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thelastofhyde · 2 years ago

Text

the likeability paradox.

pairing. joel miller x fem!reader

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

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

word count. 12.9k

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

read on ao3. series masterlist. next chapter.

Distaste is not new in the life of Joel Miller.

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

If anything, he’s made himself more empty.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Frank is quick to shush him.

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

There you sit, parallel to him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

With you as its protector.

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

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

But I could keep you safe.

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

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

He never imagined her working in a bank.

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

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

But you weren’t smiling.

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

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

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

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

He almost chokes on his own breath.

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

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

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

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

“Your watch, it’s broken.”

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

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

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

“I don’t keep it for the time.”

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

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

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

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

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

Nature falls silent.

Skies grow dull.

You juggle sadness.

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

Joel wonders what the mutt’s practicing for.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-N’t tell me you’re a virgin.

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

A protest rings true in his head and his ears.

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

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

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

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

Neither of you make any acknowledgement of him.

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

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

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

“You’ve got to be shittin’ me.”

“It bores me!”

“It bores you!?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

He does so, regardless.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And you’re the one to blame.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The currents grow more violent whenever he closes his eyes.

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

You take up no space of this room.

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

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

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

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

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

I don’t like you, Joel.

Those words stop him from trying.

He tells himself it’s for the best.

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

The refrigerator.

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

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

She never lived long enough to get either.

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

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

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

He curses Tess for teaching you such a nickname.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I don’t like you, Joel.

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

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

I don’t like you, Joel.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He scoffs, “I don’t.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not one bit.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s his turn to respond with a hum.

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

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

Even upside down, your beauty is striking.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He doesn’t specify.

He doesn’t need to.

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

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

You say nothing. Joel pulls harder.

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

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

“Who said anything about an offer?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

You breathe in, you breathe out.

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

Inhale, exhale.

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

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

Where he expects protest, he receives more breathing.

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

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

In and out, shaky breathing comes from above.

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

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

His fist curls tighter, pulls higher.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So he does the same.

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

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

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

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

A tongue meets skin.

The knife clatters onto the counter.

You lurch forward.

His hand pulls you back.

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

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

‘Could keep ya satisfied.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Except, the oven door is made of glass.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He hears you before he sees you.

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

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

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

So instead, it sends you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So he tries again, louder.

“Why don’t ya like me?”

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

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

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

"Answer the damn question, girl.”

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

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

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

Joel says nothing.

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

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

“A dress.”

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

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

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

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

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

His feet remain glued to the ground.

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

“She ain’t my-”

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

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

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

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

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

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

I don’t like you, Joel.

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

Till then, he needs to find a dress.

#joel miller smut #joel miller x reader #joel miller oneshot #joel miller fic #pedro pascal smut

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yeetskeetstreet · 2 years ago

Text

Accusations and Words | Daemon x Reader

I AM A SIMP FOR DAEMON RN.

S/N = son’s name

D/N = daughter’s name

if anyone wants me to make this a series, feel free to name the kids!

(Laena never married Daemon, their kids exist with an unnamed father, obvi no Rhaenyra & Daemon.)

This piece has no identifying features for reader other than a non-blonde hair colour, and is NOT of targaryen descent.

CONTENT WARNING: swearing, blood, child abuse, fighti- honestly, its game of thrones, lets be real here.

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

Y/N and Daemon burst into the hall, the doors flying open, (a knight behind said door was startled by their entrance).

Rhaenyra looked almost relieved as her uncle and his wife arrived after the handmaiden had been sent to fetch them. Luke was to her left, Jace in front of him, while Daemon and Y/N's son, of age ten, and daughter, of age seven stood to Rhaenyra's right. S/N held his sisters hand, as she hid behind him, her face buried into his back.

"S/N! D/N! What happened?" Y/N ran directly to her children, placing a hand on the side of her son's face, looking at his bruised eye and bloody nose. Her other hand briefly grabbed Rhaenyra's, squeezing it in thanks, for protecting her children.

Daemon, on the other hand, stood next to his wife, narrowed eyes aimed at Queen Alicent, taking in the sight of her enraged expression, and the Maester stitching up his beloved nephew.

D/N didn't move from behind her brother, while (S/N) looked at his mother, speaking to her quietly, "Aemond took Vhagar, he hit Rhaena and was going to kill Luke. He- He.." S/N looked down at his feet, "He called us bastards. Luke, Jace, Me and D/N. It was Jace's knife but I cut him I swear."

Y/N just nodded and sighed quietly, looking at her son before standing, S/N standing in between his mother and Rhaenyra.

Rhaenyra spoke calmly, "There was an incident involving the children. Jace and S/N... defended their siblings and Laena's daughters."

"Defended? Defended you say! My son has been maimed. Your sons are responsible. They were trying to kill him." Alicent almost squealed towards the family, Aemond refusing to turn to look at anyone, even his mother.

Y/N simply directed her daughter towards her father, who simply plucked the small child from the floor, tucking her head into his neck, holding her tightly.

Rhaenyra stood tall, "it was our son's who were attacked and forced to defend themselves. Vile insults were levied against them."

Y/N looked to Daemon who stood close to her right, it was an easy guess as to what these insults pertained too. Alicent had always whispered and questioned the legitimacy of both Rhaenyra and Y/N's children. While Rhaenyra's sons were clearly that of Ser Harwin Strong, (a fact Rhaenyra had been honest about to both Y/N and Daemon) they had all agreed to keep it a secret for the safety of her family.

Daemon was always angered by these rumours, his son carried her hair, both his children carried his pale complexion and his daughter had inherited his Targaryen locks. It was clear D/N was his child, a spitting image of Daemon with her mother's face. His son took Daemon's face, even his expressions the young boy had yet to learn to hide.

Viserys finally limped into the room, moving forward slowly away from the throne with his cane, "I will have the truth of what happened. Now."

The children in the room burst into words, Aemond yelling how he was attacked for no reason, Rhaena and Baela accusing the prince of stealing their mother's dragon, Luke and Jace backing the girl's claims, throwing out accusations of Aemond's attacks.

Y/N's children stayed silent, her daughter still clutching at her father, and her son had his eyes trained fiercely at the King, almost refusing to let his resolve crack under the pressure.

The adults in the room simply stood and watched, until Viserys called for silence. "Aemond. I will have the truth of what happened. Now."

Alicent quickly turned to her husband, "What else is there to hear? Your son has lost an eye!"

Viserys simply ignored his wife, "It was a regrettable accident."

"They meant to kill my son! Prince Lucerys and S/N brought a blade to the ambush."

Y/N was quick to add her piece, "Not only was Rhaenyra's integrity questioned, but mine as well. The Prince Aemond called our children bastards, Your Grace. To question the legitimacy of our children's lineage? That is the highest of treasons, Your Grace."

Viserys addressed his brother's wife, "Prince Aemond will be sharply questioned so we might learn where he heard such slanders."

Alicent scoffed "Over an insult? Over training yard bluster?"

Viserys stepped towards his youngest son, "You tell me boy, where did you hear this lie?" The boy avoided eye contact with his father.

"Aemond. Look at me. Your king demands an answer. Who spoke these lies to you?"

Aemond hesitated for a second, his eyes raising to his mother, before is voice sounded out in the room, "It was Aegon."

Viserys flung his attention to his other son, and almost hissed out at the gob smacked Prince.

"And you, boy? Tell me the truth of it!" Viserys was quickly losing his patience.

Aegon simply looked at the floor "Everyone knows. Just look at them."

Viserys stepped back to his throne, addressing the room "This interminable infighting must cease. All of you. We are a family. Now make your apologies and show good will to one another."

Alicent held her chin high, her eyes watering, "Good will cannot make him whole again. There is a debt to be paid."

Y/N, Daemon and Rhaenyra watched the exchange between the two monarchs with baited breath, each hoping that Viserys would not backing down from his rage-fuelled wife.

Daemon handed his daughter to Corlys, who had left his grand-daughters with his wife. He could feel the tension in the room arise again, and was waiting for it to peak.

However, Alicent had already made up her mind, "If the king will not seek justice. The Queen will. Ser Criston, bring me the eye of Lucerys Velaryon and S/N Targaryen. They can choose which eyes to keep, a privledge they did not grant my son."

As Ser Criston took a step forward, Viserys was quick to halt to knights progress. Rhaenyra pushed her sons behind her, as Daemon stepped forward, slightly in front of his wife and son. Corlys was quick to grab the rest of the Targaryen children and muster them away from the commotion towards his wife.

A handful trusted knights who were loyal to the two Targaryen's and their families had stepped closer to Rhaenyra and Y/N. The knights priority was the two women, Daemon's hand rested on the hilt of his sword. (Every man and his dog knew Daemon could handle himself if it came down to a fight.)

"Alicent. this matter is finished. Do you understand." Viserys addressed the room next, "And let it be known, anyone whos tongue dares to question the birth of my grandsons, nieces or nephews, should have it removed."

Rhaenyra stood tall, "Thank you, Father."

Daemon simply made eye contact with his brother, and nodded firmly silently thanking his brother for protecting his family. Viserys gave his brother a small nod in return.

Y/N turned to her husband, grabbing his hand off the hilt of his sword, holding eye contact as they began to communicate without words. Daemon sighed, nodding his head sadly squeezing his wife's hand.

Rhaenyra had turned around, her back to the rest of the room, and took a few steps to move closer to the children, still huddled together behind them.

Yelling made Rhaenyra stop in her tracks, turning in horror, "Y/N! Behind you!"

The next few seconds were chaos, one second, yelling from Viserys and Ser Harrold filled the room, "Alicent!" "Hold your approach". "Stay your hand, Cole!" "Stay with the King!" "Mother!" "Y/N! No!"

The next, Y/N was hold Alicent's forearms as she brandished the Kings valyrian steel knife towards her.

Y/N could see the knights surround her and the Queen, as well as he husband intercepting Criston Cole from moving closer to the two women.

Alicent looked at Y/N in horror, and almost whimpered out her words, "What have I done but what was expected of me?"

Y/N was almost sympathetic towards the women, "Alicent, You've gone too far."

"You take my son's eye, and to even that, you feel entitled."

"Exhausting, isn't it? Hiding beneath the cloak of your own righteousness. But now - now they see you as they are."

Alicent cried out and pushed Y/N away, dragging the blade down Y/N's forearm. Blood pouring down her hand, gathering into a puddle on the floor.

Y/N gasped and pulled away, gripping her arm, she fell backwards, and was caught by Rhaenyra, a deathly gaze on her face, directed at Alicent. "Are you proud of yourself, 'Your Grace'?"

Daemon moved quickly over to his wife, his face showing no emotion, and attended to her arm, ripping fabric from her dress to wrap her arm tightly, trying to stop the blood that was still flowing down her hand.

The King was yelling at his wife in the background, who was swiftly removing her children to their chambers, the other bystanders in the room heeding the King's warnings, making their own exits and dispersing into the castle.

Y/N rested her head on her husbands shoulder, shaking slightly in his grasp. Daemon was whispering comforting words in her ear, trying to calm her down.

Rhaenyra had pulled her two oldest children close to her, watching as Daemon picked his daughter up, while Y/N held her son by his shoulders.

Y/N looked at her daughter in her husbands arms, Rhaena and Baela holding themselves close to Rhaenys, Jace and Luke who watched their mother with tears in their eyes.

She took a shaky breath, "We need to be careful, I always knew Alicent was trying to get us, but the events of tonight have finally revealed the lengths she will go too. Rhaenyra, I know his your father, Daemon, your brother, but we can no longer rely on Viserys to protect us any longer. Corlys, Rhaenys, I must apologise to you, your grand daughters don't deserve to be dragged into our mess."

The group was quiet as Y/N's words sunk in. Corlys ushered his wife and grandchildren from the room, Rhaenyra following behind after embracing Y/N closely.

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

S/N grabbed his mothers hand as the four walked back to their chambers, Y/N looking at a worried Daemon, "I know I wanted to stay in King's Landing, to be near our family, but maybe it would be safer for us and our children to go to Dragonstone. We should ask Rhaenyra to come with us."

Daemon barely reacted, looking up to look at his distressed wife. He pulled his daughter closer, and briefly looked at their son. "Let the children rest, we can speak to Rhaenyra first thing in the morning. For now, let us ignore the issues within the walls and be with our family."

#daemon targaryen x reader #house of the dragon x reader #daemon x reader #hotd x reader #imagine #fluff #targaryen x reader #daemon targeryan

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hyper-fixates · 8 months ago

Text

Tears of Blood

König x AFAB!reader (no pronouns/gendered language).

Explicit content (18+)

Word count: 3.0k

Tags/warnings: unprotected sex, light choking, mentions of murder/blood (look who we’re working with), mentions of ghostsoap (yay!), explicit language, some fluff, dry humping, friends with benefits…? (let me know if anything was missed!)

Summary: König reveals a very compelling detail about himself while you prepare him for tomorrow's deployment—also inspired by this post/ask and bluegiragi’s art <3

Notes: this has been posted on AO3 for over a year and i just straight up forgot to post it here, too…oops

The barracks are eerily quiet after curfew. So quiet, in fact, that a ghost couldn’t even float around without being heard. Sometimes there is one, he’s just not of the conventional sort.

You’ve learned that Soap gladly let’s his room be haunted most nights.

König never says a word about it. If he did, he’d be a hypocrite. Especially now, as he drifts to the door of your room: after curfew.

By now, you know to leave it unlocked for him. You don’t know when it started becoming habit, but it did. A mindless gesture that makes his lips quirk under the hood when he turns the knob and feels the door give in with no resistance.

You’ve grown used to seeing his figure loom in the doorway, but sometimes your brain forgets it’s just him, and your heart instinctually stutters a beat out of fear as you see the shadows from the dim lighting hug around his broad, towering form—just as imposing and threatening even without the gear.

You’ve mentally noted that not everyone that casts their gaze, usually a fearful and watery one, upon him lives to do so again. But you are fortunate. You never let yourself forget what he’s been trained to do—what he does. He doesn’t like to indulge in it much, if at all, and his hesitance to do so makes you think it’s better if you don’t know the complicated details anyway.

KorTac has quite a different reputation than the 141. König helped make sure of that.

You finish folding the rest of your civvies, tucking them away in their small drawer, and toss a look over your shoulder to the man lingering in the doorway. “See any ghosts?” you muse, prompting König to step in and lock the door behind him.

