’t want my help?”

“Nope. I’m good.”

“You haven’t even gotten into the labyrinth yet!”

“It wouldn’t be fair if I didn’t have a chance to get in,” Nie Huaisang said, patting around his sleeve and pulling out a fan. “So I’m just going to walk over and beat at the wall till something happens.”

The puppet followed him, staring blankly. Quite a change from his original apologetic ‘I’m sorry, I’m busy with my own things, I really can’t help you, also it’s too dangerous and you shouldn’t go’ response.

“You were blackmailing me to help you just a moment ago,” the puppet said after a little. “Don’t you need a guide?”

“Listen, I’m bad at memorizing things and I’m a little useless, but I’m not actually dumb,” Nie Huaisang said, fanning himself. “Jin Guangyao is a demon of the mind above all else, and the labyrinth is supposed to be ‘fair’ – which means, more than likely, that the labyrinth is a reflection of the subconscious, specially tailored to each person’s strengths and weaknesses. And that means that you, who sound exactly like Lan Xichen, are almost certainly a set-up sent by Jin Guangyao to ‘reluctantly’ aid me and then betray me.”

“Uh,” Lan Xichen-the-puppet said. “My name’s Hoggle, actually.”

“Whatever makes you feel better, er-ge…A-ha!” Nie Huaisang beamed at the gates that automatically opened. “Perfect!”

“Oh, don’t go that way,” the worm said. “Never go that way. And are you sure you don’t want to come in for a cup of tea?”

“No time,” Nie Huaisang said. “Thanks a lot – wait.”

The worm blinked at him.

“You’re a pretty attractive worm, in a slimy sort of way,” Nie Huaisang said, frowning at him.

The worm blinked again. “Why, thanks!”

“No, that’s not what I meant. Is your name Su She, by chance?”

“Definitely not!”

“Mm. Oddly vehement of you. Never mind. Just, quick, could you tell me exactly why do I not want to go that way?”

“I don’t suppose straight ahead is an option?”

The hands-faces stared at him.

“I’m just saying, I feel like most of my problems so far have come from the fact that I decided to accept the whole concept of turns. It seems like a mistake.”

“…it’s a labyrinth,” another set of the hands said. “You have to make turns!”

Nie Huaisang shook his head mournfully. “I should’ve brought Baxia or something and just – ZIP. Gone straight through. You know what I mean?”

“I’m dropping you in the oubliette regardless of your decision,” the first set of the hands said. It sounded a bit like Sect Leader Yao. “Just so you know.”

“My life is so hard,” Nie Huaisang sighed. “So hard! Do you know what it’s like to be overlooked by everyone? Do you know how hard I have to work at being this useless?”

“Drop him,” the set of hands that sounded like Sect Leader Ouyang said, and the set of hands that sounded like Sect Leader Yao said, “Yes. Now!”

Down Nie Huaisang went.

“I can take you back to the beginning of the labyrinth,” Lan Xichen offered.

“What, and waste all that time? I have a time limit, er-ge!”

“It’s better than being stuck in an oubliette. That’s where they put people to forget about them, you know.”

Nie Huaisang’s eyes filled with tears. “You want to forget me, er-ge? You think I’m useless, don’t you? A good-for-nothing, who’ll never amount to anything –”

“Please don’t cry.”

“ER-GE! WHY DON’T YOU LOVE ME!”

“Please stop crying!”

“So what’s the point of you?” Nie Huaisang asked the Wise Man with the Talking Hat.

“Not everyone exists to contribute to your storyline,” the Talking Hat snapped at him. “Some of us’ve got our own problems. Now hand over the candy!”

“Don’t be mean,” the Wise Man said. He had a white cloth over his eyes, and was smiling like he found the hat funny.

“Awww, but daozhang…!”

“Different plotline entirely, I guess,” Nie Huaisang decided. “Probably just here as a foil. Shall we keep going, er-ge?”

“I can’t believe you scammed me to get out of the oubliette,” Lan Xichen mumbled. “I can’t believe…”

“Oh, leave him alone, he’s just sensitive!” Nie Huaisang snapped.

“Am not!” the upside-down creature snarled, curled up on itself and trying to hide from all those that had been hitting him. Its fur was a vivid sort of purple. “Go away!”

“Don’t you have some sort of special power to help you here,” Nie Huaisang asked him as he tried to get him down before the goblins came back with weapons. “Rocks, maybe?”

“…lightning?”

