#and when will people get it through their thick skulls that not every ‘I’ being referred to in smiths songs is morrissey himself

[some-greatreward]

saw a tiktok that was some dude mocking the plsplspls lyrics and being like “morrissey a whole grownass man saying ‘please let me get what i want’ is so fucking cringe” and i just had to slow down and go. wow. ok. people really do view things in entirely different perspectives from me huh. bc the first time i heard that song i cried

[parakeetpark]

Shoutout to my fucking awful workplace for deigning to get dates and bottled water for those breaking their fast in the evenings - and getting the absolute cheapest, tiny, wretched dates that no one likes.... and wondering why they don't get eaten

I heard the most ignorant conversation today too, shook me, only click tags if you want to read bc i did go off ranting a while wo meaning to

[joelsdagger]

walk the line || one shot

joel miller x f!reader

masterlist | ao3 || follow @joelsdaggerupdates for notifs!!

pairing: boston qz!joel x f!reader summary: you and joel have a deal: sex in exchange for supplies. no questions asked. so what happens when you do? or joel fucks you while you’re in a headlock. that’s pretty much it. rating: 18+ explicit warnings: boston qz era, undefined relationship, mentions of sexual favors, choking, rough unprotected p in v sex, dark!joel, mean!joel [in the sense that he doesn’t let her come oops :( ], dubcon [reader tries to loosen his grip], noncon [i’m putting this here just in case], no aftercare. think that’s it. word count: 1.2k

a/n: just….don’t ask. i don’t know what this is. thank you to @papurgaatika for holding a gun to my head so i would post this looking this over, love you schmooks <3 

please heed the tags. protect your peace if this isn’t for you.

He’s being rough. Rougher than the countless times he’s fucked you before. 

In the time since you and Joel started this whole arrangement, you never needed to tell him to fuck you at a blistering pace. He just did it. 

Because you and him are the same. He told you that once. He said that you and him are two sides of the same coin. Both of you are always keeping your walls up and people out. Always keeping everyone at arm’s length. It made this arrangement easy, simple. 

There was just one rule: Nothing personal. A rule you happily got on board with. Getting personal is not really your thing. You learned that it was easier to survive at the end of the world without having someone to care about. Staying detached worked for you. You didn’t care enough about Joel Miller to even bother giving him a second thought. 

At least, that’s what you wanted to believe. 

A few minutes ago, you made the mistake of doing just that. 

You got personal. Flicked open the glass casing and pushed the big red button. Nobody gets personal with Joel Miller. Most importantly, you don’t. No. Never you. And now he’s punishing you. Maybe he’s punishing himself too, because he didn’t stop you. Didn’t stop this.

He’s being brutal, intense, and mean. And usually you could handle it because, like plenty of times before, you wanted him to.

But this time, you didn’t.

Your cunt is sensitive, and it hurts; it burns more and more with every rough snap of his hips; warm liquid pricks at your eyes in discontent. Your swollen cunt betrays you, squeezes around his wide girth, and he grunts against the shell of your ear in response. You’re sure he thinks you're begging him for more. To him, the swift flutter of your cunt is a silent tell to pick up the pace. 

And he does. Relentlessly. 

With every unforgiving thrust of his hips, knocking the wind out of your lungs, and the firm hold of his forearm against your neck, compressing your throat, you were barely hanging on. Black spots spatter across your vision, and your eyes slip closed; tears of anguish streak down your cheeks.

It’s too much. You choke on a sob, and your hand comes up to his left arm, weakly tugging at it, attempting to make space between the crook of his elbow and your neck to suck in an ephemeral breath of air. 

Instead, he tightens his grip on you; his left arm pulls you into his chest, and his right hand moves heavily to the top of your head as he brutally fucks up into your throbbing hole. Your head dips back beneath his chin, and the crown of your skull stings as the plastic clip hanging out at the bottom of the valve of his gas mask digs into your scalp.

Your failure to follow his rule — his only rule — had pissed him off so immensely that he didn’t even waste a second to remove his mask.

His muffled voice cuts through the thick haze that took over your mind. “Stay,” he orders through gritted teeth, and you obey.

Because he’s teaching you a lesson.

With him, you mind your tongue.

With him, you do as you're told. 

With him, you don’t ask questions.

With him, you don’t get fucking personal. 

And with your head locked between both of his strong arms and his fat cock hammering your cunt, punching at your cervix — forcing himself in — he makes certain of that. Makes your mind go fucking blank. Because when your sloppy cunt is stuffed full of his cock, your mind goes fuzzy, and your body goes limp in his hold, you are in no position to question him. To pry. To challenge him. To fight him. A brutal, shattering reminder that Joel Miller calls the shots.

And Joel doesn’t say a word. Not this time. Not when he’s using your body as a way to cope with his anger — to get himself off. It’s all breathless groans and grunts that tell you your holes are enough to satisfy him. And for a moment, you can’t help but wonder if this is how he always saw you — a means to an end.

Maybe you felt the same way about him.

You don’t have time to dwell on it because then you feel it — he twitches inside your aching cunt, signaling his rapid release. He hisses as he pulls out of your wasted hole, his length bobs against the crease beneath your ass, smearing your sweaty skin with your mixed wet. His cock throbs against you as his seed spills onto your quivering legs, coating your inner thighs, and leaking onto the tattered, moth-eaten mattress. 

You whimper pathetically as his arms release you, and your shuddering form falls forward, crashing into the dusty mattress beneath you. Your chest heaves as your hand comes up to the column of your neck, your weak fingers pressing at the sharp, searing pang there. You don’t doubt your skin has already begun to smart. You cough profusely as your lungs fill with air, a humiliating attempt at catching your breath. 

Joel’s left hand comes down beside your head on the mattress, cushioning his fall as he hovers over you. He groans as his other hand replaces your cunt, and with every fast, wet pump of his fist, the pulsing tip bumps against your skin; his release now paints the small of your back.

A first. 

And in the back of your mind, you try telling yourself it’s his way of claiming you — that he still wants you after you stepped out of line. Your stomach lurches at the same time your cunt flutters at the thought. You’re not sure how you feel about it, but you do know you feel empty without him inside you. And other than what happened here, he typically makes you feel good. Leaves you satisfied before he chases his own release.

Today, he didn’t. He used your body as a means for punishment, and you let him. A penance. For crossing the line he told — you both agreed not to overstep. 

A few moments later, you’re pulling your distressed jeans over your cum-coated thighs while your glassy eyes watch Joel as he zips up his own, his eyes fixed on the molded wooden floor in front. “Joel,” your voice hoarse and raw. 

He peers up at you beneath his lashes, the sunlight clawing through the taped-up window catches on his eyes; the amber in his hazel irises glowering in the light. 

“It won’t happen again,” you whisper.

“No,” he leans forward, grabs his gas mask you didn’t notice he pulled off, and the orange pill bottle you were meant to deliver to him without sticking your nose where it didn’t belong, and he grunts while he moves to stand, “it won’t.” 

And only when his heavy footsteps fade down the dark hallway of the abandoned building on the outskirts of the QZ, leaving you alone to stare back at the pale, rotten wallpaper with a painful and pleading ache between your trembling legs, do you realize exactly why no one defies Joel fucking Miller.

[sweet-as-an-angel]

Miguel w/an Innocent S/O

Warnings: Protective Miguel, Slight Yandere Miguel (if you squint), Implications of Smut, Fluff, More Fluff, Spooning, Mentions/Implications of injuries, Insecurity, No Pronouns used for Reader Except 'You'.

Him being fiercely protective of you 24/7.

If someone even so much as looks at you wrong, he stares them down until they either break down and start apologising, or their heart gives out.

You’re the only person he shows any affection to. You’re also the only person allowed to touch him. Period.

He’s so touch starved; please hold him and tell him he’s your big guy :-(

Goes FERAL when you rake your fingers through his hair; his eyes roll into his skull and he can’t help but moan a little, even if the context isn’t sexual.

Don’t bring it up or he’ll punish you for it later 👀.

He finds your innocence both endearing and worrying.

On one hand, you believe in the good of everyone, which, considering how insecure Miguel can be, is what initially drew him to you; your ability to empathise and sympathise with others, to not judge them.

However, he knows people would take advantage of your kind and giving nature.

One time, he found out that one of the Spiders – a Victorian England era ‘gentleman superhero’ – had tossed you a used coffee cup and told you to dispose of it on his behalf. When you tried to say something, to tell him you were busy and had better things to do, he just dismissed you.

Of course, Miguel had seen this. He has eyes on you every second of the day.

You never saw that Spiderman again. Nor did anyone else. All that seemed to remain of him was his suit thrown haphazardly into the storage room, where a great big tear edged with blood was ripped into the chestpiece, the hero’s signature top hat abandoned and crumpled beneath it.

He also broke another Spider-Person’s arm when they tried to steal one of the fairy cakes you’d lovingly baked for him; poured your heart and soul into.

Miguel also growls at people he thinks are looking at you strangely. Full-on bares his fangs like a rabid dog and watches them cower.

He purposely grows his fangs out and lets you play with them.

He’s careful to make sure you don’t get hurt, though, guiding your hands away from the pointed tips.

His guilty pleasure is when you kiss his fangs and tell him he’s “The coolest, most handsome man in the world!”

“Just the world?” He says, smiling, raising an eyebrow. His heart melts in his chest as your smile widens, eclipsing your eyes into crescents.

“In ALL the worlds!” You say, throwing your arms around his neck and hugging him, laughing. He brings his arms, thick and muscular, around your waist and pulls you into him, pressing ticklish kisses into your neck, revelling in your laughter.

Intimacy-wise, Miguel is horrified at the prospect of hurting you.

He’s ever so careful, as if handling glass, holding back his strength.

It’s worth it, though. The strain.

Especially when he hears you mewl and try to hide your face in his chest.

“Oh no, Sweetheart,” he says, tangling a hand in your hair and pulling your head back. His pointed fangs flint as he gives a smile. “I want to watch you like this.”

Loves your gentle kisses – they give him life.

Nothing can get him down when you’re around; especially when you’re sitting in his lap.

Though, issues have arisen as a result of your oblivion to…compromising positions.

More often than not, Miguel’s had to bite his lip and tongue when you shift in his lap, catching him, making his heart start and his breath shutter, electric anticipation jolting through him.

He takes you aside in the bathroom to deal with the issue you’ve unknowingly caused, but you don’t complain. Not that you can with your mouth full.

He looks at you with eyes which have seen the deaths of countless individuals, yet when he finds yours, he sees love and light spanning infinite universes within them. And they give him hope that there is more to life than loss and grief; more to him than his failures.

He revels in the feeling of you hiding behind him whenever you’re scared.

Sometimes he takes you to areas of the facility where he knows you’ll be easily frightened – for example, where captive villains are held – so he can feel your hands tightening around his arm or gripping the back of his suit. It makes him feel useful, like he can take on the world.

And he gets off on being the only person who can truly protect you. But he’d never tell you that, of course.

Loves demonstrating his strength around you. He can pick you up single-handedly and carry you anywhere without so much as thinking of breaking a sweat.

He prefers to be the big spoon, curling around you like a shield and protecting you from the outside world, his warm, broad chest to your back.

Tells you how much he loves you through hushed post-intimacy whispers and soft touches. Shows it through acts of service and the insurmountable adoration that fills his eyes whenever you’re around.

He can’t imagine being with anybody else. He can’t even remember the last time he felt anything save for contempt before you showed up.

And he’ll do whatever it takes to protect you. No cost is too great for the love of his life <3.

Reblog for more content like this! It helps creators like myself tremendously and it is greatly appreciated :-)

Masterlist Masterpost

Yandere Masterlist Juicy Original Content <3

[adore-laur]

Can you make a blurb focusing on the second baby? I don't know something like her needing a moment with Harry or her getting sick

IN SICKNESS & IN HEALTH

——

"Open your mouth, honey."

You obeyed, and Harry gently slid an oral thermometer under your tongue. When you closed your lips around it, the metal tip provided a coolness that briefly offset the fever blazing through your immune system. Frankly, you didn't need an official temperature check to recognize you were fighting a viral infection, but Harry had insisted every aspect of you be monitored closely. He was currently whisking around the bedroom, ensuring you were being doted on like a princess. In your febrile state, where surreal thoughts flowed freely, you wondered if he'd been a doctor in one of his past lives. Those large, veined hands in skin-tight exam gloves. Manspreading on a swivel stool while listening intently to a patient's concerns. Diligent, respectful touches during routine checkups. Was it deranged to be jealous of the faceless people in your fever-induced fantasy? Maybe. All you knew was that it heated your body even more.

A bout of rigors had roused you in the middle of the night, which left you violently shivering in Harry's embrace. While semi-conscious, you had thought nothing of it. Hours later, after miraculously falling asleep in a cocoon of two thick blankets plus a heated one, you had awoken in a pool of sweat with a fever on the horizon. Now, in the early morning darkness, there was no choice but to try to break it. You had plenty of fluids nearby, comfy pillows for your heavy limbs, and a husband who was at your beck and call. And best of all, the sleep-aid medication you had taken earlier was working wonderfully.

After a silent minute of Harry staring at you sympathetically with his knuckles pressed against your unusually warm forehead, the thermometer beeped. He took it out, and when he read the result, a frown appeared on his lips.

"Am I dying?" you asked hoarsely, your eyelids drooping shut. Every part of you felt weak with exhaustion. The sinus pressure was a sucker punch whenever you moved your head.

"One hundred point seven degrees. Not good." Harry sighed and quickly left the bedroom on a mission to cure your symptoms. You laughed a little, which turned into a wheezy cough. The only real cure was rest and hydration, so you were curious what his magical remedy could consist of.

Distantly, you heard sounds in the kitchen. Cupboards shutting and utensils clinking. Was he making something? Your illness diminished any appetite for breakfast. Granted, it was five in the morning, not the typical time you ate.

The girls were still sleeping, and in the intimate shadows before dawn, when only you and Harry were awake, it felt like the old days. Back when you'd kiss him goodbye in his one-room apartment before he left for work earlier than any man had a right to do. Young, scraping by, and smitten with each other. He'd shown you what infatuation felt like. In those otherwise minor moments, you'd seen glimpses of the promising years ahead. A man who'd be devoted to healing your wounds during every tribulation life presented. A gentle presence, full of pure intentions, tender love, and perceptiveness. And all of it had translated beautifully into marriage and fatherhood.

You drifted off with sweet thoughts prancing around your mind. An hour later, Harry returned. The subtle scent of ginger and garlic lured you back into consciousness. By the foot of the bed, he held a bowl of soup, and you sniffled while sitting up. A dizzying rush of blood pulsed against your skull.

"I want you to eat this and drink an entire glass of water before sleeping," Harry ordered, rounding the bed to your side. He set the bowl on the nightstand, steam wispily wafting up toward the amber lamplight. You decided not to tell him you already indulged in a snooze.

"Copy that, Dr. Styles," you said. Soup for breakfast? Sure, why not?

He met your gaze, unhumored. "I'm serious. The ginger will hopefully soothe your throat. There's lemon juice in it for some vitamin C. Red lentils for a protein boost. Let me know if it isn't savory enough."

You smiled to yourself, knowing he thrived off refining his culinary creations until they were nothing short of excellence. "I'm sure it's perfect. Thank you."

"It might be too hot to eat yet," he said, fluffing the pillow beside you and pulling the comforter further up your legs. "Can I get you anything else? Where's your cold compress?"

"Why are you so worried?" you asked. "You've seen me sick dozens of times."

He placed his hands on his hips, maybe as a way to stop himself from fidgeting. "Doesn't mean I like it. In fact, I hate it."

"It could be worse." You shrugged, thinking of all the times you had held a puke bucket. If you had one thing to feel good about right now, it was that you didn't have food poisoning. Hallelujah.

Harry ran a hand through his hair, the curly ends sticking up among his natural bedhead. "I'm wondering if one of the girls passed it on to you."

"Probably," you murmured. "All kids are germ magnets." Your eldest was currently getting over a cold. No fever, thankfully, just the sniffles and a wet cough that made you wince every time you heard it.

"I should check on them," he said, seeming hesitant to leave you. He gestured to the nightstand. "By the time I get back, I want half that water gone and three spoonfuls of soup in your belly. Okay?"

"Wow, you're a no-nonsense doctor." You picked up the bowl of soup, its warmth spreading across your palms. It smelled deliciously herby. "Mmm, and a very talented chef. Have you ever thought about becoming one?"

Fondly, Harry shook his head with a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "You're strangely vivacious for a woman bedridden with a fever."

