#hes not quite handling things as he should be handling them.

[myderis]

mydei 'n fem reader ᰔ fluff ⊹ word count 0.4k

The crowned prince of Kremnos 'MYDEIMOS' and also the warrior of Okhema 'Mydei’, or ‘Dried pomegranate’ as you like to call him is an undying pain in the ass.

“Do you ever think before you do anything, Princess?” he asks mockingly, once again wielding your title like a weapon while you’re draped over his shoulder as if you are the lightest thing in the world, completely at his mercy as he walks away from the remains of dead Titankins. To him, this is another mindless warm-up as he saves you from trouble almost daily. “Oh, I am so wholeheartedly sorry… Apparently, I can’t go for a walk without my hero,” you retort, that sweet voice dripped with sarcasm and arrogance but he only smirks, further fueling your annoyance.

When you both arrive at the Okhema bathhouse, you’re greeted by Aglaea, Tribbie, and Phainon. The three of them stop dead in their tracks, surprise flashing across their faces as they take in the sight of you still perched indignantly over Mydei’s shoulder. Normally, you and he can’t stand to be in the same room together, or at least that’s the lie you both cling to. Despite your constant bickering, they’ve noticed the threads that bind you. Quite literally, in Aglaea’s case. Though blind, she can sense the golden strings connecting your hearts and just then Tribbie grins. 

“You two should marry already!” she exclaims, clapping her hands together when Phainon chuckles in agreement. “She’s not wrong. Someone needs to keep him grounded,”

“What!? Us? Married?” you stammer, turning your head just enough to glare at the divine heroes, still hanging awkwardly over Mydei’s shoulder. Your cheeks burn as your heart pounds uncomfortably in your chest. Mydei, as usual, handles the situation with his signature exasperation and denial. “Don’t be absurd, Deliverer. Even a god driven mad wouldn’t suggest something so ridiculous,”

Lady Aglae clears her throat, ushering Tribbie and Phainon away to attend to other matters, leaving the two of you alone with the silence that makes you question your life choices. You can feel Mydei’s grip tighten before, without any warning, unceremoniously dumps you into the steaming bath. Letting out a scream as water splashes everywhere. Hair soaked, you feel it cling to your face, obstructing your view until his fingers brush it aside.

For a moment, his fiery and intense gaze softens and you swear you can see your reflection in his eyes as both of your faces lean closer and closer, your chest tightens, and your breath hitches, until … “On second thought,” he murmurs leaning back into the water with that same smirk, “I wouldn’t mind spending all my life with you.”

Your heart skips a beat, and for once, you're at a loss for words.

© MYDERIS. do not translate, plagiarize, or steal my work.

[yandere-wishes]

which batboy does mittens have a crush on?

₍^𖹭 𖹭^₎⟆ ₍^𖹭 𖹭^₎⟆ ₍^𖹭 𖹭^₎⟆ ₍^𖹭 𖹭^₎⟆ ₍^𖹭 𖹭^₎⟆

Oh, good question!! @fancyfeathers mentioned that Mittens should probably be the eldest of Selina's sidekicks. And is closest in age to Dick Grayson. Which opens up one of my fav tropes of "Childhood friends to lovers" (but make it yancore!!!)

He'd been so sweet once, little boy wonder swinging along the skyline. Pretty like a sunset, decked out in reds and yellows. You'd watch him from your perch atop the scrappers. Arms nervously ringing around a bagged-up bundle of jewels. Your mentor would scuff making comments about fruitless morals and pretty boys.

Kittens chase robins. It's the way the world goes around, just like how black cats chase bats.

You sneak behind him, punching on his back and rolling him around. Robin kicks your ribs out of instinct, aims for your stomach next with his knee. He only stops when his masked eyes meet yours, when he sees the sweet playful smile adorning your lips. This is a game...

It's always been a game.

At least to you...

You'd only learn, years later, that it had always been far too real to Dick.

Your siblings are better than you at the whole "cat burglar" thing. They creep through the shadows and glide through half-open windows. They steal rubies and diamonds and pearls. They leave little scratch marks and lipstick stains on the safes they rob. They spend the nights being chased by bats and birds. And then when the sun threatens to shine once more they steal kisses and love bites.

You'd always preferred the day. The monotone ease found only under the sun's gentle rays. You prefer to give instead of take, your youngest sister always said it was Nightwings fault for that. That the first robin had rubbed off too much on you.

You still keep an old photo of Dick in your apartment, a silly little photo of two kids, smiling with blood between their teeth and haphazard empty gums. Dick's nose is bleeding, you have a black eye.

You can't quite remember who took the photo.

Bruce or Selina.

It doesn't really matter.

Some things are far too deep-rooted. Crystallized in blood. You've long hung up your mask, and handed in your whip. You've renounced the ways of the cat, renounced the ways of a rogues. You spend your days inside a school, teaching the young of Gotham, watching how the trauma seeps in prematurely, coiling and embedding itself into the lady Gotham's children. Hurt them young so they learn to survive.

You feel so guilty...

It's hard to leave lineage rotting in its grave, hard to abandon and reject that which pumps through your veins. You still pick the locks, still, slip through shadows as if they were a second home, you're still more feline than human. More freak than normal.

Only this time you don't have your mentor or your sisters.

You don't have your claws or whip.

There's a security guard with a gun.

Pointed straight at you...

Dick Grayson, Robin, Nightwing. He'd been so sweet once. You're glad to see the saccharine hasn't washed off. The boy wonder stands in front of you, although you guess he isn't much of a boy anymore. His uniform is hard on your eyes, reality glitches, you see him dressed in his sunset colors. Reds and yellows, young and free. Dick offers you a sweet smile,

"Hey, it's been a while..."

"Yeah, it has."

Dick assures the security guard he'll handle you. Still, you don't miss the way his blue eyes burn holes into the other man's back. He opens the car door for you before getting behind the wheel. On the way, you try to reason with him. For old time's sake, you beg. "I really was just trying to get those kids some toys, but there's so many of them and the prices these days are-"

"I know," Dick says, his bright smile sends your heart a flutter. "It's alright, I'll take care of everything." You laugh leaning back, looking at his reflection through the mirror, that broken nose did end up healing nicely.

He doesn't take you to the station, instead he drives to his apartment. Deep down you knew he'd never hand you in, he couldn't, he'd spent his whole life watching that bat excuse the cat. He can't go against his training, he too can't abandon his heritage. He pulls you out of the car and into a tight embrace promising he'll keep you safe. And you hate how he feels all so utterly safe, how he smells like home and happiness. You hardly notice how hard he squeezes and how hungrily his lips hover above your pulse point.

Thus he spoke but you don't remember listening.

He spoke of finally having you again.

Of loving you again.

You only ever catch the odd word.

Utterly distracted by the delicate twinkle in his ocean eye.

It's hard to focus on the words when for the first time in a long long time you finally feel like your old self again.

High off nostalgia.

₍^𖹭 𖹭^₎⟆ ₍^𖹭 𖹭^₎⟆ ₍^𖹭 𖹭^₎⟆ ₍^𖹭 𖹭^₎⟆ ₍^𖹭 𖹭^₎⟆

Okay, so all this being said there is an alternative.

@darkpeppermint had another idea, since Mittens is so different from the rest of her family, then she may not even fall for a batboy at all and just marry a sweet golden retriever farm boy...

And yet, despite the sweet fairytale twist they tried to propose. My sick and twisted brain heard the words "golden" and "farm boy" and immediately thought of PROFESSOR CRANE...

Maybe poor little Mittens ends up getting manipulated by the charming professor, Crane. Maybe they meet one day when she's taking her class on a field trip to Gotham U and ends up bumping into Jonathan.

There's just something so familiar about him. So nostalgic, he reminds her of home, of her family, of her childhood friends...he almost feels safe.

Welp Fancy, it finally happened we've become co-parents again.

Our children's list is Kachina and Mittens so far 🤣🤣 Let's see who gets adopted next lol.

[enderlovez]

can you write another kindergarten teacher!reader x spencer where he comes in as like a special guest to read to her students🥹 and then he stays to eat lunch with her

Story Time

Spencer Reid x Kindergarten Teacher Reader WORD COUNT: 1000+

Summary: Spencer comes and reads to your students for storytime.

Content Warning: Maybe some spelling errors, but otherwise nothing. I actually love writing kindergarten teacher reader x Spencer!!! It makes me feel all warm and happy inside

────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ──────

The buzz of the classroom feels electric today, like a thousand tiny bees flitting through the air. Your students can hardly stay in their seats, their excitement nearly bubbling over as you explain that you'll be having a very special guest joining you for storytime today.

Of course, they don't know who it is yet. That's the surprise.

"Miss Y/N, is it a prince?" asks Lily, her shiny brown eyes wide and hopeful.

"Or a pirate?" chimes in Jacob, swinging around an imaginary sword.

You smile and shake your head. "Not quite. But he is one of my favorite people, and I think you're all going to love him, too."

As if on cue, there's a light knock on the rainbow-painted door. Your stomach flips as you walk over to open it.

Standing there, with his ever-disheveled hair and a stack of children's books in his arms, is Spencer.

He's wearing one of his signature mismatched outfits that always sort of remind you of something an old man would wear—a brown cardigan over a cream colored shirt—and the way his eyes light up when he sees you makes your cheeks flush a little.

"Hi," he says softly, like you're the only two people in the room.

"Hi," you whisper back, before stepping aside to let him in.

The kids immediately erupt into whispers and giggles. Spencer shifts awkwardly under their gaze, but he smiles warmly as I introduce him.

"Everyone, this is Doctor Reid. He's a very smart friend of mine who knows a lot about books, so I thought he'd be the perfect person to read to us today!"

Spencer waves shyly. "Hi, everyone. You can call me Spencer if you want."

Lily raises her hand without hesitation. "Are you Miss Y/N's boyfriend? Are you married? Do you have any babies?"

Spencer's eyes widen, and you feel your face go hot—really, this is something you should have anticipated.

"Lily!" you laugh nervously, twiddling your thumbs. "That's not a question for storytime."

She shrugs, unapologetic. Spencer, bless him, just clears his throat as adjusts his grip on the books.

"I bought a few options," he says, holding them up like they're treasure. "We have The Very Hungry Caterpillar, Where the Wild Things Are, and The Day the Crayons Quit. Any favorites."

The room fills with an enthusiastic chorus of opinions, but Spencer handles it like a pro, tallying votes on the whiteboard until we have a winner: Where the Wild Things Are.

He settles into the big reading chair at the front of the room, his long legs awkwardly folded up beneath him, and adjusts his glasses on the bridge of his nose.

The kids gather on the carpet, leaning forward with rapt attention as he begins.

Spencer's voice is soft, each word carrying a rhythm that draws the kids—and you, despite the fact that you've already read this book countless times—into the story, though that might just be because you enjoy listening to his voice so much.

By the time he closes the book and sets it aside, the room erupts into cheers. "That was so cool!" Jacob shouts, jumping to his feet.

"Can you read another one?" Lily pleads, clasping her hands together and mustering up the best puppy eyes she can—she doesn't have to try very hard.

Five year olds. So easy to please.

Spencer glances at you, and you nod. "One more," you say. "Then it's lunchtime."

This time, he picks The Day the Crayons Quit, and the kids laugh hysterically at the sassy letters from the crayons.

Spencer even gets a short round of applause when he finished reading and closes the picture book, his cheeks pink as he smiles and thanks them.

"Okay, everyone," you announce, clapping your hands together. "Time to wash up for lunch!"

The kids scramble to line up at the sink, still chatting quietly with one another—partly about the stories, but mostly about how awesome Spencer is.

He stands by the reading chair, watching them with a mix of amusement and awe.

"You're a hit," you tease, stepping beside him.

"I think they like me more than you," he replies, a playful smile tugging at his lips.

"Don't get cocky," you say, nudging him gently.

As the kids settle at their tables with their lunches, you lead Spencer to your desk in the corner, where you've set up a couple of chairs. "So you're staying, right?" you ask, trying to sound casual.

"If you'll have me," he says, pulling out the chair across from yours.

Your desk is decorated with little figurines and gadgets, ranging from tiny animal toys blue-tacked down to the lid of a container, to a photo frame filled with pressed flowers, to a small collected of little painted rocks. It reminds Spencer a lot of Garcia's office. Colorful.

You hand him the sandwich you made for him earlier, and his eyebrows lift in surprise. "You didn't have to do that."

"I know," you say, ducking your head. "But I wanted to."

You eat quietly for a moment, the sound of the kids' laughter and chatter enough to fill the space around the both of you.

Spencer watches them with a small smile, and you can't help but admire the way he fits so seamlessly into your little world. Most people would get overwhelmed, being in a room with so many little children—and it just so happens that your boyfriend isn't one of those people.

How did you get so lucky?

"They're great," he says after a while.

"They are," you agree. "A handful, but great all the same."

He looks at you then, his gaze soft and searching. "I can see why you love this so much. And I can see why they love you so much."

Your breath catches, but before you can respond with something sappy that'll more than likely make you cry, Jacob bounds over to your desk.

"Miss Y/N, can Mister Spencer come back tomorrow?"

Spencer chuckles, glancing at me like he's looking for permission.

"We'll see," you say, ruffling Jacob's hair. "If he's not too busy saving the world, maybe he can visit again."

"Promise?" Jacob asks, directing the question at Spencer.

Spencer holds up his pinky, and Jacob eagerly hooks his own tiny pinky finger around it. "Promise," Spencer says.

As Jacob runs back to his table, Spencer leans toward you, his voice low and almost a little uncertain.

"When can we have one of our own?"

[melankkholy]

ugly little secret(s)

✎ Your cheeks are burning with rose-rotted chagrin. February 2nd, 1998. Leon. 21. Multiply, add, divide, and subtract. Do all the math. The upshot is all the same. Your boyfriend’s terrifying older brother is a fucking porn star. Or... was a porn star. God, does that even matter? 

cw: fem!reader and has she/her pronouns, boyfriend’s brother ouchchch, shameless smut, drinking, cheating, humiliation, he rlly is an asshole therefore a tad ooc, semi-public sex, hair pulling, fingering, biting, ex-porn star (actually camboy but nevermind) leon omg, biting, degradation and praising, facials, oral (male receives) world count: 8k (uhm) tiny note: the second request during a perilous ovulation week, and im quite excited/scared with this one, i did imagine og re4 leon but with remake’s face while writing this cuz og leon’s eyes r scary + i despise making banners and suck big time euugh

Wielding the spare key in your hand, you click a few times on the door, and it slithers automatically open. You make barely a sound since the minute hand and the hour hand have long crossed the midnight horizon. Dragging your bulging overnight bag inside, you step through the door of your boyfriend’s apartment building. A gloomy curtain of secrecy reigns inside. But what’s this? Your boyfriend knew you were on your way. What’s with sending his girlfriend to Coventry now?

Pity, looks like your dreams of getting those welcome hugs and kisses are dashed. Alas, you can’t stop the clock. Unpack your clothes, and you can always give him a call later, let him know you’re home.  

To get things rolling, you hang the key on the coat rack in the foyer and mosey onto the kitchen for a glass of water. When you pull the handle of the fridge open, an abstruse smell filters into your nostrils. It’s not your fragrance and certainly not that of your boyfriend. A shade of a strange skin and other colors ride on the current.  

Oh, he better not be cheating on you.  

Out of dark, dark blues, the lightest nudge on your shoulder from the hands that have been sneaking up on you from behind spooks you. The hairs on your arms stand on end, and thorns effloresce on your skin—the kind of thorns that would cut open your flesh should you skim your fingers over them.  

Your instinct, the one that will perchance drive you to your death, blindly dashes the glass of water in your hand in the face of the man behind you.  