“Well then get to it, will you?” Nie Huaisang frowned. “Wait. Lightning, constantly being tormented, terrible at communication, and purple? You’re Jiang Cheng, aren’t you?”

“…maybe.”

“Well then get down faster! I need to copy someone’s notes here!”

“Leave me aloooooooone!” Nie Huaisang howled, running away from the measuring snake.

“Wow,” Lan Xichen said, holding his cheek. “You kissed me.”

“You saved me from the snakes,” Nie Huaisang said. “Can we focus on how we’re in this awful stinking bog?”

“It’s not that bad!” a voice piped up. “I don’t smell anything!”

Nie Huaisang turned to stare, then pinched the bridge of his nose. “Of course you don’t,” he said. “I bet the total absence of a sense of smell helps when you eat spicy food, Wei-xiong.”

“There’s nothing wrong with spicy food!”

“You’re short,” Nie Huaisang informed the small goblin-like creature with the big grin and the red ribbon in its hair. It looked vaguely fox-like, or possibly like certain large breeds of rabbit.

“Why you..!” Wei Wuxian crossed his furry little paws over his chest. “Just for that, I’m not going to help you.”

“Uh-huh,” Nie Huaisang said. “Really. That’s awful…oh no! A dog!”

Wei Wuxian jumped high into the air. “A dog?! Lan Zhan, Lan Zhan! Save me!”

Much to Nie Huaisang’s surprise, a furry dog immediately darted out of nowhere – only Wei Wuxian didn’t seem afraid of it, but rather hid behind it, teeth chattering.

Truly, Nie Huaisang reflected, the eyes of love are blind.

“I think the ‘dog’ is gone now,” he said. “Your brave and noble Lan Wangji must’ve scared him away.”

Wei Wuxian’s head popped out from behind dog-Wangji. “Well, Lan Zhan is really cool…hey. Are you trying to manipulate me?”

“Is it working?”

“No!”

“So you won’t help me?”

“No!”

“Not even if it means you get to figure out a really tricky puzzle?”

“No – wait. A puzzle?”

“I can’t believe this is going to work,” Lan Xichen muttered from behind Nie Huaisang. “I mean, I can. But also…Wangji…I love you, but you could do so much better than this.”

“Ugh,” Nie Huaisang said. “I’m so thirsty.”

“Have some Emperor’s Smile,” Lan Xichen said, offering a jar.

“Amazing,” Nie Huaisang said, accepting it and taking a swing. “I had my doubts, you know, but you’re actually good for something after all, er-ge –”

The golden bird was Nie Huaisang’s favorite.

He’d worked so hard to bring it back to his aviary – it couldn’t be forced, he knew; it would play along at first but in the end it would turn on you and bite you. It had to be coaxed with gentleness and kindness, approached indirectly so as not to spook it, convince it that you really did mean well – that you were harmless, that it had no reason to fear you. It was arrogant, too, proud of its shining feathers and ashamed of the brown plumage of its chick days, which still remained visible on its tender underbelly. Ironically, that was Nie Huaisang’s favorite part of it, the soft and gentle part; it might not be as pretty as the gold, but it felt more genuine.

Nie Huaisang smiled as he brushed the beautiful feathers, and the golden bird allowed him. He felt cherished, treasured. So what if he had to hide all the sharp parts of himself to get this close?

It was fine. He didn’t like to be sharp.

He wanted to be soft. Soft and gentle, careless and free, relaxed and without effort, good for nothing –

Wait.

No!

“It’s all junk,” Nie Huaisang hissed at the pile of burning fans, tears in his eyes. “I want my da-ge!”

“You’re all right!” Wei Wuxian exclaimed, helping pulled Nie Huaisang up.

“Huaisang-xiong,” Jiang Cheng said, looking relieved. “You’re back.”

“We have to go to the temple beyond the Goblin City,” Nie Huaisang said, teeth gritted together. “We have to. I won’t let that bastard…we’re going to go there and throw all his damned tricks right in his face!”

“Just us?” Wei Wuxian asked. “I mean, I’m awesome, Lan Zhan is fantastic, and of course Jiang Cheng is great, too, but…uh…there’s a lot of goblins in the city.”

“We’ll sneak in,” Nie Huaisang said. “He thinks he’s sidelined me entirely – he thinks I’m useless. He won’t be expecting me to get this far.”

“I can get help,” Jiang Cheng said. “I have friends.”

“…not to be rude, Jiang-xiong,” Nie Huaisang said. “But – really?”