"Maybe I just like it when you dote on me," you said candidly. It was often outwardly shown through his actions, like today when he cooked soup from scratch for you and kept track of your symptoms, but his subtle attentiveness was your favorite. As a husband, it was how he would lead you through a crowded room, his hand tightly grasping yours to ensure you never strayed far. How he would carve out time for conversations together, whether they were ones of reminiscence, ones revolving around the future, or ones of harmless banter. How he would touch you with purpose, making you feel safe, adored, and most of all, like the most important person in the world. In public and at home with no one watching. He had chosen you in this life, and you reaped the benefits of his devotion every day.

"Just fulfilling my marriage vows," Harry replied, grabbing the baby monitor and turning to leave. You smiled, set the soup back in its place, and sunk into the mattress, feeling the strong urge to sleep the day away. It would take too much energy to lift a spoon or glass to your mouth, so you disregarded Harry's sensible advice and closed your eyes against the rising sun.

——

Harry took slow steps down the hallway while typing a note on his phone that reminded him what time he had checked your temperature and the unfortunate result of 100.7 degrees. You'd been right about him witnessing you under the weather on many occasions before—from the flu to hangovers to stomach bugs to pregnancy nausea—but it still pained him to see you weak and lethargic. He was doing everything he could to nurse you back to health as soon as possible.

A sound coming from the baby monitor wedged under his armpit stopped him dead in his tracks. He heard a couple of coos, followed by the buildup to a piercing cry that made his heart drop. They weren't the usual cries that his six-month-old baby girl woke him up with. And considering it was still before six a.m., the time she commonly needed a feeding, something was amiss.

Rushing to her nursery, Harry's mind went to the worst-case scenario. Had she escaped her crib? Was there a chance she had hurt herself? It had been nerve-wracking enough transitioning her from sleeping in a bedside bassinet to her own room. Harry feared not being right next to her during the night, but the positive was that it allowed for a smoother bedtime routine—both girls in their separate rooms, away from noise and other distractions. His mantra to help him sleep at night was, They're safe, they're safe, they're safe.

When Harry reached her crib after turning on the ceiling light, he was relieved to see her still there, looking mostly the same as the last instance he checked on her a few hours ago. This time, though, her face was screwed up as she wailed at full volume. She was communicating a need he wasn't sure of yet, and while he prided himself immensely on being able to translate her cries and swoop in with a remedy within seconds, this one was foreign. It alarmed him.

"What's the matter, my love?" He picked her up, and instantly, the answer became clear. The damp spot on her sheets. Her skin warm and clammy to the touch. Her refusal to breastfeed at her usual schedule yesterday. "Oh, no."

He had hoped the infection wouldn't be contagious and spread to everyone in the family. But, like you'd said, kids attracted germs from just about anywhere and anything.

"Please don't tell me you have a fever," Harry whispered, cupping her head and pacing around the room helplessly. "I can't handle all of my girls being sick."

She continued crying, and Harry pinched his eyes shut as he mentally went through a list of how to reliably bring her fever down. The first step was to take her pajamas off—the precious fleece onesie with snowflakes that he'd bought for the winter season. He set her on the changing table and undid the snap fasteners until she was left in only her diaper. The fever was apparent in the way she was flushed from head to toe.

"Let's ask Mommy what to do," Harry murmured to himself. He didn't want to proceed with any remedies without your consent, so he placed his daughter back in his arms and walked out to the hallway. "We'll make it better, I promise."

Unsurprisingly, you were already halfway to where he was, no doubt having heard her crying lasting longer than normal. You looked dog-tired, but the motherly instinct you possessed always overpowered it. "What's going on?" you rasped.

"I think she might have what you have. She sweat through the sheets and is burning up."

Your expression transformed into guilt as you slumped against the wall. "Great."

Harry came closer, bending to meet your eyes. "Hey," he said softly, "don't blame yourself. It's hard to avoid."

"I know, but... I really tried to be careful." You sighed, stroking his daughter's back. "I washed my hands before I touched her. Bathed her twice a day."

"You did everything right, baby," he assured. "She has a tiny immune system that's still developing, so it doesn't take much to catch a bug."

When you didn't respond, he said, "Let me take care of her. You should be in bed resting. Did you do what I asked?"

"No, I fell asleep," you muttered with a rueful wince.

Harry couldn't bear to be disappointed when you looked so miserable. "It's okay." His baby girl released another cry, and he pivoted to the serious matter at hand. "I was going to take her temperature."

You sniffled and rubbed at your forehead, which was probably aching with pressure. "If her temperature is higher than one hundred, we need to call the doctor. For now, open a window and feed her a bottle. If that doesn't cool her down, let me know and we'll try giving her some Tylenol."

Harry nodded. A part of him knew all of this information by heart, but he always sought your advice in these urgent moments. As the old saying went—mother knows best.

He kissed your cheek while gently squeezing your wrist in gratitude, not caring if he got sick—it was inevitable at this point. "Water and soup, please. Then rest."

"I promise."

Heading to the kitchen with a fussy, feverish baby wriggling in his arms, Harry opened the patio door to let the crisp January breeze in. The first streaks of light were brightening the space little by little. He got to work by taking a bottle of breast milk out of the refrigerator. He took her outside on the porch, positioning her in the crook of his arm to feed. To his relief, she latched onto the nipple and began drinking. She recently learned how to hold the bottle by herself, so Harry used the opportunity to get the ear thermometer from the bathroom.

Back outside, he took her temperature on the wicker patio chair. After a few seconds, it gave him a reading of 99.3, which thankfully meant no doctor visit today. Harry could breathe a little easier as he slowly rocked her in his arms, observing her behavior. The milk seemed to help hydrate her and alleviate her distressed cries. Her skin was still warm, and he felt like natural remedies only worked to a certain degree. He planned to give her a dose of medicine before her next nap. It would cure what he couldn't.

Once the bottle was half empty, Harry stepped back inside and closed the door behind him. He was working up a sweat with all this running around the house, but he enjoyed tending to everyone's needs.

He returned to the bedroom. The sunrise's soft glow shed over your frame curled up under the comforter, and he could see that you were awake. Looking at the nightstand, he smiled when he noticed a good portion of your soup and water gone.

"I think she'll be all right," he said quietly, setting the empty baby bottle on the dresser and sitting beside you on the mattress. His daughter whined, but for now, her shrieks were no more. "Just a low-grade fever. We'll keep an eye on it."

You nodded and whispered, "Thank you for everything."

Harry didn't say anything in response. He didn't have to, because this was what a family did—take care of each other in sickness and in health. And he had vowed to do it for a lifetime.

——

[ervotica]

maybe mean!rafe x crybaby!reader? he gets mad at her for not sitting down on the couch with him and he yells at her, dragging her by her wrist and forcing her to sit with him… only if you’re okay with it(I’ve never requested anything before)

warnings; mean!rafe, dom/sub undertones, brat taming, crybaby!reader, barry is a shit stirrer but we love him for it <3

a/n; thanks for the request, angel! hope you enjoy🥰 (side note; may or may not be thinking abt being rafe & barry’s shared gf😍 they’re just too hot together jfc)

You get agitated in a sort of frenzied way that has always driven Rafe insane; you start to twitch, tapping heel clad feet and cracking knuckles until the sound of it has his jaw ticking in vexation.

You're rocking back and forth on your heels, red solo cup clutched between clammy palms; you can see Rafe in your peripheral vision, never letting him too far out of your line of sight in fear of being left to fend for yourself at one of these parties packed with drug-addled teenagers.

The smell of cheap, stale beer and sweat pervades your senses and you cringe, the blaring music paired with the way Rafe is staring you down- cerulean eyes piercing straight through you- forcing your brain into overdrive.

"Would you quit it and come sit down already?" Rafe snaps, thick digits outstretched as an offering for you to take; your lip spills into a pout, tightness pulling at every inch of your skin as the tension pools and gathers between your crumpled brows.

"I don't wanna," you whine, dragging out every syllable plaintively until he's standing, storming towards you with a thunderous expression carved into his features that you're not often on the receiving end of.

"I told you to fucking sit down! What the fuck is wrong with you, huh? Can't even do as you're told, can you?"

You feel the tears tickling at your waterline the second he raises his voice, your gaze snapping up to him as the first wave spills over your wide eyes.

"For God's sake, kid. Come sit down," he grouses. His tone softens when your expression crumples and he hooks a thick bicep around your neck, drawing you into the warm expanse of his chest. You're pulled along in short, shuffling steps until your bum hits the leather couch and Rafe's bruising grip digs into your calves to splay them haphazardly across his lap.

"You're mean," you sniff, backs of your fingers smearing across your teary eyes until they're caked in black. He pinches your thigh before delivering a firm swat to the afflicted area, his arms a vice around your squirming body as you try to free yourself.

“I told you to sit down and be fuckin’ quiet. Take a nap or something, cranky pants.” He rolls his eyes, fingers spreading across your jaw to settle your head in the hollow of his shoulder.

You grumble something indecipherable before he feels you go slack on top of him, lashes fluttering as you fight the fog of fatigue that invades every inch of your skull. He smears a kiss along the curve of your forehead.

“Y’alright, Princess?” Barry queries, only amused by Rafe’s sudden glaring of daggers at the shorter man. “Country club bein’ mean, huh?”

“She’s fine,” Rafe snips as you stir and start to whine once again. “Just bein’ a brat. Needs a rest ‘s all.”

“Rafe.”

“I swear to fuckin’ God, kid. You be quiet or I will spank you raw in front of all these people.”

You sigh and curl up and into his embrace, exhaustion settling heavy in your bones once he cages you into his chest with a firm squeeze.

“Good girl.”

[diejager]

More Wolfie plz🥺? Idk what you’d right but I love the universe you built up with it and would love more of it, even if it’s just a sliver

Training Cw: smut, training, collar, ring gag, doggy style, creampie, unprotected sex, PinV, fingering, tell me if I missed any.

“What did I tell you about growling, pup?” He sounded so demeaning, his hand laid heavy on your nape, holding your face down and away from the two men in the room with you.

Ghost had pulled you to Price’s office under the guise of this being training, wanting to work through your aggression you’d thrived on while living in the wild. You were jerky and a biter, baring your teeth after a low growl, threatening to sink into someone’s hand or arm as retaliation. They were getting a lot of complaints from people who would approach you and attempt to pet your ears and tail, wanting to touch the softness of your washed fur and disregarding your personal space and boundaries.

“None of that,” his grip tightened around your neck when your throat rumbled, a growl slipping through your gagged mouth, drool rolling down your cheek.

They gave you a pretty, black ring gag, placed behind your teeth to keep your mouth open from biting them and showing off your sweet and fiery mouth. The black leather looped behind your head, a thin strap connecting it to your collar, a smooth, black leather that sat comfortably around your neck without irritating it, but thin enough for you to feel everything. They had you wear it as a sign of possession, the silver insignia of their Task Force hanging from the front, a skull and winged sword proudly gleaming under the light wherever you go.

You mellowed down, growls quieting to loud pants, exhausted from your skirmish with Ghost, doing your best ignore your Captain’s rough handling, his calloused fingers kneading the flesh of your hips and stomach, his hands smoothing over the arch of your back to your tail. Your fur was matted and wet, dirtied with slick that - prior to being forced into this position - pooled down your rim and wetting your soft fur. You’d long given up in fighting Price, he was much stronger than you and smelled of power and strength —like alpha. He was the leader of your little pack, a fiercely protective leader who had every intent of putting his group first, but it was his scent that made you stop. He smelled of strong musk, a heady scent of cigar and cedar, less smoky and sweet than your Lieutenant’s sandalwood that kept flooding your sensitive nose.

“Good pup, you’re doing so well,” Price cooed, running his fingers through your hair, scratching the reactive nerve behind your ears. It made you whine, a high sound that had both of them shush you, “That’s it, you’re all right, pup.”

Your panting grew louder, mewls slipping out as a final sign of submission, letting them bend your body to their pleasure. You arched your back, bucking against the bearded man that was ploughing into you, driving his hard cock into your wet cunt, slick squelching out of you with every snap of his hips, his balls slapping your twitching clit. You couldn’t deny how good it felt to give up all autonomy after having taken care of yourself on your own for years, letting another care for you and manhandle you in the best way. His veined girth laid heavy in your cunt, your gummy walls wrapped round him in a tight hold, just a hair away from coming.

Canting his hips and leaning forward, your world exploded in bright lights when Price’s head tapped your cervix, punching the air out of your body with every thrust. He was guiding you through your orgasm just as he had his, his cock throbbing and veins pulsing before the tip spurted ropes of cum, painting your walls white with his tangy lad, hot and thick. Price groaned lowly, palms holding your hips flushed to his, giving a few jerky thrusts before he hilted inside of you, unmoving but grounding you with the smooth touch of his thumb and Ghost’s grip on your scruff.

When he pulled out, his cum oozed out of you, dripping down your mound and landing on the old couch in his office. He admired the gift with a slight twitch of his cock, it leaked out of you like an unending fall. Wasteful, truly. His fingers slid down your thighs, gathering his cum and pushed it back in, fingering his load with a few wet sounds.

“Stay good for Ghost, pup. Can you do that?”

Taglist: @sae1kie @yeoldedumbslut @bvxygriimes @distracteddragoness @konigsblog @havoc973 @im-making-an-effort @daisychainsinknots @0alk0msan @danielle143 @dont-mind-me-just-existing-sadly @tuttifuckinfruttifriday @notspiders @brokenpieces-72 @petwifed @aldis-nuts @randominstake

[d-z20]

I'd Hit That (NSFW)

Pairing: Agatha Harkness x Reader

Summary: Being a professional wrestler means you're used to putting on an act, playing a part, and following a script. Surely, surely the tension you feel with Agatha is purely because you're rivals, right? Right??

-OR-

Staying at the same hotel after the fight can mean only one thing: it's time for a booty calllllll (but it's soft and sweet and stuff)

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, switch Agatha, switch Reader, 'making love' sort of smut, very quick rivals to lovers if you squint, scissoring/tribbing, aftercare (from fight and sex), non accurate wrestling events

Words: 3.4k

A/N: Bruh the extent of my knowledge of wrestling before writing this fic was limited to the film 'Fighting with my family' and seeing people horny post about Rhea Ripley putting her opponents in a mating press 😅😂 Requested fic this request takes me back to one of the first I did :')

AO3 | Masterlist

The roar of the crowd was deafening, an electric pulse surging through the packed arena. The promo package had played moments ago, a dramatic montage of the months-long rivalry between you and Agatha—steel chair attacks, stolen victories, scathing words exchanged under the harsh glare of the cameras. Every segment, every promo, every carefully orchestrated brawl had led to this.

You stood in the ring, microphone in hand, pacing like a predator. The championship belt—your championship belt—rested snugly over your shoulder.

“Agatha Harkness,” you called out, your voice cutting through the noise like a blade. “You’ve spent months running your mouth, jumping me from behind, stacking the deck in your favour. But tonight? No more games. No more sneak attacks. Just you and me. And I promise you, when that bell rings, you’ll learn exactly why I’m the one holding this title.”

The crowd erupted, a symphony of cheers and jeers blending into a chaotic soundscape. Then, the familiar beat of Agatha’s entrance music thundered through the speakers, and the energy in the arena shifted.

She sauntered onto the stage, wrapped in a deep purple robe lined with silver, her signature smirk fixed firmly in place. She exuded confidence, but you knew her well enough to spot the flicker of something darker beneath it—excitement, hunger, the same fire that burnt in your own veins.

“Sweetheart,” she purred as she climbed into the ring, stepping dangerously close, “I think you’re getting a little ahead of yourself. You may be carrying that belt now, but don’t get too attached. By the end of tonight, you’ll be looking up at the lights while the ref raises my hand.”

You scoffed, the tension between you thick enough to cut with a knife. The fans screamed for a fight, for blood, for one last war before this feud reached its inevitable conclusion.

You wouldn’t let them down.

—

The moment the bell rang, Agatha struck first, catching you with a sharp elbow to the jaw. The impact rattled your skull, but you barely had time to register it before she followed up with a ruthless Irish whip, sending you crashing against the turnbuckle. The crowd gasped as she wasted no time, sprinting forward and driving her knee into your ribs with brutal precision.

Every strike and every manoeuvre was planned, but the force behind them was all too real. The pain was real. The sweat trickling down your spine, the adrenaline flooding your system—it was all real.

She hauled you up for a suplex, but you twisted mid-air, countering into a neckbreaker that sent her sprawling. The arena exploded with cheers as you pushed yourself to your feet, chest heaving.

“You’re slowing down mama,” you taunted, wiping the sweat from your brow.

Agatha smirked even as she winced, rolling her shoulders. “Keep talking, champ. Let’s see how cocky you are when I put you through that table.”

And she damn near did.

Minutes later, she lifted you onto her shoulders, positioning you dangerously close to the announcers table. The commentators shouted in alarm as she launched you forward, the wood splintering on impact as your body crashed through it.