A breathy chuckle fills the room. “Didn’t see anything, but I wish these rooms were soundproof.”

“Oh, no.” You hold a cackle, hand slapped over your mouth as you meet his amused eyes through the rough-edged holes of his hood.

“Well, that’s just Soap for you. Not even Ghost can shut him up, I guess.” You plop onto your bed with a sigh to compose yourself.

You know Soap will indulge you later.

“So, how may I be of service to the king?” You offer a playful smile as he stands at the foot of your bed. The unexpected nickname making him more interested in the flooring.

He brings a finger up to the black hood, hooking it in by his jaw and pulling to reveal a sizeable gash in the fabric. A close call with a knife if you ever saw one. “Needle and thread.”

He unhooks his finger and drags the worn material off of his head, then the plain black balaclava that hides him further under it follows. He drops both onto your clean sheets in front of him, rounding the corner of the bed and joining you.

Dark red hair flops over his forehead and hangs in thick, wavy strands. It hasn’t quite reached his shoulders yet, but it’s long enough to have a mind of its own. It’s a colour you don’t come across too often; maybe comparable to a chestnut, or old leaves in autumn before they disappear under a blanket of snow.

“Jeez, you ever gonna cut this?” You turn to face him and run a hand up the back of his neck, tangling your fingers in the dense locks and lightly scratching his scalp on the way down.

Soft blue eyes glance to you, still outlined in black from earlier. “Probably not. Can’t find the time.” His accent gently rounds out the vowels as he leans into your touch.

“Let me braid it for you, then. To hold it back. I know you deploy again tomorrow.” You tuck a strand behind his ear, following with a fleeting kiss right above his cheekbone. A faint blush creeps over his temples and the barely-there freckles scattered across his nose and cheeks.

“I promise it won’t be the worst thing ever,” you gently plead. “You can mend your hood in peace while I do it?”

You’ve definitely done worse together. But worse always seems to be easier.

“Okay.”

Usually these nights don’t go like this.

3 days ago

“Oh, that’s good—right there. Yeah. Yeah,” you nearly sob. König holds you against him, left arm reaching across your chest and hand comfortably gripping your throat as you try to roll your hips back against him harder.

His other hand is between your thighs—on your clit—which are dangling over his own to keep you spread. You’re trapped there; under his arms and over his legs as he jerks his hips up to meet your disjointed riding on the rickety office chair.

An empty briefing room. Not really smart, but Soap passed on that it was “out of service” until next week, not knowing that you’d end up in there sat on König’s cock later that afternoon.

The fabric of König’s hood rubs uncomfortably against your cheek, making you drop your head back onto his shoulder to escape it.

A breathy moan rushes past his lips as you arch your back. “No, no. You’re staying right here.” He tightens and corrects the grip he has across your chest, sliding his gloved fingers up under your jaw to keep you locked in place.

His cock slides itself in and out of you with little resistance, which would usually be slightly embarrassing if it was anyone else inside you, but the way he’s been massaging your clit with such attentiveness and grinding his hips into yours makes you forget anything you could be worried about.

The only thing you can think of right now is how good this orgasm is going to be.

Your hands snake themselves up his arm that’s pinned to your front to grip his wrist, holding on for dear life as his small thrusts become rougher. “You get much, much wetter when you’re close,” he observes. His index finger holds a steady rhythm on your clit as it works counterclockwise over you. “Fuck, I can hear it…can you?”

A whine bubbles in your throat. The zipper of his cargo pants bites against your ass on every downstroke, and you can feel how wet you’ve made the front of his pants. That’s what he gets for only caring enough to pull his cock out while he ripped your cargos off entirely.

“I—fuck. Yes, I’m close, yes,” you choke out, daring to cast your gaze upon where your bodies are connected.

You’re swollen and slick and you can hear it, too. The quick, sharp slaps of his hips against your ass does little to hide the hungry squelching of your cunt. You’ve probably dripped all down his balls at this point. He’s always happier with a big mess in the end anyway.

“Cum when you’ve had enough, Schatzi,” he chirps in your ear, breathless and lost in the wet, suffocating warmth of you—all his doing, of course. The result of far too many minutes spent with his thick cock gently sliding between your folds and nudging itself over your throbbing clit, just to be annoying, before he moved you both to the chair.

You drag in a heavy breath, focusing on the stretch of his cock deep inside your walls as the chair creaks with every desperate drop onto him.

Schatzi. “W-what does that mean?”

You’ve naturally picked up a few German words and phrases here and there from time spent with him, but this one was new. A term of endearment? A degrading nickname? Either could be possible in this moment. The sound and pronunciation couldn’t be more ambiguous to you.

“König?” It came out as a whisper, quickly silenced by the release of your orgasm throughout your body as he forces you down to the base of his cock.

—

You haven’t brought it up since. Neither has he.

Even now it sits in the back of your mind as you divide his hair down the middle into two parts. You remain on your bed, he sits on the floor between your knees with a needle and black thread in hand that he retrieved from the bedside table (stashed there specifically for him).

He lays the hood over his left arm and begins to stitch it quietly as you wind three generous strands of his hair between your fingers at the front of his scalp, pulling taught at the root. You carefully thread more hair in from the sides to have it lay perfectly against the top of his skull when finished. You’ll do a matching one on the right side.

“Let me know if it hurts at all,” you warn as you begin tugging more hair into place.

“Ha, I’ve faced adversaries far worse than your little hands,” he laughs, adjusting the hood in his hand as he pokes the needle in again.

The long vermillion markings under the eye sockets stare back at you over his shoulder. “Yeah, I don’t doubt that.”

It’s hard to not be curious about all of the parts that make up “König”. The mask is one of them.

“Why the tears?” you ask confidently while you establish the first braid.

“Hm?” He quirks his head to follow your voice, pausing the followthrough with the thread as you give an accidental yank to his hair.

“Your mask…under the eyes. Why tears?” You figured it was either something symbolic or just his personal taste. Everyone’s got a gimmick.

It seems like every aspect of his existence is a test of one’s curiosity, and you may have just failed.

He focuses his attention back on the stitch he was occupied with. “Fear tactic.” Oh.

Short and sweet. Simple and straightforward. It makes sense—

“I make them with the blood of my targets.” Oh.

Your fingers lose their rhythm for a moment, caught off-guard by the admission. Not so much surprised by the fact that he would do something like that, but rather that he confessed such a thing…to you.

“So you do that…presently?” How could you resist following up about that? It’s the perfect snare. This is the most you’ve gotten from him in weeks.

A beat of measured silence, yet it’s not uncomfortable. He likes to think about what to say, how to say it, before speaking his thoughts spontaneously.

“Only if I believe it’s truly deserved,” he explains. His tone doesn’t reveal if he’s displeased with the topic of work. “The blood actually doesn’t hold up against the black on its own, so Horangi suggested using bleach underneath so it will show better. If needed.” He runs a finger over a washed-out tear track. “Less maintenance with the chemical.”

It’s…it’s morbid, obviously, but you’re not sure if you expected anything less from someone in this line of work. And, of course, leave it to Horangi to feed the fantasy. They are nearly inseparable, besides the times that König’s with you.

Sometimes it’s hard to imagine him as murderous or malevolent—König, who has the most gentle, innocent blue eyes that have offered nothing but kindness to you, even in moments of fierce, consuming pleasure. König, who you’ve never seen, or heard, raise his voice at anyone in anger. König, who despises small talk because he can’t stand the awkwardness.

König, who enjoys the vibrant red sunsets on base and thunderstorms. König, who prefers blueberries over strawberries. König, who is obsessed with entomology books.

But there’s still another part of him that can take out entire platoons of enemies and have no more than a rip in his beloved hood afterwards.

The man under the facade of a callsign and reputation is someone who you may never truly meet, no matter how much he reveals. It feels like you’ve only met half of him despite knowing as much as you do about him, and that fact has settled as an ache in your chest.

“I see…I know it’s not really my place to ask about that stuff, but it’s hard to not wonder about you sometimes.” You’ve reached the end of the first braid, leaving the tail to sit at the crown of his head amongst the uneven layers he has going on.

You tie it off with a small black elastic. It’s a little messy considering the awkward length of his hair, but it looks like it’s meant to be there.

“It’s fine. I’m a big boy, I think I can handle it.” He gives a comforting laugh, amused at your timidness.

In every facet, he’s right. You can’t help but nod your head in agreement with a small smile, despite the fact that he can’t see your expression. “Well, I can’t disagree with you there.”

You begin the start of the second, and final, braid, grabbing the three strands at the front and twisting them into place as he speaks again. “I know it was my size that drew you to me in the first place,” he states confidently, shoulders shaking in amusement at the tease.

Your mouth gapes in feigned offence. “Wow, okay. Is that a crime?”

“No, not in my eyes. Look, look,” he brushes past the sarcasm, holding and stretching the now intact hood out in front of him to see the effectiveness of his handiwork. The seam is near invisible in the sea of black fabric (a ratty t-shirt).

It’s definitely better than the last one he did a few weeks ago. “Damn, that’s pretty fucking impressive. I’m almost done, hold on.” You hurry to tie off the hair, gently holding the sides of his head to see how even they came out. “Looks good, from up here at least. Come sit, let me see the front.” You pat one of his shoulders, freeing him from the cage of your legs and scooting further onto your bed.

“Danke. My spine didn’t love that, though,” he says with a theatric exhale.

He folds the hood in his lap, setting it on the bedside table with the needle and roll of thread. He all but tumbles back onto the soft sheets, groaning as he stretches his neck and shoulders out and lays comfortably on his back, long legs hanging over the side of the mattress.

His eyes flutter shut from the homely feeling of being in—or on—your bed. “Mm, I think I’ll stay here tonight.”

You acknowledge his thought with a small hum as you lean over his restful form to quickly assess his hair, dragging your fingertips along each side lightly. The shaggy hair will always suit him. It frames his cheekbones and jaw perfectly.

König opens his eyes at your touch. “So how does it look, doc? Will I survive deployment now?”

Another smile from you with a slight roll of your eyes. “I think it’ll do the job. Now go clean the black off your eyes if you’re staying. I don’t want it all over my pillows again.”

—

Soap saw the braids in König’s hair the next day before they deployed. An accident or purposefully, you’re not sure yet.

And now, two days later, he still won’t shut the fuck up about it.

“Would ye do that for me?” he asks, playfully quirking a thick brow.

“Probably not, no.”

An arm shoots out accusingly at you in disbelief. “That’s my point! I—”

“Wouldn’t be able to anyway with that fucking landing strip you call a mohawk.” You poorly stifle a laugh with a tight-lipped smirk.

“Away n’ bile yer heid, I’m just trying to help!” He rubs a hand over his eyes, trying to stave off his laughter too. It’s hard to be in his presence and not be overcome with a state of lively energy.

You’re in Soap’s—and sometimes Ghost’s—room, for no real reason other than company while König is at a (delayed) briefing.

Soap’s sitting on his—and sometimes Ghost’s—bed hounding you about the complex being that is König just because he can. You move about the room, finding things to tidy and organize to busy your mind.

“Have ye gone to town on each other yet?”

“Dude!?” You rip a pillow from under him and whack his head. Hard. His infectious cackling now muffled through the thick pillow.

“You’re insufferable. How the fuck does Ghost put up with you?” You try to suppress your giggling as you drop the pillow and join him on the bed in defeat.

A mischievous grin lines his lips at the question. “Well, he t—”

“No! No. Nope. I don’t need to know. It was rhetorical.” You hold up a hand to silence him, bringing it to cover his mouth. His day-old scruff pricks your palm as he tries to talk through your hand.

“Whatever you say next better be insightful or profound or else I’m gonna suffocate you with your own pillow.”

Soap, in fact, didn’t have anything insightful or profound to say about the situation.

—

König wanders into your room again that night, and he’s filled with a gluttonous desire to consume you in any way that he can.

It’s the least he can do for you. It’s the most you can do for him.

You rut against his clothed cock, straddling his hips tightly while your hands keep a death-grip on his hair. Once again, you find yourself on your bed with him under you, the clock on the bedside table glaring the angry red 12:56am.

His large hands have found their home on your ass, encouraging your pussy—still covered by your underwear—to rock harder over his length, which is still trapped in his briefs.

He breaks away from your mouth when you give a rather forceful roll over him, a surprised gasp slipping through his now rosy lips. His grip on your ass slides down to your quivering thighs, rubbing over them soothingly as you work.

A harmony of softs whines and rough groans dance around the room as your pliant bodies move together. “This is somehow better than sex,” König mumbles, mostly to himself. “I don’t want to admit it, but I can cum like this if you don’t stop,” he adds with an overwhelmed huff. “Fuck, I will cum like this if you don’t stop,” he moans.

You let him, and he holds you tight as if you were something other than casual.

#konig x reader #könig x reader #könig mw2 #könig smut #call of duty smut #call of duty x reader #call of duty imagine #call of duty fic #könig imagine #konig smut #konig cod #konig imagine #konig x you #konig x reader smut #konig x you smut

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it-was-funeral-grey · 2 years ago

Text

Realisations in mess (Al Haitham x F!Reader)

Masterlist Part 5 Part 6

Summary: you're finally home! But what is this mess? clean up + cooking with alhaitham basically

Warnings: vulgarities, trashed up house (matra's fault), reader's ankle is sprained, cleaning up, alhaitham spewing out absolute bs, they eat an onion lol (no joke i was far gone when i wrote that part), sword,

Word count: <3.4k

Inspired by:-

Author's note: im learning how to make gifs! also im not sure if its obvious, but this is gonna be a 'slowburn' type of story!

Thank you everyone for your comments and encouragement! I can;t thank you all enough!

as usual i hope this is ok i tried

Please give criticism! Also, if i missed any warnings, do tell me so i can add them!

Her house is a fucking mess.

Al Haitham can try, but he can't recall what her house looks like. But he knows it's not supposed to look like this.

Archons, what the hell did the Matra do?

He doesn't stop her when she unslings her arm from around him. Instead, he holds the door open as she hobbles into her living room. He hears her let out a defeated sigh, but when she turns around to face him, she smiles.

"Well, at least I'll have something to do this afternoon," she looks around with pursed lips. "Been thinking of rearranging stuff anyway!"

Her cheerful tone doesn't fool him. It's as clear as day that she's beyond upset at the state of her home.