“You know what,” Nie Huaisang said, eyeing the pile of rocks following Jiang Cheng around, each one painted with a name. One of the names was yellow. Two were in white, with forehead ribbons. “This is fine. I feel like it says something really rude about my empathy for and interest in our junior generation, or lack thereof, but you know what? I don’t care. It’s fine.”

“You saved me,” Nie Huaisang said blankly, looking at Lan Xichen, who shrugged, abashed. The remains of the mechanical temple guard were scattered all over. “Over – him?”

“Huaisang –”

“No,” Nie Huaisang said, holding up his hands. “Don’t. Don’t…I don’t want to hear you talk.”

Lan Xichen’s head dropped down and he looked at the ground. “You knew from the beginning what I was like,” he murmured. “I never tried to hide it –”

“I forgive you for being what you are,” Nie Huaisang told him, and Lan Xichen looked up at him, startled and pleased. “I forgive you for not having the backbone to stand up against Jin Guangyao for me – or for da-ge. For being willfully blind for so long, for needing someone else’s proof of his ill-intentions, for always picking him first, for never trusting me…I forgive you, even if you’d never forgive me for the same.”

He dashed away the angry tears in his eyes.

“I just wish this wasn’t a fucking metaphor.”

Nie Huaisang left the fighting to the people who knew what to do – Wei Wuxian, Lan Wangji, Jiang Cheng, even the rock-juniors – and went to the temple at the center of the city alone.

Some things, he knew, needed to be done alone, even if it was the type of alone when you were surrounded by other people. Even when those other people stood by his side and made him promise that if he needed them, he would only need to call. Some things…

“I want my da-ge back,” he said to the maze of stairs.

“Then go and find him,” Jin Guangyao replied, looking smug, and Nie Huaisang had to go up and down all those fucking stairs, because Jin Guangyao was nothing if not predictable with his trauma, looking all over, looking for –

Looking for pieces.

“It’s just a metaphor,” he whispered to himself, ignoring how tears were streaming down his face. “It’s just – I need to put him back together, it’s fine. I’m not too late – I’m not too late –”

Jin Guangyao held Nie Mingjue’s head in his hands, blinded and gagged and bound with talismans, pulled out of whatever oubliette he'd shoved it into to forget about what he'd done. “Beware, Huaisang,” he said, still smiling. Always smiling. “I’ve been generous up until now, but I can be cruel.”

Nie Huaisang laughed, scoffing. “Generous? What have you done for me that’s generous?”

“Everything! Everything you’ve wanted, I’ve done – I cared for you, I gave you attention, I got you out of work, doing your schoolwork for you and coming up with excuses to get you out of saber training. I gave you presents, fans and pretty clothing, and when that brute of a brother of yours tried to take them from you, I rescued you. And then I even managed your sect for you, answered all of your questions, any time you had – Huaisang, I’m exhausted trying to live up to your expectations of me. Isn’t that generous?”

Nie Huaisang bared his teeth. “Half of those are burdens that only fell on me because of you. Why should it matter to me that cleaning up your own mess and satisfying your own guilt is hard? Why should I pay such a price when all I wanted was to be your friend? When all da-ge wanted was to be your friend? How dare you, Meng Yao!”

“Huaisang…” Jin Guangyao shook his head mournfully. “Huaisang, the last step here is to say the words to break the spell. But you were never good at memorization, were you?”

Nie Huaisang bit his lip until he drew blood.

“Through dangers untold, and hardships unnumbered,” he said. “I have fought my way here to the temple beyond the goblin city –”

“Huaisang, stop! Look at what you’re risking here. You know how everyone loves me – do you think anyone will forgive you for taking me down, for tricking them all? You’ll be all alone!”

I already am, Nie Huaisang thought.

“My will is as strong as yours,” he said. “And my kingdom is as great…”

His voice trailed off.

“I ask for so little,” Jin Guangyao said beseechingly, convincingly, looking just like he always did, like the man who'd been their friend. “Just let me fool you, and you can have anything you want. No responsibilities, no stress, a life of your own. You can even have Lan Xichen, if that’s what you want…”

What’s the last line, Nie Huaisang thought, hating himself for being such a poor student, for cramming things into his mind without any order, for never being able to retain a single drop of it no matter how hard he tried. What is it? Why can’t I ever remember?

“It’d be so easy,” Jin Guangyao crooned. “Much easier than this. Just fear me, love me, believe me, and I’ll be your slave.”