White-hot pain exploded across your back, your breath leaving in a ragged gasp. Through blurry vision, you heard the count starting.

One…

Two…

Three…

You gritted your teeth, forcing yourself onto your elbows. Your muscles screamed in protest, but you refused to stay down.

Four…

Five…

You dragged yourself toward the apron, using every ounce of strength left in your battered body.

Six…

Seven…

By eight, you were on your feet. By nine, you had slid under the ropes.

Agatha’s expression flickered with something dangerously close to admiration. You locked eyes across the ring. Both of you were battered, breathing hard, sweat slicking your bodies under the arena lights. The crowd was on their feet, screaming for the climax. Agatha grinned devilishly, wiping blood from her lip.

“Still standing?” she taunted.

You rolled your shoulders, feeling the bruises settle in. “You’re gonna wish I wasn’t.”

She stomped toward you, but this time, you were ready. You ducked her clothesline, spinning on your heel and catching her flush on the jaw with a devastating superkick. She crumpled, her head snapping back against the mat.

This was it. The moment the script demanded.

You climbed the ropes, every muscle burning, and launched yourself into the air. Your finisher connected squarely with her chest, driving the breath from her lungs.

The referee dropped to the mat.

One!

Two!

Three!

The bell rang, and the arena exploded.

You barely had the strength to lift your arms in victory, but the sight of Agatha sprawled beneath you, sent a different kind of thrill down your spine. She laid there, chest rising and falling rapidly. For a moment, just a moment, you thought she might actually be mad. But then—she laughed. A deep, breathless chuckle that sent a thrill down your spine.

“Damn,” she muttered, rolling onto her side, looking at you with something unreadable in her dark eyes. “Guess I’ll have to hit harder next time.”

—

The energy backstage was calmer, but the electricity of the match still crackled in the air. You sat on the bench in the locker room, a towel draped over your shoulders, the sting of sweat and lingering adrenaline keeping you wired. Your championship belt rested beside you, proof of your victory, but your body ached with the price you’d paid for it.

The door creaked open.

Agatha stepped inside, still in her ring gear, damp strands of hair curling against her flushed skin. Bruises had already begun to bloom along her ribs, dark and angry, a testament to every hit you’d landed. But she carried them with the same confidence she always did, like they were just another part of the game.

She leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, eyes sweeping over you in that slow, unreadable way of hers.

“Made me work for that one,” she finally said, voice even but laced with something heavier.

You smirked, tilting your head. “Would’ve been too easy otherwise.”

She huffed a laugh, pushing off the door and striding toward you. “You’re lucky I like a challenge,” she grumbled, reaching out and grabbing the edge of your towel. She didn’t pull it away, just toyed with the fabric between her fingers, staring at the ground, like she was debating something.

Your body stayed still, but your pulse betrayed you, hammering beneath your skin.

Her gaze flicked up, sharp and knowing. “The fans are losing their minds right now,” she mused, voice lower now. “They think we despise each other.”

You exhaled through your nose, smirking despite yourself. “Let them think what they want.”

For a second, neither of you moved. Just heavy breaths, aching muscles, and something simmering beneath the surface—something neither of you ever acknowledged for long.

Her grip on the towel tightened for just a second. Then she let go.

She took a step back, that smirk curling at the edges of her lips. “Get some rest, champ. Wouldn’t want you falling apart before our rematch.”

You watched as she turned, as she left without another word.

You should’ve let her go. Should’ve focused on your title, on the next fight.

But instead, an hour later, you found yourself standing outside her hotel room.

The hallway was quiet this late at night, save for the distant hum of vending machines and the muffled voices of a television from a nearby room. You knocked once.

You didn’t have to wait long.

Agatha opened the door, already changed into something looser, her damp hair pushed back from her face. For a moment, neither of you spoke.

Then—

“Figured I’d find you nursing your pride with a drink, not answering your door,” you teased, arching a brow.

Agatha leaned against the doorframe, eyes dark and knowing. “Why would I need to nurse my pride when you’re here, proving I still have something you want?”

The air between you was thick. The kind of thick that came after months of fights, of near misses, of every time you almost let yourself give in but didn’t.

But there were no cameras here. No crowds. No script.

She didn’t invite you in. She didn’t have to.

She just stepped back, leaving the door open.

And you followed.

—

The door clicked shut behind you, sealing you both inside the quiet dimness of the hotel room. The air-conditioning hummed softly, a sharp contrast to the raw heat still lingering between you from the match—and everything else unspoken.

Agatha moved first, stepping past you toward the mini-fridge. The silence between you wasn’t uncomfortable, but it was thick, charged. She pulled out a reusable ice pack, pressing it against her ribs with a small wince before tossing another onto the bed near you.

“You’re worse off than me,” she murmured, nodding toward the deepening bruise along your shoulder.

You scoffed. “You didn’t seem to feel that way when you were throwing me into barricades.”

Agatha smirked at that, but it was softer now—more knowing. She walked toward you, her fingers grazing the hem of your shirt. Not in invitation, not yet. Just testing.

You didn’t move, didn’t stop her when she carefully pushed the fabric upward. The motion was slow, almost methodical, revealing fresh bruises—some from the match, some from all the ones before.

She made a small sound in the back of her throat. Not quite regret, not quite apology. Just an acknowledgment.

Her fingers were warm, careful, as she traced the bruised skin along your ribs before pressing the ice pack against it. A sharp inhale left your lips. She didn’t tease you for it, just held it there, watching you.

“Sit,” she said, voice quieter now.

You obeyed, perching on the edge of the bed as she grabbed the small first-aid kit from her bag. She knelt in front of you, flipping the lid open with practiced ease.

Your fingers twitched when she uncapped a tube of ointment. You should’ve done something—said something—to break the moment, but the way she looked at you, focused and unwavering, well, it kept you still.

“This might sting,” she muttered, smoothing a layer of the cool gel over a scrape near your collarbone.

You didn’t flinch. Just exhaled slowly as her touch lingered, fingertips brushing against your skin longer than necessary.

Your eyes met hers, and for a moment, the tension that had been simmering for months threatened to snap.

But instead of acting on it, you reached for the ice pack still clutched in her other hand.

“Your turn.”

She arched a brow, like she was going to argue, but she didn’t. Just sighed and sat back as you took her wrist, gently guiding her onto the bed beside you.

You peeled back her shirt, moving slower than necessary, your fingers skimming over the bruises that lined her ribs.

The ice pack met her skin, and she hissed, eyes fluttering shut for just a second. Your hand stayed steady, applying just enough pressure, your palm resting lightly against her side.

Neither of you dared to speak, afraid of breaking the moment.

Your fingers lingered against Agatha’s ribs, feeling the warmth of her skin beneath your touch, the slight hitch in her breath as the ice pack warmed between you. The air between you was charged, and before you could stop yourself, you dipped your head and pressed a featherlight kiss to her bare shoulder.

It was soft. Fleeting almost.

But the way she inhaled sharply, the way her muscles tensed beneath your lips, made your stomach twist with something molten and dangerous.

You lifted your gaze, heart pounding, to find her already watching you.

Something unreadable flickered in her eyes. Not surprise—she’d felt this tension between you just as much as you had. No, this was something else. A quiet challenge. A question.

And then, as if pulled by gravity itself, your lips found hers.

The first kiss was slow—uncertain in a way that sent heat curling low in your stomach. Her lips were warm, softer than you expected, moving against yours with a hesitant deliberation, like neither of you were ready to cross this line but neither of you could stop.

Your hands found her waist, fingertips pressing into bare skin, feeling the taut muscle beneath. She sighed into your mouth, tilting her head, deepening it just enough to send a shiver down your spine.

Then it shifted.

Hesitation gave way to hunger, slow to something deeper, something desperate. Agatha’s hands tangled in your hair, nails scraping lightly against your scalp as she pulled you closer, as if the distance between you was unbearable.

Your breath stuttered as she pushed forward, guiding you onto your back against the mattress, her weight settling over yours in a way that made heat pool between your thighs.

You didn’t just let her take control. You met her movement for movement, rolling so you hovered over her instead, lips ghosting along her jaw, her throat. She arched into you, fingers gripping your hips, urging you closer, and the friction sent a sharp jolt of pleasure through your body.

You barely registered how your clothes disappeared or how you kept switching positions—only the feeling of her hands dragging fabric from your skin, the way your own fingers traced the newly exposed planes of her body, memorising every dip and curve.

She was breathtaking.

The air between you crackled with something electric as you moved together, lips seeking, hands exploring. Every touch was slow but deliberate, teasing but firm, each sensation unravelling the other piece by piece.

Agatha’s lips left yours, trailing a path of heat down your throat, each kiss softer, slower, as if savouring the way your breath hitched under her touch. Her mouth lingered at the base of your neck, a flicker of teeth sending a shiver down your spine before she continued lower.

She traced the curve of your collarbone, then lower still, her tongue flicking out just enough to tease. Her breath was warm against your skin, the contrast of her lips and the cool air leaving goosebumps in her wake.

When she reached just below your navel, she paused.

Your breath caught as she glanced up through dark lashes, her expression unreadable but undeniably smug, as if she knew exactly what she was doing to you.

Before you could say anything, before you could even think, Agatha shifted, her body aligning with yours in a way that sent anticipation buzzing through your veins.

One of her legs slid over yours, while the other slipped beneath, her hand gripping your thigh and pulling it over her hip. The shift brought you flush together, her clit pressing into yours, her warmth, her weight, surrounding you completely.

Then she moved.

The first slow roll of her hips sent a shockwave through you, the friction delicious and unbearable all at once. A gasp left your lips at the sensation, sharp and involuntary, swallowed by Agatha’s low moan.

She did it again.

A deliberate, languid grind that had your fingers curling into her back, nails digging in as heat coiled low in your stomach.

Agatha’s movements grew more desperate, each grind of her hips sending sparks of heat pulsing through you. The rhythm was intoxicating—a perfect push and pull that had your breath catching with every press of her body against yours.

The friction was exquisite, every brush of her soaked pussy against yours sending a fresh wave of pleasure coursing through your veins. Your nails pressed into her back, searching for an anchor as the slick warmth of your mixed arousal between you made every movement impossibly pleasurable.

A breathy moan spilled from your lips as she rolled her hips just right, the pressure hitting where you needed it most. Agatha’s own gasp followed, her grip on your thigh tightening as her rhythm stuttered for a fraction of a second before she found it again, more determined now.

“Fuck you feel so good,” she groaned, voice rough with pleasure. “So warm—so perfect against me.”

You couldn’t answer—at least not with words. So instead, you tilted your hips up to meet her, pushing harder into the delicious friction between you. The reaction was instant—a sharp inhale from Agatha, a shudder that ran down her spine and into you.

The tension in your stomach coiled tighter, pleasure mounting with every slick roll of her hips against yours. It was maddening—teetering on the edge, neither of you willing to slow down, to let the other escape this unrelenting rhythm.

Agatha was unravelling just as much as you were. Her breaths turned ragged, her movements becoming more desperate, less controlled. She buried her face in the crook of your neck, her lips parting against your skin as a soft, broken moan escaped her.

The sound of it—the way she lost herself for just a moment—sent you spiralling.

Heat exploded through you, pleasure crashing over you in waves, your back arching as your body tightened around the feeling of your orgasm, chasing every last pulse of it. Your moan mixed with hers, tangled in the air between you, and Agatha wasn’t far behind—her rhythm stuttering, her breath shattering into something desperate as she ground into you one last time, biting harshly at the juncture of your neck and shoulder, before giving in completely.

The aftershocks left you both trembling, locked in each other’s arms, breathless and undone. Neither of you dared to speak again, but this time it was because a whole other reason, because this time you didn’t need to; not when every shiver, every lingering touch, said everything.

—

When the adrenaline had finally ebbed, leaving behind only exhaustion and the dull throb of bruises settling into your skin, the dim glow of the hotel room cast soft shadows over Agatha’s body as she stretched out beside you, her breathing still uneven, a quiet hiss slipping past her lips when she shifted the wrong way.

You smirked, propping yourself up on an elbow. “Still hurts, huh?”

Agatha huffed a laugh, rolling onto her side to face you. “Oh, don’t act like you’re any better, champ.” Her fingers ghosted over the mottled bruise forming along your ribs, her touch featherlight but knowing. “I’ll give you credit, though. You really made me work to cause each of these.”

You leaned into her touch, sighing as the tension in your muscles began to settle. “Oh please, it’s not like you could actually beat me anyway

Her smirk deepened. “Is that what you think?”

Before you could answer, she moved—quick as ever—rolling on top of you in one smooth motion. The sudden shift knocked the breath from your lungs, and before you could react, her hands found your wrists, pinning them against the mattress. The familiar press of her body against yours sent a thrill down your spine, though it was tempered by the playful glint in her eyes.

"One...” she purred, lips brushing your ear, her breath warm against your skin.

You arched a brow, amusement flickering beneath your exhaustion. “Really?”

“Two…” Her voice was silk, dripping with satisfaction as she pressed you further into the bed, her grip firm but teasing.

You weren’t about to let her finish, you shifted your weight, using the last of your strength to twist your bodies. In a blink, she was beneath you, wrists trapped against the sheets, your knees bracketing her hips. Her breath hitched, a flash of surprise flickering across her face before it melted into something reminiscent of pleasure.

“Not this time, sweetheart.” You grinned, leaning in until your noses almost brushed.

Agatha let out a breathy chuckle, her eyes half-lidded as she relaxed beneath you. “Damn. Can’t even let me have this one, can you?”

You smirked, leaning down just enough that your noses brushed. “What kind of champion would I be if I did?”

Her breath hitched again, and then she closed the distance, her lips pressing softly against yours. 

The fight, the aches, the exhaustion—it all melted away for a moment, leaving only the warmth of her mouth against yours, the slow, deliberate way she kissed you.

You let yourself sink into her, into the quiet intimacy, knowing that whatever came next would always bring you right back to this.

-----

'author doesn't know fuck about wrestling' probably should probably be a warning for this 😭 I'm so sorry for any inaccuracies they are all entirely my fault :P

-----

taglist: @aceday @danveration @alwaysharmony @lostbutlovely33 @sweetmidnights @6stolenangel9 @jujuu23 @juls-stark

[a-minke-whales-tale]

Delusion, Clinical Zoanthropy

I am a clinical zoanthrope. I have schizophrenia. If you have read my posts or blog before this should be no surprise as I am quite open about it. These labels that have been put on me affect nearly every aspect of my life, and greatly affect how I interact with the community. There is often a lot of discussion surrounding ideas of physical identity, delusion and if these things should be acceptable within the community or how to handle these topics.

Length: 3676 words

TW: delusions, reality checking, mentions of medical abuse

The year before last, I had spent quite a bit of time working with another academic to construct a historical materialist analysis of therianthropy. Historical materialism for people who are not familiar is a method of analysing history through the lens of production and class society. In particular, given the apparent wealth of historical therianthropy among “primitive” society, and the narrow niche of modern therianthropy, as well as my own treatment at the hands of the medical system, I wished to understand the origins of the oppression of therianthropic identity. I have to date not completed the project for a number of reasons - limited available literature regarding the transition from pre-class society to slave society particularly regarding religious and spiritual beliefs, personal health and time, and forcing myself to create a complex system of double bookkeeping and analysing my experiences through a materialist lens essentially constantly and forcibly reality checking myself constantly was very taxing.

Although I did not get to the state to write and publish the paper, I did learn a fair bit, and I think the most important concept within this discussion is the concept of delusion and how we define it. There is a common vulgar definition of delusion as believing anything that is not real or not backed by scientific consensus. But then there are many things people believe which is not backed by scientific consensus. While certainly there are people who would say that anyone who believes in ghosts or the Christian God are delusional, nearly half of the people in my country believe in God, however we lack any materialist evidence at this point for such a thing. The state of being identified by others as delusional comes with some pretty serious consequences, it should be noted though that these consequences are not applied to people who believe in God. Similarly, there are times when scientific consensus is simply wrong. Is the man who rejects the inherent inferiority of the [Sub-saharan Afrikan] race because of their skull shape and “thick skin” delusional? We today would collectively say no. For a man in the early 19th century, this would have been scientific consensus even if now we should find such a thought abhorrent. Was he then delusional? (Though some people did try to justify slaves escaping as a mental health condition Drapetomania, and historical terms like madness are often connected to modern terms like delusion and psychosis). I think often modern humans can create an almost religion out of science and progress and belief in their own rationalism - that not only is there absolute objective truth, but they can and do know it all in this particular moment, and that the society they exist within does not effect an impact on their view.