"You're...going to clean up this mess on your own?" she can't be serious. The place is completely trashed (is that...Harra Spice on the floor?). "Just you. With your sprained ankle."

"Well, you did see the looks that the neighbours gave me," no, he didn't. He was focusing on other things. Like making sure she leans her weight on him, not her ankle. "I should probably keep to myself for now," she replies, her eyes downcast. "Hopefully, whatever rumours about me will die out soon."

With that, she squats down, picking up a book off the floor.

Huh, now that he thinks about it, there are a lot of books here (and yes, that's definitely Harra Spice on the floor.). And no, not notebooks or record books. Actual books- look, there's a book on languages over there and a thick book about Liyue Adeptuses right next to it. Al Haitham has never seen another house with this many books (apart from his own). In fact, most of her living room floor is covered in them, ripped from their bookshelves which lay not too far away from them.

It must have taken her years to collect this many books. He's impressed that she managed to keep them all hidden all this time.

"I'll be fine, really," her voice strains as she reaches for another book. "Thank you for helping me back! And for everything else."

Al Haitham's moving before he knows it. One second he's standing up, looking down at her picking up her books. The next, he's dropping his overnight bag and squatting down, grabbing her book for her.

"Oh! Thank you."

"You need to rest your ankle," Al Haitham states, reaching over to take the book already in her hands. "Stand up."

Moving over to her, he gestures for her to sling an arm over him before standing up with her.

"There's no way you're going to be able to clean up this mess," he unslings her hand gently before walking over to her overturned couch. "I'll help."

"Ah! It's fine," she hobbles over to him, but he's already flipped her couch over. "You must be busy. I can-"

"It's lunchtime now. Everyone's on break."

"Then you should be taking a break too!"

"I've already done so on the boat."

"Well, what about your lunch? I didn't see you eat anything."

"I had a heavy breakfast."

"That's not lunch."

"Sit down and rest your ankle."

"Hey! Did you hear what I just said?"

Despite your protests, you're grateful you won't have to clean up this mess alone.

"How do you arrange your books?" Al Haitham asks as he lifts your last toppled bookshelf back upright. "By topic? Height?" He then shoots you a wary glance. "…Colour?"

"Topic, then by height," you reply, feeling slightly useless as you sit on the couch with a newly bandaged ankle (courtesy of Al Haitham). "Wait, colour? Do people do that?"

"You'll be surprised," he chuckles, and you see his shoulders relax. "There exists a certain individual that insists on making it their personal mission to convince others to arrange their bookshelves that way purely 'for the aesthetic'," he picks up a red book off the floor, running a hand over the slightly dented cover. "You have a lot of books here."

"Do… you find it strange?" you ask meekly. You wouldn't be surprised if he did. Hardly anyone in Sumeru used books, much less kept them thanks to the (recently abolished) Personal Book Act. This wouldn't be the first time a visitor judges you about it.

"Not at all," Al Haitham replies, flipping through the book gently. "I'm just surprised that you read," he stops at a folded page. "Almost no one reads in Sumeru. Not even Akademiya scholars. All they relied on was the Akasha terminals."

He balances the book in a hand and shuts it.

"I'm impressed that you managed to get your hands on this many. The Akademiya doesn't print any books. And there aren't any bookstores in Sumeru."

He passes the red book to you, and you swear his lips curve upwards for a fraction of a second.

"It's well written, but the author gives no evidence to back up his hypothesis. It's pure speculation on his part."

"You've read this before?"

"It's a title in the House of Daena," he explains, bending down to pick up another book and reading its title. "Although it's better off as a storybook."

"The House of Daena has books about Liyue?" you ask. The book in your hands is a Liyue publication which took you many pains to obtain. If there's an easier way to get access to such books-

"Definitely," he seems intrigued by your enthusiasm. "Many darshans' studies involve learning about other cultures and regions. So, books on such topics would be provided. Although whether the students want to read them is a different story."

So they'll have books about Liyue Law! You haven't been able to get your hands on any thus far.

He picks up a few more books off the floor and places them on a bookshelf nearest to him.

"You have a lot of books on Law. And Liyue."

"Ah! Yeah," his observation shocks you back into reality. "I…actually wanted to study in Liyue's Law School."

"Wanted?"

"Well, you know," he turns to look at you, and you look away. You know you won't be able to control the disappointment written all over your face if you talk about this. "Times aren't exactly the best now. Money is tight right now, with inflation and all. So…"

"I see."

"Yeah," you sigh and quickly plaster a smile, as you turn back to him. "But it's alright. I can still read about it! There are many more books in the House of Daena, so I'll borrow them!"

"…You can only borrow books if you're a student or teacher at the Akademiya."

"Oh."

It takes Al Haitham about an hour to finally get all the books off the ground and into a somewhat orderly manner. The floor is much more empty now, save for shards of glass and foodstuff amongst overturned furniture. Al Haitham knows that the Matra are thorough in their investigations, but wrecking a house to such an extent in search of evidence is seriously going overboard.

He's going to have a long talk with the Matra stationed at Port Ormos when he gets there.

"Here?" Al Haitham asks the lady standing next to him. She's insisted on helping, against his protests. Eventually, they came to a compromise- he'll carry and arrange the books, and she'll point out where to put everything.

"Yep! These few are fine- ok, switch those two," she instructs. "Everything else is in order. Thank you!"

"Where's the broom?" Al Haitham asks, kicking a shard of glass away from her. "There's glass everywhere."

"It must be the bottle of Harra Spice I bought," she hobbles past the dining table over to the kitchen, Al Haitham following closely behind her. "I bought some groceries the day before I got arrested. I left it on the dining table and… forgot to unpack it."

She didn't forget. Al Haitham takes the opportunity to quickly pick up the chairs and push them under the table, which she thanks him for. She was taking care of me and didn't have the time to put it away.

They both ignore the splinters of wood that fall out when he moves the chairs.

"I'm sorry about this whole mess," Al Haitham sighs. It doesn't matter how he tries to reason with himself. No matter what, this whole situation is his fault. And it leaves a really bad taste in his mouth that she's the one paying the price for it. "I'll be sure to pay for whatever damages there are."

"None of this is your fault," she quickly retorts, grabbing the broom's handle…which immediately detaches from the broom's head. "And like I said," she reaches for the broom head, but Al Haitham beats her to it, taking the handle from her as well. "I've been thinking about rearranging the place anyway!"

Yeah. Rearranging, not refurbishing. Past her shoulder, he sees the wrecked kitchen. And shards of broken tableware among other objects sprinkled all over the floor. She's going to need to replace a lot of things.

"Still, if there's anything I can do to make it up to you-"

"If you really want to make it up to me, take care of yourself and don't faint in front of a random person's house again!"

"I'll do my best."

"Is…that a yes or a no?" her head tilts as she frowns, eyeing him puzzledly. "And wait! Do your best to not do that or to do that?"

And out of nowhere, Al Haitham feels the sudden urge to 'push it', as Kaveh call it. Just to see how she'll react. For research purposes.

"Celestia wills the movement of the mountain and hills." he recites an old rhyme while observing her increasingly perplexed expression with great interest. The rhyme was just his grandmother's way of saying that no one knew what the future held- except fate.

"…what?"

"May the stars align your wish alongside their plans."

"???"

The good news is that cleaning your kitchen didn't take very long. The bad news is that you pretty much have to buy a new set of almost everything for your kitchen.

No, you're not joking. All you could do was grab things off the floor and counter and throw them into the bin. It hadn't taken long for you to realise that the Matra had destroyed almost everything, save for your stove and sink, a dented, but still usable pot, a single onion and a small bottle of oil.

Nothing else was spared. Not your tableware. Not your bottles of sauce. Not any of your newly bought ingredients. And most definitely not your bottle of Harra spice.

"This should be the last of it," Al Haitham re-enters the kitchen with a fully filled dustpan. "You need any help in here?"

"No, I'm done here," you groan. The Matra had destroyed all your groceries for the week. Do you even have enough Mora to buy food again this week? "Squeaky clean!"

"…and empty."

"Don't remind me," you grumble, sitting on the counter. "How did they break so many plates? It's not even fragile! It's made of wood!"

"A hidden ability of overzealous and bored Matra, I suppose," Al Haitham says as he dumps the contents of the dustpan into your overflowing bin. "Is there anything else?"

"No, just my room. I'll settle that myself," you answer. Rubbing at your bandaged ankle, you sigh, leaning your head against the overhead cabinet. "Thank you for your help, really. I wouldn't have been able to clean this all on my own."

"It's no problem. How does your ankle feel?"

"It's alright. Doesn't hurt too much."

"That's good. Elevate it when you can."

"I will."

A peaceful silence washes over the two of you as you finally get some rest after cleaning the entire house. But all that's interrupted when your stomach suddenly rumbles.

Oh, Archons.

"I…I'm so sorry."

"Well, it is a little bit past lunchtime. How are you settling lunch?"

"I have an onion."

"Sorry?"

"I have oil too."

"You're going to eat an onion?"

"I gotta," you grip the onion in your hands. "But all my knives are broken, so I can't dice it."

"Can't you go out to buy some ingredients?" Al Haitham looks a little concerned. "You don't need to eat the onion."

"The only person who sells groceries these days is Bahram," you begin peeling the onion. "But he closes shop early. He should be closed right now."

"So, how are you planning on eating this…onion?"

"I'll try to fry it."

"You're just going to toss that whole sphere of onion onto a pan?"

"Well, I don't have a pan anymore so I'll use my pot," you grab your pot and place it over the stove. "Hopefully, it won't roll out."

"Now, hold on. Don't do that."

"I mean the other alternative is eating it raw, but-"

"Use this."

"Hm?" you pour some oil into the pot before turning to him. "What the he-"

"Calm down. You're going to spill the oil onto the floor."

"Where did that come from?!"

"From me."

Before you is a beautiful green blade, rounded by a white and gold spine. A majestic aura surrounds it- as if it belongs to a higher being. It almost looks too holy to touch.

"Here. Use it to dice the onion."

HUH.

"Waitjustholdonasecond," your words jumble as you struggle to understand his request. "You want me to take your fancy blade and use it to cut the onion?"

"Yes," he pushes the blade further towards you. "Go on."

"You can't be serious. I can't do that to your sword!"

"If it's hygiene you're worried about, I assure you that-"

"No, it's not that!" honestly, it kind of scares you how hygiene isn't your main concern here. "Your sword! I can't cut an onion with your sword! What if I break it?"

"If my sword breaks from cutting an onion, I wouldn't carry it around."

"You carry it around? Where? I didn't see- ok, I'm going off-topic," you sigh. "Are you sure I can use it? It looks really expensive and I don't wanna, uh, desecrate it."

"It's a sword. It's meant for cutting things," he takes the onion from you and slices it into two before handing it over to you. "You're using it as intended. I don't see the problem."

"If you say so…" he lets the blade go into your hands, and you jerk at the sudden weight. "Oh- Archons, how do you carry this?"

"You alright there?"

"Yep, yep, I- I'll be fine!"

Your onions end up more chunky than usual, but you'll take it. You heat up the oil (after trying to squeeze out every last drop of oil from the small bottle) and gently add in the onions later. The sounds of sizzling oil fill the kitchen, and you happily take in the scent emitting from the pot. After a while, you feel that it's time to stir it around so you-

Wait. How are you gonna stir it?

"Uh oh," you grab the handle of the pot, tilting it from one end to the other. But it's no use. The onions aren't flipping over. "Oh no."

"Hm?"

"I forgot I don't have a spatula. I can't flip it."

"Use the sword."

"I- fine. Use the sword."

The final product looks better than you expected. Golden brown onions lay on top of each other inside the pot and your mouth waters at the sight.

"You'll have to wait till the pot cools down a little," Al Haitham cautions as he places the pot on the dining table. "Or else you'll burn your hand when you reach in for a slice."

"Haha, no."

"Hey! What did I just say-"

You really can't help yourself. You're too hungry. Reaching into the pipping hot pot, you pinch a piece of onion and quickly toss it into your mouth.

"Ah- hwot-"

"Unbelievable."

"Take- a slice!" you say between blowing out hot air. "It tastes pretty good! Must be the fancy sword flavour."

"I'll take one when it cools down a little. So I don't burn my fingers and the roof of my mouth."

"Suit yourself."

And the two of you fall into another cycle of silence- this time only interrupted by the sound of you blowing out hot air and Al Haitham scoffing at the display before him. Eventually, the pot cools down, and he takes up your offer and grabs a piece.

"What do you think? Pretty good, right?"

"It's good."

"That's all you have to say about the onions your sword painstakingly chopped?" you hold your chest in fake shock. "How dare you, good sir!"

"Well, my sword seems happy enough," he plays along, reaching a hand out. In an instant, the blade materialises. "I don't see any dissatisfaction from it."

"Woah!"

And then the blade disappears. And his hand is again as empty as your kitchen is.

"How did you do that?"

"Do what? Keep my sword?"

"Yeah! And make it reappear!"

"Well…"

The rest of your meal is spent happily chatting and making the poor man materialise and keep his blade over, and over again.

As selfish as it sounds, you don't want him to go. Because the moment he does, you'll be alone in Vimara Village, with nothing but rumours to keep you company.

But he has a job to do- an important one, at that. He's Sumeru's Acting Grand Sage. He's not a friend.

"I think it's about time I take my leave," he finally says, snapping you out of your train of thought. Standing up from his shaky chair, he grabs his overnight bag. "Thank you for your hospitality."

"Not at all," you reply, slowly standing from your chair as well. "I'm sorry that I couldn't host you under better circumstances."

"Would you happen to know where a certain Dilawar lives?" he asks. "I was told that he lives here."

Ah, so that's why he's here.

"Mr Dilawar lives not too far from here. Just head upwards from here and stop at the second house from the bridge," you answer. "Are… you here to fix Port Ormos?"

"Yes," he replies. "The closure of the port is not a problem I can ignore. Discussing the current state and future of the port with the trade supervisors is a crucial step in fixing the problem."

"Well, if you're on the case, then there's nothing for us common folk to worry about," you let out a relieved sigh. "With you as the Acting Grand Sage, Sumeru is in good hands."

"…Thank you."

You walk him to your front door, and he pauses outside for a moment to look back at you.

"Make sure to rest your ankle."

"I will."

"Keep a look out for any shards of glass on the floor. I may have missed them."

"I highly doubt that, but alright."