You get an offended and curt grunt of a veto.  

That face bathed in water is actually quite recognizable, albeit a face you don’t see around you very often. The furrow of his brow is sunken, absolutely splotched with indignation—quite irascible.  

Oh?  

Oh.  

Leon.  

Your boyfriend’s big brother.  

What a lovely first impression you made on him. Unfuckingbelievable.  

You think he wouldn’t mind (he would, and he does). Credit where it’s due, the guy is barely in the menage picture; you do see him for a heck of a long time. He’s always off somewhere on a “job,” but you can’t get a sliver of a clue what the hell he’s pulling off as a “job.”. The gist of it is that Leon Kennedy leads a life that would surely inspire a private sleuth—and Leon never holds anyone personally accountable for it.  

Rarely do you catch him cracking a mordant smile, which adds mingy zeros to the myriad percentages of his almost impossible odds. You have to cut him some slack, though, ‘cause he did help you once when you couldn’t get the lid off the pasta sauce.  

“Fuck! Leon, I’m sorry. You’re—I mean—holy shit! You’re so stealthy, I thought you were a burglar.” You excuse yourself with a nebulous mewl.  

A softer flicker of sympathy flits across his face, just duskily.  

“’s fine.”  

You know it’s not fine. You know it perfectly well.  

His words may assure you that it’s okay, but his eyes are definitely looking at you like, “Were you really planning to confront a would-be thief by splashing water in his face?”  

You can’t help but descry how Leon harnesses the same blue as his brother in the circles of his irises—a tint of sapphire that bucks the blues of the rivulets. They are dark too. No adequate translation of this chromatic parallelism.  

For no discernible rhyme or reason, you look around wary to atone for your self-pity, and your eyes wander to the roll of tissue folded atop the kitchen table.  

With a tear of a leaf, you pat the toweling paper into the droplets that trickle down his chin, a bead, or even two.  

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Leon inveighs.  

He’s the kind of person capable of morphing into a scary person when he wants to. Makes you so wired, but he does it so well.  

“What are you, my mother?”  

The damp and tattered lump of paper in your hand falls to the floor, and you raise your hands in midair as if in groveling surrender. No need for much falsification.  

“Of course not!”  

The last time you felt this dejected in your life was in elementary school when your teacher dragged you out to recite a sonnet from fucking Marlow. And you fucked up so bad. Surely now, these nanoseconds are going straight into the collection of your second most cringe-worthy memoirs.  

“So, what’re you doing here?” You clear your throat.  

“Just visiting. Temporarily. Got a flight by tomorrow.”  

There’s your answer.  

But you want to know more. You always do. 

“Uhm. Where’s your brother again?”  

“I dunno. Said he had to deal with some stuff in the office before he left.” Leon brushes at the wetness on the collar of his t-shirt with a napkin petal he rips off afresh.  

“Oh, that makes total sense. He didn’t say anything to me before I got here, y’know. So I thought the house would be empty since I didn’t see him—but you came out of nowhere, and I got all antsy!” You run off at the mouth, rocking on the balls of your feet awkwardly. 

“Yeah, yeah.” Leon hacks your words to pieces all over with a shiv. A tasteless night for you and your speech clumps in your throat, burning your airway so bitterly.  

“Whatever. I’m going out. Gotta change first, all thanks to “someone” pouring water over my fucking head.”  

Allusions and epithets shape his voice into thumbnail knives, and they stab steadily and directly at you. You bleed trickles of mortification.  

He won’t even spare a backward glance at your face.  

He wanders out of the kitchen, and you just sulk after him.  

Eighteen messages you send to your boyfriend, and every time you dial his number, the line rings dead air. Sprawled out on his bed, you try to decompress, but it’s all for naught. Time is repentant to elapse while you’re all alone. Can’t sleep either since you didn’t shy away from drinking a whole cup of coffee. All that has happened to you now is indeed no one else’s but your own fault.

It’s your feet that carry you out of the room again. Inside, it’s colder—there’s one less person and one less blood circulation. Leon must have left, and it’s fairly late.  

What a laugh; it boggles your mind as to why this man is like this and why he would go out at this hour, but perhaps your theorem of him being a crook holds some meed of credence.  

Who cares? To hell with all the Kennedys.  

They’re all rude and... handsome and pretty. Candies for the eyes, so to speak.

On the TV unit, a picture framed with teak wood catches your eyes. A mother, a father, and their two sons. Leon looks younger here. He looks more... puerile and similar to his mommy. Ah, there’s your boyfriend. As for him, he’s a minor character—non sequitur—even through your eyes.  

Just blame it on human nature to curry favor for the better and more pleasant ones. It’s simpler that way.

Quite on the fly, the Kennedy brothers’ cat skitters towards you, a gust of wind coming from your left, from your boyfriend’s bedroom.  

“Oh, gosh! What the hell?”  

Surviving an attack by a cat without a single scratch wasn’t an entry in your mental dossier for this particular evening. What a creepy cat. He reminds you of Leon, to be honest: a grumpy, feral, black cat and quite conniving. A cunt, literally.

You’re fixing your hair properly, but things turn up a notch when you notice that your earring is missing—the one that usually grazes your hair when you push a stray strand of hair behind your ear. Your eyebrows spontaneously knit into a rictus frown.  

“Stupid kitty.” You mutter to yourself, and your eyes sweep over the surroundings, looking for anything and everything. And voila! You hit the jackpot. A pair of hoop earrings glint in the corner of the bookcase. You waddle on your knees and reach for your precious bijou. Eyes on the floor, your head tilts a fraction from your preoccupation with the insertion of the clamp into the tiny hole in your earlobe. Then you see a small box. It’s one thing for it to be hidden out of sight, quite another for it to be so incredibly grotesque. A jejune beige-colored corrugated box tucked under the bookcase. On it is a stamped label that reads “1998.” That’s like 6 years ago.  

Curiosity claws at your guts, and the incisal edges of your teeth zing your bottom lip.

But you’ve already opened the grimy, dust- and paper-covered lid of that box.

A box full of some movie cassettes. About ten, possibly more. What the deuce is this?  

It’s hard to pick one out, but somehow you pluck the one that has fallen to the very bottom of the line.  

You insert the deck into the tape recorder’s lizard-like tongue.  

The television comes to fruition with horizontal and vertical lines that weave in and out of the harmony of blues and greens. Butterflies of distress swirl inside you—something is about to rock the boat. You clutch the remote control tightly to your heart.  

February 2, 1998.  

A LITTLE PRE-LAUNCH AND WARM-UP.  

The screen confronts you with a dark display that momentarily startles you with the reflection of your own agitated features. Whoever this director is, he should never direct a battle in the middle of darkness and winter for the next years!  

The screen jerks and shakes some more, lumberingly, and you can see the... thighs of a figure, a man (?).  

Fuck. This is the shot.  

This is the fucking Leon, his face chubbier on the tape; tender, and with the baby fat now minus his chiseled, washed-out cheeks.  

Leon, that very adorable Leon, as in the family portrait, is now sitting there with his considerably big dick in the palm of his hand... pumping the hell out of himself. His hair is darker, brown maybe. And there’s a woman you’ve never seen before, on all fours, sucking on testicles that were probably heavy enough to make mincemeat of the camera if they were to hit against the screen.  

“So—suck—big. Gosh, I love them so much, naughty boy. Just like how I love my men younger but with huge cocks. You gonna fuck me after I suck this pretty dick, pretty boy?”  

She’s talking dirty and smearing Leon’s balls with bright red rouge, sucking and guzzling on his sacks like there’s no tomorrow. God, how’s this even possible? Can she even breathe?  

“Y-yes, ma’am. I’ll give you anything you want,” Leon, in return, stammers amateurishly.  

Everything and everyone is looking at you, with all their obscenity and prurience. Everything on the screen. And you’re staring back at them.  

“Fuck this!”  

A crude tap on the red button of the remote and the screen is the dimness of the night welkin again.  

Your cheeks are burning with rose-rotted chagrin.  

February 2nd, 1998.  

Leon. 21.  

Multiply, add, divide, and subtract. Do all the math.  

The upshot is all the same.  

Your boyfriend’s terrifying older brother is a fucking porn star. Or... was a porn star. God, does that even matter?  

You’re giving yourself a wake-up pinch on the arm. You need to know if this is a dream or if your mind is playing some sick trick on you.  

No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no.  

Your eyes HAVE witnessed everything. What else can you do but believe them?  

Leon was there; he was in that bed, and between his knees was a woman giving him the head of his dreams. That Leon, proud and awed, whimpering in his gruff voice.  

What the fuck?  

It all makes so much sense if you give yourself a chance to ponder it. It’s psychedelic. So, Leon is obviously someone living his own life on his own, but everything he’s done in the past is just a sliver of time littered with wrongdoings.  

Either that or it isn’t. It may or may not be a flaw to be a porn star. Correction: an ex-porn star. You really don’t know. You’re all over the place, but there’s a voice inside you questioning why this should even concern you in the first place.

Really? What do you care? How is that any of your business? 

Leon’s nothing to you, and you’re nothing to him. He sure as hell despises you, and after your gaffe tonight, it’s a very real likelihood that you’re one of the top three names he’s written in his personal journal of people he holds in contempt.

Your gaze falls on the cat, licking his paws. He stares blankly at you, and you at him. Subsequently, the rattle of keys and the sound of the front door unlocking—you know perfectly well what kind of timbre it grates—jar you out of your haze of apathy. Immediately, you stash the remote in your hand under the cushion on the couch. You never know.  

You sink into the armchair, push the ‘Pandora’s’ box (it sure had some scandalous stuff in it, alright) under the bookcase, and snatch the first book that randomly comes to your hand from the bureau.  

The patter of footsteps coming in matches Leon’s boots. You watch him walk in like a soldier on standby, but sitting down. You are, indeed, the greatest example of how this can even physicalize.  

“You haven’t gone to bed yet?”  

You shake your head no. Won’t breathe a word after everything has happened. He’s very much on the same page.  

The suspense between you is so thick you could hear a pin drop.  

“Felt like reading a book at this hour?” Leon sounds painfully austere. As usual and as he should be.  

“Yeah.” You wave the book in your hand at him. It spells “Twilight.” A pop-culture pulp book that cryptically no one can keep out of their hands, in a macabre sort of way.  

“You’re reading a vampire romance for teenagers? At 4:00 a.m.?”  

“Yes...”  

You keep repeating the same words like a double robot or like a refrain of a nursery rhyme.  

Leon pitches in by keeping schtum. Inwardly, he feels sick ‘cause he has frightened you more or less. He isn’t a complete asshat, sure, but he certainly hasn’t had a very good sense of how he would behave with people he isn’t exactly in rapport with. Until then, and even now, he feels up in the air, especially next to you.  

“Well... I’ll just watch some TV.”  

Oh.  

Oh, hell fuck.  

He said “television,” and you heard it very lucidly.

The television still tuned to the tape recorder, and the very television still screening the tape in its monochrome black frame.  

“Ah! No, Leon. I think it’s totally overkill. It’s so late, right?”  

Here come your eccentricities.  

“Nah, you’re the overkill. I’m bored. I’ll just channel surf and go to bed anyway.”  

“I think you should just go straight to bed, Leon. Look under your eyes. I don’t think purple eye circles flatter you.”  

“Hey, it’s not my fault that the pills ain’t helping.” His razor-sharp eyes are roving to pinpoint the remote. “The pharmacist said Zolpidem does wonders; he raved and gushed about it. Fuck that guy and the other guys beside him.”  

“You do take pills to fall asleep?”  

“I do.”  

“Haven’t you tried taking some... melatonin gummies?” 

Anything to keep the conversation away from the hidden remote.

To your surprise, Leon vacillates in the span of a heartbeat’s whisper. Melatonin hadn’t even dawned on him then, but instead of letting you find out, he’d rather jump off the veranda, thank you very much.  

He prods you a little and digs out the remote control that you placed under the cushion, as if he himself had planted it there.

Oh, boy.

You really need to stop what’s happening and what’s most likely to happen. One way or another, you have to do it, or you’ll be the guilty one here and —  

The damned TV switches on as soon as Leon hits that second button.  

— and you’re the voyeur watching your boyfriend’s brother’s porn videos. It’s now official.  

That’s what you are. Officially, a pervert.  

A blanket of quiescence suffuses the room unless you count the gagging and Leon’s tinny whimpers filtering through the telly.  

Oh, how you need a new epithet right now, one to define infamy and beyond.  

You can’t see what kind of spectrum is delineated on his face. How dare you look at him anyway? How dare he look at your cherry-cheeked face when a twenty-one-year-old Leon’s fucking a milf’s mouth on the display?  

The karmic equation of the situation is so complex that his eyes finally apprehend yours. You can tell how far-fetched it all is without even meeting his perusal.

“I didn’t mean to! I swear I found them under the bookcase.”  

You meander, glaring at the vinyl flooring, a handful of stray words only barely pinging out of your mouth.

“I mean, it’s your fault. Who leaves personal belongings out in the open?” You try again.

Leon is nowhere with you.  

In the room, in all, everything is dead silent. The porn video has fallen dead silent too; there is no other noise punctuating the room than the sound of a clock’s rivets pursuing each other. This must be what dying feels like. Cold, pitch-black darkness and nary a sound. Like a mausoleum, but a mausoleum at 4 o’clock or so.

“And yet you had to butt in.”  

Looks like he’s about to rip you a new one right here and there. Hard not to be flummoxed; all glassy-eyed and mouth agape. Even his glare is chopping the remaining of your exiguous logic.  

“That’s not what it looks like!”  

“Oh, is that so?”  

Written on his face is the projectile vomit of aversion to you. It’s the kind of vitriol that will drive you fifty feet under the ground, and the blues of his eyes aren’t malleable—no azure pinpricks. Asperity in the green, bloodshot eyes.

“Wouldn’t it be nice if you didn’t paw at everything you happen to see, huh?”  

It would be really nice. If you had the decency to recognize your boundaries, this would never have had to happen. You’d have remained two virtual strangers, and perhaps you could have dimmed the tingles between your legs for him. That much exposure to porn makes anyone wet; fair play to you. The problem is that you’re soaking wet for your boyfriend’s blood and kin.  

That’s what makes you a wench: your anatomical reaction—if you want to gloss over the obvious.

What the hell is wrong with you?  

“The fuck are you still doing here? You deaf or something?”

His question—equivalent to him banishing you from this place—rocks your whole world to the ground. You may agree with Leon, but you still can’t come up with the flimsiest excuse to stop yourself from hating him. How he refuses to believe you precisely because it’s cheap to write you off as the wanton one.  

You need to do something about it.  

Guts suddenly coursing through your body, you retort, “It’s not like I’m looking forward to being here anyway. What a fucking weird family you have. Christ! Your moron brother cheats on me; I try to ignore it, and when I try to do something to clear my head, I see a porn video of the man who will be my brother-in-law.” 

Oh. Ouch. Now you have done it.  

That felt so good. The ultimate and only panacea: spewing out the poison that had clogged inside you.  

So much so that even Leon finds himself reeling. The feeling of being enough to sway him— however, fleetingly—gives you a strange sense of vindication.  

“You give him the ring. I’m done with any of this.”  

You fling the ring aside and it thuds down on the floor.  

Indubitably, you slam the door stormily before you leave. Just like a movie scene. It’s overly melodramatic, but it must be executed. (Note: you’ll probably throw up in the toilet when you remember the antics you’ve just carried out).  

After that night of odium; you now avoid any place in your daily life where you ever read the acronym “Kennedy.” Conversely, you cast withering glares at people’s mouths before the birth of anything that begins with the L-word. The stakes are alpine.