It is important to understand that delusion has a fairly specific definition and caveat when talking in a medical definition. That important caveat is that the belief conflicts, or is not standard, within their culture or subculture. Not only that, the belief must be very fixed and firmly set which does not respond/change to the presence of outside evidence. This cultural context is an important factor in the diagnostic criteria for delusions, as well as dissociative disorders like OSDD and DID (it may well be important for other conditions diagnostic criteria as well though I lack experience to speak on that topic).

Delusions -are- very much socially defined. I make the joke often that a rich man hears the voice of God he runs for office, I hear the voice of a spirit and need to be on antipsychotics. There are a number of examples namely in SEA where the experience of transforming into another animal would be considered entirely within the range of normal possibility (though notably with tigers primarily). There are also cultures and practices in which physical transformation is not considered delusion but a normal part of ritual notably among the Xan peoples. Among some Siberian cultures as part of hunting some will take essentially the mind of a wolf. In South Asia there are also recorded practices in which a person’s soul is bonded to and moved to an animal’s body in the night. Most people those reading this might encounter day to day would think these are surely delusions, but for those people, it is just a normal part of life and culture.

Most people here would collectively agree that therianthropy is not a delusion, however from outside the community many easily could argue it. You -are- human, you can look at your body and it and see that it -is- human. If you argue for past lives, there exists no evidence supporting that and no evidence supporting the existence of spirit or plausible explanation beyond hallucination despite many attempts to measure their existence. Nor do you have the instincts of that animal because you are clearly a human, and any "instincts" you might have are phantoms of the mind or attaching to a certain animal as a way to manage your life. However neither of these explanations would be acceptable nor would they convince you that you are wholly and entirely human.

Similarly with transgender identity, people here would collectively agree that is not a delusion. But 60 years ago? Or among transphobes? You are experiencing a delusion. You are obviously a wo/man, and no amount of hormones, [presentation], or [surgery] will change that. We would all collectively say fuck that shit, but you know who agrees under certain circumstances? WPATH in their Standards of Care directly notes among certain conditions of transgender identity as delusion (or at least in their old SOC before informed consent became common). It is common for people with schizo-spectrum disorders and higher level structural dissociative disorders to be denied care, or to face significant pushback. But this can also be true for all sorts of other “less serious” conditions such as austime, adhd, depression etc. This is something I have faced, and who knows how many others have faced it as well.

But what a delusion is very much defined by perspective and culture. It is easy when sitting on the "non-delusional" side of a cultural belief, to believe the order of things is logical. However, when I must construct materialist explanations of experiences, a task for which I am forced as part of double bookkeeping, the differences between my "delusional" experiences, and others "nondelusional" experiences especially in regards to therianthropy is one of degree, not of kind. Do not make the mistake to think that in other scenarios, other cultures, your experiences may be seen as delusions, and in other places, mine as natural and grounded in reality.

My experience as a clinical zoanthrope has left me often feeling quite divorced from the community, that I am separate, unwelcome, or an interloper in what is supposed to be my own community. I have been in the community for a while, but only at certain points felt comfortable to really call myself therian, a feeling which is again waning. There is a strong push constantly against physical identity. Even the most (in)famous phrase in wider culture about therians is the “on all levels except physical I am a wolf”. However this pushback against physical identities, especially from the concerns over P-shifter cults and abuses, created an environment that for me to be tolerated, I would have to constantly “show insight” or really reality check myself, and ensure all the others there knew that I knew my experience was not real and was not like their experiences were (that theirs were real and different). I still often have to do the dance describing my experiences, and even in the terms I use for myself as a clinical zoanthrope is indirectly that same dance.

The therian community often prides itself on how accepting it is. Though to be honest, I really have to question if this is the case. I have always felt unwelcome by the broader community. But so have very many others. It always strikes me that whenever I really share my experiences, how many others really relate to that feeling of not feeling wholly secure or belonging within the community. My orca friend, Ike, has talked quite a lot how they simply did not join the community for so long for feeling unwelcome. Sharing my experiences on a discord server a few weeks ago I learned another member was also a zoanthrope but had never shared it for fear of ostracization. A number of others expressed sentiments of feeling not total included, some for shift strengths, some for things like sexuality, theriomythics often get excluded, etc. Heck, by some accounts even the transition to the term Therian away from Were was an effort to include more people besides just shapeshifters.

Really when you think about it, it is not surprising so many people feel excluded in various ways. Therians have all these lines that you have to sit inside of and not cross to be acceptable to the community. But when you try to actually measure those lines many are not only extremely blurry, but vary person to person. Indeed my own experience is that there are people that do accept me, even if the wider community does not, and that is really the only reason I stayed.

The community has historically for instance a pretty hard stance on delusion and hallucination. The question though is, when does a shift move from being a socially acceptable phantom shift, to an unacceptable hallucination. For me in particular, my sensation of shift goes through a fairly long process of getting more and more intense, but it is also really a quite smooth process. It is like following a colour line, when does ‘blue’ truly begin? The first sensation is often a slight tickling, and very light phantom touch that you can sort of see through the feeling on your body. Beyond that the sensation gets more intense and becomes bothered from having things push against or intersect it. Further it begins to have not only form but colour and texture, but still if I look at the limb I cannot see it, I still see a human limb, though I do not expect it. Further the visual appearance comes in more and more until eventually my human parts are gone, transformed into animal parts I can see and I can touch. When we write it out like this it is pretty separately defined, but in the process this occurs for me, it is very smooth.

After enough quantitative change, there is a qualitative change, but where and when that occurs is hard to say. I think the first two experiences are very common among therians. I think the third experience is also fairly common but that starts to get more and more into the blurry lines, and if you cannot see where that line is you are likely to downplay your own experiences for fear if you say too much, you will be excised or ostracised from the community. But this fear also has the doubly cruel aspect that you can never really know where that line is because many people downplay their experiences to make them palatable, and so though many others might share in these experiences, people simply do not speak of them because they only see either extreme being shared, the particularly minor shifts being accepted, or the extreme shifts being sorted into delusions. I think it creates a false binary from a spectrum of experiences.

So many of these blurry lines exist though. What age can you be taken seriously? What platform do you use? How many kintypes is too many? Theriotypes being too common? Theriotypes being too rare? Are paleotherians acceptable? Are theriomythics acceptable? Can a dragon be a therian? Can an otherlinker or copinglinker have their identity so long it becomes therian? Are beastly animals from fictional settings acceptable or should they be with fictionkind? What sort of sexual and romantic expression is allowable? Is transspecies an acceptable identity? Some of these are blurry, some of them are clear, but they all wiggle around in different ways of some people will find them acceptable and some not. This leads to people self-censoring to the safe answers that they know are acceptable and prevents them really exploring their own identities, but also these questions within the community as it learns and grows and becomes more inclusive. In a certain irony, therianthropes as a community, are actually quite demanding in their conformity while preaching of their acceptance.

There has been a significant push in recent years to give greater levels of inclusion to therians with both delusional identities and physical identities. People are generally more accepting of zoanthropes and at points I have felt comfortable even to call myself therian and not just a member of the community. But there are also a number of additional terms, namely endel and holothere, which cover these experiences. However, something I note often when people talk why I as a clinical zoanthrope can be acceptable, while P-shifters and at times holotheres cannot, still comes down to that I acknowledge my experience as delusion. When I read the experiences of at least some p-shifters and holotheres, often the difference really is not so great, I often see their experiences mimicking or mirroring my own. I do use the word clinical zoanthropy, which on some level does indicate an understanding I know that at least others see my experiences as not real. This is a pretty common feeling among zoanthropes, we use this word, we know the humans think our experiences are not real, but they are incredibly real to us.

The question then is what should be done with us? There is a lot of comment that allowing us in the community to share our experiences or not reality checking people is encouraging delusion. People also say that delusions are harmful and that we should seek medical help. There are quite a few people who even wish to excise or isolate those who are anti-psychiatry and anti-recovery from the community.

If I am forced to analyse my experiences through a materialist and distant lens, it is quite clear my experiences are heavily rooted in delusion. I am a scientist, and there is no means under current knowledge to explain what I experience except hallucination - still I believe it fully. My knowing this is the only logical explanation does not lead me to believe it, to truly believe it inside. I mentioned before I had to give up on projects I did really enjoy because forcing myself to continuously deny my experiences and continuously reality check myself, brought to me very much distress. There are times I have wanted to be reality checked, but for vast part that is the remainder it is really distressing. It is distressing to be told a core part of your identity is not real, to be told the you that exists isn’t the real you, and sometimes see people mourning the “sane you”. Individuals in the community are not going to solve my “delusion” by reality checking myself or others.

Nor will them blocking me from the community or ensuring I do the dance for them encourage my “delusions” away. Delusions are heavily fixed experiences, and though you can encourage them in certain ways (think the example of people making “in your walls” jokes at schizophrenics), us talking about and sharing our experiences with each other and in our own community helps us feel understood and a sense of belonging. There are so few of us to start with, and the community closest to us either often disallows us, or makes us sit at the edge never really able to join. All banning us does is further isolate us, and for many delusions reinforces that we will never be acceptable or tolerable to others and it is best we are alone so we don’t hurt others with our presence.

I cannot speak on every person’s delusions, but I can speak on my own. For the question of if delusions are harmful, I think it often asks the wrong question. Who is it harmful to? Under what framework? Who thinks it is harmful? What does the patient want? I think one could say that my delusions of turning into a whale do harm me. I have trouble to interact with humans, I cannot work a full time job, I struggle in relationships, many nights I lay on the couch stuck for hours simply unable to move. These are all pretty negative things no? But it fails to ask why are these things harmful? A doctor looks through a very human framework and sees that I cannot do the human things and sees that I must have a poor quality of life and these delusions need to be addressed. But I am a whale and it is a core part of me, these things can be distressing, but whales cannot interact with humans the same way two humans would, work a full time job, have relationships with humans, and if you stuck them on a couch they would also not be able to move. This all is distressing and perhaps harmful, but then what other option is there? What the humans offer to me as solution is far worse.

I am anti-recovery, at least for myself. I think it is important to ask what does recovery look like? For me recovery would be to return to the water where I belong. But the humans would certainly say otherwise. For them recovery would look like fitting into and functioning within human society - having a job, a house, a car, a husband, kids, going on holiday, etc. I am not a human and I do not wish to be a human and live among them. However what is worse is how the humans would go about fixing that. I have been locked in hospitals, I have been strapped down, I have been sedated, I have been put on horrible meds that destroyed things I cared about and have often left me a shell of a person (there is a reason they were marketed as a chemical lobotomy). Some things I have gotten better in over time, and I can hold a job for the moment, even quite technical and difficult jobs.

However, the damage done to me from the humans was severe. Although I can talk about being a whale as delusion, the why is really far more impactful and distressing in my life. I was taken from the water, turned human, and am a useful thing for the humans. This understanding of myself as merely a tool and something the humans can do whatever they want with me is the real distressing aspect of my life. For me, the ‘help’ I received at the hospital only strengthened and set this delusion in so much firmer. I can look back at certain experiences, I can see the humans don’t have the technology to do what they did to me, but then I also have those years in the hospital, those years where everything was very apparent and clear and something that others can confirm and it seems to only further make plausible the experiences of the past, and those in the present the fear for what the humans will do to me. I know that I am deteriorating, I am struggling more and more, but nothing the humans offer me will make things better, they will only hurt me more, and if I ask for help, and reject it, they will only see it as proof I need the help more and force it onto me, which will only further reinforce that delusion.

If someone wishes to see a doctor and talk about therian things, I do often warn them of caution for what happened to myself and I do not want others hurt that way. I also urge them to think about what they want as the outcome from that discussion or what they hope will happen. A lot of mentally ill people have been hurt by doctors who thought they knew best, and once something is said, it cannot be undone. However, in the end they are free to decide what they will, and are free to navigate the medical system if they think it will benefit them.

For myself, I struggle to believe that doctors would really help me and instead work to help myself and my cetacean friends so that maybe someday we could swim again and swim forever. That we can fix ourselves and heal. That in time the deep scars across our bodies might start to fade and look like the scars of other captive cetaceans. That instead of surviving merely trying to please the humans to not be hurt, that we might actually -live- and have the life we were denied.

We are still people with agency, agency to choose our own path, to choose what brings us joy, to decide what we want from life, and from our healthcare. Or at least we should be granted that agency. We should not be excluded from the community or forced to dance around our experiences as not real for the comfort of others who happen to lie on the other side of the sane-delusional line, afterall the positioning of that line is very arbitrary and could easily swing to find yourself on my side of that line.

~ Kala

[hazelfoureyes]

Wrapped Around Your Finger (part 2)

He couldn’t stay away, and you didn’t mind the arrangement. But it was a little exhausting how much he pushed and pulled whenever he needed a little reminder of his own weaknesses.

I don’t even know man lol

「Warnings/Promises: 🗣️ EATING OUT THE DEER MAN, fucking him with a dildo, Gender Neutral Reader x Alastor smut, hate fucking??, humiliation I guess idk he loves it that little slut, kinda dubcon, mentions of blood, scratching, kinda degradation kink, cumming on his own face lmao, choking but his heart isn’t in it :(, kinda angsty?, Lighthouse are not beacons to home but warnings you’re near danger people always seem to forget that 」

Minors…………. Minors

hey

Dont interact like these characters it’s not cool or attractive in real life

“I hate you.” Cried into a pillow between pleasured sobs.

“I know.” You replied softy, barely reaching Alastor’s ears from under the thick cushion he was gripping against his face. Even if the sound had made it firmly, it would have to get past the overwhelming drone of his own blood rushing through his body and humming in his ears.

Angel had been so kind to suggest to you some toys when you asked for advice on buying the right things. Nothing too big, but something that would leave a burning stretch even after it was taken back. Something for a beginner whose eyes were bigger than their stomach, so to speak.  You hadn’t told him why you needed them, which was for the best. Humiliating Alastor was more satisfying in your bed than in front of others. 

Your hand slowed it’s push and pull, distracted as your eyes fell to the heaving, fluffy chest of your indignant and infrequent lover. “You’re vile. A curse.” He said it much clearer now as he dropped the pillow. 

What an odd creature he was. A deer and a man and a demon. Both impractically weak in spirit yet remarkably powerful in brute strength. Clever yet unwise. Handsome and unkempt. 

His hips rutting back onto the glass dildo brought your eyes to his. Shining and wet as they peeked over the pillow. 

A fierce look betrayed by a knit brows that told you he was almost worried you were done.

Every time you took his control from him he seemed to melt further into your hands than the last time. 

Inversely, the time between visits was shortening. You didn’t mind it, but the spontaneity of his need was getting a little tiresome. He’d push you and you’d push back, you’d strip him bear and spread him open, and then he’d disappear in a huff. 

Though…. As his eyes rolled back in his skull you felt a tremor run down your spine. It wasn’t embarrassing him with his own base wants that was so enjoyable. Putting him in his place was great but no, that wasn’t entirely the main attraction.

The duality of man had always been of interest to you. Watching him pester and tease others was made so much more tolerable knowing he’d soon be crying for you to unravel him. Knowing how he shook and whimpered for you when no one else was around to hear it. Another shiver, such a powerful demon twitching in your fist. 

Since the first time you entered him you hadn’t been bothered with him fucking you. Which is what it was; fucking. Seraphim could appreciate pleasure but, well, it wasn’t much to a being who’d witnessed the creation of time. A lovely perk of existence, to be clear. But the high you could gather and ride from watching that cocky and oversure overlord wither under you was unmatched. 

You didn’t need him to touch you. You needed him to need you. Charlie was quite capable all on her own of reforming sinners, so you’d found yourself quite…aimless in hell. But when Alastor glared at you from across the room, cheeks an equally beaming red as his eyes, you felt a little more real. An angry lighthouse whose rocky shores you were happily sailing directly onto. A hopeful shipwreck. Stranded on his little island of self loathing and pride.

Alastor hated how little you spoke to him. Everywhere, not just when he was on his back or his knees. When your attention was fully on him he felt his skin burning with that golden light of your soul. Finally, the fires of hell had found him. 

An inferno cleansing him of his regrets and memories. How much more could he accomplish when the baggage of his human life was turned to ash?

Making you whine under him had proven fruitless. The blood was sweet but the wounds he left down your body healed too quickly for him to ever get his fill. Even then, you barely flinched. Though he did find the way you clawed at his flesh to stifle your moans was exhilirating. Never in life had he harmed someone good by any measure. But you weren’t good. You were, at best, complacent to Heaven’s cruelty. No matter how perfect your movements as you glided around the halls of the hotel, or how sweetly your voice formed every syllable of every stupid little thing you said to others, you were pure but not good. 

The sweetness of your voice was very rarely there for him in private. Saccharine tones crackled like gravel under his heels. Something just for him, a side of you that no one else had seen. A side you always turned on him when he acted up. 