"And," he pauses again, looking over at your bookshelves. "Don't give up hope on going to Law school."

"Eh?"

"You must have taken a lot of effort to collect and read through all those books," he says. "It'd be a pity if all that effort went to waste."

He stands a little straighter, looking you in the eye this time.

"This is a temporary issue. Don't let something like that ruin a lifetime of fulfilment."

With that, he turns around.

"Well then, see you."

"Ah! Yeah, see you."

And he walked off.

"Well, you know," she doesn't turn away fast enough for Al Haitham to miss that crushed expression of hers. "Times aren't exactly the best now. Money is tight right now, with inflation and all. So…"

"I see."

So, it's a money issue. The reason that she's giving up her dream is because of money.

Like hell he's going to let that happen.

He'll solve it. He'll fix Sumeru's entire economy. He'll force the port open with his own two hands.

Just get that look off her face.

Join the Taglist!

Tagged: @sh3wholiv3s @simpcreator @confusedparticle @quintessentialdreaming @icedlemontea03 @levisbebe @anxious-piece-of-bread @confused-red-head

#hereandnow #alhaitham genshin impact #al haitam x reader #alhaitham x reader #al haitham #alhaitham #genshin x reader #genshin impact #genshin alhaitham

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nescaveckwriter · 11 months ago

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Paintbrushes And Romance 🥰🐞

Dean x Reader

Part 5 🥰🐞

A/N: Brace yourselves loves, this one's a rollercoaster...🥰🐞🙈

Warnings: Violence, Swearing, Blood, Gore, Sexual Content, Anger, 🙈

...........

You've been running around these last few weeks, maybe because you've been trying to work through some stuff.

Stirring your coffee, while sitting deep in thought, remembering where it all started, in this little shop, you found love, like you've never known before. After that day in the middle of the street, with the snowflakes falling, so much has happened...

From spending Christmas together with both your families, at one long table, with your parents and his parents, your brother and his girlfriend Ruby, meeting Eileen, Sam's wife, who's now your best friend, you two just clicked, due too te fact that you have learned sign language all those years ago while traveling through Europe. Giving out presents and just having a blast. It weren't weird or awkward it just felt right, like it was meant to be.

Summer came and your love grew deeper and deeper, you know eachother so well, so very well, talking for hours and laughing. There were sometimes when the job got to Dean, and he would just withdraw from everything, even you a little but you would just be there waiting patiently, untill he would start opening up, and you'll just listen, he would lay his head on your lap and you'll just run your fingers through his hair!

Smile tugging at your lips now, remembering that one night, the first time you two became one, skin against skin, laying in bed, his fingers tracing little circles on your tummy, when his fingers runs across the scar, on your ribs, following the tattoo you had there, the image consisted of leaves starting right by the scar, and on the leaves there was lady bugs, leading up to two lady bugs with there wings open leading to the word in cursive writing "free" he, got up a little, looking you in the eyes, mischievous smile at the corners of his mouth, its you he said, what you ask confusing on your face, your the best selling author "lady bug" aren't you he said, you nodded, bursting into laughter.

Biting your lip, thinking about the leaves starting to change colour, that's when it all happened. The knocking at your door, consisted and urgent, your heart sank, did something happen to the man that you love. Shakily turning the knob and opening the door, there he stands, worry on his face, the well known dent between his eyebrows, letting you know something is terrible wrong, his face hardened, I... I... He started, words barely leaving his parched lips, just came by to let you know, that this isn't working for me anymore, I thought I could do this, I could love you, love this white picked fence life. But I don't, I can't it's making me miserable, he said hand running down his face, his give away sign that his not happy. You just stood there, heartbreak and the smell of the freshly baked cherry pie hanging thick in the air, he just turned around and left and you haven't seen him since. Tears burning behind your eyes while taking a sip of your coffee, you cursed yourself, you need to start working on your fifth book, Chuck your publisher is really breathing down your neck. You hear the bells, welcoming someone new, you look up to see who it is. Its Dean, but his hair and beard a lot longer than normal, in all honesty he looks like shit, is he even getting enough sleep, is he eating, still worried about him, you'll probably never stop loving him.

....

He can sense, her sitting in the corner, he doesn't want to turn and look, knowing how much he hurt her with what he said, thinking about the words he said to her, he didn't love her , he didn't want the whole white picket fence life with kids running around, that can't be further from the damn truth! Waiting for his order of black coffee to be done, replaying the events that happened during the day, that made him decide to break things with her, if only she could know it was to protect her, subconsciously playing with the chain around his neck, on the chain a diamond ring, yes he thinks to himself, he wanted to ask her to make him the happiest man alive that weekend, but then came the envelope, with a bunch of photos of her, stating her routine and then the note...

#Spotify #dean winchester fanfiction #dean winchester x reader #eileen leahy #jared padalecki #jensen ackles x reader #sam and dean #benny lafitte #castiel spn #dean winchester imagine #spotify

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bullet-prooflove · 2 years ago

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Love Song - Michael 'Riz' Ariza x Reader

Tagging: @anime-weeb-4-life, @danzer8705 @mysoulisasunflower @vannabanana1995 @im-just-a-mississippi-girl

You’re not in bed when Riz wakes up, but he can hear the low dulcet notes of your guitar through the closed door. He follows the sound down the hallway, his hand brushing his hair out of his eyes as he lingers for a moment on threshold.

You’re sitting on the couch in one of his button up shirts and a pair of black panties, the guitar perched in your lap. Your song book is spread out on the coffee table in front of you, pencil etchings scrawled across its pages as you pause and make another correction.

He smiles because it’s moments like this that he treasures, the ones where he sees you in full flow, inspired and vibrant. It does something to him to see you like this, to know that you’re comfortable enough in his presence to express yourself and your creativity.

Your head tilts up as he enters the room, attention diverted by the movement.

“Sorry.” You say, setting the pencil down alongside your notebook. “I woke up with a song in my head. I have the lyrics down, but the melody is being tricky.”

“Let’s have a look.” He murmurs, his voice still rough from sleep as he takes a seat from the couch beside you. You hand him the guitar before turning the song book towards him. His fingers pluck at the strings, testing the chords as he finds the impression of the song, the ebb of the melody.

You lean in close, your hair brushing over his shoulder, the faint scent of your perfume clinging to your skin. Delicate rose with hints of saffron, it reminds him of the first blush of spring.

“I’m having a problem with this part.” You tell him, your fingertip skating over the notation. His brows furrow as he studies the notes before he picks up the pencil and jots an alternative beside it.

“We could try this.” He said, tapping the pencil against the paper. “I’ll play, you sing?”

You smile at him, and he feels that warmth blossom deep down in his chest because despite the fact it’s two in the morning, he’s never been happier. There’s something about being around you, making music and collaborating that feels right. He’s never had this with anyone else, never dreamed that he could.

It takes him a couple of tries to pull the song together, to learn it just enough to play without the song book. It’s beautiful, light and upbeat and he can feel the echoes of your essence vibrating through the stings as he plucks them. There’s a signature when it comes to musicians, it’s the difference between mimicking someone else’s music and crafting your own. He can see your flourish, feel the elements of your style as he plays, and it resonates with something inside of his soul. He chases the rhythm, letting it flood his senses until the song overtakes him. This is what he loves about music, you can sense someone’s passion, feel their emotions, it’s something building in your chest until it overtakes you.

It isn’t until the third run through that he tunes into the words your singing, he listens closely as he strums, his brain catching on each of the lyrics, bringing colour to his cheeks.

A dark haired lover with amber eyes to kiss me through the night.

He’s got patches on his skin that tell a story, of a thousand lifetimes lived.

I run my fingers over them, and I hope he knows I’m his.

His heart thunders against my chest, my hands in his hair

As he whispers I love you against my lips.

There’s a feeling deep inside of him, a wanton surge of sentiment that surges through his nerve endings until it engulfs him. He looks at you, his fingers slipping from the fretboard.

“Do you mean it?” he asks you.

“I can’t say it. The words I have they don’t seem adequate enough.” You tell him quietly, fingertip tapping on the place your heart resides. “But I can sing it, it’s the only way I know how to show you how much you mean to me.”

He doesn’t speak, he can’t.

There are no words to express how he feels in this moment, the wild flurry of devotion that rushes through him. Instead, he puts the guitar down and he shows you. He makes love to you on that couch with a song in his heart and your hands in his hair.

Love Riz? Don’t miss any of his stories by joining the taglist here.

Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

#michael riz ariza #riz mayans #riz x reader #riz ariza #riz x you #michael riz ariza x reader #michael ariza x reader #michael ariza #mayans mc #mayans fx #mayans

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capcavan · 1 year ago

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AFTG tfc ch2 Re Read by cavan

Chapter 2 notes under the cut

back to learning English

It was the weight of his teammate's stare that brought Neil's gaze almost right to him the minyard stare <3 "the normal one"

bro i would end my career there if they all refereed to me as basic bitch Milport Dingo damn they all like their animals don't they "the all black assemble aarondrew wore did nothing to make him taller" damn neil had no idea you are fashionista about what colour pronounce what silhouette types anyone marked that down? Brakes screeched as taxi slammed to a stop inches from aarondrew's pint sized body Kevin had been glued to Andrew's side since the transfer- ofc he is they are dating even if Andrew did not got the memo, one sided Anvin is my jam

I'm sure i am not the first person to point this out but the way neil already ships it has me Both of Kevins husbands share the fact that they told him to fuck off I don't believe in forgivness Do you belive in fate Do you belive in luck do you read tarot Aarondrew minyard chapter 2 Aarondrew is such not careful asshole driver i demand you all to start writing him getting into traffic accidents what the fuck, literary the only reason he is avoiding any right nos is him being in very noticeable nice black car nobody wants to risk damaging "It's too nice of a car to wreck" "Don't be so afraid to die" You are playing for class 1 team (worst one but still!) with Kevin on your side , People are always willing to bleed for him, you've seen the news i have seen it ok.. what was on the news ??? Kevin day and his adoptive brother Riko Moriyama , ok second time <3 <3 <3 kind of off they keep having to refer to this as adoptive brother lmao marking this once would be enough considering they are different ethnicities

ok but kevin had his hand broken what was riko doing? why did he missed game in january ???? in ec its supposedly mentioned testuji beat him up love that :) nicky has jet black hair and brown eyes and darker skin tone ... jet black .. hair ... literary never seen anyone draw him this way nicky deserved so much better "i am hella materialistic" who tf introduces themselves this way neil noting that he cant escape by jumping out of the window makes me wonder how this series would go if the fox dorm wasn't so high up? woudl they get attacked by the mob throwing rocks and other shit into their dorm ? woudl neil escape dorm through windows ?

Neil examining aarons package yeah its not the cigarettes you are after i know it wymacks apartment -covered in paperwork -empty coffe mugs -overfilled ashtrays neil has this thing going on where he can taste blood when stressed i shall remember that nicky stealing painkillers I wonder if andrew just ... casually helps stealing whiskey for kevin on regural ,, i hate coming home and finding you in my apartment" i would too if i lived in such mess "i don't need to be persuasive you just learn to do what i say" sorry my kness are weak

#CavanrereadAFTG #aftg #neil josten #andrew minyard #aaron minyard #nicky hemmick #kevin day

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maxwellohwell · 2 years ago

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Just a lil ramble vent

No one warns you about how brutal the transition from sheltered teenager to functioning adult is. All I've ever wanted was freedom, I love it. I was born an observer, its just in my nature. I love existing with the environment around me. I love walking in the rain, watching houses and cars and trees and boats and signs out from the window of a bus or a train, my favourite colours are pink or sunshine yellow but I always cave for a spooky grey/blue/purple colour scheme, my favourite food has always been spaghetti bolognese or pancakes, and the only times I remember that I am not a disembodied voice is when I look at myself in the mirror and dont identify with the body that I am in because I see myself as more of a concept then a human being. I've always been the secondary character in the stories of the people around me who always had something going on. In those stories I was the love interest who was too busy staring out the window to notice anything around them, I was the creepy mean "goth" that was added into the series to say weird stuff for laughs and to spite the protagonists, I was the best friend with bad advice, I was the child who was never allowed to grow up bc that meant her mother was growing old. Freedom feels like the morning sun beaming onto your face through fluffy white clouds or a day full of peaceful rain, and for me the only time I feel the warm rays of hope and tranquility is when chasing it hasn't been beaten out of me with the worried words of my overly paranoid mother or the judgemental looks of the people who can read the script.

So over the past weeks I've been moving out. I turned 18 half a year ago and my life has been slowly sinking like a ship for a while now. My mother is getting evicted and so I finally get to jump ship. Not exactly the "running away to the sunny city without telling anybody, going to the gym dressed as barbie while drinking a strawberry mango smoothie and getting money for writing emails in an office cubical" escape plan, but falling in love (i think, I dont entirely know if I even know what romantic attraction feels like) despite the fact that I live for being entirely alone and moving in with him works ig. But I've found myself in this weird tug-a-war while Im stuck between the two places, where I feel the beginnings of the freedom I've been wanting while Im away but then I need to go back to roleplaying an 8 yr old to survive. My mental health decreases while Im in that environment where I cant make my own choices, but I re-enter the adult world every few days and I feel paralyzed by the fear that Im going to break an unspoken rule and get yelled at for existing without supervision. Becoming an adult is very much just learning that its okay to exist and then teaching urself all the stuff you know that you dont know that you should know but you weren't taught bc growing up is illegal.

My entire life so far has been me waiting for this moment and I feel like Im wasting it by having these cognitive behavioural issues even though developing those wasn't at all my fault. One of my most vivid memories from highschool was walking with the vice principal while I was on my way to class. We happened to be going in the same direction and she started talking about how much she missed being young and free and how I should "treasure my teenage years while I still have them", and I remember that so clearly because of how little sense it made to me. My teenage years had no walks in the rain because "what if your kidnapped", my teenage years had no car rides because we were poor, my teenage years had no train rides because I had no where to go, my teenage years had no pink because I had to be the scary mean "goth" girl because no one messes with you if ur scary enough, my teenage years had no pancakes or spaghetti because I wasnt allowed to use the stovetop. How am I supposed to appreciate that? As an adult, you are in control. You shouldn't take your eyes off the road while you're driving. In my adult life I am happy. Everyday I wake up at 6am-8am, make my bed and watch youtube while I eat my pancakes, brush my teeth, go walk on the beach if I feel up to it, then I either go to the job that I love bc I chose it or play video games, do some chores, then I watch youtube with my boyfriend until I fall asleep. I do not want to leave that.