Over and over, your now ex-boyfriend texted and paged you, and you didn’t return a single one of them. As if you didn’t walk in on him with the girl in the office—time and again—on the desk, his ugly hand and zaftig fingers under the girl’s pencil skirt. You weren’t born yesterday, and while your ex was snoring his ass off to sleep, you were engrossed in reading his texts to other blonde girls with small tits and waists.  

All those nights when you went into the living room and read Fur Coat Madonna under the dim lamp as if nothing had actually changed.

You had only one simple answer for why you put up with it: sublimity. You lusted after money; you had a yen for power and glory.  

A grounded family—the Kennedys were what you were looking for. Young and adolescent girls, young Americans, loved the handsome, blond men and their pretty eyes. To be one of their girlfriends—they’d murder someone or start a cult even, really.  

Luckily, your father’s pedigree and the blood that runs through your veins qualified you as a golden plum. Although you’ve always gotten your eye on Leon, unfortunately, the better Kennedy wasn’t up for grabs.  

Not only is (or was) he a porn star, but the fact that no one has ever heard of him only serves to raise huge fishy questions about what kind of a cover story is playing out behind the screen.  

Whatever.  

You’re off to Italy and ready to drink the stress away. Drama-free and only the blue sea of the alluring Mediterranean.  

Who doesn’t like a warm Sicilian starry night?  

After a lap in the pool, you climb up the pool ladder and dry the excess water from the tufts of your hair with a towel while unintentionally eavesdropping on the chatter of the two girls working at the minibar. They’re right behind you.  

Excitement and bustle are at their peak; one of them is showing the other something on her phone. Slowly, you make your way towards them.  

“Girl, it looks sooo fine—he’s, like, sooo fine.”  

The staff speak Italian amongst themselves, and you struggle to translate their words by hearsay against your moribund Italian language background.

“Are you kidding? You can’t even sit on it. It’s so big.”  

“I’d happily sit on it,” the other girl says (presumably). “Look at the tip... just tie a ribbon on it. Awwh.”  

This is so... hocus-pocus. They say, “Nastro something something something.”  

Doesn’t that equate to a ribbon?

It’ll set your head on fire if you mull it over any longer. You could do well with a cold drink and mayhaps find a hot Italian tutor.  

The girls won’t even hear you approaching. What’s the deal with all this? Because this is getting overly gelastic.  

“Ahem.” You bitch up. You’re good at that.  

One of your girls nearly drops her phone, and the other one smiles sweetly at you as an amends for her friend’s indignities.

“Signora! Good evening to you. The usual again?” Her Italian accent makes it even funnier.  

“Yep. Gimlet, please.”

“Coming right up!”  

Strapping the thin sarong around your hips, you settle on the stool and wait for your order.  

“White Russian,” a voice next to you pipes up. You know that voice all too well. Oh, and the puff of his whispery perfume—something sandalwood or cedar.  

“Buona notte, sweetheart.”  

That autocratic sass and gruff. Your stomach lurches.

Fuckfuckfuck.  

“What the hell are you doing here, Leon?”  

“Surprise, surprise.”  

Sarcasticity and irreverence read like the trappings of the only emotion in his bones, and that makes you feel ill at ease. The degree of clownishness of the look you get when you glance over your shoulder at him is simply gobsmacking.  

“What are those glasses?”  

In the darkness at the ninth of the night, his Wayfarer sunglasses portray a very unhinged vignette.

“My new style. Y’like it?”  

“No.” You huff out, “your head looks bigger, and your forehead is awfully wide with them.”  

That’s beyond cruel, but you do what you do; you tell him the truth. Leon, in regards, opens his mouth to make you eat the humble pie, but the bartender chimes in and plops your freshly poured cocktails in front of the two of you. No sooner is she out of the way than Leon skulks over, and his whisper, drifting closer to your ear, forebodes fiasco.  

“I know what you’re doing. Don’t you dare divert the subject.”  

Now what the fuck is this? Why is he rambling on like a riddle and serving no purpose other than to vex you?  

In one swift guzzle, Leon swallows all the velvety liquid in the old-fashioned glass, the movement of his Adam’s apple a downward slide as the liquor coils up his parched throat; it all goes down smooth and fulminates his insides.  

Show off.

You’re not into that.  

“Look. I told you I’m done with you and your stupid sibling after that night,” you clarify in a more affable tone, but Leon shows no interest in humoring you.  

“Believe me, I thought so too.”  

“So then why are you here?”  

Leon first downplays his eyes at this question, and then you can trace an aweless grin on his face again—ablaze with the glow of the clinquant candles stacked on the counter.  

“This is my hometown, y’know.”  

A strange turmoil to explore, to espy how much his facial expressions play for the first time since you’ve come to know him. Turns out he can be pretty silly when he wants to be an Italian. 

But maybe you’ve pissed him off too much, so he grabs you by the arm uncouthly and steers you nearer to a not-so-appropriate vantage point. Nose to nose and lips to lips.  

Up close, he’s much comelier, indescribably so. Freckles dotting along the bridge of his nose and his kissable, aflush lips. He looks like a breeze in the summer, and you adore the aestival fire flowers.

Be sure to ask him about his skincare routine after this carousel still.

“You uploaded my videos on this fucking website, didn’t you, you little backstabbing bitch?”

Stop, stop, stop, stop. Stop the tape, the recording, and everything.

What.was.that?

Your face is veiled in an acidic visage. Now the cat’s out of the bag, and it’s clear why he’s walking around like a super spy with these goofy shades on.  

“I didn’t release your videos or shit. You see, I’m in my own business, and having the best vacay in the world,” you pull your arm free, and his hand falls idle, “only for you to come and fuck it all up. So, congratulations, you’ve ruined my whole vacation.”  

“Do you take me for an oaf?”  

Actually, yes. In your judgment, he’s the flesh-and-blood manifestation of the idiocy.  

Don’t laugh. Don’t laugh. Do not say it aloud.  

“Think this is a wiiild coincidence how my fucking clips have been all over the internet since that night?” Leon demands again. He wants some answers.  

“I told you I didn’t do it.”  

Leon certainly isn’t taking your word for it. He scoffs and pilfers your margarita glass. Fucker is drinking your cocktail while he’s looking you in the eyes. This only drives you to a point of an afflictive angst, and you once again seek to justify the circumstances. Just one last time.  

“I mean it!”  

That’s a very... plausible interpretation.  

The abyss of blue in his eyes behind his sunglasses knocks you sideways. You can’t do anything about it.  

“Remind me again why I should believe you?”  

Finally, he says something, and something cold, something roseate, drizzles into your heart.  

“Uhh,” you falter and make a pseudo moue, “listen to your gut and your heart. I think... yes. Trust me when I’m telling the truth, my good friend. All hail to the power of friendship!”  

For every second you waste sitting with Leon, you unconsciously lose your conversational and persuasive faculties. Not a good rapport; you feel like a psychopath with a double personality and so forth.  

What you look like to Leon is a guileful suck-up at best.  

He pities you, but perhaps his heart melts too. You leave a strangeness on Leon’s tongue like the mysteries and absurdities of the Bermuda Triangle when you two come together. Funny how he knows what you taste like without tasting you.

Does that make sense?  

Cute, he thinks; you don’t even attempt to slut-shame him for his past. He wants to believe you’re in the clear, but he can’t resist giving you a little piece of his mind. For now. At least until Hunnigan figures out whose name put that spectacular viral video of Leon’s dick on the Internet.  

“So? Are we still friends?” You rhetorically ask, just to be sure for once.  

“No,” he says tersely, forthrightly even. Shithead. “Just gotta make sure you really didn’t do it.”  

Call it a hunch or the sixth sense, Leon knows you didn’t upload that one particular video. Hunnigan was quick to take care of the matter to expunge the videotape from the entire history of the internet. A few people may have seen what they could see, but America has more substantive matters to settle. All Leon needs here is a little dalliance with you.

In antagonism to his ambitions, you barely have time for an inauguration, much less a speck of free time for him.  

Hence you stand up, all the more assertively. Not that he hates it; he likes the little attitude and mannerisms you’re giving.  

“Sounds like it’s your problem.”  

You want to show off, but your aptitude in this field does not know the right vernacular. You suck at flirting, and you really want to leave.  

“I’m still mad at you. You need to make it up for me,” he echoes your words without spoiling his deportment.  

“Like I said, your problem,” you give him a goodbye wave, “Good night and have sweet dreams.”  

You part ways if only for a season. As far as Leon is concerned, you’re still on the list of suspects, and it’s something that he definitely needs to tackle, but for the time being, he has to recede from the spotlight for his very reputation.  

Let the sting of that scandalous video subside so that people can find something else to talk about and forget it for the next episode of something more debauched.  

Not always do people associate a former porn star with a government agent. It’s a very tongue-in-cheek deal, but Leon never knew how to stay on the good side with his father, and he grew up as an incorrigible kid, so his father cut him off from his money.  

Since his college tuition wouldn’t pay for itself unless someone like the fairy who helped Cinderella came alive, Leon ended up working for a crummy company as a last-ditch effort. He hit his twenty-one, and he found himself sucking a pussy in front of the cameras like his life depended on it.  

A five-month-long process and a timetable that would greatly tarnish his morality. That stuff was too damn much for his little heart. Better to do it as a “camboy” for the sake of monetization later on—the die was cast.  

Then Raccoon City kicked in, and things spiraled out of control for him. For a while, Leon went into a period of estrangement from everything he’d ever known.  

Until then, you showed up—out of the blue—and gave him another flashback of his odious past on that stupid TV screen.  

Doesn’t that give him the right to blame you? It’s more than enough.

Keeping a “close” eye on you is just another one of his foibles. Not something he had planned, and it’s certainly not healthy. On Leon’s behalf, touching base with Hunnigan and asking about your whereabouts doesn’t sit well with him. Something inside him kept reheating and reheating like a leftover meal from last night that what he was doing felt wrong but also that it was necessary.

He scarcely had a week off work, but to spend it with following you around gives him a perverse pleasure.

Now, he’s simply addicted to his own suffering.  

In such wise, he follows you, deep sea and cross-ocean, dark doom and curious. Italy to America, America to Canada, and America again.  

The crossing of your paths is just as “serendipitous”.

One night, as you are about to ask the bartender to do a refill on your hideously strong scotch, you coincidentally make eye contact with the guy sitting one seat away from you.

The classic sets of blue eyes. He’s in the distance and observes you from afar—it’s like a summons to his company. Can’t really blame his eyes—they’re the only interesting thing to look at around.  

It’s Leon.  

You’d say a “hi” or “hey”. It’s no big deal, and you like your friends.  

Only you’re chickening out, and he’s not your friend; besides, peeping at your boyfriend’s brother (well, ex-boyfriend) and letting him do the same to you might not be your proudest moment. 

Since you’re absolutely determined not to join him, Leon himself stands up and puts his glass on the bar. He slides onto the stool next to you—under his breath that smells of minty chewing gum—and gives what appears to be a frazzled sigh.

“Does it ever grace you, ignoring me like that?” He tuts you.  

“Maybe I just wanted to be alone.” You smile back, biting back the acute inclination to roll your eyes, feeling the liquor sizzle in your throat as you take a big throatful.  

“Hm. Copy that.” Leon leans back a little, studying—no—appraising you. Hard not to flounder under the rapt fixation of his glance, as it lingers on your eyes for half a second too long, and it’s almost as if you’re the only thing he pays any mind to in the room.  

Shit. Is it working?  

It’s working.  

For every second that washes away between you, he looks even better in your eyes. You could swear there’s a spell cast on his eyes, inveigling you in. It’s abysmal; he’s abysmal.  

“I don’t believe you.”  

“When the hell have you ever believed me anyway?” You tip back the rest of your pint.  

Oh, he hears you loud and clear. Leon knows more or less what it is that you’re being so uptight about. In the back of his mind, he recognizes how bitter he’s been with you and that you do deserve a quick mea culpa.

“I’ve always been a supporter of you. You just got me mixed up, beautiful.”  

“Flattery will get you nowhere.” Your own choice of wording doesn’t even speak for itself. It’s equally fatuous to expect that you did manage to convince him.  

“Wrong again. You didn’t get up and walk away. You would have gladly done it if you wanted to. Hell, you’d be bitching about me sitting next to you in the first place.”  

In spite of your inner voice begging you to abscond and save yourself, your body is pertinaciously attached to that stool, and you loathe to tell him he’s absolutely justified. This is why you fall quiet, and Leon loves it, not in secret but overtly and nakedly.  

“I’m going back to the States tomorrow.” You launch your escape plan. He was interested in you before, but seeing how well you adhere to the dignity you are trying to manifest, he itches to get close to you, to touch you, and feel you. To take away that “good girl” pretense. Stripping you naked like rose petals is just a prelude to the ritual.  

“Can’t you stay with me a little longer?”  

“You don’t understand, Leon. The flight’s so early. I need some sleep.”  

Excuses, excuses.  

“Aww, shame,” he wittingly leaves a white and an electrically charged void between his question and his amative suggestion, “I can think of a few more things I’d like to do with you, you see.”  

“Oh, can you?”  

Pretend you’re not impressed, cold, cold, rude.  

“Yeah,” he sings, smiling affably down at you, “all I’m asking if you wanna fuck. With me.”  

“With... you?  

Something about this guy makes you almost feel like a chaste virgin. Almost. Certainly, he would coax you and actually say that, judging from the type of background material (his... given career) you’ve amassed, he doesn’t exactly give you the overall illusion that he’s the type to play on the matters. That’s the picture you’re reading. Must be an old habit of his: talking dirty and saying what he wants so bluntly without a backward second thought. Even so, you gape at him—allegorically and disconcertingly attuned to the proximity between your very bodies.  

He idly swishes the dregs of the liquor and ice cubes left in his glass. Under the bar, you two are perilously close, his knee cradling your thigh, drawing a mucronate intake of gasp from you.  

“With me.”  

Leon dips his head, drinking in the authentic scent of the perfume you’ve painstakingly sprung on the right side of your neck. Against him, you recline slightly, your head inclining upwards to make space for his teeth to bruise your neck. Leon, against your better judgment, recoils to the side. You let out a soft oh? under your breath. Motherfucker. It’s a suit of an absolute assholery not to deliver what you want the most when you need it the most—the very thing Leon would do.  

“I’m still waiting for an answer here. Say the word and I’m all yours.”  

He’s already dead set on you, all along, from the moment he had you in his sights, but what he really wants to see on your pretty face is the certain voracity that he’s felt for you. For Leon, it’s the most sublime mirage he’ll ever have, to see his girl like that and in that shape.  

“Do I want to... what?”  

“Me. Do you want me?” Leon elaborates on your words for you. He can be generous like that.  

Just as generous when he kisses you in the bathroom of a dive bar. Kisses you filthy, tongue-fucking your mouth in perfect rhythm with the pumping of his two fingers inside your weeping pussy. You bleed on his fingers, and Leon scissors them inside you while he mouths indecorous things in your mouth and grinds the heel of his palm against your little clit.  

Shame he doesn’t take the time to pledge to make you cum on his digits, plus there’s no subtlety in his gesture as he pushes you against the cold, cold tiles. Not that you’d expect this kind of affection from him. By now you’ve undoubtedly deciphered the sort of man he is, but the way he shows off as he licks your arousal, glistening on his fingertips, is just as inexplicable. It’s the thing you can’t figure out, and it has the effect of numbing you with a groan through gritted teeth.

Tugging at your skirt and ruching it up until it’s a waistband—and that’s the crudest of the crudities. Leaves you homesick for his caresses and kisses.  

“Look at you.”  