He had been quite content to just annoy before your arrival. Then he was cruel to others, but that made you angry in a way that threatened to make you shut him out. 

So now he just haranged you and made underhanded comments that irked you. And then, when he was sure you were alone, he’d corner you and say something particularly sharp into your ear, hands gripping at whatever part of him he could get to first. 

And you’d push him down, and he’d fight knowing fully well it was pointless against your particular skills, and he’d ripped the carpets and the sheets as he scrambled from your touch….but never too far. Always making sure your long fingers could still reach him. A game. One where he was, for once, the prey. The hunted on purpose, not at the decision of anyone else but himself. 

How terribly he just wanted you to break him apart, fill him with your light and form him back again around you. Remake him in your image. 

The few people in hell who offered him a challenge were people he genuinely couldn’t stand being bested by. But for some reason, when your eyes lit up and your aura shattered all of his minions and appendages, it was satisfying. Finally. 

And when your hands ran down his stomach and kept going, he found his body responding eagerly. His mind got so quiet. His worries about power were taken from him with gentle fingers. He couldn’t best you, so why not relax? No way he could win so he just lied back and let go. 

In the silence and darkness of the headspace you offered him he found pleasure. He was small in your grasp. Not physically, of course. He could transform to stories above you. No, he was small in other ways. 

He worried endlessly how long he could keep you willing to play with him. Anger was exhausting, and he only ever seemed to need your wrath and control to get off properly. 

A worry you saw on his face before you began to move the toy in and out again quickly. Three large bumps that made every single thrust feel like three. A toy Alastor hated the sight of but loved the sensation of. 

He’d grown hard in your hand, dripping and twitching into you. A painful looking red as blood was rushing to his cock. It was so pretty on him. A color that suited Alastor. You gave him a squeeze, toy sunk to the hilt. You then gave it a shake, knocking against his spot with one of those bumps. A pained cry tore through the room before he returned the pillow to his face. 

You smiled, he was concerned someone would hear him. Would anyone even recognize it was him, given how no one in hell had ever heard such a sound come from Alastor?

“You’ve been less venomous today, Alastor. Haven’t called me a whore or trash a single time.” The toy pulled out so cleanly, his taut hole slipping over the clear glass effortlessly. Well, not effortlessly. The loud moans with every pull made sure you knew he could still feel everything perfectly fine. 

“Fuck you.” 

You hummed, squeezing again before leaving his cock entirely to hold up his thigh. Pushing his left leg up for stability, to began a much harsher pace with your toy. Stare fixated on the pillow, you wondered if you could make it combust with just the intense desire to see his expression in that moment. 

“Slower!” The word got louder as his head craned backward and partially escaped from under the soft shield he was gripping so tightly. When you didn’t reply or slow down Alastor tried to turn onto his side.

Your hand on his leg gripped the meat of his inner thigh and pulled him back down onto his back. Another whine, “It’s too fast.”

“Hmm, you didn’t listen to me earlier why should I listen now?”

He tried to sneer but you forced the dildo in deep, hilt flush and pressing into his skin with force. A moan so sweet and high you felt like you were watching a choir of one. Alastor hadn’t listened earlier when you told him he’d hurt Husker. He called him a gambling addicted kitty cat in front of the others, embarrassing him in front of Angel Dust. You told him he should apologize for it. He laughed and asked why he’d say sorry to a possession. 

And your ever present smile, the soft and sweet side of his sharp and wicked one, stayed sure as you logged the comment away. 

Now the words were in your muscles as you barely withdrew the toy before thrusting it back in harshly.

“He’s pathetic, and I own him. I can say and do what I want.” He fell back into the bed with a tremble down his chest. 

Your little chuckle brought his eyes to yours. The golden light they always shone on to him in the dim light of your room reminded him of summer days at noon. Everything went dark around you as he stared back, damaging his vision as he was blinded by your power. 

“Being unkind is not necessary, Alastor. I was just thinking the same about you, though.” You slid your hand down the back of his thigh to his ass and held him there. 

“You don’t own me.” 

Could you though? Was that an option?

“No?” Your smile glistened as he felt your hand go furhter down the curve of his cheeks, now onto his lower back, “Is this not mine?” Leaving the toy buried in him, your pointer finger dragged down his leaking cock head and shaft. “You hump into my hand so often I assumed you were giving it to me.”

With both hands under him and on his back, you lifted his hips off the bed and folded him in half. His lower body held up with your chest as you knelt against him, his hips nearly over his face as his body made a C shape. Your left hand pulled the dildo out entirely by the heart shaped handle, causing Alastor’s hands to fly to the pillow, teeth ripping into it.

“The lord’s voice makes the deer calve,” Your head lowered, tongue dragging over his used and puffy hole. A strident groan, bits of feather peaking out of the torn fabric of the pillowcase. He was bent deeper in half as you reached over and grabbed the pillow from his grasp. Tearing completely, it rained white feathers down onto the crumpled man. They stuck to the sweat slicked skin of his neck and forehead, but you couldn’t appreciate him for long as you lost sight of him from the angle. Your mouth returned to his twitching entrance, prodding roughly. 

His hands scrambled for something to grab ahold of, finding the blanket and digging claws deep enough to cut into the mattress itself. 

“And strips the forests bare.” Your left hand hand began to pump quickly and evenly on his member, already weeping and dropping precum onto his chest. 

The realization of what this position would do hit Alastor so quickly that he pulled a muscle in his back when he tried to sit up. Your free hand found one of his and settled over it, shushing him. His vision was just his own cock over him and your light filled expression from between his thighs. 

“In his temple everything says, ‘Glory.’” 

Returning your focus and tongue to him, you pressed in repeatedly. No resistance, your muscle much smaller than the widest point of the glass toy you’d been using. 

“Don’t-”, his hand was trembling under yours, words ground out as he clenched his teeth. 

Your tongue flattened and lapped salaciously between his cheeks, the unpleasant taste of lube disappearing as you licked him clean. Following up, you sucked one then both of his rising balls into your mouth. 

“Ffuuu-”, a silent scream as his body tensed. You felt the strong twitches rock your hand before he came. Just as he feared and you had intended, his thick seed fell onto his chest and chin. 

Lazily you licked up and to his swollen slit, sucking it clean as you lowered his body. As soon as he was down, both physically and physiologically, he pounced forward and knocked you back onto the bed. 

One hand on your neck, one wiping the cum off his face with the back of his hand, “You know I hate touching-,”

You smiled, “I do.”

His other hand came to your throat, but no pressure. He looked down at you, and you up at him. Grin manic, his shadow appendages whipped from his back and pinned your limbs down. But as they tightened and twisted around you, his hands stayed docile. 

“Should I not do that again?” Your face roamed his, his flash of anger only skin deep. A show, an act to keep up appearances for…well, no one. 

That smirk wilted on his face. 

You tested the strength of his tentacles on your arm but found he was genuinely restraining you, “If you don’t want me to do that again, just say so. I won’t.”

Alastor searched his mind for something, anything. But once again, like every time you spoke to him with an even and clear tone, he found nothing in his head at all. A flash of your eyes between his legs, the sensation of your tongue in places he hadn’t ever considered was all that seemed to answer him.

Your own smile widened, where the darkness of his power touched your skin a yellow light erupted. The shadows dissolved. Just a man holding you at the neck now. 

“You still can’t say what you want. It’s just us here. Are you truly so prideful? Even now, covered in your own seed?” 

A testing squeeze to your neck.

“Ah, I see. Back to playing Mr. Radio Demon. Well, if thats all then.” Too easily you sat up, knocking him off of you. 

A flourish of darkness, a pop of static and he sank away and out of your bed. Your eyes wandered over to his clothes on your floor. 

Clever but unwise. 

༻Masterlist༺

˖ ݁𖥔.Summoning the Horny Little Deer Cult.𖥔 ݁ ˖

@eris-norwega @reath-solia @cxrsedwxrlds , @nonetheartist , @tsunaki , @janchei ,  @moonmark98 , @hoebihoeshi , @pansexual-opera-house , @polytheatrix , @lorddiabigmommymilkers , @backinthefkingbuildingagain , @harley2223-blog  , @poinappel l , @midnightnoiserose , @spookieroz , @missmidorima a , @ivebeenthearchersstuff , @downbadforfictionalppl , @xx-all-purpose-nerd-xx , @sleepylittledemon , @aether-th3-enby , @dontfuckbutimfab , @breathlessaura , @aperfectidiot , @certainlygay , @jth12 , @star-kujo-platinum @ivebeenthearchersstuff , @rubyninja1 , @simphornies

, @readergirlstuff , @berry-demon , @chirimeimei , @fairyv-ice , @olive-frog , @thonethatflies620 , @tiredkiwiii , @ilikemyteawithmilk , @whateverlololo , @psipies , @howabouticallyou , @roxxie-wolf ,  , @fizzled-phoenix ,  @phobophobular  , @whateverlololo    , @a-case-of-attachment , @multifandomfanatic02 @watereddownmilk   , @bontensbabygirl 

[cosmicjoke]

The alliance betrayed Eren. The whole world wanted Paradis killed and all Eren did was fight back. What else should he have done? It was genocide vs genocide. His friends are hypocrites and horrible characters that wanted to play moral police. Hanji and Levi were horrible mentors. Open your eyes.

If you genuinely believe any of the garbage that you just spewed, then you need mental help.

I shouldn't even take the time to point out to you what's wrong with your "argument", because honestly, anyone this stupid and lacking in self-awareness isn't worth mine or anybody's time.

But I'll just lay out a few, basic facts for your edification.

Eren betrayed his comrades, over and over, starting with his literal incitement of war in Liberio, through his purposeful elimination of any other course of action that Paradis could have taken to secure their future. War only came to Paradis in the first place, you total clown, because Eren and Zeke orchestrated it themselves. I don't know how many times this has to be pointed out to people like you before it gets through that sediment-thick rock you call a skull and into the mush you call a brain. Go read the manga again, or watch the anime, and maybe try paying attention this time past the masturbation session you engage in every time Eren comes on screen.

The Survey Corps' entire mission statement was to dedicate themselves to the salvation of humanity. Not "Paradis", humanity. And Eren betrayed that mission in the most fundamental way possible by committing mass genocide on a global scale. He literally spit on the legacy and sacrifices of every single one of his comrades, including those who had given their lives to protect his, because they believed he was essential to humanity's survival. Instead of honoring that sacrifice by doing everything in his power to save humanity, he did the exact opposite by deciding to wipe humanity out of existence because he was disappointed the world didn't look like the pictures in Armin's books. That's how shallow, pathetic, selfish and childish Eren is.

You call Levi and Hange "terrible mentors", when Eren literally did exactly the opposite of what they both tried to teach him. Levi specifically told Eren to make the choice he could live with, the one he wouldn't regret, and yet, in the end, we see Eren filled with nothing but regret, drowning in self-loathing, because he knows he made the choice which went against what he knew in his heart was right. He spurned Levi's guidance entirely. Eren knew what he did was wrong and not justifiable on any level. What Eren did didn't sit right in any way, shape or form with his own, moral understanding of the world. Nobody made Eren into what he was. Nobody made Eren do what he did. It was a situation entirely of his own making and choosing.

You call the other members of the alliance "horrible characters" because they couldn't and wouldn't stand by and allow literally billions of innocent people to be murdered in cold blood. Remind me to pray to God that no important decisions are ever left to you. The lack of self-awareness in your statement is shocking in its depth. You don't see how, if this is what you truly believe and support, that it's you who's the truly terrible and horrible person here. Frankly, you're a disgusting example of a human being.

By stopping Eren, Levi, Hange and the rest of the alliance were upholding everything the Survey Corps originally stood and fought for. You calling them traitors and hypocrites is repulsive in its stupidity.

And that's all I'll say on the matter. You can now go back to waiting in line with Floch to swallow Eren's cock, since that's clearly what you really want to spend your time doing. Try not to choke.

[jujutsutrash]

NSFW (minors leave). cw: face fucking, gagging, throatpie/cum swallowing, piv, creampie, unprotected sex

Thinking of loser boyfriend Yuta. Poor guy can barely get by in social interactions, has a hard time speaking to people he doesn't know, shakes whenever he is in the spotlight for anything. He is smart, and kind but is very much the type that needs you to order for him at a fast food. He stutters for anything, forgets his words whenever people make eye contact, stumbles on his own feet often and looks like he is about to cry whenever he is perceived for anything. He really needs you to help him get through the day, terrified eyes looking around like a prey animal, he clings to your arm like a panicked child.

Your friends sometimes wonder why the hell you are with that guy, and you always say he is the sweetest soul. And he is, but what none of them imagine is that your loser boyfriend is also a fuck machine. Sure, he may not be a smooth dom, but he more than makes up for it with a massive sex drive and even more massive cock. Maybe, the reason he stumbles on his own feet so much is because he has a third leg on the way. If Yuta wasn't so awkward he'd probably be the most cocksure fuckboy around. Good thing he is awkward as hell.

Though, maybe it's because of all the awkwardness that he is always so desperate to fuck, always so desperate to get some release from his daily life. Yuta almost skull fucks you on a daily basis, hips thrusting uncontrollably while his large hands hold your head, thumbs brushing your cheeks while he bobs you up and down his shaft. He makes you gag on his thick erection, head touching the back of your throat all the while he continually apologizes, voice trembling profusely. It goes on like this until he cums, spit and precum spilling down your face as he slams himself into your mouth. When his orgasm hits, Yuta pulls you flush to his hips, nose buried in his skin as he pumps his big thick load straight down your throat - still apologizing all the while.

It's rare that Yuta is satisfied cumming just once though. He can go for a couple rounds, leaving you satisfied and, more of the not, utterly exhausted. He likes fucking your pussy a little too much, whispering his praises and gratitudes as he hammers into your cunt mercilessly. It's rough, it's animalistic and it's violent, his thick length stretching your walls thin as he slams into you like a fleshlight. The 'I love you's spilling from his mouth being almost drowned by the sounds of your wet pussy being ravaged by his massive cock, his hands roaming and groping all over your body. Yuta fucks you in every which way he can think of, always looking to go deeper, to hit your sweet spot and feel you even tighter around his cock. When he cums it's deep inside your pussy, and he still rides you until the white, sticky liquid comes pouring out of your abused hole.

So maybe it is fitting that whenever you go outside, Yuta looks like a terrified creature, ready to jump at any minute. Cause, after all, he does fuck like an animal who's desperate to breed and who doesn't know if he will be alive the next day to to that once more.

[blarshwritezz]

Hey, could you write me a Yandere JUICY gay enemies to loves story? Male yandere enemy x male reader. For example, yandere is such a tsundere when it comes to his love for the reader and his way of showing his love comes out as insults, bullying, etc. and the reader just so hates Yandere but is unaware how much his mean insults, that sometimes come out as hella flirty and gay, turn on the Yandere or how they get incredibly flustered when reader corners them. Just make it hella obviously gay and perhaps with a one-sided sexual tension from the yanderes perceptive if you write NSFW that is, thanks! (You can ignore this request if you want, it's okay :))

Heck yeah I can! But be warned, I've never written nsfw, so it may be bad- but I'll try just for you, anon!

Yandere Enemy x Reader

M yan x M reader (slight context: y'all in college)

TW - general yandere behavior, NSFW, noncon, slight degration

Another day, another fight between you and Enemy!Yan. The people around you had pretty much become totally numb to your constant bickering.

But to be fair, they wouldn't have to put up with this if he wasn't such a massive prick. You never even did anything! He was the one who kept taunting you.

He shouldn't do that. Nearly every time you retaliate, he ends up fumbling to speak. He's such an idiot, can't take what he dishes out. Absolutely pathetic...

And so here you were. Today's little fight had you pinning him against a wall, trying to keep your voice relatively calm. You caught him taking pictures of you in the damn hall! He was definitely planning to do something with those.

"Don't act so special, I would never ruin my phone with pictures of you!" Lies. He was covering up for the fact that he absolutely was taking pictures of you.

But how could he not? It was your fault you were sexy! You were just infuriating to him. What gave you the right to make him so fucking turned on all the time?!

"Shut up before I make you. Delete those damn pictures." You pressed your body up against him further. You were so close that every breath he took filled his lungs with your scent. You really expected him to not get hard?

Please make him shut up. Please gag him with your cock. Please.

"I don't have pictures of your atrocious face. How thick is your damn skull?" Of course he didn't have pics of your face! Mostly- not from last night at least. He was more focused on your ass other things.

You grabbed his jaw, making him use every fiber of his being to not moan. You gave him a warning, making sure he knew bad things awaited him if you saw some dumbass pictures of you around campus. Oh to know what punishment you would give him...

"You want them gone so damn bad? Delete them yourself!" He wormed his way out from between you and the wall, running off with his phone held above his head.

And of course, you chased after him.