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nickeverdeen · 2 years ago

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hi omg, could i get a romantic match-up for star wars??

i’m queer with no preference for male or female, and non binary, using they/them pronouns. hhh i’m an entp and my hogwarts house is ravenclaw.

personality wise i’m quite sarcastic and can get snappy at times. i do not have the best temper whatsoever and am easily annoyed by even the smallest things. i’m a bit emotionally closed off which makes it hard for me to meet new people without shaking or having a full blown meltdown— i’m quite affectionate to those i’m close with and absolutely love physical touch (to an extent). once i’m close with someone i really latch onto ‘em, i do everything i can to make sure they’re not hurt whether it’s emotionally or physically.

appearance wise i’m standing at 5’8”. i’m very pale, in the winter i have very little colour so i sometimes look like a ghost- i have green eyes and black hair. my hair reaches just passed my shoulders and i have a grown out mullet sort of hairstyle which is on its way to being a long bob. i have freckles along my cheekbones and the bridge of my nose. i’m not super small but not super big either, just in the middle. i do have curves but they’re not super obvious. i have a mesomorph and pear shaped body with a bit of a long torso.

i love love love going for late night walks, going out and watching the stars, picnics during the sunset, baking or cooking and listening to instrumental music. i absolutely adore horror, true crime, and dystopian films/tv shows, i can never get enough of ‘em!

style wise i usually wear loose-legged black cargo pants with either a cropped tank top or a black turtleneck. i have these platform boots that i wear non-stop (which probably isn’t good for my ankles🥲). i love long jackets, like from out of the matrix.

hhh i think that’s all—

@thedevilyk your Star Wars match-up is:

Padmé Amidala

Okay first of all: this bitch is gonna correct whoever she fucking wants about your pronouns

She likes the fact that you’re wise and not idiotic

When you get snappy at other people she just watches

But when you get snappy at her… oh boy, she’s gonna keep giving you such a comebacks until you’ll run out of arguments

Arguments are very rare with Padmé

Padmé helps you meet new people if you’d want

She has a patience so don’t worry, she won’t preassure you into telling her about your emotions and patiently will wait for you to open up if you’d want to

Cheek kisses

Padmé really appreciates your concern about her safety and she does the same to you

She loves your freckles

She likes to fall asleep on your chest whistl cuddling, she feels safe

Late night walks and picnics?

Oh hell yeah

She loves that

Picnic dates for sure!

She can’t cook, feel free to argue with a wall, but Padmé just can’t cook

She’s willing to learn how to cook or bake from you, though

Padmé also likes to listen to instrumental music

She once watched a horror movie with you and since then she knew that she’s never ever gonna watch them again

I’m sorry, but she’s just scared or it’s way too disturbing for her

Padmé is gonna scold you about your boots many many many many times, considering she knows that it’s not good for your ankles and that they might hurt

She’s gonna get you jackets somehow

Padmé loves hugs so be prepared

Hugs and cheek kisses

She isn’t really into petnames, but she’s gonna call you by your shorter version of your name

For example: Anakin = Ani

Padmé is very loyal and she would never in her life cheat on you so don’t worry

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moviewarfare · 2 years ago

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A Review of “Avatar: The Way of Water (2022)”

In 2009, I watched Avatar, the $2 billion movie that used the papyrus font as its logo, in IMAX 3D. It was a wild experience as I have never seen such amazing CGI in a film. James Cameron, the director, then announced he was making 3-4 sequels to Avatar which was kind of baffling. 13 years later, we finally get a sequel. Was the sequel worth the wait?

Firstly, the visuals of this movie are somehow even more amazing than the first film. The forest of Pandora looks more stunning than it did 13 years ago; the advance in technology is very evident. The scenes in the water look gorgeous and so real that it's hard to believe it is CGI at times. One thing with the first movie was that it felt like live-action people were in a green screen room. Avatar: The Way of Water is mostly CGI with live-action blended in. We see live-action characters move in the same scene as CGI characters and interact with one another like living beings. It didn't give that green-screen feeling, which was awesome. I also love the world-building and design of the world. There are water-based Navi clans with looks and customs that are different from the forest Navi. You can see it in their skin colour and the design of their hands and tails. The sea creatures also have great designs with their own rules and how they operate. It was clear a lot of thought was put into everything.

The original 2 main characters, Jake and Neytiri, return from the 1st film but they are not the main focus this time. The main characters are their kids with Sigourney Weaver returning but playing as one of those kid characters instead. I was a little worried as kid characters tend to be annoying but I think the writer did a good job of making the kids not completely annoying. Sigourney is surprisingly convincing as a young kid and I was interested to see more of her character in the future. I think James succeeds in making us care more about these new characters than he did in Avatar 1. Jake, despite not being at the forefront this time, has his character arc. He is no longer the fearless leader he was in the 1st film as he now has 4 kids to take care of. His priority is different and he struggles with that. Stephen Lang also returns as the antagonist, Colonel Miles, again despite dying in the 1st film. He was very one-dimensional in the 1st Avatar but here they do try to give him some more depth which I appreciate.

However, Neytiri is unfortunately very sideline in this sequel. She is barely relevant until the end of the movie and even then, she doesn't have any character arc. If anything, I feel like her character somehow feels worse here. One thing I struggled with in the 1st film was remembering names including that of the main characters. Unfortunately, I still have this issue in The Way of Water. This is thanks to the fact that a character's name only ever seems to be mentioned once and never again which makes it difficult to remember anyone. For example, Kate Winslet of Titanic fame is in this movie but I wouldn't be able to tell you what her character's name was for the life of me.

In terms of the story, it's very simple and by the book. It is about the kids learning the customs of a clan and struggling to fit in which sounds awfully similar to the 1st film or a high school drama. The plot works fine but it is very bland and predictable. Every cliché and trope you see from a coming-of-age story is here. The movie is also really long with a run time of 192 minutes. I'm not sure the plot justified that run time as there were many moments where a lot doesn't happen and could've been cut to reduce the runtime. James Horner, the original composer of Avatar, passed away and was thus replaced by Simon Franglen. Simon does a serviceable job but the music score is just not very memorable compared to Jame's music score. The best soundtrack in The Way of Water is the ones that were reused.

Overall, Avatar: The Way of Water is a proper cinematic experience. Yes, the movie's plot and characters aren't that memorable but the visuals are truly amazing. In an era where it feels like we get a lot of poorly made CGI, it is a breath of fresh air to have a movie that has beautiful-looking CGI for what feels like the entire movie! Watching in it cinema with IMAX 3D was a terrific experience and it is the best way to watch Avatar: The Way of Water. I'm thoroughly looking forward to the sequels!

For more reviews like this visit:

https://moviewarfarereviews.blogspot.com/

#movies #films #movie review #Film Review #avatar #avatar 2 #avatar the way of water #Disney #20th centery fox #zoe saldana #marvel #titanic #terminator #aliens

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dixonarchives · 3 years ago

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[ᴅ.ᴅɪxᴏɴ] | 𝗯𝗼𝗼𝗸𝘄𝗼𝗿𝗺

sᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: Daryl struggles to find a way to communicate with you and even if you're not an avid book reader, he uses it as a way to gain your attention. Or, awkward Daryl wishes he spoke to you more.

ᴀ/ɴ: gn reader

-> fluff/crack

“Didn’ know ya read” Daryl remarks innocently, raising a curious brow at the sight of you pulling a couple of discarded books from the mouldy shelves of the convenience store.

The covers had seen better days - obviously - as it was evident that the books had aged well before their destined time. The font was faded and had been scratched off of the cover and similarly, the colour had become dull over time. Twisting the book around came with the realisation that the blurb was almost unreadable but after flicking through the inside contents, you deemed it semi-readable and dumped it in your backpack with a thud.

“Neither did I. Need something to do though” You shrug honestly, looking at the archer with a lax expression. Daryl’s indifference to reading led him to mirror your shrug insouciantly. In the few months of knowing you, Daryl had never once seen a book in your hands. He proposes that there’s not a lot he knows about you anyway, as it’s not like the group had bonding nights together. He realises that maybe, just maybe, he wants to know you a little better because the tightness in his chest he feels when you laugh heartily with others because you have taken time out of your day to learn about them stems from a small spot of jealousy. But that’s normal, right?

Daryl prefers to chalk up the feeling to the fact he’s never really had friends. It’s just simple friend jealousy.

“Daryl?” You call, waving a hand in the archer's face. Daryl blinks swiftly as a puff of air leaves his mouth at the startling movement of your hand. He hadn’t been caught up in his own thoughts in a while, so the fact that the thought of you fogged up his sense of reality causes his heartbeat to thump faster ever-so-slightly.

“Hm?” He hums as he awkwardly adjusts the strap of the rug sack strewn over his shoulder in an attempt to mask his embarrassment. He watched with warm, red-tinted ears as you smile slightly at his odd reaction.

“I asked, what do you think about the prison? Once we move in… Do you think that’ll be our forever home?” You ramble with such a hopeless glint in your eyes it causes Daryl’s stomach to twist uneasily. It was the hopelessness that the entire group suffered for those few weeks on the road after the farm fell and shelter was hard to come by.

Daryl shrugs impassively. Till now, he’s just been glad that the group had found somewhere with fences and walls that keep outside threats from getting in.

“I dunno” He replies aloofly with a dispassionate tone “Haven’ though’ ‘bout it tha’ much”

You nod curtly as you tug your chapped lip between your teeth. Your finger comes up to rub the dust off of the shelf you grabbed the books from preceding the current conversation. The dust gathers on your finger in a thick, velvety texture - something similar to the dust leftover in a tumble dryer. The sight reminds you of how long the apocalypse has been prospering and how long it’s been since you’ve seen your biological family. You don’t want to let the thought sit for long, so you dismiss it with a shake of your head.

“Yeah” You reply, grasping your backpack “It’s just that… Everywhere else has fallen apart”

“Don’ think about it like tha” Daryl brushes off your perception of the past bases your group had come to. The first one could be narrowed down to the walker population leaving the city in hopes to reach more food sources or due to the fact Glenn had rode a car back to the base with its siren blaring. The farm was simply chalked up to the walkers from the highway spilling into the forests (and one too many gunshots).

Daryl watches you silently for a few seconds but they felt like years in your eyes. The piercing reconnoitre stare left you with the familiar feeling of being scrutinously observed by someone after you had been caught doing something wrong but Daryl’s gaze had always felt like that.

Imposing. Maybe that’s the right word. You’re not sure.

“I guess I should just be happy we have somewhere” The pressure of being under his gaze causes you to spurt out the sentence with a squeak. Daryl certainly doesn’t miss how you practically sprint past him in an attempt to dismiss the tension you felt.

“Here” A tanned arm extends into your field of sight and as you follow it up, you drink in the sight of the familiar toned biceps which were connected to your very own lone-wolf. Daryl peers down at your crouched figure with his lips drawn into a fine line. He grunts, shaking his arm to redirect your attention down to the item in his grasp.

A book. A very beaten, yet still together, book. As you look at it you can’t help but hesitate about taking it from him because it looks as if it'll disintegrate if you were to grab it too harshly. Carefully though, you grasp it with a small smile.

“David Walliams?” You ask after reading the surviving text displayed on the book's cover. Daryl nods “Like Tom Sawyer, I guess” He shrugs as he retracts his hand to scratch at the nape of his neck awkwardly. A smile breaks out on your face at his explanation.

“What’s funny?” He asks gruffly. Your smile only widens as you look up to find Daryl unconsciously pouting with his arms crossed defensively.

“Nothing.. It’s just that David Walliam is the author” You correct him politely as you flip the book over to do a one-over. The entirety of the graphics had been scratched off with the author's name being the only viable text left. Even so, it was partly faded and semi-scratched off but still coherent.

Daryl shifts, bringing himself to a crouching position to match your height.

“Is that okay?” He asks as he stares lightly at the book. You can’t help but lean back, admiring his features as he stares at the book as if there were something wrong with it.

“Yes” You assure him “Thank you, Dare” The affectionate nickname makes Daryl flush timidly as he uses his long locks of hair to hide behind as a safety curtain. He’s not used to it - your fondness. It’s similar to how you speak to Carl, with such softness in your voice in an attempt to soothe the young boy. But it’s different because you don’t view Daryl as a child whom you have a fondness for. You view Daryl as a man whose reserved mannerisms cause him to shy away from others when he feels that his boundary has been overstepped or disregarded. No. The nickname comes from a place of endearment, a hypocoristic term to convey how you internally feel about the man. How you view your relationship with him.

Daryl clears his throat bashfully “Don’ worry ‘bout it” He dismisses his efforts. No, he definitely won’t tell you that he doubled back to grab that book after walking away from it moments prior because that voice in the back of his head kept telling him to take it because it meant he had an excuse to speak to you and maybe, just maybe, you’d speak to him a bit more afterwards.

As Daryl stands up from his crouching position with a pained groan which you definitely hear, he walks away awkwardly with a sense of accomplishment.

No, you don’t think you’ll tell Daryl that David Walliams publishes children’s books.

A lil bit of crack/fluff to ease me back into writing! I hope it’s okay :)

#daryl dixon fanfiction #daryl dixon x reader #twd x reader #daryl dixon imagines #daryl dixon imagine #daryl dixon scenarios #daryl dixon x y/n #daryl dixon x you #twd fanfic #daryl dixon fanfic

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slashingdisneypasta · 2 years ago

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Familial!Horror Villains x Sibling!Reader || Headcanons

Plot: What being their sibling includes.

Includes: Freddy Krueger, Sawyer Brothers and Tiffany Valentine

Warnings: Some angst- which will be in the colour red.

Freddy: Abusive home life + Attempted murder + Actual murder + Cops. In fact most of Freddy's HC's are angst, but I'm only gonna colour the really bad stuff.

Sawyer Brothers: Chop Top getting drafted.

Tiffany: Not much, actually /: You and Chucky hating each other will be in red but its not that bad.

You were adopted a little after Freddy- Underwood wasn’t collecting enough child assist from just one kid apparently so he picked you up.

Freddy Krueger: 2-year age difference.