Out of the question, just like how your panties are out of the picture now. You can’t think respectively and look at yourself at the same time.  

Ass out, pussy bare, you let his finger paw at the nylon fabric of your tights, leaving a gaping hole. In other words, he’s ruining you, and you’re acting like you need it.  You need him, indeed.

Leon shudders in the pent-up tightness of the pucker that squeezes around his cock as he slides inside you, shaping your insides along the way as he does so. A string of self-conscious words, of dirty promises praising you, trammel at the base of his sore throat.  

He lurches clumsily to your ass with a hand and leans a little lower to your ear as he takes a lump of puffy flesh, eliciting another fluctuant whimper from your lips, “Arch back for me, beautiful. Jus’ a little so I can fill you all up.”  

Oh, God. You want that. You want it so badly, so you arch back so beautifully. The sugariness of your exhale and his sigh mingle as he slowly melts into you, disappearing inch by inch. Your thighs tremble when you close in at your limits, and you hear him rasping, “That’s it. You’re doing amazing, pretty.”  

Right then and there, you might crash, but the hand ghosting around your waist from behind intones that all is well. Your whimpers and clenching of your pussy, every ounce of praise that ricochets in your ears; he can feel you scorching inside. First and one-night stands are hardly ever this romantic, especially for Leon, for whom this is very much a debut. Despite the arrogance of his conduct as a rule, Leon doesn’t hold any disrespect for the women he fucks, and he doesn’t abate his ministrations to you while you’re so nicely grasping him inside you. He hits slower when he catches you slamming your fist into the ceramic wall with a thump, and he pounds harder when your lovely hands reach for him again; he relishes in how you push your hips into him and drill him raw, trying to fuck yourself on him. Sequentially, he fucks the fleeting kisses on your cervix, lingering and volatile, fingers curled tightly in yours; you’re both tense but reckless.

“Fuck,” is the foul-mouthed note under his breath, and you eagerly savor every second of him filling you until your sublimate wails ring out and bounce off the walls of the private restroom. How embarrassing it is to be so out of it in a lavatory, and how utterly crushing it is that the person fucking you from behind is none other than your ex-boyfriend’s brother. The memories are gnawing at you, but Leon fucks you just well enough to kill the charade once and for all.  

“P—ah—please!” You cry out depravedly.  

It’s just as vertiginous to see those pearly crooked teeth so close, and the bruise biting into your neck is just as narcotizing. A competition, too, and the more moans he pulls out of you, the closer he is to laurels.  

Repel the drive to cram your legs together a little while he grasps your thigh with one hand, holding it up and apart enough to malleate in all the way. His thumb promptly abrades your clit, and with measured rolls of his hips, the tip of his cock tickles lightly over that spongy spot inside you.  

“Leon, m—more. Please.” Your plea transpires in an aquaking objection. You can’t even breathe; it all feels like you’re trapped in a nightmare, and your voice is never enough for crying help. The difference is this is very much of the real life, and he hears you faultlessly. Leon knows what you need from him.  

Moments before you can find yourself coming, as that all-consuming, sweltering heat envelops your body, Leon retracts the hand he has been playing with your greedy clit.  

“Leon, f—fuck you!” Diluting and blinking open your closed eyes, you’re cussing out, and there he is with his hand on your neck, his thumb threading your vein, which is pulsing in a hot red from his previous bite. Soothing? You really don’t think so. He just likes to feel you up.  

“See what a fucking sight you have become,” he coos, bent on shaming you into decorum. Angling your head with a thumb under your chin, he entombs you below his jaw, his bicep enfolding your face securely. In the mirror, it’s you and Leon—winded, debauched. Curse yourself a thousand times inside for not wiping your lipstick. You look like a shitty cosplayer of the Joker; mascara flakes off your eyelashes, and your clothes are beyond reproach. Beside Leon, you look like a girl he fucked in one of those cheesy old porn videos you’ve been snooping around with, and next to you he looks perfectly fine. You, indeed, recreate the ones titled “college slut bends over her classmate and her grades skyrocket, blah blah.” Very aroused and thoroughly fucked.  

“You won’t take any cock that doesn’t carry the Kennedy label, huh, baby?”  

“Leon, God, I need—” You bleat, maybe a notch squeakier, and he automatically tugs you by the back of your neck, braiding your hair in his fingers. You hate it when your eyes mist up, but it’s not hard enough to make you break down in tears, yet it’s hard enough to sever strands of your hair. Ruleful he is, panting puffs of revilement.  

“Hush now,” his voice drifts into your ear with a dash of amusement in it, “You want them to come and find us, pretty? Hmm, that what you want?”  

“Sorry, but please?” You, too, whisper back, and your teeth clatter, blood thin on your tongue.  

“There you go.” Only then does he give you what you want. He reaches out and finds the delicate spot between your thighs, thumbing the pearl of your clit much vigorously.  

A heartfelt pledge of alms from him grants you the right to rest on his shoulder. You cling to his every thrust, and he circles your frayed nerve bundles. How everything can be too much and yet so damned meager is beyond your fathomable comprehension. Your eyes almost roll back to your skull, and Leon is bucking from the sheer pleasure of the bliss of the heat covering his cock, your pussy gushing around him. Blankets him just flawlessly.  

There is no stopping; he pushes you against the wall for another round before you can even get your head in a regular whirl. Who could leave a beautiful girl who takes him so nicely? He certainly won’t let you go, least not until he gets what he wants.  

“On your knees, now.” His teeth bite into his lower lip.  

You can’t make sense of his blunt demands and the words that tumble out of his mouth before you come to your senses.  

“Huh? Now?” You hiss out the melting brain molecules from your brain as you speak.  

“If you want a facial, then turn around and kneel down. Will you?” He asks once more, demanding, choking on his air.  

Hard to believe how you get down on your feeble, wobbly knees, but you come to terms with the fact that you can do anything when you want to. Leon tap-taps the head of his cock against your cheek despite his terrible pull-out klutziness. Glissades in nicely against the pucker of your lips, blurring the color of your flesh into hot whites. Can you imagine how appealing it looks, mouth open and letting him pleasure himself over your knees on the filthy mosaic floor? The dignity you’ve been trying to maintain since you met him is in shambles, making your knees bleed as if they were splintered from a cracked mirror. It should be fine as long as he doesn’t make hash of your hair.  

You do the rest, your hands on your knees, and swipe the tip of your tongue over the flushing head of his half-erect dick. Not too deep since your poor throat is all patchy from moaning like a pornstar, and definitely not too sluggish. Just enough to taste and spruce up the situation.  

“That’s it, good girl, swallow it.”  

Even his minutest words enhearten you more than you already are.  

In the next split second, you pop his cock out of your mouth in the worst kind of graphic sound, and Leon groans only unhesitatingly. He mumbles out something rather nebulous. His moony gaze lands on your moue, and he swears his heart makes a leap in his chest.  

Bloodless blues imbed on your irises, but it’s not for persistent minutes—only for a spell. 

The magic eventually gives up the ghost.  

He simply flicks a handkerchief out of his pocket, wiping the salad of chaos off your face. Warmth drips from the corner of your mouth, and Leon dabs it away with his own finger, your fingertips tingling and glued to the corner of the sink so you don’t fall down. Still busy rebounding yourself together, Leon refastens his belt and zips up his fly. He throws the discarded handkerchief in the trash, reaches for your hands, and hoists you to your feet as if you were made of feathers.  

“You okay?” He gives you his casual, day-to-day inquiry, as if what happened seconds ago was nothing extraordinary.  

“Yeah,” you auto-answer, reeling in a groggy daze. Meditatively, you are still recovering. You feel so full that semen is leaking out of your nostril, but it’s only a psychological manifesto, and you look still lovely in this mess written by him.  

“Good.” Leon stows a lock of hair that has fallen in front of your eyes behind your ear. Such a random ploy; hell, even he wasn’t expecting it. No traces of rapt Leon in the flicker of those awkward seconds that pass between you.  

On the contrary, he’s almost unbelievably sweet, kind, and thoughtful.  

Although you went your separate ways after that night, your text messaging phrase (bottom note: sexting) didn’t terminate. He makes you feel like a doltish teenager in high school, and you have to be quite honest: you like it.

So does he.  

Only time will tell—and surprises often have a way of tugging at the heartstrings. You don’t have any idyllic dreams of having a boyfriend, but perhaps you want to shoot new videos with him—the hottest ones—to be his partner in that aspect of the relationship.  

The first thing, and the rule of thumb, is you have to secure his assent. Hopefully, he’ll give you that “yes,” and you’ll be the next rising star because he always says you fuck so prettily. 

[justagalwhowrites]

The Savage and the Sanctuary - Ch. 7: Precautions

You and Joel deal with a growing threat as you prepare to take on a new role. A continuation of The Savage and the Sanctuary, a no outbreak TLOU story, from the prologue through chapter 6 found on Tumblr here.

Pairing: Joel Miller x Female Reader

CW: Mild violence. No use of Y/N. Whole fic will be explicit so minors DNI, 18+ only.

Length: 7.7k

Fic Masterlist | Masterlist | AO3 | Prologue | Previous Chapter

Three Weeks Later 

“You remember your talking points, right?” Quinn asked, watching Ellie closely. “And all the rules?” 

“No,” Ellie said, rolling her eyes. “I’ve completely forgotten the four things you’ve told me because I’m fucking dumb.” 

“Hey,” you said, giving her a look. “C’mon, kid.” 

“I know, I know,” she sighed. “Language. Yes, I know I can’t swear. I have to talk about how great Sissy is…” 

“You don’t have to,” you said, giving Quinn a look. “You should be honest.” 

“Then I’ll tell them all about how you make me do the stupidest homework and don’t let me stay up late and also don’t let me beat up people at school even when they deserve it,” Ellie said, smug. 

“No,” Quinn said quickly. “You can’t…” 

You cut her off before she got too far. 

“It’ll be fine,” you said. “Ellie, say whatever you think is best. However this interview goes, it’ll all blow over in a few weeks, anyway.” 

“Just try not to swear quite so much, kiddo,” Joel said, his arms crossed as he hovered between you and the front door, waiting for the reporters to arrive. “You and I both know you know better than that.” 

“But I like to fucking swear,” she smirked and Joel, you could tell, was trying not to smirk back. “But if Big Miller says so…” 

“Jesus,” Joel rolled his eyes. 

The doorbell rang and Quinn ground her teeth but went with Joel to answer the door all the same. 

This interview had been a last ditch effort on Quinn’s part. The media had latched on to the concept of Ellie’s existence and hadn’t eased up since the news broke. Photographers still showed up outside her school half the week, paparazzi camped outside the gym where you’d been training for Savage Starlight and would yell questions with Ellie’s name in them at you, there were several viral posts theorizing that you and Anna had secretly been lesbians and Ellie was your daughter together. 

It didn’t take long for you to reach your breaking point. Quinn had the idea to offer up an interview to the biggest publications, one in your home where you posed for pictures and answered questions about Ellie, the adoption, Anna, the works. In exchange, they agreed to stop buying photos of you and Ellie as you went about your private lives in Austin. 

You hoped it worked. You didn’t want to have to uproot Ellie yet again. The whole reason you’d come to Austin to begin with was that Elise had retired here and you didn’t want to keep Ellie from the only blood relation she had left or ask Elise to move to whatever new place you decided to settle, especially if you’d just have to do this same song and dance again in six months to a year when the press found out where you were again. 

You were, at least, out of your brace now. It had been a close call on the interview date, Frank planning a few outfits for you - some designed to downplay the brace, others without worrying about it - just to be safe. But the fracture had healed well and quickly, not requiring a full cast or any extended time in the brace. You’d gotten permission to take it off at your follow up appointment a few days earlier and had been relishing your new-found freedom ever since. Your training for Savage Starlight was slated to pick up more now that you were healed but you were enjoying the small reprieve where you weren’t dealing with the brace and weren’t sore and exhausted every night. 

Once things calmed down with the paparazzi, though, you could handle it. You hoped, anyway. In part because, outside of all that, things had been going smoothly - even with your surly bodyguard. 

It was still a total mystery to you what he’d meant by keeping things “professional,” but things had definitely been that. Cool and distant, no more sitting next to each other by the pool late at night or sharing a drink now and then - things which seemed perfectly professional in your opinion but apparently weren’t for him. But, while he wasn’t wearing the watch you’d given him, he never snapped at you like he did the day you’d presented it to him, either. 

You took what you could get with him. It was a little disorienting, having someone treat you with such indifference - especially when he’d shown some basic, human care in the past. Not that you expected him to treat you the way everyone else did. You weren’t stupid, you knew that almost every person you interacted with every day treated you the way they did because you were famous and because you had a carefully crafted public persona that was only loosely tied to who you really were. They were either fans of someone who didn’t really exist but had your body and face and name or they wanted some proximity to your fame and all that came with it. Of course someone like Joel - who had to be around you all the time, whose job required him to move quickly regardless of your feelings - would treat you differently. But it still stung all the same. Anything short of the harshness he’d treated you with that day in your driveway felt like mercy and you were almost ashamed at how desperately you clung to that. 

“Hey,” you said to Ellie, reaching out and taking her hand, giving it a small squeeze. Her eyes met yours. “I’m sorry about this. And you should know that you don’t have to do this if you don’t want to. We can shut it down right now if you want.” 

She smiled a little tightly at you, giving your hand a small squeeze back. 

“I know,” she said. “But… this will make it all easier, right? They’ll leave us both alone and you won’t be as stressed?” 

“No,” you shook your head. “I don’t want you to do this because you’re worried about my stress level or…” 

“I know,” she cut you off, smirking a little. “But I’m also doing it for me. Fuck switching schools again, man.” 

 You laughed a little and rested your head against hers, taking a deep breath as you heard the distinctive sound of Quinn’s reporter wrangling voice from your entry way. 

“Well, now you’ll get an idea of what I do every day,” you said, lacing your fingers with hers. “See just how boring it is so you can tell all your friends at school that they don’t actually want to be movie stars when they grow up.” 

Ellie snorted. 

“Please,” she said. “I know you’re really off doing cool shit while wearing fancy clothes all the time. Definitely one big party, no work at all.” 

You laughed before getting up to go greet the reporter, slipping into the version of yourself that you shared with the press as you did.

The interview went surprisingly well. Quinn had handpicked the reporter so that wasn’t a surprise, a well known freelancer who didn’t ask anything too invasive. Ellie held her own, curbing her swearing (mostly, a few, more minor, curse words snuck in) and being her witty and charming self. The photographer posed the two of you together on your couch, by the pool with your guitars, by the kitchen island pretending to cook - even though you basically never did that yourself, anyway. 

Joel hovered the entire time. You could feel his eyes on you, the intensity of his gaze sharp. He stayed at the back of the reporter and photographer the whole time they were in your house. His arms stayed crossed over his chest, his jaw set firm, eyes narrowed ever so slightly. 

“Hey,” you said quietly, your hand going to rest gently on Joel’s back, when the photographer was focused on Ellie and the reporter was reviewing his notes. “You OK?” 

“Fine,” he grunted, glancing over at you. “Just tryin’ to do my job.” 

“It’s just a reporter,” you said, raising your brows and trying not to smile. “I don’t think they’re going to bite.” 

He just made a disgruntled sound and kept his eye on the visitors, his whole body still tense. 

He didn’t ease up until the reporter and photographer were gone and outside the gates of your property. 

“That was kinda fun!” Ellie said. “A lot of bullshit but not that awful.” 

You smiled a little. 

“Good,” you said. “I’m glad it wasn’t the worst thing in the world.” 

“Told you you don’t actually work,” she teased. You snorted and she turned her attention to Joel. “Hey Big Miller, wanna kill some zombies? I was playing a level the other night and getting my ass kicked, I could use another gun.” 

