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freelancearsonist · 7 months

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Hold Me Like a Knife

Joel Miller x fem!Reader

Rated MA for p in v sex, oral (f receiving), fingering, handjobs, smoking/nicotine use, excessive drinking, characters not knowing how to handle emotions properly (same), ANGST [please let me know if i missed anything at all :)]

6,003 Words

A/N: thank you to the lovely @shakespeareanwannabe for being my ever faithful beta reader ily 🥺

Smoke disperses in abstract swirls from Joel’s parted lips, the tang of nicotine making his taste buds prickle. It’s been a long time since he’s been afforded the luxury of a cigarette and this first drag makes him think he might not want to pick the habit back up, after all. But you worked hard to find these for him after he mentioned he missed having a smoke, and he’s not one to let a gift go unappreciated. Especially now that gifts are off the table.

It’s become routine at this point. Waking up in the middle of the night; reaching for you, realizing all over again that you’re not there anymore; ruminating on what’s happened, how he’s taken you for granted. At least he has his cigarette to keep him company.

There’s no chance of going back to sleep for him–it’s 4AM anyway, close enough to a full night’s sleep. He takes another drag and decides it’s not as bad anymore. He just needs to get reacclimated to it.

He only allows himself to savor half the cigarette before he stubs it out in the ashtray on the nightstand–another gift from you–to save for next time he needs it. He wants to make this pack last; he doesn’t care as much about maintaining the habit as he does about having any little piece of you he can.

Two hours later, he’s bathed to the best of his ability given the stunted resources in the quarantine zone and ready for another day in hell.

He didn’t hate it nearly as much until he started working with you again.

When you see him you wear the same soft smile you always do, nodding your head in greeting as if nothing is wrong. His face remains flat as he nods back. Nothing he can do but play along–pretend you were never his to lose in the first place. After all, if you haven’t heard his heart fracturing into a million pieces by now, you never will.

“Either quit starin’ or go over there and talk to her,” Tess tells him sternly. He immediately snaps his eyes away and tries to shoot her a glare, but he’s a bit too embarrassed for it to actually land.

“M’not starin’,” he grunts.

She actually almost cracks a smile at his denial. “The hell you’re not, you look like a lost puppy. Why don’t you talk to her?”

“She ain’t interested in talkin’.”

“Bullshit. That’s all she wants.”

Maybe Tess is right. Maybe he’s the one who’s afraid. He’s not going to admit that, though.

“If she wanted to talk to me, she’d come talk to me.”

“You probably scared her off.”

Joel slams his hand against the wagon bed, startling everyone within a ten meter radius except Tess. “That’s enough.”

“Touchy.” Tess rolls her eyes but backs off nonetheless, not interested in poking the bear any further.

Joel lets it go and turns his attention back to his assigned job for the day, mentally preparing himself for another night of washing the stench of death from himself and his clothes. Normally, you would do it for him without complaining. Now it’s just another addition to the list of efforts he didn’t appreciate enough while he had you.

Even though he dreads the consequences, he allows himself to become completely preoccupied with his work in a way he normally wouldn’t. It’s a reprieve from the constant swirling of his mind, from the overthinking that keeps him up at night or invades his dreams when he finally finds rest.

The day is over far too soon, and then he’s back in his little apartment with nothing but his own mind for company.

His mind hasn’t been a friend lately.

He looks around and everywhere his dark amber eyes catch, he sees you. You sprawled on the worn couch underneath a threadbare blanket, you swaying your hips to the rhythm of silent music in the kitchen, you casually dropping the towel wrapped around your naked body to the floor as you step out of the shower and lure him down the hall to the bedroom.

He wants to crawl into a deep, dark pit when he remembers what he said and how he chased you away. Your only sin was introducing him to someone as your man, and he played like he was upset about it because that’s not what this was ever supposed to be. There had been an agreement, in the beginning, that feelings wouldn’t be involved. It would be you, him, separate, occasionally helping each other out.

It so quickly turned into you and him, so inseparable you were practically living together. Neither of you even tried to stop it despite the agreement. And Joel was fine with it, liked it even. Until it was put into words.

Because he’s not supposed to be anyone’s. He’s Joel Miller, and he’s not deserving of belonging to anyone; including himself.

He didn’t mean to push you away. It was more out of instinct, an inborn urge to self-destruct.

The instinct has won, because he feels like mere pieces at this point. Like you’ve taken a sledgehammer to his heart repeatedly, which really isn’t fair to you. Space was his decision–you didn’t even fight it.

With a third of whiskey in his hand and an ache in his jaw from having it unconsciously clenched so long, he slumps down on his time-worn couch and begins a long night of rehashing mistakes and feeling bad for himself.