You were basically a goddamn baby, and Underwood sure as hell wasn’t equipped to take care of an infant, so most of the duties fell on… yep. 5-year-old Freddy’s shoulders. Not by his choice, obviously, in fact he attempted to kill you a couple of times (Almost drowned you in the bath, left you outside one night in the dead of winter, got his hands on a knife once and considered sinking it in your little stomach, etc), but by some miracle, you survived. Maybe Underwood showed up at the exact right time, or you spontaneously learned howta fucking crawl, but you survived.

It was only when you got a little older, and could talk and play with him, that you two really started to get along… you know, be more sibling-ish.

You could play games with him, so he thought… huh. Maybe I should keep them around.

Y’all didn’t play mundane stuff like Mums and Dads, or anything though, oh no no… Y’all played stuff like Hide & Seek, and Supreme Court, and… Life or Death. How long can you hold your breath? How long can you stay still before he gets too close with Mr Underwoods straight razor? Would you rather fall off the Empire State Building or get stuck in a freezer? Etc, etc. Freddy was always a… creative, child…

You weren’t fazed, though. That was just your childhood, that was just your brother. There’s nothing weird about any of this! You were just the same, in fact.

He also told elaborate bedtime stories in the dark when neither of you could sleep- its not like Underwood would do anything if you stayed up past your non-existent ‘bedtimes’. He was always passed out by 6 in the afternoon.

You ended up never really getting any new clothes your size or your style, even into your teenage years (until you got yourself a part time job that is)- you were wearing Freddy’s old cast offs for most of your childhood. All ratty sweaters and moth-eaten t-shirts hanging shapelessly off your body.

OH MY GOD, Freddy was a nuisance in your teenage years. He always seemed to know when you were planning to sneak out and would blackmail your ass for no apparent reason apart from wanting to be an asshole. He’d make up some thing he wanted, like pizza or beer, but you knew he only did this for the fun.

You were always patching each other up after beatings.

No one understands eachother like the two of you, which made it difficult for the both of you to make friends- especially you. Because you weren’t the kid of a hundred maniacs, like he was- you were just an orphan. The Springwood kids could forgive that, but because you stood by your big brother you never really made any other relationships until Late teenagehood when you basically decided he was really annoying and you could stand to have some space.

When you came home one day to Mr Underwood dead, you're the one that figured out what to do with the body. No hesitation. You didn't even need him to explain anything- you were relieved.

Him coming to you after a kill sorta became a routine? Freddy would do his evil thing, you know, then come over to your house and you would talk about it (You're smart. You want plausible deniability) but you would know what happened anyway and put on the kettle.

You were also his alibi.

You were the first person cops came to question when Freddy was jailed. You gave them nothing- just sorta toyed with them for a bit, until one of the policeman suggested you had something to do with it. This was a conmen theory over the years, but you never ever served any time because no one could ever find any evidence against you.

Eventually a certain frizzy haired Final Girl would come to you in her early 20's, having tracked you down for her own closure. She got nothing out of you of course though, except for a couple curious, sinister things.

You told her Freddy wasn't the monster in that house, when she touched on your childhood.

And when she asked you if you were 'just the same as him', you admitted in some ways, you could be even worse.

YOU GET!... No privacy!! Congrats. Chop Top and Nubbins will literally yank you outta the damn shower (Assuming they even have a working shower-) if they wanna show you something. And Bubba is not much better XDD He’s just a bit more chill, so he’ll just wait til you come out- then bombard you. And then theirs Drayton, who will just yell through the door to get the fuck out; Dinner’s on the table and if you don’t eat it now, so help him, you will go to bed hungry.

Sawyer Brothers: I’m not gonna specify your age difference because honestly, I don’t know the ages of the Sawyer brothers.

Goodluck putting a lock on your door- Nubbins will melt at it with a soldering iron until Chop Top can ram himself into the door and it breaks open. Yes this has happened, and then all you had was a curtain for a door because Drayton’s ‘not made of money’.

When you were little, you were the only one not totally feral (Well, you were- but you were cute when you were worn out at least XD ), so Drayton liked you the most (Yes he plays favourites, Of course he does. It goes Grandpa, You, Bubba, Chop Top, literally anyone else, then Nubbins), especially when you would ‘help’ him cook. And by help, I obviously mean follow him around the kitchen taking things he handed you and putting them in a line on the bench. As you got older you learned a few things in the kitchen from your older brother, of course.

Chop Top used to herd together you and Bubba in his room, cuddle you both up to his sides and play music for you both- all the time. Drayton’s actually got an old polaroid of it in his wallet. Honestly, as far as insane big brothers go, Chop wasn’t bad.

The twins both liked to dress you and Bubba up like dolls when you were both littler (VERY likely with victims’ clothes), and Nubbins would take a million photos of you both ‘all dressed up’. There are embarrassing as hell pictures of you two gender swapped, as bride and groom, as animals, going on Holiday in Hawaiian shirts, with your faces all painted on like you’re in KISS or you’re clowns, etc.

Actually- Nubbins has taken so many pictures of you guys growing up that you would basically have a flip book of your lives if he didn’t lose or destroy half of them.

Ohhhhh god, the day that Chop Top got drafted, was one of the worst days of all your lives. Screaming fights, because Drayton and Nubbins get angry not sad, crying because Bubba didn’t believe for one second that his brother would come home, and hiding because Chop Top refused to face any of it.

You could never leave your brothers, and your grandpa- this is your family; This is your home, in fact, and they need you. You're just as insane as they are and belong there.

Tiffany: My Mother always told me; Once is a blessing twice is a curse. // Chucky: Well, that would explain your sister.

Tiffany Valentine: 5-year age difference.

Shut the f u c k up, Chucky.

Anyway-

You and Tiffany have a pretty typical relationship for siblings- you irritate the shit out of each other because know too much about each other but also get along quite well.

Like, you two were quite happy to actually spend time together- willingly- when you were living in the same house. Yes, you fought and when you did the skies might as well have been falling for how awful it was for everyone in hearing distance, but most of the time you understood each other.

You used to watch Jennifer Tilly movies together! You knew each others snack preferences well (Orange juice became wine eventually, but they mostly stayed the same XD ) and could quote whole sections of the movies together when the inspiration struck. Your mother thought you two were wierdos for it.

Tiffany often used you as her living doll when you were growing up; Experimenting with hair styles and make up's on you.

She was so encouraging!! She convinced you that you were beautiful, and would not tolerate you saying anything else about yourself.

OH. BOY. Anyone tried to pick on you? Your big sister was coming and the assholes were going to regret it, greatly. Mamma said to look after each other, because you're all each other has in the end, and Tiffany took that, like everything else her mum ever told her, quite seriously.

You did, too- when Chucky turned up you were immediately not on board. You were distrustful of him from the goddamn start. Grilling him in the kitchen when they would hang out at your (Yours and Tiffany's mums) place, 'subtly' trying to scare him off by bringing up past boyfriends (Tiff!! Guess who I saw at the store just then!! // Oh geez, Y/N please don't- not again- // BECK. He's back in town! He went to Canada and fought a MOOSE!- oh chucky... hi... didn't know you were here... ), generally being even more unpleasant towards him as he was to you and your mother.

You and Tiffany fought about this, but in the end she always sorta agreed that Chucky was a jerk- she just... kinda... liked that about him? It was infuriating for you.

THIS DOES NOT MEAN, THOUGH, THAT WHEN YOU AND CHUCKY FOUGHT SHE WOULD AGREE WITH HIM EVERY TIME. We all know Tiff is not a push over. She chooses Chucky, knowing he's a dick, and she disagrees with him quite often. It was usually You and Tiffany VS Chucky.

When she was turned into a doll, she called you up to just let you know?? XDD Like, I'm okay but I'm a doll now... yeah, no, a real doll... *sigh* yes this was Chucky's fault... (*Chucky, whose ears perk at hearing his name: IS THAT Y/N?? YOU TELL THAT STUPID BITCH TO GO FUCK THEMSELF.) No, Chucky, I'm not gonna tell them that, jesus... - Oh, you heard Y/N? Okay I'll tell him. *Tiff turns back to Chucky* They want me to tell you that they were the one that stole your CD last year. (Chucky: I KNEW IT. Where is it?!). The garbage. (Chucky, hearing you laughing your ass off through the receiver even from the distance he is away: Tiff... are you sure we cant kill Y/N?) They're my baby sibling, Chucky! Je-sus!

#Slashers x Reader #Familial!Slashers x Reader #Familial Love #Familial!Slashers x Sibling!Reader Headcanons #Tiffany Valentine #Headcanons #Slasher x Reader Headcanons #Slashers #Chucky #Charles Lee Ray #Sawyer Brothers #Drayton Sawyer #Chop Top Sawyer #Bubba Sawyer #Nubbins Sawyer #Freddy Krueger #X Reader

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doodle-pops · 2 years ago

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House of Fingolfin | Having A Smart (Scientist) S/O

Request: Greetings my favourite storyteller! May I please request a headcannon with the Sons of Feanor? They’re s/o is a certified genius in like science or mathematics and how they’d react? Or the Nolofinweans? Or the Lords of Gondolin? I love all the elves so much, lol. Hope your feeling happy and healthy! - anon

A/N: Decided to go with the House of Fingolfin for a change. Had a lot of fun writing this since I'm also doing a science major at Uni and got to talk a lot about science in general.

Fingolfin

An extremely intelligent person who prides themselves in the vast collection of knowledge he was able to acquire growing up, Fingolfin would be in awe at your remarkable level of academia.

We know he chose to focus more on politics and law, so the world of science and philosophy, to some extent on the latter, would be new to him, thus Fingolfin would spare no excuse to not sit with you and listen to your ramblings.

You fill his knowledge on chemistry, biology, physics and maths. Do expect millions of cocked heads and questions flying your way whenever you mention some modernized words when describing some scientific phenomenon.

He becomes marvelled at the vast collection of information you have stored in your tiny brain and is quick to inquire where you obtain them and who taught you.

I can see him making some comments about how you’re much smarter than his older brother in the ways of science. He knew that if Feanor learned about his lover being much smarter than him, the endless comments about them would be rolling off his tongue.

This prevents him from showing you off as much as he’d like to avoid Feanor making any insults are jabs at you.

You would have a lab/inventory set up somewhere in the palace or at your house and Fingolfin has hooked on every little instrument his eyes fall on. He doesn’t touch but he’ll just stare and attempt to figure out its purpose without asking questions, trying to remember if you’ve ever spoken about it.

He doesn’t take part in your experiments, instead, he’ll stand at the side and observe you mix chemicals together and gape as the colours change and effervescences are formed.

Because of this, Fingolfin would invest in obtaining the best scholars to work with you and advise you to teach your knowledge to the younger upcoming generation.

Fingon

He’s trailing behind you everywhere you go because you’re always dropping some random fact about the environment and linking it to other science subjects which leaves him amazed.

He’s learned a lot growing up from some of the best scholars his father provided but never had anyone ever taught him knowledge like this.

Fingon loves to spend time around you or stay locked up with you in your room because you’re always building some little gadget to go along with a hypothesis you came up with. He loves to take part in assisting you.

He’ll go around telling everyone who knows about your intelligence that he’s your little helper, thus he knows almost as much as you do. It’s a cute sight to see him boasting about your knowledge.

Sometimes whenever he's out on his own and he comes across little phenomena, if there's people around, he'll recall that you taught him and explain it with a bright smile on his face. He does his best to use all the scientific terms you used when explaining.

No time spent with you is boring because you’re always taking him on some adventure into the woods to investigate some new animal or plant species. He’s happy to accompany you and give you any extra information that you may have missed.

If you’re a scholar and have debates, know that Fingon is front and centre listening intensively to every word that slips past your lips. He even nods along to what you’re saying even though he doesn’t understand.

He enjoys listening to you talk about every science subject because “You never make them sound boring like my scholars did.” The little twinkle in your eyes as you explain to him about the stars and how they’re made makes his brain combust.

That’s perhaps his favourite aspect about your knowledge, you knowing about the stars and explaining to him their life cycle. Spending hours under the night sky and talking him through what space looks like, congratulations, Fingon thinks you’re a Maiar in disguise.

Turgon

Taking after his father in terms of education, Turgon delves into law and politics and has found it more exciting than science. This doesn’t meet that he has no clue about science, he just prefers not to indulge in the area of academia.

When he meets you, Turgon is surprised by your level of enthusiasm in the area of study. He’s never met someone so excited and by understanding the nature and mechanics behind the way the world worked. He understood that the Valar existed, and they made things go a certain way and that was enough.

Of course, you would change his mind and teach him that it wasn’t exactly like that. He’d be amazed by your theories and hypothesis, but it wouldn’t be enough to draw him in until you conduct experiments.

Show him the light spectrum using the glass prism and how rainbows are truly formed, conduct colour-changing experiments through chemistry or dive into advanced medicine and blow his mind.

It would be then, that you would have earned Turgon’s respect and captured his attention. Academic conversation and tons of questions in hopes that you would provide an answer for everything, and you always do.

Similar to his older brother, he’d have suspicions that you’re a Maiar in disguise which would explain your vast knowledge on numerous topics.

Late nights conversation about the stars and the ocean or the forest. Some might drift into becoming philosophical and he doesn’t mind, he considers you of high academia and as such, you are wise in his eyes.

He always seeks you out for answers even if he may have learned about them as a child, you always provide extra that discombobulates his brain. There’s this growing smile that spreads across his face as you’re explaining to him about some natural phenomena, and it warms your heart.

Your heart always grows teary whenever you notice how invested he is in your area of interest.

Aredhel

A bit disinterested when you begin to explain your interest in science to her since she’s more of the physical aspect of nature by hunting. She doesn’t really have time to sit and listen to you explain to her the differences in the mechanics of life.

The only way to grab her attention is if you specialize in biology and also take interest in the medical field. Talk to her about the animals in the forest and how they work or their nature and may she’ll sit and listen.

Because she’s a hunter, they are many things that she’ll cut you across the re-explain that she believes you may have gotten wrong, particularly about the animals. She’ll boast about having a greater knowledge in that area which prompts your relationship to be filled with proving the other wrong.

You give her advice about how certain animals work and then her going “Nope, incorrect, they don’t”, she’ll follow it up by sitting you down to give you a full-on explanation of where you went wrong. At times, it feels as if she’s the scientific one and not you.

It’s not done out of spite, it's just her nature of correcting people when she knows they’re wrong in her area of expertise. There are other areas you can grab her attention where she won’t challenge you, but she’d be overly inquisitive.