You glanced toward Joel, still worried that, at some point, he would decide he wanted to keep a professional distance from Ellie, too. She’d grown attached to your bodyguard over the last few months, not that she would ever admit it. She sought him out often to play video games or watch a movie. You could usually hear when she got home from school when he picked her up because she was still laughing at something he said when she walked in the door. 

It still surprised you, how the two of them had connected. You hadn’t expected a - presumably - single, childless man to have bonded with your brash teenaged niece so thoroughly. Had it been anyone else, it would have sent alarm bells ringing. You had plenty of reason to not trust the motivations of men, especially around teenaged girls, but there was something distinctly safe about Joel and his connection with Ellie. And she needed as many people to care for her as she could get. You didn’t want her to lose that because of some misplaced notion of propriety. 

“Been a minute since we went and messed up some undead,” he said, noticeably less tense now that the only people in the house were you, him, Ellie and Quinn. “Guess we should go show ‘em who’s boss.” 

“Fuck yeah!” Ellie said, punching the air. You didn’t scold her for her language choice, instead just smiling a little at the two of them as he settled into the couch and picked up the controller - the device looking oddly small in his large hands - before going to find Quinn in your office. 

“Ellie’s got some natural skill,” Quinn said, glancing up from the Emmy that functioned as a paperweight on your desk. “She’s smart, charismatic. Got a hell of a mouth on her.” 

“Tell me about it,” you snorted. “Aren’t you glad you usually only have to rein me in?” 

“Wrangling the two of you all the time would be a bit much,” she said. “I get the feeling you just feed off each other…” 

“Yeah,” you laughed. “It used to be worse, back when I wasn’t actually responsible for her and we could just goof off and hang out. Drove her mom insane. I’m half surprised she wanted me to take her when…” 

You trailed off, a knot tugging at the back of your throat. 

“We won’t get any kind of prior article review,” Quinn said, sensing that you were ready to change the subject. “But I’m sure it’ll be positive. You gave them great shit to work with.” 

“Thanks,” you smiled, tightly. 

“So,” she said. “Ready for the fight choreo?” 

“Think so,” you nodded. “It’ll be weird, I think, but good. I hope good, anyway.” 

She hummed in agreement, nodding a little. 

“What?” You asked. “I feel like there’s something you’re not saying.” 

“Well, we have some timing updates and some new asks,” she said. 

“OK…” 

“They want you in LA a bit earlier than originally planned,” she said. “They’ve got the costume ready and they want to get you properly in it for a final screen test and fitting as well as for a few shots they can polish into a teaser trailer of sorts for the announcement at the con.” 

“Seriously?” You groaned. “When?” 

“Friday.” 

“Friday?” You gaped. “Thursday is Thanksgiving!” 

“I know,” she said. “But they’re pretty set on this and it’s already a hell of a truncated timeline given your injury.” 

“Jesus,” you pinched the bridge of your nose and sighed. “Fine.” 

“They also want you to attend the premiere of Scarlet Sentinel after the announcement,” she continued.

“When the hell is that?” You asked. 

“The 11th,” she said. “Just a few more days, it’s not too bad.” 

“A few more days during the first Christmas after Ellie’s mom died,” you snapped.

“I know,” she said. 

“And they know what happened at the last fucking premiere, right?” You asked. “Because…” 

“They know,” she said. “But you and I both know with the timing of the convention and the announcement, your name is going to come up a lot on that red carpet. They figure, better to have you there to talk about it yourself than leave it to someone else.” 

“Fine,” you sighed. “But I’m coming back on the 12th. This damn movie had better be worth it.” 

“Just think of all the little girls who will have a badass superhero to look up to because of you,” she smiled a little. “And remember that you’re the one who wanted me to chase this role for you.” 

“Yeah,” you sighed. “I know. I’m guessing I’ll have my grumpy shadow for this whole adventure?” 

“After what happened at the last premiere?” Quinn scoffed. “Absolutely.” 

You sighed, frustrated both at the situation and yourself. Part of you was glad that Joel was coming, his presence making you feel more protected than anyone else’s - including the guards who filled in when he was off. But you knew this trip was going to make both of you miserable. 

Another few weeks in Los Angeles with Joel. Perfect. Just perfect. 

***

Joel ground his teeth, his head on a swivel. 

Was there ever going to come a time that he wasn’t tense and frustrated when it came to you? 

He doubted it. 

There was something inherently frustrating about you. He couldn’t put his finger on exactly what it was but it was absolutely there. 

Maybe it was that you were insufferably, disturbingly stubborn. Maybe it was that the whole fucking world seemed drawn to you. Maybe it was your ceaselessly annoying habit of underestimating any potential threat when it came to yourself. 

Maybe it was the fact that, in spite of his request for professionalism and his newfound practice of trying to shove some distance between the two of you, he was just as drawn to you now as ever. Even though you were a bad idea, even though you terrified him, he had to fight to keep himself away from you. 

He had to force himself to stay in his room when sitting at your house instead of seeking you out. He had to stop himself from thinking about you in ways he fucking knew he shouldn’t, stop himself from searching your name on Google when he was aching and desperate and couldn’t think of anything else. On the rare occasions he wasn’t near you - when he was taking Ellie to school or on his mandatory days off in between stints of protecting you - he’d see something that would remind him of you and have the strange urge to text you about it. As though he’d ever texted you about anything besides business, as though you were friends. As though he was anything at all to you. 

Now, he was stuck sitting outside where you were doing some kind of fucking training for that damn movie. Fuck if he knew what it was, all he knew was that he’d tried to talk you and the trainer - some musclebound jackass named Alan who looked like he knew more about making punching look good than making it effective - into moving the training to your house. Alan had vetoed that. 

“No,” he’d said, shaking his head as he took a look around the space that Joel had worked with you in for weeks. “No, this is way too small for what we need.” 

“The hell you mean it’s too small,” Joel snapped. “What are you doin’, throwing a goddamn party?” 

The guy looked at Joel for a moment. 

“You realize that this is a favor, right?” He said. “That I’m the most in demand fight choreographer in the goddamn business and I’m taking time away from other work to come here so I can train her because it’s supposedly safer here than LA? I’m not about to slim shit down any further than I already have, I’ve booked us time at a private gym in the city, she’ll be perfectly safe there since you’re apparently incapable of doing your damn job in California.” 

Joel fought the urge to swing on the fucker. 

“She gets hurt because you need a goddamn ballroom to teach her how to throw a more cinematic punch…” 

“That’ll be on you, won’t it?” He said. 

Joel couldn’t argue with him. He was right, the weight of that settling in the pit of his stomach. Your safety was on his head. 

That was a double edged sword. He didn’t trust anyone else to keep you safe. He wasn’t comfortable with something like your life sitting squarely on his shoulders. It wasn’t something that had ever bothered him with other clients but you were different. In so many things you were different. 

He’d been standing in this stupid fucking waiting room of this stupid fucking private gym for what felt like a small eternity. Nothing had happened, of course. Nothing had happened the two days before, either. That didn’t seem to make a damn difference, though. He was still tense, still watching for any threat, still frustrated that you were in an uncontrolled space and out of his sight. 

His phone vibrated in his pocket and Joel did a quick scan of the area - including the parking lot that he could see through the large windows - before checking it. It only ever vibrated for family, work or clients, it had to be something important. 

He was right. It was a text from Tommy. 

Been a change on the Siren case. Come to HQ with principal ASAP. 

“Shit,” Joel said quietly, going to text him back when he heard your voice - sharp and panicked and muffled by the door. 

His body reacted before his mind caught up. He reached the door before he fully realized what he was doing, damn near ripping the thing off its hinges and racing into the room where you were training. 

You were flat on your back in the middle of the room, mats on the floor to cushion any falls, and Alan was on top of you. He was straddling you, his knees astride your hips, his hands on your throat, holding you down. Your hands were on his chest, face twisted into a snarl as you shoved at him but the man was bigger than you, stronger than you and Joel had to stop him. 

He ran for you with a roar, tucking his shoulder and slamming into the other man, the mats on the ground cushioning their fall as they tumbled. 

“What the fuck!” Alan yelled as they came to a stop, Joel shoving the other man into the ground and pinning him. 

“Joel!” You yelled but he was focused on the man below him. 

“I don’t know what -“ Alan began but Joel cut him off with a punch, sharp against the man’s cheek, sending his head whipping around. 

“Joel!” You caught his elbow as he went to punch again and he let you pull him back, Alan groaning on the floor. You tugged Joel to his feet and he panted for breath, looking down at the man who’d been hurting you, the man who he wanted to hurt more. But, for now, he wasn’t going anywhere and Joel turned his attention to you. 

Your eyes were wide, your skin slick with sweat and your hand had gone from the crook of his arm to his side when he turned and the weight of your palm was heavy on him. But you were alive. He could breathe. 

“Joel…” you panted, almost like a question. His hand went to your cheek, your skin warm. He tilted your head gently, looking over your neck, trying to see any damage. 

“He hurt you?” He asked, voice rough. “You OK?” 

“What?” You asked, gaping at him. 

“Did he hurt you,” he said again. 

“No!” You shook yourself free of Joel’s hold on you. “No, he didn’t hurt me! It was fucking fight choreography!” 

You ducked around Joel and rushed toward Alan, kneeling beside him as he sat up, holding his face and adjusting his jaw. 

“Fuck,” Joel said quietly, wincing as he watched you gingerly examine the other man, the two of you talking low, your back to Joel the whole time. 

He should be more embarrassed about this and part of him was but he couldn’t help but just be relieved. You were safe. He didn’t need to see you hurting, didn’t need to live in that shock of fear that had all but swallowed him when he saw you on the ground, your life in the hands of another man. You were alive, you were safe. That was all that mattered, he couldn’t bring himself to give a shit about anything else. 

After a minute, Alan looked ready to get up and Joel approached him cautiously, your trainer’s eyes narrowing at him. 

“Sorry,” Joel said awkwardly, offering him his hand. “Didn’t know… Never had a job with an actress before…” 

“S’alright,” he said before taking Joel’s hand. He pulled him to his feet and he cracked his neck. “I’ve taken worse hits but damn, man, you hit like a fucking hammer.” 

Joel caught a glimpse of you rolling your eyes off to the side and he smirked a little. 

“Yeah, well,” he shrugged. “Might be your job to make it look good, it’s my job to knock someone on their ass and keep ‘em there.” 

“You’re damn good at it,” he said before turning to you. “If it’s all the same to you, I’m going to say we call it early.” 

“Of course,” you said quickly. “Again, I’m so sorry, I…” 

“It’s fine,” he cut you off, laughing a little. “Does me good to take a hit now and then in my line of work. You should be more than prepped for the shots they want to get later this week but I’ll be in LA if you run into any issues. Now I’m going to head back to my hotel to ice my face and try to think of the best way to explain this to my wife when she picks me up from the airport.” 

“We need to go, anyway,” Joel said and you frowned. “Got a text from Tommy, told to bring you to HQ as soon as possible so that’s where we’re headed.” 

“Fine,” you sighed, exasperated. “Let’s just run home first so I can change…” 

“No,” he cut you off. “We’re going straight there.” 

“But I’m disgusting!” You said, arms out at your sides as if to prove your point. “I’m not about to go to a meeting when I’m dripping sweat, that’s just…” 

“Don’t matter,” Joel said. 

“Is everything OK?” Alan asked, looking between the two of you. 

You answered before Joel got a chance to respond. 

“It’s fine,” you said, shooting Joel a look that almost dared him to talk. “He just loves to make my life difficult, it’s his favorite hobby, so he’s using this as an excuse.” 

Joel quirked his jaw but bit his tongue. 

“Come on, Siren,” he said. “Let’s go.” 

He watched as you stalked off to get your bag and water bottle, snatching them up with an almost comically angry look on your face as you did. He made you stay behind him while he surveyed the small parking lot before keeping you safely hidden from view from as much of the broader world as he could until he got you to the car. 

You reminded him of Ellie as he started the drive to the office, your arms crossed tight over your chest, staring straight ahead with your eyes narrowed. It would be intimidating if you were more… well, intimidating. On you it was almost comical, like watching a lion cub try and snarl at a threat. 

“That was mortifying,” you said eventually, your fingers digging into your upper arms so hard that Joel could see the indentations in your flesh. “Completely fucking embarrassing, I can’t believe…” 

“Can’t believe I did my job?” Joel asked. “Can’t believe I tried to keep you safe? Shouldn’t come as much of a surprise to you at this point, Siren, been doin’ this for a few months now.” 

“Oh fuck off,” you snapped. “That was not you doing your fucking job, that was you losing your temper for who knows what reason and…” 

“That was me intervening when you were in danger,” Joel snapped back. “How the hell was I supposed to know that guy was supposed to be fuckin’ choking you out? And you, what? Expect me to just sit there and let it happen? Jesus.” 

“This is why I don’t need a fucking bodyguard,” you muttered, shaking your head. “Let alone one who doesn’t know the fucking industry. I fake die sometimes, too, Joel, you going to call 911? Plan my funeral?” 

Joel ignored you, clenching his jaw as he called Tommy. 

“Yeah,” Tommy said by way of greeting. 

“One minute out,” Joel said. 

“You’re gettin’ an escort in,” Tommy said. 

Joel frowned. 

“That serious?” 

“We’ll discuss it when you get here,” Tommy said. “Just… being cautious.” 

A team of four men met the car when Joel pulled up to the building where Tommy’s business was based. He passed the keys to one and fell into formation around you, immediately at your right as the four men surrounded you, blocking you from any view from passing or the random pedestrian. 

“This is such overkill,” you muttered. 

“Better over kill than you killed,” Joel glared at you as you rolled your eyes. 

But Joel did feel like he could relax a little now that the two of you were in the office. This was a controlled space, you weren’t at risk here. You might be pissed at him but he’d take that. If you were safe, alive? Pissed he could handle. 

Tommy seemed prepared for it, at least, not shaken by your sour attitude. 

“Joel,” Tommy nodded to him before looking to you. “Ma’am.” 

“You’ll have to excuse the fact that I smell like a gym sock,” you said, clearly pissed but trying to control yourself. “Someone didn’t let me shower or change before coming here.” 

“I’m afraid that’s my fault,” Tommy said. “I got Quinn on the line, I’m gonna loop her into this conversation, too…” 

He switched on the speaker phone. 

“We’re all here now,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest. “We OK to get started?” 

“Yeah,” she sighed. “Lay things out.” 

You frowned and glanced at Joel, as if he’d have any better idea about what this was going to be about than you did. He just frowned, too. 

“This was sent to your address here in Austin,” Tommy said, dropping a printed image of a letter on the other side of his desk, closer to you and Joel. You stepped forward and picked it up, Joel looking over your shoulder at it. “Police have the original.” 

It was a note, like the ones before. 

I love your home. I can’t wait to share it with you. But why do you have other men spending the night? They won’t love you like I love you. Don’t you know that? Don’t you see? 

If I can’t have you, no one will. 

Joel’s hand trembled as he took the copy from you, tracing the words over and over. 

If I can’t have you, no one will. 

For a moment - just a moment - Joel had that vision of you again. The one that had come to his dreams more often than he cared to admit, the one where he couldn’t save you. 

There was someone out there who wanted you, wanted you so badly they were willing to kill to have you and what if he couldn’t stop them? What if they got to you when he was off for a few days, what if something happened when you were just out of reach? What if all he could do was stand there and watch you die? 

“Well someone’s getting ballsy, isn’t he?” You said wryly. 

“You don’t sound like you’re taking this seriously,” Quinn said, the sharpness in her tone apparent even through the crackle of the speaker phone. 