He ran, all the way to his dorm. He threw his phone on his bed, and of course, you went after it. That gave him the perfect chance to lock the door.

You found his phone already unlocked, and when you opened it...

"How do you have all these pictures of m-" He clamped his hand over your mouth before you could finish asking about the photos seemingly taken when you swore you were completely alone in your dorm.

"You're such a fucking tease, you know that?" His other hand slowly slid down your torso, working its way back up from under your shirt. "Always threatening me in ways you know will get me all hot and bothered, then not helping me out. How can you be so mean?"

He pushed you down further on the bed, starting to slowly grind against your thigh. His hand that was under your shirt, gliding over your chest, lowered further and further. All the way to your cock, grasping it through your pants.

You bit his hand as hard as you could, hoping it might help, but the action only elicited a pleasures whimper from him.

"Keep doing that, and make sure to lick it too. You'll need it for what I'm planning."

You squirmed as he lowered your pants and underwear in one swift motion, letting your cock spring free. Embarrassingly enough, you were already hard from all this.

"It's even better up close..."

He could help but give you a hand job. Slow and steady, savoring every second of this. He ran his fingers across each and every vein, keeping his thumb over your tip to stop you from cumming too soon.

Every now and then he'd surprise you; tightening his grip, increasing his speed, stopping for a brief moment just to get right back at it. He was turning you into a whimpering, pathetic mess.

"Fuck, you're so pathetic..." He let go of your mouth in order to hold your thighs apart slightly.

He moved his head between them, taking a nice long lick up your shaft before engulfing you with his mouth. He bobbed his head up and down, swirling his tongue around your tip and making you moan.

"Sto- ngh!~ Fuck..."

He chuckled at your attempt to tell him to stop, the sound vibrating around your dick.

You couldn't take it anymore. You grabbed his hair tightly, forcing yourself all the way down his throat as you came.

He eagerly swallowed your load, choking on it before releasing you from his mouth with a wet pop.

"Fuck, you taste damn good..." He groaned, wiping a few drops of your cum from his chin.

He mixed it with his own spit in his hand, using it to lube up his aching member before flipping you on your stomach and thrusting into you suddenly.

He could've cum right then and there just from feeling your tight asshole squeezing around him, but he held back. Well, not enough to keep himself from pounding into you, regardless of how ready you were or how much you wanted it.

His pace was brutal, every thrust seeming harder and harder. The only way he was able to keep (somewhat) silent was by trailing hickeys down your neck and shoulders, holding your head up by your hair.

"Such a good boy...you my bitch now?" Through grunts and moans he whispered in your ear. "This is what you get for being a damn tease. Fuck...yeah, you're my fucking bitch now. My little bitch boy..."

He started jerking you off again as he rearranged your guts, driving you closer to another climax.

"Now be a good whore and cum for me."

Yet again, as if your body just naturally wanted to do what he said, you bust a nut. And with a few more deep thrusts, so did he, painting your insides white.

He didn't pull out of you for a good few minutes, just laying there and holding you, until finally he whispered: "You didn't think I was done, did you?~"

I think this is the longest one I've done so far! I hope it was satisfactory!

[soullessdianthus]

𝐁𝐮𝐭𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐲 | 𝐓𝐚𝐬𝐤 𝐅𝐨𝐫𝐜𝐞 𝟏𝟒𝟏 𝐱 𝐌𝐞𝐝𝐢𝐜!𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

Requested by anon:

A/N: I AM SO SORRY FOR SUCH DELAY, I kept postponing it and then I had other things on my head.

Summary: Task Force 141 is sent to gather intel from cartel's warehouse. However, their informations were flawed and they were cornered by hostiles. Soap got shot and it doesn't look good. What will they do in a stalemate as such?

Warnings:reader is eastern european coded (just briefly), some gruesome desc. of wounds, blood and fights, talk of killing people

Word count: 3.8k

GIF by oleworldblues

The flight wasn’t a steady one, turbulence occurring every minute on board. Although such voyages weren't anything new, those tremors were irritating to say the least. You managed to stay in the seat for the most part of it, cursing the pilot, Nikolai for such an unpleasant ride.

A flick of regret crossed your mind, scolding yourself for being so strict on him. But all the remorse passed, when another turbulence made you hit your head over the helo’s wall.

When you crossed through the storm cloud, the helicopter twitched so suddenly and you jumped in your seat. Afraid of falling off the bench, without much thinking you grabbed what was the nearest to search for support. And it was Soap’s thigh.

 ━ Jesus, since when th’ lass‘ so handsy? ━ Scott laughed it off as you straighten your back against the helo’s surface. 

━ Since Nikolai forgot how to navigate damn thing. 

━ Then ye hadn’t seen Ghost drivin’ a car. That was somethin’ to be terrified of. 

Soap chuckled while jokingly mocking the lieutenant sitting across them. As always the skull face remained solid, still and emotionless. You spent enough time in Task Force 141 to know that he had to be smirking under that thick layer of balaclava. Even if the big, grumpy guy denied it verbally. The spark in his eyes revealed all you had to know. Some people laugh with their eyes, you know?

━ I hope we won’t live that long to repeat the thing. ━ Gaz cut in, leaving the cockpit and entering space, where they were sitting. It meant they were close to landing. 

Thank God, because if the flight would continue like this, you would have bumped into all of them by the time of your arrival at the meeting point. 

The lights went off, when you got closer to the ground. A one, stronger jolt and the helo landed, dust floating in the air due to the propellers spinning around.

All of you gathered up near the exit, doing the last weapon and inventory check up. When everything was proper and intact, you were ready for the ramp to open.

━ Gonna wait for your signal on the radio ━ Nikolai said with a Russian accent, flicking some of the controls above his head. ━ Nadrat im zadnitsu [rus.: Kick their asses].

━ Sure will. ━ Gaz patted the pilot on his shoulder, before joining the rest of the team. The platform began lowering itself until it hit the ground beneath, hard.

You were supposed to meet up with Captain Price, leading a group of his own, just a few kliks from your landing location. Team’s sole purpose that night was to infiltrate the cartel’s hideout, north of Mexico's border. It wasn’t a fortress, but a well equipped warehouse at most. 

Well, at least that's what your superiors were suspecting.

They needed proof of the cartel's affiliation with powerful drug traders overseas and any other information you managed to find inside, while Price’s team created a diversion. You were a group of professionals, what could go wrong?

When all of you walked out the helo, you took a look around, eyes getting used to the darkness flooding the field around. The night has fallen as the sun disappeared over the horizon. 

You stuck closely to MacTavish as it was never smart to split up without strict order. Your main task as a medic was to keep an eye on them, patch them up if needed – overall, keep them alive.

There were no crickets to be heard, creatures hiding somewhere in the grass. But the gut feeling, or rather a natural intuition convinced you, something else was lurking in the plain field. When Nikolai started the engine again of the helo and flew off the ground, your eyes crossed with Ghost’s. 

It was too quiet.

He believed something was off too and the Englishman was much more experienced in a field than you. That could only mean trouble. 

You pinched your lips together into a fine line, involuntarily holding a breath in. Your muscles and joints were in a preparation mode. If the military had a medal for prophetic abilities, you would have a stack of them by now. 

Just as you started moving towards the old, abandoned truck in the middle of the grassy field, the first shots got fired. Your knees softened, when you sprinted towards the rusty vehicle to take a cover. 

You managed to take a quick look through the scope on your rifle, trying to asses – where were the fuckers coming from. But they hid in the bushes quite well. Those who were foolish enough to come closer to your group, quickly got eliminated.

Kyle was right by your side by the rusty car, shooting just above your head as you kneeled down. Suddenly an enemy troop jumped from his cover swinging a knife at your comrade. The steel shimmered in the moonlight.

It was a matter of seconds – despite the training sergeant had received, he couldn’t break the laws of time and space. You, on the other hand, were facing the threat directly. 

━ Gaz, down! ━ You yelled, before taking down the man, piercing his chest with few bullets. You held the rifle up and steady, meanwhile the attacker stumbled backwards and fell onto the coarse grass beneath. Lifeless. 

Kyle nodded in your direction, not exchanging a word of gratitude, but he didn’t have to. Besides, there was no time for courtesy. You were under fire. 

━ Piece ‘f cake, eh? Real nice fuckin’ cake, Lt. ━  Soap mocked Ghost earlier words, as his predictions regarding this mission didn’t include an ambush right off the bat. ━ What now?

━ Focus, MacTavish, we need to take a cover. There’s an ol’ farm, only a klik east-south ━ The lieutenant reloaded his own rifle with a firm tug on the empty magazine. As always, he kept a cold blood even when surprised by unpredictable ━  We’re headin’ there, is that clear? 

━ Aye. ━ Gaz approved and you silently nodded, feeling the raging pulse of your own heart in the neck artery. 

You noticed that his dark gaze got stuck on your face, that probably got a little too pale due to the adrenaline. You were still getting used to working in a field, you’ve never been cornered like this before. Verbatim. 

Every time after the mission, when you lay still in the barrack at night time, you wonder if Ghost felt like he was actually babysitting the whole Task Force. At least sometimes. Because it was usually you, Soap or Gaz who got into trouble.

Kyle and Johnny were around the same age, still fairly young to be in special forces, but you? You were even younger and less skilled, though you managed to catch up with different abilities than your male mates. 

And Lieutenant Riley? He was older than all of you, that’s for sure. You didn’t know how much exactly, but that’s what you managed to deduce since your joining the squad. 

So it wasn't an uncommon occurrence, where Ghost took the lead during a crisis and led you all to safety. He was more than sure all of you would manage on your own, if the circumstances were different. 

━ Y/C, with me ━ the lieutenant stated, getting ready for the next step. ━ Soap, Gaz, you go together. We’re movin’, now. 

Each soldier with a rifle held steadily in their hands, began to move swiftly through the darkness of the upcoming night. While Gaz and Soap took the right flank, you and Ghost took care of the left. The lieutenant kept in mind checking the back too. All you had to do was push forward.

It was a challenging task to keep up with their longer strides, but they were mindful of your struggles. You would never be left behind. One for one. 

The outline of the old barn appeared in the reach of your hand as you pointed the rifle’s barrel towards the two men coming from your left. You managed to take one down, by shooting through his knee, however you missed the other one.

You cursed in your native language, letting the frustration out. Within the span of a couple seconds you collected your breath and aimed once again. This time you shot him, right through his shoulder. They had bullet proof vests, therefore shooting at their chest made no sense at all. 

Shooting at the vest from up close – then, that’s a different story.

Muppets, as Captain Price called them, took down each one of the enemies without a slip up on their flank. 

You’ve never said it outloud to anyone, especially not any member of Task Force, but in a work field you looked up to…well, some of them. They executed their tasks immaculately. Whilst you still had some things to learn, they were usually understanding, willing to help out. Usually, not always. 

Sometimes, due to his harsh comments, you thought that Ghost expected you to be born with skills he achieved through the years in a service. Which, for obvious reasons, was not fair.

The way to the farm was a bumpy one, tall grass covering any holes in the ground, but you finally made it. Ghost and Gaz broke into the old stable and began checking out the insides. You were just behind them, when you heard Soap’s grunt through clenched teeth.

It could only mean one thing – Johnny got shot. You reached to touch his arm, maybe to pull him inside, but the Scottish sergeant did it anyway. With Kyle’s help you shut the heavy doors behind to give the team extra coverage. 

You finally took a deep breath. 

Ghost spoke through the radio, slowly walking up to the barn's other end. You deduced that he spoke with Price about the ambush, but your focus was on blood pouring out of the fresh wound.

You stepped closer and MacTavish leaned in, letting you take a look. And it didn’t look good. Soap inhaled the chilly air, a droplet of sweat rolling down his temple.

━ Shit. ━ You felt Ghost’s gaze upon your back, when you cursed with such passion. He was waiting on a report. ━ Bullet went through his arm. 

━ The cartel wasn’t wasting money on security, huh?  ━ Gaz mentioned, still quite not believing himself they encountered such skilled soldiers. Why weren’t they informed about that beforehand? They would take a bigger team.

━ But ━ you continued ━ because Soap is so bulky, the ammo didn’t scratch any important artery. 

━ I knew you’d appreciate my form, lass. 

━ Nevertheless, I insist on patching him up.

━ Insist? ━ The big Englishman repeated what he just heard, surely raising an eyebrow beneath mysterious balaclava. At least that's what you imagined him to do. When he looked at you, he saw your scowl. ━ Fuckin’ hell, fine. We need to stay ‘ere until Price comes with backup. 

Ghost’s voice sounded firm and emotionless as always. Maybe there was a hint of annoyance, but who wouldn’t be? The intel wasn’t good enough if the cartel's security managed to take you by surprise and outsmart the special forces. 

Kyle silently went outside to take a look around, patrol the surroundings when you took care of John’s nasty wound.

━ Hey, I’ll manage, no need to–

━ Don’t even start ━ you interrupted Scottish man, rummaging through the medic bag.  ━ You want them to follow us by the trickle of blood you left behind? Or do you want to faint due to blood loss?

━ Alright, alright, I get it, lass. Sweet Jesus. 

━ You’re like children. ━ The lieutenant pointed out at your foolish scuffle, checking each corner of the barn. 

━ Do you know children that carry M4s?━ An even more stupid joke escaped your mouth, before you giggled silently, opening the new package of gause. Even Johnny chuckled, when you began applying pressure on top of his wound. 

━ Keep your morals like this and we just might fulfill our task. 

Ghost definitely had the charisma of an exhausted father, but that was one of his characteristics that not many people were fond of. But you were. You liked his tacky humor, always a way to brighten the day.

━ One-four-one, do you copy? 

A sudden sound of the radio on your vest broke the silence. It was a voice belonging to Gaz, but usually his tone wasn’t so… nervous. Another bad omen. 

━ We need to get out of ‘ere! ━ Just as he finished the sentence, Kyle ran through the barn’s door, M4 rifle in his hand. ━ They’ve got their own reinforcement. 

━ How many? ━ You asked, finishing wrapping a tight bandage over Soap’s bicep. 

━ I saw four cars riding through that bush we came from. ━ Dark skinned soldier answered, glaring through his shoulder. You have to be very aware of your surroundings from now on.

━ Y/C, you feel like sniping? ━ The skull had spoken, the brown eyes looking at you. No, through you. ━ Can you cover us?

━ Yes, I’ll keep an eye from the attic. 

━ Good. 

━ What about Price? Where is he? ━ Soap asked, reloading his weapon. 

The Englishman pressed the button on his radio.

━ Bravo 0-6 this is Ghost, how long?

━ Hang on, four more kliks. Are you still in the barn? ━ Captain asked through the speaking channel only your team had access to.

━ Positive.

━ Good, stay there. Over and out. 

Price’s voice vanished as soon as he echoed through the old stable. Situation wasn’t looking good for your team, but what else could you do? If Gaz was right and the enemy managed to distribute groups of his soldiers around the farm, there was no way out. 

So you had to defend your position and wait. For what? At this point for a backup that miraculously appears from the skies.

You swiftly climbed onto the wooden ladder until you reached the upper floor of the old stable. There were bales of hay scattered around and few windows. One of the bigger ones was facing the courtyard between the buildings. When you were in a position, you took a look around the property. 

Ghost was already prepared on the right side of the building you were in and Gaz was on the other. Meanwhile Soap was slowly walking around the antique fountain in the middle of the courtyard. 

Everyone was ready and anticipating the enemy’s next move. 

━ Gaz, three coming from your left. ━ You warned him through the speaking channel, before pointing the rifle’s end to those mentioned soldiers. 

When the adrenaline bursts inside of your veins, time passes quite fast. Which was a dangerous thing, because if you lost track of it or a consciousness about your surroundings – you would be dead quickly.

You had to withhold your nerves and focus on one task at the time.

After a deep breath in, you slowly let it out. Looking through the rifle’s loupe, you began shooting at the group that just got out of the truck. A gunfire right beneath their feet, before they got perforated with your bullets. 

A bitter, metallic taste spreaded over your tongue. You swallowed some saliva, checking up if you had bit the inside of your cheek. It happened before, when you completely zoned out during a shooting. You were so fixated on the task, you clenched your jaw on the delicate tissue. 

But this time it was just remorse, building up each time you pulled the trigger. Of course, you knew not each inflicted harm caused inevitable death, some just made the enemy’s soldiers… indisposed. Nonetheless, it was a burden you had to carry on your shoulders.

When you cleared out the zone near the parked car, your sight moved to the Ghost outpost. He was stabbing the soldier's neck and shoulder with short and quick movements. In your assessment, he was doing fine.

Then when you wanted to check on Gaz and Soap, there was a thud over the wooden surface that got your attention. You snapped your head towards the sound and saw one soldier that managed to climb  here. 