Do some crazy experiments and made chemicals change their colours or dive into alchemy and create some new element and watch as he chooses to stick around more. Careful, she has curious hands that touch everything she’s marvelled by.

It is very easy to bore her since her personality gravitates towards being free-spirited and extrovert-like. Thus, most of your conversations need to really be accompanied by experiments or they just need to be mind-blogging to keep her seated.

Build her an inverted camera or a telescope and watch as she steals it from you for her hunts. (it’s always the stars that attract them to science *sighs*)

She’ll sit for hours under the sky in an open field after kidnapping you during her hunts and begs you to talk about the heavens. Tell her everything you know about the stars and the moon. Tell her you know what heaven looks like and you’re never leaving her side.

But have no fear, at the end of the day Aredhel brags and boasts about you like her life depends on it. You’re the smartest person ever, and even if she knows more than you in other areas, she still comes to you for information.

Maeglin

Ah yes, one of the perfect people to show your interest to. As a blacksmith, Maeglin would be into science to some extent – Material Sciences for metals and rocks. If you’re in that area of that you’ve just captured his attention.

He’s eager to learn all the information you have in that area and build on his own to better his craft. Even if you don’t specialize in that area, Maeglin would listen to you for hours as you talk about the mechanics of nature.

Do experiments with him by testing the metals and rocks and have him as your helper. Teach him all that he wants to learn and extra tidbits, fill his mind with wonder and awe.

Maeglin would inquire where you obtained all this knowledge because he’s never read any books that contained such vast information.

A great topic to talk to him about would be living in the ocean. As someone who’s grown up in the forest and city, having never seen the sea by only hearing about it, this is one way to catch his interest.

Tell him about what the ocean is like and all the creatures. This is the moment for all you biology and environmental science students to show off your vast knowledge (don’t fail me here and tell me you don’t know anything).

Maeglin would ask you millions of questions about the sea with mirth and wonder in those beautiful eyes. Draw what sea creatures look like and their variants. Show him the whales and fishes and spike his excitement for wanting to see the ocean.

If you’re a scholar then expect to see Maeglin attending some of your sessions as you teach. He has to proud lover’s smile stretching from ear to ear as he looks on. Maeglin could not have been any prouder of your accomplishments.

Argon

He's similar to his eldest brother when it comes to trailing behind you anywhere you go because everything you do is accompanied by the greatest explanation that blows his mind.

You could repeat a piece of information he would have learnt as a child and he’d still be gaping at you because “Whoa, that was just amazing. How did you know that?”

Take him everywhere you go and even if you don’t, he’s tagging along like an overly excited puppy. It’s a cute sight to behold – an overly tall ellon trailing behind with stars in his eyes.

You could talk to Argon about anything, and he would never find the topics boring. There’s excitement in your voice thus it excites him. There are times when you explained some natural phenomena and it happened before his eyes, and he’d jump up and shout in awe because he understands how it’s happening.

Talk to him about nature and chemistry (conduct some experiments and make him believe that you’re a wizard) and he’d use your wisdom for when he goes hunting.

You’re the smartest person alive to him, so he comes to you for the smallest convenience even if it’s not your area of study. Argon may not seem it, but he loves to stay up late hours into the morning talking about every topic your conversation shifts to. He might not be able to contribute, but he’s open to learning.

There’s this child-like wonder he gets when the opportunity to re-explain some phenomenon you’ve told him occurs. He’ll stand proud and tall with confidence to repeat all the fascinating ideologies you’ve told him.

Like the rest of his siblings, behold the mighty power of the stars, drag him outside to sit under the stars and blow his mind with vast knowledge. He’s going to beg you to be an apprentice for Varda so you could learn more and share with him.

Masterlist

Taglist: @spidergirla5 @eunoiaastralwings @someoneinthestars @aconstructofamind @mysticmoomin @lilmelily @hoshinokurasa

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talesofstyles · 4 years ago

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Drs Styles

paediatric heart surgeon harry, husband harry and dad harry. honestly the holy trinity.

warning: they did it in the car. bloody animals.

Harry

“Move your car, please!”

“What are you going to do? Write me a ticket?”

“This is in the interests of safety for the children!”

I look at the time in the car. I’ve still got about twenty to twenty-five minutes to watch this drama unfold at the school gate. I just wish we had popcorn because drop-off and parking situations at the school gates are always more entertaining than Good Morning Britain.

The school gate is a strange social scene, and honestly, I don’t blame my wife for trying to avoid it like a plague. Sometimes, you don’t even have to talk to these people to know everything about their lives and more. I swear there are more gossips in the class WhatsApp group and daily playground chattering than in the copies of The Sun and Daily Mail combined. You know who’s married, who’s getting a divorce, whose husband shagged the au pair again, whose party you haven’t been invited to, even who’s looking for a builder.

I see the school caretaker chuckling to himself as he sweeps the autumn leaves off the pathway, no doubt also enjoying our morning entertainment.

“Why is Mrs Chambers screaming like that?” Alma, our eldest daughter, asks from the back of the car.

“Because that man parks his car in a drop-off zone,” I reply, still watching him as he removes a child from his car seat. “Do you know who that is?”

“I think the boy is your classmate,” Alma turns to her sister.

Fiona, our youngest, peers over to inspect. “Oh yeah, that’s Rufus and his dad.”

“Do we like Rufus?”

“Not unless we like boys who pee down the slides,” Fiona scrunches her nose up. “He stood at the top and peed down like a waterfall. I haven’t gone down the slide ever since.”

I shake my head and let out a chuckle. “M’sure they’ve cleaned it up since, button.”

Did you know that choosing a school for your child after nursery can be a head-throbbing, stomach-twisting, heart-pounding experience? Well, it can. How is one supposed to choose a school anyway? According to the proximity? Leavers Results? Adorable uniforms? Parents’ agendas?

After many, many discussions and visits through more schools than I can count, we ended up with Thomas’s Kensington. It’s a great school, and only ten minutes away from our home, making school runs easier. The downside of this school is the fact that it costs us an arm and a leg and that they’re always trying to rip us off any chance they get. Also, they only take the kids until 11, so after that, we’ll have to look for other schools again. But since our girls are only seven and five, we can worry about that later.

There’s a strange mix of parents at this place. I went to school up in the North and the school gate scene is nothing like this. Here there are more au pairs, fancy cars, nicer clothes and people coming with impressive tans from their last weekend break in Antibes. The kids here are suited up too: the PE kit is the size of a small weekender bag, and we put them in uniforms that make them look smart, hoping that will increase the size of their brains. A child walks past our car with a cello case, another with a hockey stick. It’s a different land here. One that my socialist in-laws constantly tease us about and one which my mum was hysterical about because she was scared her grandbabies would be little Tories. I promised her I’d keep them grounded by only giving them plain hobnobs. None of those luxury chocolate covered ones.

Jokes aside, my girls are happy here. They’re thriving. They learn French and Spanish and Mandarin, even if they share a class with kids who have ridiculous names like Kitty and Archibald.

A knock at my window calls me to attention. I wind it down.

“Are you Fiona’s dad?” A mum asks me.

“I am.”

“It’s about Ophelia’s riding party this Saturday at the riding stables.”

Like I said, it’s a different land here.

“I thought we RSVPed to that?” I look at her in confusion.

“Yes, you did, but we have to change the food options as one of the partygoers is allergic to nuts. I’m making everyone aware and we need to let the guests know that they can’t bring any nuts on the day.”

A dirty joke is right there on the tip of my tongue and I’m trying my hardest to keep it in. My wife would definitely find it funny though, I’ve got to remember this and tell her later.

“Noted,” I mean, I wasn’t going to send my daughter to a party with a packet of cashews anyway but I nod politely.

“And just gift vouchers for gifts please. Smiggle, if you can.”

Again, I nod, biting my tongue at the presumptuousness. But then I suddenly panic, because we haven’t entered the realms of pony riding just yet. Do I have to buy jods and boots? If I don’t, will my daughter be the odd one out? But Ophelia’s mum saunters off before I’ve got the chance to ask.

“Do I have to go to that party, daddy?” Fiona asks.

“Well, we’ve already replied, poppet,” I tell her. “Did you not want to go?”

“I’ll go if I have to.”

I don’t answer because I get distracted by a vacant space. I edge the car forward so my girls can hop off.

“I love you both. Have a good day, make good choices.”

“Bye daddy! We’ll see you after work!”

***

Evelina London Children’s Hospital is our second home. Of course, as a children’s hospital, we try to make the place as fun as possible as not to freak those little patients out at being ill. It is bright and primary coloured, and each ward is decorated according to its own theme with different colours and lovely artworks. There are televisions and toys almost in every corner. We have a giant slide on the ground floor, and even the bins are shaped like red London buses. The aim was to help the children to forget that they’re in a hospital and take their minds off their sickness.

Since my wife and I are in the same department, our offices are next to each other, both overlooking the Thames. It’s nice up here. Would’ve been nicer if we could sneak in a quickie, but that’s practically impossible with our shared secretary’s desk sitting literally in front of our doors.

Speak of the devil.

“Good morning. Here’s your tea,” my secretary follows me into my office with a cup of tea and a tiny plate with a couple of rich tea fingers. “Clinic until 3 pm, scheduled PDA ligation in the laboratory for 4 pm and then evening rounds on the wards.”

“Mornin’ Rhonda, you look lovely today,” I greet her cheerily. She’s a stern-looking woman who definitely likes her tea as strong as tits and who has probably never cried in her life. With such severity, she runs a tight ship, but she secretly has this affectionate side in her too. Not only is she a great secretary, but she also takes care of us in a way as a grandma does. She makes us tea, feeds us in between surgeries with biscuits or nice baby cheeses and crackers just so we wouldn’t starve.

See that sofa over there in the corner of my office? Rhonda got me that. It was around the time when I had just become a new father with the sweetest, most gorgeous little baby who did not sleep. Alma wasn’t a fussy baby though. For some reason, she just wouldn’t go back to sleep after her midnight feed for months. Believe me, I tried everything. I changed her nappy, I swayed and jiggled and rocked and sung her to sleep. Odd nonsensical songs like, ‘Alma darling go to sleeep. Sleepy sleep sleep. Pleeeeease. I’m so tirrrred. My eyeballs may actually exploooode. I don’t want you to see thaaat.’ And she would just look at me all wide-eyed like I’d lost the plot. Those were song lyrics? That was rubbish. Please don’t give up your day job. Also, it’s not sleeping time. I’m awake. I’m ready for life. Come on, entertain me, old man. Isn’t this nice, just you and me? Tell me everything you know. EVERYTHING.

Except of course she didn’t say all that. She would just stare at me and I had no idea what was going on in her little head.

I took over my wife’s patients at the hospital during her maternity leave, so I had longer hours at the hospital. One day Rhonda found me napping on the floor between surgeries, so she sweet-talked some porters into looking for any old sofas on the go and paid to have this one reupholstered. She even bought me a fleece throw for it too. We really don’t deserve her.

“You hittin’ on me?” She deadpans. “Yer wife not doing it for you these days?”

“It’s the blazer. I’m a sucker for a blazer.”

“If I’d known, I would’ve worn it more often,” she replies. “Did my nice dress yesterday not give you the fanny flutters?”

“It’s schlong shiver for me,” I roar with laughter. “And it’s the tartan, makes you look well old.”

“YN, yer husband’s a bloody git, did I ever tell you that?” Rhonda says loud enough for my wife to hear, and I can hear my wife’s laughter from her office next door. “Drink your tea. Your first clinic appointment is in twenty.”

“Yes ma’am,” I salute her.

***

The Arctic ward in the Evelina is home to many of our imaging, heart and kidney services. The name is probably giving it away, but everything is decorated in blue and white to go with the theme. We have several zones, and since paediatric cardiology clinics are held in the Walrus zone, I spend a great deal of time each day looking at walrus and snowflake decals.

“Doctor Styles!” I hear a little voice shouts in excitement as I walk towards the waiting room in the outpatient ward. I smile, because I recognise that voice even before I see the little person.

The waiting room is very open here compared to other hospitals. There’s a sea of noise, snacks, tiny juice boxes and colouring pages. There’s also always a look of expectation, judgement on the faces of parents and guardians every time I walk in. They want to see if their doctor is old or qualified enough to see their children. There’s always one child who has the whole gang with them; parents, two sets of grandparents and even several aunts and uncles, and there’s also at least one child running around in circles out of boredom.

This little lad bounces off his chair and hurls himself at me in a way like a little puppy would when its owner comes home from work. I put an arm out, hoping that he’ll apply the brakes but no such luck and he bundles himself into my arms. “Nice to see you, mate.”

His parents smile as they watch their son’s antics, who then runs off as I shake their hands. I turn around to see what caught his attention, and I can’t help but chuckle when I realise it’s my wife.

“Doctor pretty Styles!” He exclaims excitedly as he bundles himself into her arms. She gets a mouthful of curls in the process.

“Hi Rory,” she greets him as she runs her fingers through his curly mop.

“Oi,” I pout as I walk towards them. “You don’t think I’m pretty?”

“Your wife is prettier,” he says with a shrug, his tone matter-of-fact.

She laughs and gives him a high-five. “Rory, you are officially my favourite patient.”

She is right. Rory is one of our special patients for sure. We’ve both known him for about six years now, ever since Rory’s mum gave birth to this tiny human next door at St Thomas and his heart was literally broken. I remember watching proudly from the theatre when my wife replaced two of his valves when he was born. It was in our early years of training. Long time patients like Rory almost always feel like family. We’ve seen all their parents’ tears and watched over their children throughout the years. They send us cards and wine every Christmas and despite all attempts to keep a professional distance, their kids do feel like our own.

Rory shrugs off his dinosaur rucksack and unzips it, pulling out a drawing of a blue whale and an opened packet of KitKat. I like that the whale wears a top hat and appears to also don a moustache.

“I drew you both a picture. Only one though, because I figure you can share,” he says with a big toothy grin and hands the packet of KitKat to my wife. “And I’ve got half a KitKat here. Do you want it?”

“I’m good for now. Keep that KitKat for later on the tube,” she smiles and waves at Rory as she begins to walk away towards the fetal cardiology ward just down the hall. “Bye Rory, thanks for the picture.”

“Bye doctor pretty Styles,” Rory replies, making my wife laugh as she walks away. I give her a wave and a wink.