“Probably because I’m not,” you shrugged, crossing your arms over your torso, your chin raised defiantly. “He’s just some weirdo. He knew where I lived in LA, too, and was too cowardly to show his fucking face, what difference does it make if he’s got my Austin address?”

“We’re going to tighten up security,” Tommy said, looking around you to Joel. 

“Tighten up?” You gaped at him before Joel had a chance to respond. “Tighten up how! Someone already follows me everywhere I go, is he supposed to, what, chase me into the bathroom when I take a piss now, too? This is insane! Quinn, tell them they’re insane!”

“It’s not insane,” Quinn said. “He’s escalating, there are valid concerns for your safety and we’re going to take the appropriate precautions. Maybe you should hear what those precautions are before you fly off the handle about it.” 

“Jesus,” you rolled your eyes before you sighed. “Fine. Alright, what else am I going to have to fucking give up.” 

Joel’s jaw twitched but he remained silent, watching you closely as his brother started reviewing the changes. 

“Biggest one will be you’re never on the exterior of your home alone,” Tommy said. 

“I’m already never alone outside my house!” You gaped at him. 

“You’re never alone when you leave your property,” Tommy corrected. “But you’ve been able to go outside, swim, run, take a walk on your own as long as you stayed on your property. That will no longer be the case.” 

“Seriously?” You looked between Tommy and Joel, aghast. “I can’t step outside my own front door unsupervised? What am I, a toddler?” 

“We will also be stepping up who is on hand at your home,” Tommy said, ignoring your protests. “We’ll be doing more frequent perimeter checks and generally have a more active presence there. But that will be less obtrusive, you will still have just one body man when you leave the property for most outings.” 

“What about when I’m in LA?” You asked. 

“You ain’t serious,” Joel said before Tommy had a chance to answer. “You’re not still goin’ to fucking California, not after that letter.”

“Yes, I am,” you said. “I have to do some early shots in two days, the con is a week after that, followed by…” 

“And you can’t do any of it if you’re fuckin��� dead!” Joel snapped. “So you’re staying here, not goin’ to where that asshole is!” 

“No, she’s not,” Quinn said, a sense of finality in her voice. “She’s going to LA…” 

“You really willing to put her fucking life on the line for a goddamn movie?” Joel snapped, louder than he’d meant to but he couldn’t seem to make himself stop. “You’re gonna let her get hurt, get killed so you assholes can make a few bucks?” 

“She won’t be at risk if…” 

“Not at risk?” Joel cut Quinn off. “If she ain’t at risk then why am I here!” 

“She is actually in the fucking room if you assholes would fucking listen to her!” You yelled, Joel turning to face you, shocked. He didn’t think he’d ever heard you yell like that before. “I’m going to LA.” 

Joel went to protest but you wouldn’t let him. 

“No!” You snapped, rounding on him. “I’m going to LA! I’m going to LA, I’m going to do my fucking job and I’m going to go to the con and the goddamn movie premiere and then I’m going to come home and spend Christmas with my niece and you’re going to stay out of my fucking way!” 

“Well that’s where you’re wrong,” Quinn said. 

“What?” You asked, still sounding pissed but not yelling now. 

“He won’t be out of your way,” Quinn said wryly. “Because he’s coming with you to everything.” 

“Well obviously,” you said, rolling your eyes. “He’s been doing that.” 

“I mean,” Quinn continued. “He’s going to come with you to the premiere. As your date.” 

You and Joel both stood silently for a moment, dumbstruck. 

“What,” Joel said eventually. 

“You’re going to the premiere as her date,” Tommy said this time, looking between the two of you. “They decided they need you there,” he said, nodding to you. “And last one was enough of an opening that you got hurt but having you walk the red carpet with a bodyguard isn’t really an option. So, we keep Joel close - as your date - and he keeps you safe.” 

“No,” Joel shook his head. “No, the answer is she don’t go to the damn premiere, not sending me along with her like I’m some kind of goddamn undercover agent or some shit, this ain’t…” 

“Can’t I just go with Chris or Justice or something?” You asked and Joel tried to ignore how his stomach turned at the thought of you with either of those fucking guys on your arm. “We just tell them what’s going on and…” 

“Someone who isn’t trained ain’t gonna cut it,” Tommy shook his head. “It has to be Joel.” 

You sighed, pinching the bridge of your nose. 

“Fine,” you said. “If that’s what it takes? Fine.” 

“This is a bad fuckin’ idea,” Joel muttered. “I don’t…” 

“Oh, come on Big Miller,” you said, your tone shifting to something more familiar, that dry, sarcastic edge to it he’d come to know well. “Didn’t you know? I’m the most beautiful woman in the world. There are men who would kill to be in your shoes.” 

“Yeah,” Joel muttered. “That’s what I’m afraid of.” 

He didn’t press the subject when the two of you got back to your house that night, the new cadence of protection already kicking in, more guards obvious at the perimeter of your property. You didn’t wait for Joel to open the car door for you - something you’d become more willing to do as time had passed. Instead you just stormed off toward the house, Joel following quickly behind you. Before he had the chance to lecture you about it, you looked back over your shoulder to him. 

“I’m going in the pool,” you snapped. “Since you apparently have to fucking babysit me anytime I step foot out my goddamn door now.” 

He expected you to go get changed into a swimsuit but you didn’t. Instead you just stalked straight through the entry way, the living room, out the back of the house, stepping out of your shoes as went, walking straight to the water’s edge without pausing and jumping in fully clothed. 

Joel stood and watched, worried for a moment when you didn’t surface immediately. But then you screamed under the water, the sound muffled and distorted and sounding almost desperate. You went quiet and surfaced, immediately going to a ladder and pulling yourself up, more stalking toward the house than walking, eyes straight ahead like Joel wasn’t even there, leaving a trail of water on the floor in your wake as you went to your bedroom and closed the door. 

Joel tried to ignore the tug of concern in his chest. He picked up Ellie from school - the kid so excited about having a few days off for Thanksgiving and seeing her grandmother - and played a video game with her. You didn’t come out of your room. He kept hoping to hear some sign of you when he went to his own room, even as he was desperate for some distance, and he thought he heard you come out at one point. Just your quiet steps in bare feet and the cadence of talking just out of reach of where really hear it. 

He tried to let that soothe him. You clearly didn’t want anything to do with him - not that he blamed you, he had literally asked for this - but he couldn’t help but worry as he stared at his ceiling. You were upset but you’d left your room, talked to Ellie, hopefully eaten something. That was… it was fine. Good, even. He didn’t need to be a part of it or see it for himself and he’d done everything he could to make sure that here, within these walls, you were safe. 

That thought didn’t help him actually, really rest, though. He started to drift off and the image of you, pinned down with a man’s hands around your throat took over. But this time, he was always too far away to fix it. He’d run and run and run but it was like he was moving through Jell-o, not able to reach you but not able to look away. 

He jerked awake, his heart racing in his chest, and he sighed, wiping a layer of sweat away from his face. 

It was late now, quiet in the house. He debated it, for a moment, but not for long, getting up and going to the kitchen for a drink. But when he passed the hall with your room and office, he saw a soft glow around your office door. He frowned at that, going to the kitchen and grabbing two beers before going to that glowing door. He hesitated for a moment. He shouldn’t be doing this. He knew better. He was the one who asked for a professional distance, he was the one who knew this couldn’t go anywhere good. But… you were right there, the comfort of knowing you were OK so close. 

He knocked. 

You were silent for a moment, long enough that he considered just going back to his room when you spoke. 

“Come in.” 

He did, finding you tucked into a corner of the couch that sat below the window, a tablet and papers spread on every surface around you. You seemed almost surprised to see him, your eyebrows rising as you looked at him through your lashes, not fully looking up from something that was sitting open on your lap. 

“I thought you might be Ellie,” you said. “Can I help you?”

He shrugged. 

“Saw the light,” he said, handing you the bottle, staying far enough away from you that he had to stretch to reach and you had to reach back to take it. “Thought you might… I dunno.” 

You nodded slowly, opening the beer and taking long pull. 

“Thanks,” you said, adjusting enough that the pages spread on the couch around you rustled. Joel just nodded, opening his own beer and taking a sip, too. He didn’t taste it much, one hand shoved in the pocket of his pajama pants as he walked slowly through your office, taking everything in. He was rarely in this room, he didn’t know it well. There was an Emmy on your desk and three more on a bookshelf. There were two Golden Globes, too, all in better shape than the Oscar was. He frowned at that. 

“How many of these damn things do you have?” He asked, glancing back over his shoulder to you. 

“Emmys?” You asked. “Just the four. Three for Siren and then one for Family Tree. That was my first one, they gave me some meatier things once I was in my teens. Some ‘very special episode’ type bullshit. One where I had to decide whether or not to have sex with my high school boyfriend, that sort of thing. The television academy ate it up. Then there are the Globes - one for Siren, one for The District - and there’s a SAG in my office in LA. I think that’s it.”

“Lot of hardware,” Joel said, coming back to the sitting area of your office, taking the chair near your end of the couch, his fingers rapping against the glass of his beer bottle. 

“Yeah, well,” you laughed, a little cynically. “I keep telling Leo he needs to get me on Broadway so I can win a Tony. Then all I need is some bullshit way to win a Grammy and I can EGOT.” 

“EGOT?” Joel frowned. 

“Emmy, Grammy, Oscar, Tony,” you said. “All the big ones.” 

“Shit,” he shook his head a little, taking another swig of beer. “Aim high, I guess. What are you workin’ on?” 

“Character research,” you said, holding up what was on your lap. It was a comic book, one from the series he’d seen Ellie reading. “I think I’ve just about figured her out but I’m trying to make sure I feel good with it before Friday. I’ve been reading up on how people react to certain traumas, trying to fold that in, see what seems right.” 

“Didn’t know playin’ a superhero needed so much research,” he said. 

“Playing anyone requires research,” you said. “People are complicated things.”

“Suppose so,” he said. “What…” 

“Why are you here, Joel,” you cut him off. 

He clenched his jaw for a moment. 

“I…” he took a deep breath. “Do you really have to go to LA.” 

“Are you serious?” You gaped at him.

“Yes,” he said. “It’s not safe. Should stay here where we have shit more locked down and…” 

“And I have a movie to make!” You cut him off. “Do you really expect them to relocate production to fucking Texas because of me?” 

“Yes,” he said again. 

“Joel,” you pinched the bridge of your nose and sighed. 

“Ain’t you some huge star?” He pressed on, staring down at his beer bottle, picking at the label with his thumb. “Got all those damn trophies, everyone on the damn planet knows your name, just have all that shit come to you and…” 

“Joel,” you said, more gently this time, gentle enough that he frowned, looking over at you. You smiled a little. “That’s not how it works.” 

“Why not.” 

“Because,” you said. “Do you know what goes into making a movie? It’s not just some actors and camera men. There’s equipment we’re using that only exists in a few places on the planet and LA is one of those places. We start principal photography in January, do you know how much work has already been done so we’re ready to shoot? Do you know how many people’s livelihoods depend on this movie being made when we said we were making it where we planned to make it? And I mean actual people, not just rich assholes like me. The budget on this movie is $210 million and yeah, $35 million of that is coming to me but the vast majority of that money is going to support the hundreds of people who work on the movie who are just trying to pay their mortgage and put their kids through college. We move locations, shift filming dates now? Those people are suddenly out of work when it’s too late to get on any other projects. If you don’t think you’re up for it, talk to Tommy, have them send someone else…” 

“No,” he said sharply. 

You frowned. 

“Why not?” You asked. “Just…” 

Joel clenched his jaw, looking down at the beer bottle again. The corner of the label was shredded. 

“Don’t trust anyone else,” he said. “If you’re goin’ to LA, it’s with me. End of story.” 

You were quiet for a moment.

“Why do you care so much?” You asked eventually. 

“I… I don’t…” he bounced his leg, trying to find the words before finally looking over at you again. “I don’t want to watch you die.” 

You scoffed.

“I don’t think anyone would really hold it against you if I do,” you said wryly. “So don’t worry about it.” 

“That ain’t why I’m worried,” he said sharply before taking a deep breath and going back to the bottle, picking away at the label more and more. “I didn’t take this job to watch someone fuckin’ hunt you down.” 

You were quiet again. 

“Why did you hit Alan today.” 

He took a shaky breath.

“I thought he was hurtin’ you,” he couldn’t bring himself to look at you. “And I.. I can’t…” 

He clenched his jaw, gripping the bottle so tight it hurt. 

“I need you to not get hurt,” he said. “Not gonna let you get yourself killed. And you… you just like to ignore what I tell you, you do reckless shit and it’s gonna…” 

“I’ll do what I’m told,” you cut him off, a keen kind of honesty in your voice, the shift noticeable enough that he looked over at you. Your eyes were oddly open, looking at him in much the same way you had the night you got hurt at the premiere, like all the artifice of your public persona had been stripped away and all that was left was yourself. “I don’t… I absolutely loathe just how much of my own life is out of my control and how all I am is just some thing all these other people move around to make money and the fact that I can’t even go outside right now without someone babysitting me… It struck a nerve. But… I’ll behave. I’ll do what you tell me to do. I won’t take any risks, I’ll tell you everything you need to know, I’ll obey when you tell me to do something. I’ll take it seriously.” 

He watched you for a moment.

“You’ll let me keep you safe?” He asked quietly. 

“I’ll let you keep me safe,” you said softly. “I promise. Just come with me to LA. You… you make me feel safe. I’ll do what you say, I’ll let you protect me. I promise.”  

“OK,” he nodded, looking at the label in pieces in his hands. “I’ll protect you.” 

He just prayed that would be enough. 

A/N: Thank you for reading! I know this took me roughly 6 million years to update and I wish I had a good reason for that but, in all honesty, I just don't. I appreciate you spending your time with these characters, even after I've left you hanging.

Things are going to start ramping up next chapter! I really can't wait for what's coming, there's stuff I've been picturing since I first thought up this story that is just around the corner. I hope you enjoy it!

In the mean time, if you want to see what Thanksgiving Day was like for Siren and Joel, you can check out this (now officially canon) one shot I posted for the holiday.

Thanks again for being here! I love sharing this story with you all.

Love you!!

Taglist: @christinamadsen @eff4freddie @brittmb115 @copperhalfcent @r3dheadedwitch @pedropascalsbbg @lovelyjess69 @yopossum @moel-jiller @picketniffler @lilyevanstan1325 @reluctanthalfwayoptimism @wintersquirrel @missladym1981 @mellymbee @canthinkof1user @inept-the-magnificent @secretlyangelic @pedrobae @scarletsloveletter @phry-k @sunnytuliptime

[thepalehorsevictoria]

WIP - The Internship

An EmmRook gift for @emmg who has told me in no uncertain terms that I needed to write this idea out. Behold. A Silicon Valley AU. ETA: I tacked on some more to this and made it chapter 1 on AO3.

“Good morning! Welcome to your first day at Volkoss Systems! We’re so honored to have you join us as a small step of what we are sure are very bright futures in tech. My name is Bellara Lutare and I started in the exact same place as you three years ago, so I’m happy to answer any and all questions you may have in your internship orientation.” 

She holds up her access badge, smiling just like her photo. “Please be sure you have your badge visible on you at all times for security purposes,” and the badge snaps back to the reel when she releases it. Her left arm is covered in an intricate full sleeve tattoo of circles and glyphs and rings, now waving the group of students down the hallway for the office tour.