Sharp teeth in a false smile.

Nie Huaisang shook in terror. He couldn’t – his da-ge needed him – he couldn’t be afraid, couldn’t be a coward, couldn’t be good-for-nothing – couldn’t let Jin Guangyao win – couldn’t let him –

That was it.

Nie Huaisang raised his head until his eyes met his enemy’s.

Sensing something wrong, Jin Guangyao’s eternal smile dimmed, and he began to step forward, reaching out, but it was too late.

“You have no power over me,” Nie Huaisang declared, and the world within a world collapsed.

Nie Huaisang opened his eyes.

Nie Huaisang sat in his desk in the Unclean Realm, trying to amuse himself by trying to figure out what exactly he’d eaten the night before that had given him such bizarre dreams. It was not successful, on account of him being alone.

Alone, just as he had been every night, and every day as well, since the success of his scheme at the Guanyin Temple.

Just as the dream-Jin Guangyao had threatened.

It wasn’t that Nie Huaisang regretted what he had done – the dream was clear enough about that; he’d do it all again in a heartbeat if he had to. But in the dream he’d been working alongside his former friends, with Lan Xichen betraying but then returning to him, with Wei Wuxian dragging Lan Wangji around, with stone-faced Jiang Cheng and the rather interchangeable junior squad behind him…and in his dream, in the end, they’d let him go to take his revenge, telling him that if he needed them for any reason, he could just call.

Just call, and they’d come back to him. Instead of turning from him in disgust, they’d stand by his side…

“Stupid subconscious,” Nie Huaisang mumbled to himself. “What do you expect? That I'd write to them and say ‘for no real reason at all, I find that I rather need you’?”

Silence answered him.

“Well, I do,” he said with a sigh, putting his chin on his hands. “Does that make you happy? I do need you.”

“You do?” Wei Wuxian’s voice rang out, and Nie Huaisang jumped nearly out of his skin. “Well, why didn’t you say so?”

Nie Huaisang turned, staring: it was Wei Wuxian at the door, the human version of him, and of course there was Lan Wangji right before him, and Jiang Cheng, and the (still mostly interchangeable) juniors, and – and even Lan Xichen, who Nie Huaisang was sure had gone into seclusion with no intent to leave.

“What are you doing here?” Nie Huaisang squeaked. And why hadn’t any of his sect disciples warned him?

“We just bullied our way though the door before anyone could stop us,” Wei Wuxian said cheerfully, answering the unspoken question first. “As for the rest – it turns out that I had the strangest dream the other night, really, truly bizarre, and obviously I had to tell Lan Zhan all about it, except it turned out he had a strange dream too.”

Nie Huaisang’s jaw dropped. “But –”

“I felt da-ge’s qi woven into the labyrinth,” Lan Xichen said quietly. “I thought it’d have long ago dissipated or been locked away, but – it was there, in every stone, in every turn. Every obstacle that didn’t really hurt you, every goblin that was more silly than scary…he was there. It was unmistakable.”

Nie Huaisang swallowed. The story of the labyrinth, baby-stealing wish-granting goblin king and all, had been one that Nie Mingjue had told him as a bedtime story, when he'd been a child in need of comfort; he hadn’t thought of it in years before last night. “But…why…?”

“Because Chifeng-zun has a demented sense of humor?” Jiang Cheng suggested, looking irritated.

“Jiujiu means that he hasn’t had that much fun in years, and also that you should throw a party,” Jin Ling said. “You are hosting all three of the sect leaders of all the other Great Sects. Also, why were we rocks?”

“Uh, no idea,” Nie Huaisang said. “Da-ge’s weird sense of humor, no doubt! Anyway, did you say party? I can do a party!”

He rushed out of the room, calling for his servants, calling for them to bring food and wine and tea, and as he did, he looked out of the window – a golden bird was flying away, looking hunted as if something was chasing it, and even as he watched, it crossed the borders of the Unclean Realm and suddenly dissolved into a fizzle of golden dust.

Nie Huaisang put his hand on the stone wall, and felt a familiar echo.

A very familiar echo.

“Oh,” he said, to his servants, feeling somehow simultaneously sheepish and filled with joy. “And while you’re at it, can you bring me my saber? I seem to have – misplaced it…”

#mdzs #nie huaisang #jin guangyao #lan xichen #jiang cheng #wei wuxian #lan wangji #su she #sect leader yao #sect leader ouyang #xiao xingchen #xue yang #my fic #my fics #labyrinth

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