“Hey Rory, did you know a blue whale has a heart the size of a small car?” I ask him and his eyes widen.

“No way! That’s mega!” He exclaims. “Do you think you could operate on a whale heart?”

“I would need a very big ladder,” I tell him. “And a wetsuit. I’d give it a go though.”

A senior nurse from the outpatient ward, Florence approaches us with a junior nurse trailing behind her. “Dr Styles, always a pleasure.”

I smile at her. “Florence. How are we today?”

“Busy as usual,” she replies. “We’re about twenty minutes behind I’m afraid. We had Dr Goodridge in this morning and you know he likes to talk.”

“He always runs over,” I chuckle. “Well, don’t worry. I’ll skip lunch and get us back up to speed.”

“I’ll make sure to send some snacks for you. Here’s your chart, your files are already in your office. And this is Alice, your nurse today. She’s newly qualified so might need some instructions.”

The new nurse looks terrified so I smile at her to try and calm her fears. I totally get that. When you work in medicine, unfortunately, you’ll realise that there are a lot of rude self-important wankers.

I look down at my chart and find Rory’s name on the top of the list. “Well, look who’s coming with me to the exam room.”

Rory reaches out to hold my hand and we walk towards the examination room. His parents follow us closely, carrying the usual coats and devices that people do when they know they’re bound for a hospital waiting room. I see them inside and sit behind the desk.

“So, young man, I hear we’ve had a touch of drama with you. Can you tell me what happened?”

I’ve actually already got the information in the file, but I like the way this kid tells a story. He reminds me of my youngest.

“So… I was at school and we were doing PE and I wasn’t really feeling it because it was cold and really we should have been inside but Mr Witter makes us go outside because he used to be in the Army apparently and he says we should get used to the cold but that’s what they do in prisons.”

I smile. “Go on.”

“And then my heart started running.”

“You mean racing?”

He nods firmly. Racing isn’t even the word. It sprinted to the finish like Bolt at 252 beats per minute, three times the speed it should.

“It felt like bubbles in my chest and then the school went crazy panicky and they called the ambulance and they brought me to the hospital but not this one, it was another one and it wasn’t as good because you weren’t there and they had really bad biscuit.”

His mum adds. “And they gave him some drugs to bring it back to a steady rhythm; they were close to shocking him.” Her voice trails off and both parents’ faces look drawn and pale remembering the incident.

Rory looks absolutely unbothered by this. To be fair, we have put this little man through everything. We’ve cut his chest open more times than is necessary for someone so small, we hook him up to machines and put him on treadmills. His resilience and character amaze me, and I really can’t imagine what it feels like to see your child so vulnerable and helpless, to be paralysed and weighed down with such worry.

“Alright then, little man, we need to make sure that your heart is working as it should. This is Alice, and she is going to take you over for an ECG and we just need to make sure your tick-tock is in good shape.”

Rory nods and jumps off the chair. His dad offers him a piggyback, and his mum smiles at them. I can hear Rory offering that half KitKat to Alice as they leave the room.

His mother turns to me as the door is closed, her shoulders relaxing, allowing herself to breathe. “And how are you?” I ask her.

“You just think it’s done and then something like that comes along to scare you,” she says with a sigh.

“Let’s have these tests and then see if it’s anything major to worry about,” I try to calm her. “Episodes of rapid heartbeat is quite common in Rory’s case, and we can look into drugs to remedy that if necessary.”

She smiles, nodding.

“Did you have any other questions for me?”

She studies my face for a moment too long. “I… well, it will show up in Rory’s records soon, but my husband I are… I mean we’re getting a divorce.”

I pause for a moment. Of course, I know these things happen in life, but I’ve known this couple for years. I’ve seen them at their lowest ebb, bound by friendship and their love for that boy. I really do feel sorry for them.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” I mumble.

“We just… we’re terrified about telling Rory.”

“He doesn’t know?” I ask.

She shakes her head. “We’re scared of breaking him. I mean, look at him. All of this stuff he’s been through and he carries on like nothing has happened. We don’t want to upset him.”

“It took a team of us the best part of six years to build Rory’s heart. There's a warranty on that workmanship,” I reassure her. “Have that chat with him. He’ll be fine.”

***

“Have we got time for dinner first?” I turn to my wife as we walk out of the hospital. We don’t normally have the luxury of ending our shift at the same time, but today is exceptional. We have parents’ evening at the girls’ school so Rhonda made sure to clear up our schedule after our evening rounds at the ward.

“No, but we can raid M&S and eat in the car?”

I’m starving and I almost cry with relief at the suggestion. “Always knew I married the right woman.”

She chuckles. “Damn right you did.”

We leave the car at the hospital and she drags me along the walkways to Waterloo, the breeze biting at our cheeks. I pull her into M&S, dodging the marching commuters and grab a basket.

“I’ll look for some wine,” she says before she saunters off. “Oh and I want sushi. None of that crap with the mayonnaise please.”

“Alright.”

I skipped lunch today so the whole place calls to me. I start taking very random things off the shelves: a packet of raspberry iced buns. That’ll do. I also take some hummus for my wife because she bloody loves hummus. I’m not even joking, I’ve seen her down a whole pot of it. Then I take some sushi as requested, some coleslaw, a family bag of mature cheddar and red onion crisps and a trifle. I hope I don’t bump into Rhonda. Next are cheese twists, noodle salad and cocktail sausages.

It takes me a while to notice that there is a man right next to me with a roll of yellow stickers in their back pocket. Hello there, you are one of my favourite people tonight. Have I managed to find that sacred hour when all the food is being marked down? He labels some prawns with dip and even though I get a little squeamish about eating fish near its expiry date, I put it in my basket. I then follow him around the corner. Now, this is dinner. I put all sorts of random food in my basket and smile at the thought.

Ooh, knockdown pizzas. I should get a pizza. That’s tomorrow’s tea sorted, the girls will love it. Although I can’t help but wonder, what’s the limit for us to feed our daughters frozen pizza in a week before they get taken away from us? But eh, we might be able to get away with it if we give them frozen peas on the side.

“Look at you,” says my wife, depositing two bottles of red in the basket.

“Yes, it’s me. I’m the yellow sticker bitch.”

She snickers as we turn to head for the tills. “Excellent work.”

***

“Mr and Mrs Styles, welcome.”

“Mrs Ebner, always a pleasure,” I shake the headmistress’ hand who’s standing at the door.

“Busy evening?” My wife asks her as she shakes her hand next.

“Always,” the headmistress replies with a smile, then proceeds to speak like she’s reading out of brochures. “But such a wonderful opportunity to connect with our parents and build on the special relationships we have with our school community.”

Two uniformed minions appear.

“Lewis, Maggie, could you please show Mr and Mrs Styles through to the drinks reception?”

They both nod in unison. The boy holds his arms out like a waiter showing us to our table. We follow them through the school’s grand corridors to the main hall. It’s the one thing I like about this place. It’s very Hogwarts-like with hefty engraved name boards and sepia photos of successful sports teams. In the hall, a throng of parents mill around waiting to see respective teachers. It’s the same every year. We all dodge the people from the PTA trying to sell us quiz tickets, and the bowls of crisps out of hygiene concerns.

“Red or white?” Asks a lady in an apron.

This right here is the very reason we get through parents’ evening. From the look of the bottle, it’s decent wine too. I think that’s where a good proportion of our fees is going.

“Red, please.”

We both take our glasses and walk to the corner of the hall. It’s essentially a holding area without the background music. The idea is that all the parents will get on and create a party vibe but it just becomes a strange family gathering. As terrible as it sounds, it’s sorted into cliques: parents who know each other via NCT groups, the international expat brigades who keep to themselves, the parents who’ve ostracised themselves by gossip, the ones who you know regularly brunch and ski together.

The boy from earlier suddenly appears in front of us. “Mrs Hughes is ready for you.”

I put my hand on the small of my wife’s back as we walk towards the classroom. Fiona’s teacher first and then Alma’s straight after. Right, we can do this.

“Mrs Hughes, we meet again,” I shake her hand. I’ve got no qualms about Mrs Hughes. She’s a seasoned teacher who likes a slack and sensible moccasin and we’re familiar with her since she taught Alma two years previously. When we enter the classroom, Lewis bows in reverence, taking his leave and I wonder whether to tip him.

“It’s always lovely to have another Styles girl in my classroom. Fiona is a particular delight.”

My wife and I smile proudly. I’m sure Mrs Hughes says this to every parent here about their child, but that’s always nice to hear.

“She talks a lot about you,” my wife says. “She seems to have settled in well.”

Mrs Hughes opens up a couple of books and it’s classic Fiona. Alma is ordered and neat—if she makes a mistake then she erases it completely and she underlines things with a ruler and listens to instruction carefully. She gets that from her mum. Fiona though, on the other hand, she’s all me. She has more wild abandon about her; no rulers, no rubbers. She puts giant crosses through things that don’t work and likes her bubble writing decorated with doodles of many, many cats.

I glance around the classroom as Mrs Hughes talks to us about standardised scores. The theme of the school is to show you how smart and educated these children are. Look at the copperplate handwriting, their reproductions of Van Gogh and our languages corner where they’ve all had a go at telling us what they like in French. I spy a contribution from my girl. J’adore les chats et le gâteau au chocolat.

I’ve lost track of the conversation so I try to catch up.

“So to push Fiona into those top scores, perhaps we can look into tutoring? For maths, in particular, so she can grasp some of the concepts a little more tightly,” says Mrs Hughes.

My wife and I look at each other confused. “Uh, I don’t think there’s a need, right? She’s only five.”

“It’s never too early,” replies Mrs Hughes. “We run an after-school tutoring club on Tuesdays that would help.”

Back when I was a youngster, clubs were fun endeavours that involved matching baseballs caps or were a chocolate biscuit that you had in your lunchbox. Maths tutoring session was not a club.

I ask her. “Is it free?”

“It’s fifteen pounds per session.”

See? My point being this should be a parents’ evening, not a sales session.

“Well, then it’s something to think about,” says my wife. “It could be that Fiona catches up with people throughout the year.”

“Possibly,” Mrs Hughes nods. Still, though, she proceeds to go into her folder and passes me a form. Sneaky. “Fiona has also shown great interest in languages and art. Her pictures have been a joy.”

Mrs Hughes goes to a file and pulls one of Fiona’s drawings. I glance down at it. It’s a standard child piece of art. The grass and sky are strips of colour to the top and bottom. It’s a family portrait, and we are as tall as the broccoli style trees. Wait, hang on a second. I count the number of people in the picture again. Is that-

“And Mrs Styles, I gather congratulations are in order,” she says with a smile. “Such lovely news.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Fiona told me it’s a boy,” she adds, and the sheer terror on my wife’s face at the realisation is priceless. “You must be very thrilled.”

I study the picture. There’s a house in the middle, and standing in a line in front of the house is our family. The one slightly taller than the broccoli tree is me. I’ve got my white lab coat, and I look like a serial killer because I’m holding a scalpel with the size of a butcher’s knife. Next to me is my wife, also with a white lab coat, but instead of a scalpel, she’s holding a very chunky baby who rather looks like a basketball with a head.

“Oh dear,” I chuckle. “Guess now we know what she’ll ask for Christmas.”

“Yeah,” my wife shakes her head. “We’re not expecting.”

“Oh, I apologise,” Mrs Hughes says with a sheepish smile.

“No worries, Mrs Hughes,” I tell her. “So, what else has our girl been up to here? Besides gossiping of course.”

Mrs Hughes laughs under her breath. “Well, in class, Fiona is attentive, bright and very helpful. She is a credit to you both.”

***

“I swear your daughter, Styles.”

We’re sitting in the car now. Finally done with parents’ evening, still laughing at the slightly creepy, chunky basketball baby in Fiona’s picture and the fact that three people, including Mrs Hughes, have congratulated us for the ‘baby’.

“You haven’t called me Styles in years,“ I turn to her with a grin. “Not since medical school.”

I can’t help but flashback to the good ol’ days when we had matching university hoodies and we’d test each other on the parts of a kidney whilst walking into lectures, sitting next to each other, sharing pens and cans of Lilt.

“Well, after that I became a Styles too,” she chuckles. “Would be confusing then, wouldn’t it?”

“True,” I laugh under my breath, then I grab her hand and pull it to my mouth so I can kiss her knuckles. “Thank you.”

“What for?”

“For being a Styles.”

“Aw, aren’t we soppy tonight?” She smirks. “Alright, stop the car.”

“What?”

“There,” she points to a dark empty spot and I oblige.

Then, before I can even ask her why, she reaches over and grabs me by the collar. Pulling me close to her and gives me a kiss. I kiss her back, and I smile when she bites gently on my bottom lip.

“Oi, oi. Something’s got you randy.”

The next thing I know, she undoes her seatbelt and then rolls her trousers down her legs along with her knickers, fumbling and giggling at the awkward movement. I push my seat back and pull my trousers down.

“Don’t fall on gearstick now,” I joke as she climbs over to straddle me. “Well, unless you want to, of course…”

She laughs as she lowers herself over my lap. I really can’t believe what’s happening here.

“Mrs Styles, we’re about to have sex in a car. Around the corner from our daughters’ school.”

“I know,” she says with a smile before she runs her tongue along my neck. “Not our first rodeo though.”

“Oh right, we did it in our Volvo years ago, didn’t we? Thought the suspension couldn’t take it.”

“And it turned out fine. Told you that you needed to have more faith in the Swedes, they’re a reliable breed.”

“I love it when you talk about Sweden.”

“Ikea.”

“Fuck.”

“Meatballs.”

“Billy Bookcase.”

She throws her head back in laughter and I take this as an opportunity to run my tongue along her collar bone. She gasps. I reach down to lift her before I slowly lower her over my cock. We both sigh as I enter her, a long exhalation with our lips barely touching.

“Viggo Mortensen.”

“Isn’t he Danish?”

“Tomato, Tomahto.”

I smile at my wife and push my hips up, silently telling her that we don’t need to talk about Swedish people anymore. She grabs onto the car seat and levers herself up and down. I look at her in the eye, a goofy smile still plastered across my face.

But then I squint. Light. Bollocks, what’s that? Where’s that light coming from? Crap, that’s bright. Shit. I see the flash of a hi-vis jacket, a knock at the window and someone shaking their head.

Oh sodding fucking bollocking shit wank.

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