Iris swirls her iced coffee in its plastic cup and takes a long sip. It is too early for her to be functional, and the orientation leader’s effervescence is too much to handle right now. All she wants to do is get assigned a space, get a laptop, take a branch, write some code, check it, merge and go back home to sleep. Even her new badge photo shows that she is not really keen on being here, the half-smile as the bare minimum. Fucking photographer telling her to smile and shit. She’s going to get a badge reel as soon as she can so that she doesn’t have to see her own face looking up at her from around her neck. 

But if she wants the cushy work from home developer jobs she’s been dreaming of so she can work from some sunny poolside in Cumberland or whatever, she has to do this, which is … fine. She’ll do it. 

It’s going to be a long twelve weeks of summer, though. 

/. /. /.

“Pah. Like rats in a maze. They won’t know what they’re in for,” she cackles while thumbing the chunky acrylic pieces of her ostentatious statement necklace. 

“If you’re quite finished looking down on our prospective employees, Johanna, we haven’t quite finished solving this problem.” Emmrich sighs and absentmindedly runs his hand over the stack of bracelets on his left arm. Staring at the equation on the frosted glass whiteboard isn’t helping them either. The algorithm needs updates to reduce its computational needs in order to work properly with the new advancements in Evanuris hardware. “Or, at least, if you insist on continuing, perhaps you could do so in the comfort of your office down the hall.”

Thank goodness the architect put the boardroom in between their offices. And well away from the main floor so the company can’t hear her spirited opinions on a daily basis.

“You’re wasting your time, Volkarin. Evanuris is on its way out and we all know it. They know it. We really should be courting the AI being worked on in Seheron.” 

“That would require a complete reorganization of Engineering and Operations.” 

“And it’s about time. We are more than your algorithm.” 

“That algorithm has sent all your children to very fine schools, Johanna. Like the ones that sent us the interns you’re fond of mocking and tormenting,” he shakes his head, getting up from his perch on the back of the couch. “It’s a wonder we were able to get any interns at all this year, no thanks to you.”

“They’re just cheap labor. Barely worth the time for much we have to explain things to them like they’re five.”

Emmrich bristles. “I’ll …” he sighs, “I’ll keep working on this. But meantime if you’ll please excuse me. I've asked Bellara to include my office as part of the tour so I may greet them.” He caps the dry erase marker and puts it on the bottom tray of the whiteboard while his partner scoffs and grumbles on her way out.

He can’t quite understand what he’s missing. His life’s work is laid out before him in the exquisite universal language of mathematics that he had been able to bend to his command for decades. But something seems to be missing. 

Three knocks shake him from his thought work, and Emmrich reminds himself that he asked for this interruption. Plus it’s not like he was being productive, anyway. “Please come in,” he idly twists at the filigreed ring on his thumb, and prepares a well-rehearsed smile. 

“And now I’d like to introduce you to one of the two halves of our founding, Dr. Emmrich Volkarin,” Bellara opens the door to his office and walks in backwards to shepherd a group of students. Their eyes widen at the wall of accolades, framed feature articles, and the iridescent crystal disc of his famed Order of the Nevarran Kingdom. It makes him stand just a little bit taller to watch them stunned. 

Goodness, they’re all so young, he observes.

“Hello, and welcome. I’m so glad you’re able to join us this summer, everyone,” Emmrich greets them. “Volkoss Systems is only made possible by the true collaborative spirit of science that has been the same foundation of your education, I’m certain, and we are honored to welcome your brilliant young minds and energy to our work.” Bellara is beaming at him, ever the biggest fan of his work, but the rest of the students look intimidated. 

He presses his hands together and gestures with them, bracelets jingling softly. “Please, I absolutely encourage you to share your whole selves with us, and bring your curiosity and questions. While I do unfortunately have some very busy days every once in a while, when I am not in those, my door is always open.”

“Right,” Bellara says, “We’ve got just a few more stops on this part of the tour and then we’ll get you to Hardware and Ergonomics for setup. Thanks for your time, Doctor Volkarin!” The gaggle of interns turn to leave, except one. 

They’re reading the whiteboard. “What’s this?”

Bellara sticks her head back through the door. “Oh! Sorry, Doctor, we’ll just be out of your hair.” 

Emmrich holds up a hand, intrigued by their curiosity. “It’s quite alright, Ms. Lutare,” and he watches the young intern walk up to the equation he had been working on. 

They’re such a young thing–they get younger every year, he thinks. They’re at least one if not two heads shorter than him, with pointed ears peeking out of jet black hair like his was once upon a time. Their eyes are darting around the whiteboard’s neat rows of his handwriting, but he can see that they’re a delightful, rare shade of light purple. And very attractive.

His eyes fall to the badge around her neck. IRIS INGELLVAR, she/her. 

A rattle of the cup of iced coffee in her hand shakes him out of his reverie.

“I’ve been working on updating a calculation so that it can be further compressed without loss of computational power.” 

“For Evanuris,” she says, still reading. 

“Why, yes.” He’s impressed. Iris has been reading up on the company. “Is this in your field of study, Ms. Ingellvar?” 

“Eh, for fun. I’m really just here for work experience so I can fish for a code monkey job to pay the bills.” 

From the doorframe, Bellara squeaks in secondhand embarrassment, but Emmrich finds her reply refreshingly honest, and smiles. 

“Well I am glad that we have the honor of your talents for the summer, then–” he gasps as Iris wipes out an entire row of his work. “Miss–” She picks up the marker from the tray, uncaps it, and a string of characters appear in a haphazard, jagged handwriting. 

“Fixed it,” she sips her coffee and puts down the marker.  Emmrich is speechless, mouth slightly open as he reads over her work, and reads it again.

She did.

Emmrich could kiss her.

Where did that feeling come from?

[zoieru]

Mind-dump analysis of Sunday and Welt

Non-romantic, though you can see it that way if you want. Basically musings on their dialogue, body language, trauma responses and their views of the world. Based on my noggin, my experiences, and my knowledge on psych and philosophy. Mentions of trauma, and Aventurine. Spoilers for 3.0. Come chat with me about it in the ask box pls oml. (html broke read more link sorry)

So I was writing an Astral Express Sunday headcanon thing, and realised the part with welt I had more thoughts on than I could handle !!! So I decided to make a bigger breakdown of it from my perspective weeee. 1.7k more thoughts...hehe. Includes pics.

So, Sunday is essentially coming into this new world (the astral express lifestyle, the knowledge and involvement of other planets issues, everything not just Penacony) for the first time, and in a vulnerable state at that. He was trained and groomed to be who he was basically his whole life, and not just the positions of power and control, but his position he gave himself also of protector of his sister. That's been taken from him, all of it, his role, his direction, drive, everything. To say the man must feel lost is understatement of the century.

So when he is confronted with Welt Yang, a mysterious and stoic man who displays his intelligence by deciphering there's something up with his disguise, questions him on his motives, etc, but then seemingly confidently starts to trust him, he is...confused?

First, Welt says multiple times that he knows how he feels, he's had to leave a home quickly too, but doesn't elaborate. So his reasons are already determined at least somewhat by his empathy for Sunday. That is a lot for Sunday to work through. He mustn't have really related to anyone in his life, even his sister due to their vastly different experiences despite being in the same spot. To have someone, and quite quickly, especially after what he just did, sympathise, empathise, and relate to him...thats intriguing, and confusing, and probably a bit suspicious.

Further, when going to meet Robin, Sunday outwardly questions why Welt is giving him the privacy to speak to her, refusing to be a bystander for his benefit. Welt answers:

'i believe you're the kind of person that has the ability and desire to use everything to your advantage... but that everything does not involve Miss Robin'

Sunday pauses, and thanks him. It's confusing, unexpected, and yet another puzzle into Welt's character. I think this moment means an incredible amount to Sunday. Ultimately, his sister is everything to him, where everything started, and Welt has given him the space and freedom to do the thing he is so nervous for, he is dreading but must do, one of the hardest things he's probably ever done, say goodbye for an indeterminate amount of time. Who else has probably shown him this sort of seemingly genuine act of kindness, goodness, before? Probably no one. Plus, despite not really outwardly discussing his relationship with his sister with Welt before this, Welt shows an understanding of Sunday's care for her, to the point his usual nature and methods don't apply to Robin.

So that's why Sunday asks another question, after saying goodbye to Robin

He's starting to see himself in Welt, I believe, in some way, when he says 'I had a feeling that you would never give up on someone who needed help' which is reinforced by his 'help' of Sunday just now. But I think what Sunday is maybe confused about here is why him, why here. He is confused why they 'help' him, a 'nortorious fugitive' and a 'friend they never knew', rather than people in new worlds, people he deems perhaps deserve it more, people who he thinks Welt should care about. I believe, here, he is still viewing things zoomed out, from a grand perspective. He sees 'people' as an entity, much like how he did with his plan, saving them from misery by keeping them in the dream. But Welt goes on to explain that it's the people he meets that are his trailblaze, but on an individual and connection scale, not 'helping peopleTM' like he tried to.

And that means Sunday, it means Tingyun. Sunday even asks directly, then, 'why me?', and Welt repeats his previous answer. 'i know how you feel.' despite what he's done, he offers him empathy, help, and connection. It's alien to Sunday. He has heard the worst of people's deeds, was tormented by them, wanted to save them from themselves, yet Welt is just accepting him.

Then another thing, Welt sits in the audience watching Sunday become himself, say goodbye to his old self and everything he once knew, literally becoming whole again, and slightly unsure of how he exactly he will be once both halves combine. This moment is so so intimate, so deeply personal, perhaps the most personal I mean he's literally talking to himself, becoming himself, shedding everything he's ever known, starting a new life. And Welt isn't just watching. He says:

'Regardless of the outcome, you will have a witness. I'll be waiting for you in the audience.'

Here, he does multiple things. One, he is promising Sunday he will be here for him and almost continue to accept him in whatever shape or form after he's done, giving him the respect and time to do his thing, and the support he wasnt planning to get. Its like...almost a threat, saying he wont let him run away after, but not quite. its also a signal of protection. He is staying with Sunday through this obviously terrifying and massive moment, at a safe and respectful but supportive distance, something Sunday was planning to go through alone. Also, he says he'll wait for him. That's so...personal. ugh, it's too much. And the thing is, Sunday lets him, thanks him, wants him to be there. Trusts him enough to see him at almost a most vulnerable point in his life. Crazy stuff.

Plus, during this line, the camera zooms in on Welt's face for just a few seconds, emphasising how big this is.

Now I'm not sure if we should assume Welt can hear everything Sunday says to himself. The theatre is empty, afterall, but I dont know. Sunday says he's scared, says why he's scared, tells himself he doesn't like himself, parts of him. It's so goddamn personal, heart wrenching, truly. And there's a line here I want to discuss quick.

'to save more lives, you must first understand what they live for and what they die for. The best way to achieve this is through personal experience.''

This is a reflection of Welt's words, his reason for trailblazing. It shows he's taken them to heart, ponders them, realises that to truly help people like Welt does, he needs to know them, not see them as an entity from above.

Also, when done, Welt makes a gentle joke that covers the supportive gesture of his acceptance of 'either' of Sunday's selves. He almost dismissed the whole act as if it was casual, while subtly acknowledging it's significance, and gently showing his support, so it all doesn't make Sunday feel uncomfy.

'Well, how should I address you now? Mr Sunday or Mr Wonweek?'

I love it.

Then Sunday has the confidence to request staying with the Astral Express Crew. Knowing the others might hate the idea, but having enough confidence in the fact that Welt at least seems to want him there.

'You are one of my trailblazing goals.'

Sunday looks visibly touched by this statement. the feels.

So let's now skip to the Astral Express, where he's been on a while let's say.

After all this, Sunday and Welt almost have this unspoken deep connection somehow. They have shared a deeply personal moment for Sunday, and Welt has shared more with Sunday about himself than he ever has with anyone on screen that we've seen before.begins to respect Welt Yang quite tremendously really. Sunday now has time to sit, think, reflect, and probably torment himself with thoughts.

I think he has built this ridiculous level of respect for Welt, perhaps more than for most in his life. And also intrigue, confusion. He perhaps observes him. It is obvious Welt has a troubled and mysterious past, the extent of which is unknown but suggested, yet the man has a poise about him that seems stable, secure, confident. It intrigues him, maybe makes him a little envious even that despite this man having no set 'home', travelling the trailblaze with seemingly little control over things Sunday feels he would lose his mind over, he still seems confident in himself.

You ever feel like you're pretty self sufficient and able when alone or most of the time, but theres that one person where you're in their company and it's suddenly like all your brain function has dimmed and been transferred to them and they're now the 'thinker' and 'doer' and you're just there mostly looking pretty?? That's Sunday and Welt sometimes. Sunday was so used to being everything, controlling everything, seeing everything, that now he can relax that, or rather forced to let go of all that, as hard as that is, he finds himself inadvertently letting Welt take over a bit, observing and involving himself but Welt taking the lead. It's perhaps part of a trauma response to having to grow up too fast, to not being able to have had the points in life where you can trust and let someone have control for a while without risk. So as a result of this trust and acceptance he has built with Welt, his brain just sort of...relaxes a little. Welp.

That's displayed well in the infamous 'mom speak to the doctor for me pls' scene, I think. Cute.

Okay it's the end now, I could probably yap more but my thumbs hurt. One more musing though:

I wonder what it would be like for Sunday and Aventurine to meet, after all of that. They, ultimately, had a similar journey in terms of them making a big decision, a big 'attempt' at something bigger than themselves intricately linked to their identities and core beliefs, having to face parts of themselves along the way.

Now that Sunday has shed his 'grandiose' demeanour and plans, I wonder what it would look like for them to meet on equal terms. (Obviously not really knowing how this whole thing will have affected Aven coming out of it).

These two men, as literally mentioned in the 'combining selves' scene for Sunday in the theatre, are fundamentally opposed. One has been made to and has had to build his life and principles on control. One has had no choice to and built his life on luck, lack of control. It's such an interesting dichotomy to me.

There's also this interaction with Welt and Sunday before meeting Robin:

'I had a hunch and decided to try my luck. Seems I can be lucky sometimes'

'its not like you to leave things to luck'

'I'm trying to change too'

It's twice, in this long section, that Aventurine/luck is mentioned, at least. I wonder how he would view him should he know more, and now that he seems to have a certain begrudging acceptance and respect for luck/chance.

OKAY IM DONE FR NOW HAHAHA come discuss with me if u want :3 hope you enjoyed.

Here, take this, its not safe out there

(づ ᴗ _ᴗ)づ♡

[maxdibert]

Would Snape even be capable of being a good boyfriend?

That depends a bit on what you think makes a "good boyfriend."

There are very basic things in romantic relationships that people often view as a plus but that should really be the foundation of any kind of connection. For example, respecting the other person's boundaries, honoring the agreements established, showing emotional responsibility, and generally treating your partner or the person you're involved with well. Many people believe that doing these things makes someone a good boyfriend because men are held to very low standards when it comes to being good partners, but those things are just the basics. They're the simplest things, really—just having a certain level of emotional maturity and behaving like a decent human being.

Relationships are more complicated than that, certainly, because it's not just about being a good or bad partner but about the compatibility between two people. This compatibility is based on two fundamental things: goals and character. It’s not about having identical goals and personalities, or even similar ones, nor about being completely different or opposites. It’s about finding a balance between those two concepts. You can meet someone who checks all the boxes for what an ideal partner might be and still not work out because your personality and theirs don’t mesh, or because your life goals are very different. You might even experience this with someone at one point in your life, meet them again years later, and have it work out because both of you are at a point where a healthy relationship is possible. There are a lot of factors at play.