━ I found the sniper. ━ The man said into his own radio, hooked over his tactical vest. 

He rushed towards you and you tried to point your rifle at him. The man was faster and he grabbed the weapon, stopping you from shooting at him. There was only a little window of time to decide what to do next. So you used all your body weight to tackle that soldier to the ground.

Your arms wrapped around his thighs and you pushed forwards, causing him to fall backwards. Meanwhile, still having an upper hand, you reached for a karambit that was stacked behind your belt. 

You managed to climb on top of him swiftly, because that was your advantage in a clash with big, muscular men. You raised your hand and before the blade reached his chest, the man grabbed your wrist in the air, blocking your further movements. 

For a short while you struggled against his grip, trying to push the knife into his ribcage with the mass of your upper body. However, the mercenary locked you with his leg and rolled over you, trapping you beneath him. 

You took a quick look around – both of you rolled over dangerously close to the edge of the attic. A sight of a few meters depth made you lightheaded. So you continued struggling, as the soldier held a firm grip over your wrist, cutting the blood flow. Even when your wrist went numb, you did not drop that karambit. 

It was your most valuable bargaining chip in this situation.

You huffed a couple of times, slightly changing the position under the man’s frame. But when he finally reached for his gun, you grabbed the short barrel and pointed it far from your head. 

Calculating the next step carefully, you decided to let him win over the knife in your hand. Because with the drop of it, he released your wrist. The man swung his whole shoulder to punch you in the face. 

For a short moment you saw spots in front of your eyes, when his clenched fist met your cheekbone. Ouch. 

And finally, when your arms began to give up, you focused your defense on your legs – they were stronger. You managed to tuck them beneath his pelvis and strengthen your legs, kicking him over your head. Only then, you released the barrel of the gun. 

The mercenary fell over the edge of the attic and onto the ground beneath. You heard the loud thud followed by a crack. He broke his neck.

You laid there for a while, collecting your breath as you just faced death. Quite a normal day in the life of a soldier. The shootouts from the outside began to fade and it got you worried. You had to check that out.

━ Steaming Jesus ━ a familiar voice, brought you back to your full strength. You got up on your knees and carefully looked through the hole in the floor. ━ Is that how you greet people?

The American was standing above the body you just threw from the upper floor. A puddle of blood staining the ground. 

━ Alex! ━ You expressed your enjoyment, seeing your college for the first time in a while. It meant he came with a backup. A miracle of tonight's ambush.  ━ You’re saving our asses. 

━ Come down now, the situation is under control. 

You ran to gather your weapon, before hooking it around your shoulder. You quickly climbed down the ladder and walked up to a man with bright eyes and trimmed mustache. 

━ Laswell send her regards. Price team wouldn’t make it on time ━ Alex Keller explained, putting one of his hands on your shoulder as the two of you slowly walked out of the barn to the courtyard. ━ A bloodbath, huh? Only the four of you?

Soap was sitting on the fountain’s edge, the material hugging his arm wasn’t soaked with blood. “Good” you thought. Some of Alex’s soldiers that were sent here by Kate Laswell walked around the farm to check every corner. 

━ We don’t like crowds. ━ Gaz reached his hand to greet their friend, who was in Urzikstan. At least, that's what they thought. Until now. 

━ Understandable, sergeant. ━ The ends of his mustache lifted up as he smiled. ━ We should wait here for Price and regroup. 

━ So we continue what we started? ━ Just before you asked, Soap and Ghost joined the conversation in the middle of the courtyard, the pathways laid out with stones.

━ We can’t retreat now, they would know we’re after ‘em. ━ The lieutenant explained, why the retreat was an idea not even being speculated here. The presumed cartel would move along with their belongings, the proof you needed to gather. 

So therefore withdrawal was off the table. 

━ We need to strike ‘ard, now. ━ Ghost continued his talk, when the soldiers began to talk between each other from the other side of the abandoned house. 

All of you turned around to see the upcoming Captain Price, pressing his rifle to his chest. 

━ Took ya long enough, Captain. ━ Gaz stated bluntly, few droplets of blood appearing on his forehead. 

━ Yeah, the intel was shit, we’re gonna take care of it later. Now, we have different targets. Gather up. Everyone in one piece? 

The man in his forties looked at each one of you – from head to toes. Obviously, his eyes were locked with the bandage over Soap’s arm, but MacTavish quickly assured him it was only a scratch on the surface. 

Which it wasn’t, yet he wasn’t bleeding, so for the sake of peace you nodded your head to assure Price.

━ Alright, the real fun can begin. We got ‘em outnumbered, this is going to be a quick and smooth operation. No slip ups from now on, understood?

The whole team agreed and began to mentally prepare for what was coming. Captain patted Gaz on his shoulder, before slowly walking away.

━ No more flying corpses? ━ Alex whispered, leaning towards you. It seemed that only the two of you heard the conversation. 

And maybe Ghost who was standing on the other side of Sergeant Keller, because he looked at you with amusement. 

━ We’ll see about that. Just try to get on my bad side, American boy. 

Price whistled in a high pitched tone, announcing that all of you should gather up. 

Once again you had that feeling in your guts, that it was going to be a long, exhausting night. And at the end of the day, your hand would be covered in blood, like a butcher (which you swore you wouldn’t be).

[bubble-tea-blossom]

The Soldier and the Smuggler

9. The Roof

Pairing : f!reader x Joel Miller. Wc: 5.3k

Warnings: yearning

Previous chapter

(my pic)

The mid-day, mid-July sun beams down incessantly. The heat is impossible to escape. Sweat sticks your shirt to your back and threatens to drip in your eyes if you don’t flick it from your forehead in time. You were right about your injuries slowing you down. Your head is so painful its nauseating, like glass shards have wormed their way beneath your skull and are shaving your brain.

Joel looks worse. His skin is sweaty and pale.

“You look like shit,” you tell him.

“Thanks,” he replies without looking from the path ahead.

You recognize the look in his eyes, worried that if he stops, he won’t be able to get going again. You kick a pebble as your foot sweeps the ground, it goes clattering on the dry, crumbled asphalt.

“We need to start thinking about water,” you speak aloud.

“I got about a day’s worth left,” Joel answers.

That will go all too quickly. To recover from major blood loss, you need to replenish all the fluid you lost. Not to mention just surviving in this heat. At this point, you need to start collecting puddle water.

Unfortunately, it hasn’t rained in weeks, and any ditches or holes you pass are bone dry. Still, you keep an eye out for anything that might cradle any spare drops of water.

Walking down the street, you keep in the shade of the buildings as best you can. However there is significant damage to the street in some areas, forcing you to climb up ledges of crumbling asphalt. The ground burns your palms as you climb.

Over the next ledge, you’re forced to come to a stop, staring down into the crater below. It’s huge, the width of a building and much deeper.

“That’s not erosion,” you mumble, staring into the depths. Broken pipes deep in the strata poke out of the steep walls. Peering down, the hole is deep enough that a fall in would likely result in a broken bones, “they bombed this place, didn’t they.”

Joel sighs looking for a way around, “Looks like it.”

"Where I was, the bombs did jack shit. Killed more healthy people than Infected and in the end the Infected always came back."

"Yep."

Bitterness burns your tongue, “Another thing to thank FEDRA for I guess.”

To bypass the crater, you end up backtracking and going down the next few streets over. A painted mural catches your eye, slowing your step. A giant anthropomorphic sabertooth cat jumping rope is painted on the large front windows of a building. His biceps bulge, fangs bared. Above the door in red paint against black is “Robbie’s Beast Gym”.

The image is so delightfully strange, it makes you stop.

“Hold up,” you call, Joel looks back at your voice, “I’m gonna check in there,” you nod your head to the gym.

He regards the gym with disinterest, standing with his weight on one hip,“For what? I don’t want to dilly dally all day.”

“Food? Water? I’m just gonna check quickly,” you bounce back. He still looks disapproving. “Just sit in the shade, I won’t be long.” You promise.

He doesn’t answer. You determine if he leaves you, you can catch up.

You hear him sigh before his footsteps follow.

The door is locked. You decide to break the window to gain access.

“Goodbye,” you say before hurling the brick through the window. The sound of glass shattering pierces your eardrums, amplifying your very unhappy bruised brain. You clap your hands over your ears and stand hunched over til they stop ringing. After awhile you slowly unfurl, regretting not thinking that move through.

Joel also looks less than thrilled, waiting with his gun in hand. When nothing comes hurling out the streets his puts it away.

“Watch the glass,” he warns as you jump the window ledge.

“You watch the glass,” you repeat as he jumps after you.

Dust has conquered every surface of the gym. It lays in thick layers on the front counter, on every rack and bench, on every mirrored wall. In a corner, at about knee height, a smiley face wiped into the dust is at risk of being erased by growing layers. You pause, tilting your head at the human touch. Did someone hole up here, sitting in the corner bored? Did they have the key? Why didn't they come back? The gym is for sure abandoned. The air is stale and still like a cave sealed off behind a rockfall.

You continue on, after leaving a friend besides the lone smiley face.

Joel’s grumpy presence searches the other corner of the gym. You see him head into the change rooms. The click of a button echos in the still space followed by a cone of light disappearing into the dark hallway in front of him.

You find the laundry section. A basket of folded and dusty hand towels on top of the dryer. You snag the cleanest ones.

The shoe rack has decent finds. Unfortunately you are no need of shoes. Your boots will hold up better than any tennis shoes.

You drop to your knees and check underneath, your cheek pressing into the dust.

“Bingo,” you reach your arm under the rack, your fingers just barely scraping the plastic. As you struggle to catch it, Joel speaks up behind you, “whatchu got?”

You scooch closer, stretching your arm til it feels like your socket is being pulled. Finally, you get a hold and pull it free. You hold up your prize. The bottle is florescent orange, a decent size, and bone dry. Joel does not look impressed by your find.

“Better than nothing,” you stand, wiping off the dust from your front.

Joel holds his hand out to you, a pair of sunglasses resting in between his fingers.

“For your uh,” he gestures to the sun outside, “head.”

Surprise flips your stomach, “Oh, thanks.” You carefully pluck them from his hand, a feeling of impending dread overshadowing the pleasant hum. You’re waiting for the other shoe to drop. A deal you just unknowingly made coming to collect.

But nothing happens.

The sunglasses can only be described as ‘douche bag sunglasses.’ White square frames and colored lenses. Putting them on splashes you with relief. Your protective squint fades away.

Aware that you probably look ridiculous and wanting a way out of this strangely intimate moment you joke, “Most importantly, how do I look?”

Joel snorts, “Like an idiot.” And continues his search elsewhere.

“Perfect.”

The back office yields the best find. A sealed box with a faded mail address still taped on. Wiping the dust off so you can read the label, your heart rate spikes once the letters become legible.

Using your knife, you cut through the tape with fervor. Inside is packed from wall to wall with protein bars.

"Joel!" You shout, voice cracking in excitement.

Joel comes racing in two seconds later, his gun drawn, eyes wide. He stops short at you on your knees digging through the box, very clearly not being attacked.

"Turn around," you demand. He does, putting the gun away. You unzip the backpack hanging off his shoulders and start piling the bars into every pocket. They're thick, and even a handful becomes heavy. They’re probably very dry but they package says twenty grams of protein and two-hundred-eighty calories each. They're worth it.

“Ain’t a pack mule you know,” Joel grumbles as the pack gets heavier and heavier.

“Buy me a backpack and we can share."

Unfortunately there's only so much room the threadbare pack has to spare, and almost half the box is still left. You stuff what you can in your pockets, it feels criminal to leave all that food behind.

You shove the box under the desk where its at least somewhat hidden, before spreading out the maps you took from the visitor center on the desk.

"You got a pen?" You ask Joel. After some rummaging he produces a pencil in desperate need of sharpening.

"This is 17th street right?" You ask.

"Yes," Joel agrees. He joins you in peering over the map as you try to find the street on the map. "There," he points to it with a thick finger, "and that's where the crater was," he traces a small circle on the adjacent street.

You mark the map, first the crater then circling the general area of the gym with "food".

You stand up, folding the map and returning the pencil, feeling lighter than you have in recent memory, "So, worth the dilly dallying?"

Joel's eyes dip down your face and you realize you're smiling.

He shrugs, "Jury's still out, let's see how they taste first.” He walks away first. You shake your head clear.

The second half of the trek to the building is uneventful.

“Thought you said there’d be Infected,” you think but dare not say aloud. That’s the type of shit the Universe loves to throw right back at you, with fifty screaming Clickers.

“The note from the visitor center mentioned…other people in the city,” you dance around what you’re voicing, “That note was also years old, maybe even a decade.”

The way Joel chews on his lip before answering tells you everything you need before he even speaks, “Well patrolled streets are often quiet.”

“Great.”

Back out in the full sunlight, you're extremely grateful for whichever gym bro left his sunglasses behind that fateful day before the Outbreak. Your head still throbs but at least you aren't being stabbed through the pupils with radiation. You wonder if he's still alive, lamenting the loss of his favorite pair of sunglasses.

Judging by the sun, it's about an hour before dusk when you finally reach the building. Although that's more of a guess based on the temperature drop and lengthening shadows since the horizon is hidden behind layers of buildings.

Standing on the street in front of the building, you crane your head up and up to the top. There’s a sense of defiant power radiating from the panes of glass and steel. The front door has big black metal letters above the front door.

"Henry Douglas Whitmore Institute of Architecture and Design," you read out loud. Curiosity has you take in the beautiful monstrosity before you, taking a breather. You feel like you need to sleep for a week.

The entire front of the building is barricaded from the inside. Every window has furniture piled behind it, as high as you can see. Breaking glass will get you nowhere. The barricade makes you feel better and worse at the same time. A barricade that effective is definitely a bonus, but the human hand that built it fills you with a sense of dread. The area looks abandoned, but evidently it wasn't always.

Joel steps besides you, looking at the door, "Well, shit."

"Fire escape?" You suggest. The look on his face reflects your mixed feelings, but eventually he nods at you to take the lead.

When you find the fire escape in the back, a wave of dismay hits you. The drop is too high to reach. It looks like it got stuck halfway the last time someone used it.

You echo Joel from earlier, “Well shit.”

"Ok, I can give you a boost,” he nods at you and positions himself under the ladder, crouching a bit and cupping his hands on one thigh.

You flip your sunglasses to your forehead, cocking an eyebrow,“Uh, you sure about that, blood loss boy?”

He rolls his eyes, “You see a ladder somewhere? C’mon, I don’t wanna climb in the dark.”

“Fine,” you approach, nerves lighting your mouth up, “not like I mopped a bucket of blood off you this morning or anything.”

Standing toe to toe, this is the moment you’re dreading. Knowing you’re going have to touch him again. Shame floods you with the childishness of it all. You just would really rather not ever have to touch the man ever again. He’s the reason you’re in this fucking mess. If you were magic, you’d have it so you never saw him again, never have his green eyes look you up and down with a scowl, never hear him say your name with guilt in his eyes, defiance on his tongue.

But you aren’t magic. And it’s your fault. You’re too scared to go it alone, so you’re still walking besides him. Guess you have no pride anymore.

You grit your teeth as it sinks in with a bite that you sent your self-worth to the chopping block. The vow you made to yourself that you’ll sacrifice anything if it means survival strengthens you. And yet, there’s still the feeling that you’ve lost something, and you might never realize exactly what it was.

You realize your mistake too late. Lingering in the moment made it weird. You’re staring at the man lost in thought while he stares back at you in confusion. Staring at each other, waiting for the other to make the move, reminds you of the awful first time you kissed a boy.

In an effort to make it less awkward, you open your mouth and make it much worse, “Don’t make it weird, Miller,” you mock scold as you put a hand on his shoulder.

You expect him to roll his eyes and look away, angry or uncomfortable. He does neither. He keeps his face deadpanned, “You make nothing easy, do you.”

"Nope," You place a foot in his waiting hands, and when he bares your weight fine, you finally straighten up, putting your other foot on his shoulder.

Your core tightens in the fight for balance as you stand on his shoulders, reaching for the rung of the ladder. You feel Joel’s hands clamp down onto your boots, steadying you. Your fingertips scratch the bar, but not enough to fully latch on it. You have to raise to your tip toes, and with a grunt, Joel’s hands move to your calves.

Finally, both your hands are wrapped around the first rung. You have to twist your lower body to get some momentum to reach the next. With your full body weight pulling down, the ladder unlatches from its stuck position and with a loud clang finally slides all the way out.

With a yelp you loose your grip and fall, right on top of the smuggler waiting underneath. You hear the air from Joel’s lungs squeeze out in an ‘ooufh’ as you land on his chest.