Severus is a very complicated character with a terrible personality. And that’s just how it is. I love him precisely because he’s a prick with a bad temper, capable of being the most efficient, effective, and functional person in certain aspects but then getting triggered by something and suddenly behaving like a tantrum-throwing child incapable of managing his emotions—especially his bouts of anger. This makes for a fascinating and fun character to explore, but having a partner like that requires a certain kind of person. Severus wouldn’t be an easy boyfriend because he hasn’t had an easy life. He’s never addressed or worked through all the traumas he carries, he’s never learned how to manage his emotions, and he doesn’t have tools to handle them apart from using Occlumency—which is essentially an avoidance mechanism, and we know avoidance mechanisms are the absolute worst when it comes to emotional management.

You’d be dealing with a guy who, first of all, isn’t pleasant. He can have pleasant moments, but it’s not his default. He doesn’t know how to be pleasant and doesn’t like being pleasant. Being unpleasant is a type of protection he’s imposed on himself because he’s spent so many years performing that role to build a wall between himself and the rest of the world, especially to avoid forming personal connections or overly intimate relationships. He doesn’t know how to deal with positivity. I imagine him as someone who’s been through so much that he can’t quite believe he can have something good, and if someone were to ask him out, he’d probably think it was a joke or experience anticipatory anxiety, thinking they’re going to leave him any moment. He’d likely leave first or subconsciously sabotage the relationship to create a self-fulfilling prophecy and maintain the stigma he’s placed on himself—that he can’t be happy and everything goes wrong, blah blah blah.

He’s a deeply depressed person with terrible anger management, someone who would likely lash out over the slightest perceived attack, saying things that are incredibly, deeply hurtful. Then he’d feel terrible about it and, instead of apologizing, would fall into an avoidance spiral out of sheer embarrassment. He’s someone who’s very used to being alone, which makes people quite particular and fussy, often complicating cohabitation.

But on top of all that, he’s someone who wouldn’t chase after you, wouldn’t make the first move, or wouldn’t ask you out again. He’d be too terrified of feeling and losing because his emotional intelligence in that sense is quite stunted. So he’s a complicated guy, a guy with a lot of baggage, and someone who’s like catnip for people with a "rescuer syndrome"—those who want to save broken puppies from the street, “fix him,” or prove to him that life is worth living. That kind of partner would be terrible for Severus because he doesn’t need someone to change him. Lily already tried that, and it went terribly wrong because he has a specific personality, and you can’t put conditions on loving someone. You either love them with all their flaws, or you don’t—period. And that’s okay; it’s not a bad thing—it’s just incompatibility. You’re not going to change Severus, and you don’t have the right to change him. What he needs isn’t a mother or a caretaker; he needs someone who’s his equal, who stands up to him, and who, if he yells, will yell louder.

He needs someone who can understand his messed-up head, maybe even share some of that, someone with the same shitty character but greater emotional maturity at the same time to be the more rational one in the relationship. Someone who doesn’t judge him for what he’s done, who doesn’t even give it much importance. That’s to say, someone who can hold their own with him. I’ve always believed that, for someone deeply traumatized but unworked, the best match is another deeply traumatized person—but one who’s done the work. In other words, someone who has the same issues but has developed the tools to manage them because that creates the perfect balance: you understand the other person, you can handle them, and they understand you and can handle you, but when things go south, the person who’s done the work knows how to manage the situation and de-escalate.

I think that if Severus found someone who could keep up with him, then yes, he could be a good partner. Why not? He’s a very loyal and dedicated guy with almost obsessive devotion to those who earn his respect, trust, or affection. He’d do anything for someone he loves. He’s extremely devoted in his attachments because he’s so intense in that regard. The thing is, that’s not everything. He also needs to be with someone who can provide balance so he doesn’t act like a jerk. If he were with someone who gets scared at the first sarcastic comment or when he blows up over some nonsense, then no, he’d be a terrible partner. I mean, with complex personalities like his, everything depends entirely on the person he’s with and their character. Severus is a very difficult person. I think he could only show that he’s capable of having healthy and functional relationships with someone equally difficult but who has a clearer sense of things than he does.

[ofcrowsanddragons]

Okay so I have this head canon that Remi knits. And it didn’t quite make the cut for my long fic but I feel like he has an emotional reaction the first time he sees Lucanis knitting. So if you’re down a fic where Lucanis and Davrin are still at odds but maybe that happens and Lucanis notices and tries to make an overture.

So first off: I can't read. I wrote this whole thing and then I went back and read your prompt.

This different version has background Davrin x fem!Rook, with Rook being the one who (currently) knits. General shenanigans/character study/fluff, takes place post-Weisshaupt, with Today Could Be The Last in mind.

Out of Spite (Davrin & Lucanis)

“So, uh, Rook appreciated the yarn you got her,” says Davrin as he enters the kitchen.

Lucanis is sitting in a chair in the corner, and the assassin hums in response. “It was no trouble,” he says, his own hands engaged in the process of knitting what looks like a sock. A completed sock already sits on the side table in front of him. “I was in the area for supplies anyway, and she had mentioned what she was short on.”

Davrin narrows his eyes at the assassin. The overflowing basket of fine wool that Rook had found in her quarters didn't sound like an afterthought to him.

“Careful,” he says, nodding at the sock. “If you need two hands for that, you aren't constantly imbibing coffee like you usually do.”

“If I fall asleep,” says Lucanis calmly, “Then Spite can test my reflexes by throwing the knitting needles at you. I'm sure you'll be fine.”

The casual reference to the demon gets Davrin’s hackles up, and he tamps down on his automatic response when he sees the assassin smirking. Like he’s going to let the infuriating fucker win that easily.

Davrin strides across the kitchen to put together a plate of cheese and a glass of water for himself, feeling Lucanis's wary eyes on him.

“It's something to do,” says Lucanis, filling the quiet, “And it's decent dexterity training. If I'm going to be awake, I might as well be useful.”

It's a contrast how the hunter is more deliberate in his own training, and Davrin knows exactly how much food and sleep are required to fuel staying on that knife’s edge that keeps him sharpest. Rook often needs them to head through the Eluvian at a moment's notice, so he’s careful not to run himself ragged with training. Meanwhile, the assassin is either training, doing busywork, or brooding angrily into the middle distance at all hours of the day.

By that logic, he's a liability in the field.

“Sure,” says Davrin, raising a cheese knife to point at the socks, “But do those really match your outfit?”

Lucanis allows a secretive little smile to cross his face. “We trek through the wetlands on a regular basis, getting water in our boots. This blend of wool repels water and dries almost instantly. If the socks are well-made, they'll prevent blisters as well. I don't trust anything I buy quite so well.”

By the time Davrin sits down at the kitchen table, Lucanis is finishing up the second sock and tidying up his workspace. By the time Davrin is halfway through the meal, Lucanis is dropping the pair of socks in front of Davrin’s plate.

“You're in the Hossberg Wetlands even more often than Rook is,” Lucanis explains, and Davrin can almost see a hint of purple in his eyes. “It's important for the team to be well-equipped.”

Davrin presses his lips into a thin line, thinking better of his first, reflexive response. Before he can come up with a second one, the assassin is out the door and heading to the library.

The Warden studies the socks. Lucanis had been handling them with his bare hands, so it was unlikely this was a prank involving some kind of super-assassin itching powder. The Warden-blue base colour is interspersed with swirls of the orange Davrin favours, so he really should have seen this coming.

He leans back, wondering how one guy can be this much of an asshole by being nice. Lucanis may have won this round, but the assassin won't be laughing when Davrin has his revenge.

[blankticket]

Even with his face turned away from Vash, hands visibly tense as he draws his knees closer to himself. Shoulders square in, tense, shake, go still. There's only so much he can do to hide the hurt.

" … You still wanna call yourself the worst now?"

A half-beat of consideration. Then the hooded figure's shoulders shake again, head lifting up, but it's more of an impression of laughter than anything.

"Sure. Gotta be, if I'm bringing all of this outta you." It's the same principle as always: whatever pain he was feeling must be negligible compared to what his predecessor had obviously endured for decades on end, alone. And despite all the lecturing from just now, his own pain still felt unimportant. If anything, all that ire justified the thought. It's this line of thinking that prompts the predictable brick wall into continuing, anyway:

"The point of talkin' about it with me earlier than this isn't about how I would've felt about it, whatever I'd have to say about it. Of course I'm not entitled to that."

The point was that Legato Bluesummers would have been important to anticipate, should he arrive to Spirale. The point was that he wanted to be there for Vash, because he cared about how he felt. He didn't want to leave him alone in that suffering; not when it's his responsibility to understand him. But maybe—oh—maybe the other guy really never felt that way. Never needed him for any of it.

A mitten clumsily comes up to the opening of the hood, only to fall back into hugging at his knees instead. "And no, I didn't think you'd have all the answers. I just thought you'd wanna…"

Want to find them together? So what, the other Vash wouldn't feel alone? So that they could fool themselves into thinking they were doing others right, "protecting" them from problems caused by them to begin with?

Why would he want to do that, with someone who's so eager to die, someone who clearly doesn't know what he's talking about?

The younger Plant lapses into a silent trance then, quietly letting all the accusations soak in deeper. It'd do them both good for him to quit talking and pick himself apart for once, and to quit from putting any more words in the older Vash's mouth. Maybe it'd encourage the other guy to lay into him some more, while he was at it.

What the hell was he thinking, pretending to do all of this for Vash's sake, for everyone's sake? He hasn't helped one bit; worse than doing nothing, he's evidently only reopened old wounds and wasted time. Chosen to be dishonest around everyone he'd promised to keep true to. He's forced Vash to relive memories he wasn't ready to handle, feel things he wasn't ready to share; been unfair to him, over and over again. How could anyone look at what he's done now, and stay fooled into thinking it was to protect anyone?

God—how stupid could he get? No wonder Vash hated him this much.

He was right to air out every bit of criticism now, to look at the wrong Vash's insistence of humility and vulnerability, and see it for what it really is: childish embarrassment in getting caught for all his incompetence, trying to do things nobody asked him to do, and not even getting that right. Vash would've been better off if this worthless edition of himself had just…

"I'm sorry." It's said softly, but even then, he feels disgusted at the way he has to steal the other's voice to say it. "I should've known. I'm sorry for hurting you this bad."

★ --;; "Talk like what?"

It comes out bitter, mean. An angry old dog protecting the wound in its side. "Like I don't have all the answers?" He still sounds just as tired and wrung out as he feels, as though the nervous energy had all at once seeped through the soles of his feet down into the freezing pavement. All that's been left in its wake is the simmering pain that's been there for years, the anger that lies draped across it. " 'Cause I don't know how or when you got that in your head, but I've never had them."

Even without the denial of space, Vash wouldn't have gone to sit back down. There's a wall there, now; maybe one that had always been there. Had definitely always been there in some capacity, its corporeality shifting in and out of existence. Playing pretend that it hadn't helped either of them.

"And now you're here puttin' words in my mouth 'cause it's what you wanna hear again. That's never what I meant!" The more he talks the more that misplaced resentment and shame sits hot at the back of his neck, behind his ears, burns in his chest. At come point his fists had clenched at his sides.

"I'm mad 'cause you keep doin' stupid shit on my behalf and brushin' it off, 'cause god forbid I try and care about your wellbeing! You told me you don't wanna die, but you sure as hell don't know how ta' show it!"

"And then every time I try an' get it through your head it's either like talkin' to a brick wall or you gettin' mad at me for tryin' ta' help you in the first place! Mad at me for not carin' and then mad at me when I do! And I know I messed up by not talkin' about it! I know!"

The words coming out his mouth, the accusations being thrown— they don't make Vash feel any better. All they do is make that horrible feeling churning through him feel that much worse. But it's like a dam's burst open, the flow impossible to stop.

"No, I didn't want you to resent me for not talkin' about it— but even if I had, what would you have said? That I shouldn't have done it? I *know* that! I live with that every day! But he wouldn't listen, I couldn't just let him go and kill Liv after Nick had just—"

The words catch in his throat. At some point his entire body had tensed back up, muscles held in place so tightly even though the one who had made them that way wasn't physically there to keep then locked and frozen. It takes a good few moments of silence, steam rising up from heavy breaths, before his jaw and throat finally loosen enough to start croaking again.

" ... You still wanna call yourself the worst now?" he asks quietly. " 'Cause I'm tired of pretendin' to go along with it."

[cubbihue]

I was just looking at you itty bitty FOP au (it's amazing and cool btw)

But one question was floating around my head the entire time I was looking through it

What other things does Changeling Timmy hate/dislikes besides muffins?

Timmy doesn't like celebrating his birthday. His parents never celebrated it at his house, so getting one feels... odd.

Once, his friends tried throwing him a surprise birthday party. At the time, it had been the biggest most exciting thing he'd received! A whole party just for him!!!

But afterwards, Timmy found that he actually... hated the attention he got. Being at the center of everything, having everybody watch as you open presents, covered in silly string and streamers and confetti, where all his opinions mattered above others... No, he'd rather avoid doing that again.

Timmy plans to never tell people about his birthday when he moves to his new location. He doesn't like surprises or sudden noise.

Bitties Series: [Start] > [Previous] > [Next]

[strawberrycamel]

hey psst c'mere... no a little closer... a little closer- there we go

Loop lips are part of a racist caricature of Black people. Stop drawing Black characters with loop lips. I don't care how they look in canon, it's racist.

okay that's all you can go

[sskk-manifesto]

Ep 5!!!

[phantajam]

my hot take about descendants is that NONE of the core four were ready for a relationship until maybe like, the third movie (rant in tags)

[ratvich]

cries forever. and ever btw

[afniel]

AH I REMEMBERED WHAT I WAS GONNA SAY EARLIER but it's kind of stupid, lmao.

So my partner is getting into brewing beer and I got them a Tilt, which is a Bluetooth hydrometer. It measures specific gravity and temperature, which are things you want to know so that you don't kill your yeast or whatever. Except the sensor's Bluetooth range is super short, and it basically runs via a phone app, and the temperature we're logging currently is the crawlspace, accessible via the staircase closet. So they were like, wait, what do we do about this, because I can't leave my phone in the closet, that's my alarm clock.

In a kind of ridiculous turn of life imitating art, I was like, hold up, I got just the thing right at my desk. Bam. Old phone. We just needed to scrounge up a charger because the battery is so dead that after charging just enough to power on it claimed it was at 53% (to be fair to it, there is a very real chance that it's correct, and it just holds no charge at this point so the capacity is just THAT low) and now it lives in the closet logging sensor data.

And I was like, you know...didn't I just solve a major story detail with a much larger version of this...yeah, no, this is all vaguely familiar somehow, power supply issues and all. Kind of cool that the concept works though. Kind of weird that it came up at all?

We are not gonna talk about the fact that I still have at least two more ancient-ass phones in a drawer where that came from because look, man, sometimes you just need a camera/mic/mini computer with Bluetooth and wifi that fits in a pocket, and people just get rid of these things, but not me. I actually could build a shitty security system out of them if I was reaaaally inclined. I mean. I'm not. But it's technically possible.

For real though, If I pick up any stupid maker projects I still high-key am thinking about slapping Bluetooth into a necomimi headset and running that through an Arduino and learning to code just enough to let me skip songs/change the volume on Spotify with my brain, because it's entirely doable, and I mean yeah I could do that on my phone remotely too, but that's not funny, now, is it. I'm just not sure it's $350+ of parts funny. Kind of a big investment just to prove the point that haha look I am the extremely ADHD type of lazy where I would rather solve a problem via the most convoluted and complicated Rube-Goldberg type ass machine way possible rather than just perform a single simple action.

YEAH I'VE BEEN THIS SCATTERED ALL DAY AND I REALLY SHOULD GO TO BED SHOULDN'T I. I started playing Satisfactory. Mistakes were made. I'm going to dream about conveyor belts again and I did it to myself...