You hiss through your teeth as your vision ebbs and flows, threatening to black out. Your head starts throbbing worse and worse from the fall, its like you can feel where your brain bounced off your skull. You know from past experiences that having a concussion makes getting a second scarily easy.

You are aware that the polite thing to do would be to climb off the man's chest you're lying on, so he can breathe. You promise to do that as soon as your head stops spinning like you've had five too many drinks. You slowly try to straighten out, pushing yourself up blindly. Unfortunately your hand misses the ground and you're pushing your weight off something jean-clad and soft that elicits a sharp grunt from Joel. He removes your hand and takes the liberty to gently rag-doll you off of him. You're ok with that.

"Sorry," you groan, lying flat on your back side by side with the smuggler.

"It's alright, I had five hundred protein bars to cushion me." He grumbles, slowly standing up. You can tell the sarcasm is hiding pain, falling on his freshly sewn up back with your extra weight might have ripped your careful stitches.

"Gonna be a long climb." You look up from the ground at the layers of ascending fire escape.

"Yep."

You know you're taking too long to stand back up. Joel reaches up and tests the ladder. It sounds a little sketchy, echoes of metal joints screeching in the air, but its in proper placement and goes no where bearing Joel's full weight. He waits for you at the first flight.

"You good to climb?" He calls down.

At the threat of him climbing with you on his back the way he belayed down into the sewers, you stand up with a groan. Your vision threatens to go but you clench your core and force blood to return to your head. It works, and with many a groan, you climb the stupid ladder successfully this time.

It indeed was a long fucking climb. Sixty stories. The wind picks up strength the higher you go, and finally standing at the top, it tugs at your hair and clothes with an insistence of a dance partner. The view was worth every second of breathless exhaustion. Being able to see in every direction fills you with a sense of security, a rare commodity these days. Good luck sneaking up on you now.

The visitor center where you started is a little green blob on the precipice of an empty ocean. The city spreading out from you has decayed and some buildings have collapsed so much they lean on their neighbors, the occasional great shuddering moan of metal reaching your ears from even this far away. And yet green has wormed her way in between nearly every crack of destruction, filling the wasteland with life.

It’s beautiful, in a desolate way.

The smuggler leads you inside a window, closing it behind you. You let him take point as you clear the floor with your guns drawn.

The stairwell and elevator have been barricaded. You and Joel have different reactions to this. He tenses further, his face hardening, preparing for the worse. You tense as well, but a glimmer of naive hope flickers in your stomach. Maybe the people from the note you carry in your pocket are still here. Maybe they reunited. Maybe they can help.

There's no one.

Once the whole floor has been cleared, its evident that you are still alone with the smuggler.

One of the offices had obviously been used by someone in the past. The couches are pushed together with blankets still on them, a little pile of empty tin cans in the corner. One wall has huge letters in black marker ,”DAD" with an arrow pointing to the table underneath. A piece of yellowed paper is the sole inhabitant on the wood surface.

You pick it up, your fingers shaking for some reason.

Dad, its Elise. I have no idea if you'll ever see this.

Its been two months since we got separated from you and Jordan. Mom wanted to wait here as long as possible. I think she planned on waiting here forever for you.

She died two weeks ago. We were looking for supplies in the city and got cornered by a bunch of Infected people. She held the door so I could run. I heard her scream, then it stopped. I didn't look back. I know she's gone. I did what she told me.

I can't stand it here by myself anymore.

I'm going home.

I'm sorry. I don't know what else to do. If you see this, please meet me there. I hope I see you guys again.

Your heart shatters. No matter how many times you reread the note, the words refuse to scramble into something different. All you see is a daughter, alone and scared, wanting to go home.

You take out the previous note and unfold it, gently laying it down besides this one. Father and daughter, lying side by side. Reunited.

You know the odds that either of them survived, much less ever saw each other again. This is likely the only reunion they ever got.

Joel enters the room a few minutes later, wordlessly glancing at you on the couch as you stare mindlessly through the window. Through your periphery, you watch as he takes in the writing on the wall, before glancing at the table. You're surprised when he picks up both letters, reading them.

With a heavy sigh, he places them back on the table.

"Do you think she made it home?" You ask.

You can tell the smuggler is close to not answering. His eyes flick around the room as he debates lying, or changing the topic.

“Joel," You demand. The least he could do after everything is answer your question.

"No," he replies, not an once of emotion audible in his voice.

You look out into the city. The sun has set, and the sky has been dipped in ink. The sea of buildings has been swallowed by darkness, monsters of all kinds hiding in the shadows of every corner.

"Me neither," you admit. Why would a world this cruel let a young kid who lost everything be reunited with her family. The short answer is it wouldn't.

You curl up on the couch, exhaustion and pain finally winning. You tuck your face under your arms, and wait for sleep to take you in his cold arms.

•·················•·················•

Joel knows he shouldn't stare. He can only imagine the creative and deeply personal insult you'd hurl at him if you were to wake up right now and find him glaring at you while you sleep. The blue light filtering through the window cradling your form, curled on the couch in a tight ball, ribs rising in deep even breaths; it was like watching a car crash. He couldn’t look away, morbid fascination of the dichotomy of how innocent you look in your sleep compared to the danger he’s shoved you in.

Realistically, Joel knows you don’t exactly fit the dictionary definition of ‘innocent.’ But all the violence you’ve wielded has been out of self-preservation. Which when compared to himself, Joel counts as innocent.

He looks away, “What a damn mess you’ve made of everything,” he thinks to himself.

Every time you speak to him, the sight of your beaten face lashes him like a whip. Joel refuses to let guilt creep in. Guilt accomplishes nothing.

He checks the roof in need for fresh air. Opening the door to the outside at the top of a stairwell Joel doesn’t remember climbing, the cool air brushes past him, drying the sweat on the back of his neck.

A structure built up on one corner of the roof beckons him closer. Upon closer examination, there are tarps set up and angled to direct water that falls into the mouths of barrels underneath. It’s a rain catcher. Only one barrel has any water, sealed tight, about half empty.

Seeing the handiwork, Joel can only assume it was the kid and her mother from the note that made the set up. Joel's chest squeezes at the thought of the young kid, journeying home, alone.

He banishes any trace of her from his mind. As he scoops water from the barrel, and sets up a small fire, its as if the rain-catcher just appeared there. It has no history, no long forgotten creators.

Joel is grateful for the darkening skies as the dirty wood from stray pallets left around burns pitch black smoke. There is no doubt there are hunters in the area. Any big city like this, away from operating QZs, is a breeding ground for the worst of humanity. The thought doesn't bring fear, only a wave of tiredness. A chore he'd rather avoid.

Joel sits by the little fire, boiling water and purifying it until its all collected. He fills the water bottle you found at the gym first. Guess it did come in handy.

When the time comes to kick out the fire, go back inside, Joel lingers. Staring at the licking flames, hypnotized for hours until only glowing embers are left. The wind picks up, and without the warmth of the fire, the cold nips into Joel's Texan bones.

He returns to you, barricading the office door, just in case. You're still asleep, curled in a ball like an armadillo, your fingers digging into your arms in a clawed grip. By the twitching and choked murmurs, its obvious you're having an intensely bad dream.

He shakes your shoulder, "Hey," he keeps his tone detached. He's not trying to be an asshole but he’s also desperate to keep from getting overly familiar, unaware that ship has already sailed.

Joel feels a detached connection pull at his chest when you jerk awake, fear in your sleepy eyes. How many times has he woken like that in the long years since the Outbreak? The same scene haunts his sleep every time he lays his head down, filled with soul-splitting pain and blood that exhausts him when he wakes. He hates and appreciates the nightmares at the same time. It's the only way he gets to see Sarah again, to feel her in his arms again, even if it's in the worst moment of his life.

You take the outstretched water bottle with the same wariness he's seen since he first shoved you in the van. Somehow that feels like a year ago but was only a few days past. He gives you space, sitting at the desk.

You stare at the carpet, sitting motionless. Joel tries to give you privacy in the small room while he eats an extremely dry protein bar. Then he looks over the maps. But when it dawns on an hour and you still haven't moved, Joel can't ignore it any longer.

The vacant look in your eyes is one Joel recognizes. He's seen it enough times reflected in the mirror, and in his brother's eyes. In fact, your hunched, frozen posture reminds him so much of when Tommy would give him the silent treatment, it rises familial annoyance in Joel's throat.

"You need to drink water," Joel snaps.

Your eyes don't move off the carpet. You give no indication you even heard him. It was like talking into a headwind. Joel's annoyance strengthens, shielding him from his growing concern. He's never seen you so still, so silent. Even in your sleep you twitch and chatter, grinding your teeth so loud he can hear it.

After a full minute of this, Joel snaps your name, unintentionally echoing a drill sergeant's tone, hoping it might jolt you out of it.

Still, you don't react. It was like the life has seeped from your body and left behind only the husk.

"Hey," Joel moves quickly, crossing the room and crouching in front of you, hoping to break whatever trance the carpet has pulled you into.

"You need to drink something," he tells you, opening the water bottle for you before replacing it in your hand. Your fingers are limp, so Joel places his hand over yours, closing your hand around the bottle so you won't drop it. "You're in some weird funk, but it will pass." He promises.

Hope tugs at his lungs when you sigh heavily at his words, at least you're listening now.

Joel looks up into your glazed over eyes, "I know I don't smell too good, so I'll get out of your space but after you drink something,"

Joel's psyche is swept to a much different time. Taking care of his little brother. Distracting Tommy from a scraped knee. Distracting Tommy from the sounds of their parents fighting. Protecting Tommy was the only thing that made his own hurt fade to a bearable ache. The Outbreak only amplified that. But eventually Tommy didn't want his protection, and all the things Joel did to keep him safe were turned against him.

When you finally look at him, and raise the water bottle to your lips, Joel feels that lost part of him shudder back into place.

You take a tiny few sips, and then your body takes over, realizing how starved you are for water. You down half the bottle before taking a breath.

A smile of relief curls Joel's mouth and he nods in approval, "Good."

As promised, he stands and backs up.

"While you're at it, eat this," he hands you one of your precious protein bars.

You have to saw your teeth through it, a grimace taking hold on your face, "eugh."

Joel laughs in relief. You have life in your eyes again. Anger, hurt, especially when you look at him. He'll take that over comatose any day.

You take the better part of an hour to nibble your way through the bar, in between sips of water. Then you make yourself comfortable digging through Joel's backpack. Mild discomfort pricks at him at his stuff being rifled through but he keeps silent.

You pull out the med kit again, gesturing to him with it, "You're bleeding again."

Joel's not that surprised, his back, has been burning ever since you fell on him. He assumes a similar position from this morning, sitting on the chair, leaning against the back, while you drag the other up behind him.

You clear your throat, "You gonna pull your shirt up?"

Joel fists the back of his shirt and pulls it over his head, telling himself the goosebumps on his skin is from the cool air, not his discomfort shedding clothes for a younger woman.

A suppressed shiver rolls through Joel at your feather light touch when tap your fingers along his back as you inspect the wound. You hum, "Yup, you ripped a few stitches."

Joel clears his throat, "Not that surprised."

"You didn't have to stand directly underneath me, you know," you chide softly, wiping the site clean, before the familiar poke of the needle punches through his skin. Joel latches onto the discomfort, focusing on it. Not focusing on your breath fanning across the back of his neck when you lean in close, or your cool fingertips pressing in to his warm skin.

"So," you speak up, "what the fuck are you gonna do now?"

"Find my dumb ass brother." Joel sighs at the amount of work he's going to go through.

"Tommy, right?" You repeat the name you heard the day prior.

Joel nods despite you being behind him.

Your next poke comes and then all movement freezes, you sit there unmoving for a few seconds, long enough that Joel turns his head half way in confusion.

"Your brother…is Tommy Miler?" You ask, a revelation finally dawning on you, "THE Tommy Miller?"

The juxtaposition of the awe in your voice compared to Joel's view of Tommy amuses him. "Yeah, that'd be the one. Took you long enough." Joel faces away again to let you continue.

You continue your stitch, pulling the thread taught, "He almost killed me once."

Now it was Joel's turn to be surprised, a strange protective warmth hardening in his chest, displeased at the thought, "Did he now?"

You on the other hand are nonchalant as you recount your meeting, "The Fireflies set up a trap. He set up a sniper's nest in the attic of a house. Shot the soldier in front of me. I crawled under a car and waited there til the fight was over. Fucking terrifying."

Joel has trouble thinking of what to say, he lands on ”I’m glad he didn't kill you."

"Me too." You agree, voice quiet.

Eventually you lean back, your warmth leaving with you, "There, you're done." The chair scrapes the floor as you stand, "Put your shirt back on, harlot." Your joke snips the tension in the air.

This patterns carries on steadily for the next few days. You spend most of the day sleeping, and when your dreams start terrorizing you, Joel wakes you up with the excuse of food or water. Once a day you check his stitches, checking for signs of infection though so far there is none.

Joel tries to hide his growing restlessness. If he was on his own, he'd be gone by now. He could leave you with enough food and water and be on his way. He wonders why he hasn't. But if there's one thing Joel Miller excels at, is burying unwanted feelings so deep they never see the light of day.

A/N: Originally, this chapter was 9k plus, but I'm still editing the last half so I'm cutting it into two to get it out there faster. I hope people aren't finding this one too 'filler' since I'm enjoying their awkward interactions building nice and slow. Thanks for reading!

[mhsdatgo]

Hotd writers choosing to adapt Mushroom's records out of everything they had in hand is the worst decision they could've ever come up with btw.

It's been stated time and time again that while F&B is purely built on records and gossip and morphed retelling of events out of bias and propaganda, Mushroom is the LEAST reliable of all the sources. He's a fool at Rhaenyra's court, his job is make people gasp and laugh, not retell historical events.

We're talking about the same guy who said that he had a penis large enough to match the size of his head, mind you. Also, he's obsessed with little girls giving BJs to Targaryen men somewhere in Flea Bottom. It's happened twice according to him.

The writers' reasoning for this choice is basically that F&B was written by Maesters and Septons, who were all greedy men, apart from being Green supporters. So anything they say is false, anything they say is written with sexist intent. Writer's intention was to do the exact opposite.

Then tell me, for the love of God, tell me, why is every woman apart from Rhaenyra, who is clearly whitewashed and I can go into heavy detail about that, basically shunned?

The Maesters claim Alicent left Viserys' body to rot and swell for days preparing and LEADING Rhaenyra's usurpation. She's the leader of the Greens, she and she alone. Not Otto. The Green Council answers only to her orders, they are loyal to HER.

I've seen people argue that since Alicent is what Maesters view as an "ideal" woman, then they would try anything to paint her in the best light possible. While I agree that this may be true, I don't think this is the case. In history books, even in real life, women are rarely painted as leaders or important figures.

For Queen Alicent to be written as THE face of the Greens, you know this mama wasn't playing around.

Now, how is this:

In ANY WAY, even comparable to THIS?:

At the end of ep.8 and quite literally the entirety of ep.9, Alicent is shown as a lost woman who doesn't even seem to know what she's doing, pushed by Viserys' last words about prophecy rather than SHEER DESIRE to get her hands dirty for her children's safety (which by the way will always be superior imo). The Green Council conspires behind her back, and on top of it all, she's yelled at by one of her own men and is made to take it like a beaten dog.

Moreover, we had Helaena's ROAST (yes it was a roast, my Queen inherited cunty lines from her cunty mother) against Aegon and her coronation, the latter being addressed as something quite wholesome, if you ask me. Alicent places her own crown upon her daughter's head and calls her "my Queen" after kissing her cheeks and kneeling. Afterwards, her and Alicent are literally written to be the only ones who could get through Aegon II's thick skull when he wanted to start the war right then and there as a result of Rhaenyra crowning herself on Dragonstone.

You hear me??? Aegon sat down and fucking listened to the two women in his life. Not the Council, them. These two were dogwalking him, the KING, on the daily, how is that sexist writing on the Maesters' part????

Yet these things are nowhere to be seen in Ryan Condal and Sara Hess' "progressive" show. We got beaten dog Alicent and Helaena being nothing but a walking spoiler machine other than yet another instrument to paint Aegon as the big bad wolf and usurper. Not a single scene of them counseling Aegon.

Baela and Rhaena have nearly no lines or scenes that don't show them in the presence of the Strongs. They are seemingly okay with anything Rhae throws their way because it's Rhae. The one and only scene about Baela openly speaking to her grandma about her wish to fight for Rhaenyra was deleted.

Meanwhile, Rhaenyra is stripped of her rage and thirst for vengeance, and instead made to negotiate for peace while in the books she was the one pushing to go to war first.

Can you tell me, again, how the fanfiction that is Hotd supposed to prove that they want to be "progressive" in contrast to the Maesters' "sexist" work, when literally all they do is whitewash Rhaenyra and sideline any woman who isn't her?