It could be so easily fixed if he just swallowed his pride. It’s a competition of will at this point–a game to see who can survive without the other for the longest. He hates that he’s losing, that it’s not affecting you; that even though it was his choice, he’s the one who’s suffering the most.

He must spill his drink–although he can’t find where it possibly could’ve been spilled, everything around him is dry–because it’s gone within a few minutes. He allows himself another glass as a reward for surviving a particularly shitty day.

When he comes to in the morning, there’s a pounding in his head so loud that it drowns out any other sound he might hear. It takes him a moment to realize that the pounding is on the door–then he processes how blinding the sun is coming through the slats of the tattered blinds precariously hanging over the window.

Joel pushes himself up from the couch with a grunt and stumbles a little, nearly falling right back into place. He curses himself for becoming such a lightweight as he stomps his way over to the door and throws it open.

“Jesus Christ, you reek,” Tess chokes, pushing past him to make her way inside. “I’ve only been knockin’ for ten minutes, what the hell were you doin’?”

“Sleeping,” he tells her with a pointed glare. It doesn’t ruffle her at all–it never does.

“Missed morning shift,” she notes. “How much you have to drink?”

“Not enough.”

“Alright, that’s it,” she tells him with a sigh. “It’s time to stop with the pity party if you’re not gonna play the hand you’re dealt. You know how stupid you’re being? She wants you. You want her. Two words’ll fix the whole thing and you’ll go right back to bein’ the disgusting little lovebirds you are. Apologize.”

“No,” he insists without thinking it over. Because he knows she’s right–he owes you an apology. And he also knows you’ll take him back the instant he delivers.

Which is exactly why he can’t. He knows he doesn’t deserve another chance to take you for granted. He didn’t appreciate you enough when he had you, and you deserve to find someone who will. Asking for another chance would be the most selfish thing he’s ever done, and Joel Miller is not a selfish man.

“Then drink yourself to death.” As much as Tess plays at being frustrated with him, he’s never seen her this legitimately upset. “I’m done cleanin’ up for you. You’re acting pathetic, Joel Miller. Get yourself together or get yourself over.”

And before he can stop her, apologize, beg, plead, do anything besides bite his tongue in pure shock, she’s gone. The slam of the door rings through his head for a good minute longer than it should.

All he can do is slump like a sack of potatoes onto the couch, his center of gravity off balance from the weight in his heart and the churning in his stomach.

It was never supposed to be like this; it was never supposed to get this far. You were supposed to fight him, demand he stay, do anything to make him feel like you really want to be with him. Instead, you acquiesced without resistance. You listened to his offer of space and accepted without hesitance. Almost like you were looking for an out.

That’s what hurts most, maybe. That you can still afford to smile at him like nothing ever happened between you when he feels like he’ll never smile again.

He knows he can’t lose Tess over this–she’s the only friend he’s got and a damned good business partner. He knows it’s time to clean up his act. What he doesn’t know is if he actually can without you by his side.

Baby steps. He decides to start by showering and changing his clothes; the freshness should make him feel astronomically better.

He lets the limited hot water run over his sore muscles and through his hair, trying to wash away memories of you along with the dirt and grime.

He thinks of long nights spent sneaking out after curfew–his pack heavy on his aching shoulders but barely feeling it when you’re so near. He thinks of nights in this apartment together, hours and hours spent reminiscing and planning new trips and even more hours spent in comfortable silence. He thinks of you on your knees in this very shower with him, of how he felt akin to a god beneath your praise and worship.

He lets the thoughts swirl for just a moment, and then he watches as they trickle down the drain.

A towel off and a change of clothes later, and he’s almost a new man. The hole in his chest has shrunk a bit, at least.

One deep breath, then another. Joel can almost feel you slipping through his fingers, and for once the sensation doesn’t terrify him. There’s a quiet solitude, a resignation to his mind now. He’ll never be happy, and that’s okay. He might at least be able to find peace if he can’t have you.

He finds Tess and apologizes–at least in the best fashion Joel Miller can manage. It’s a grunted “sorry” and not much more, but it’s enough.

And then, because he has nothing else to do with his free time, he throws himself completely into survival. Working long shifts at the fires during the day, and even longer shifts as a smuggler at night. The crows feet at the corners of his eyes deepen and his hair grays rapidly, but he finds a way out. He finds a way away from you, and he doesn’t hesitate to take it.

Somehow, you beat him to Jackson. He doesn’t know how–he’s sure you were still in Boston when he left–but you’re waiting there for him when he arrives.

Waiting maybe isn’t the best way of putting it; you look at him like you’re looking at a poltergeist. Not just a ghost of your past, but a volatile and unpredictable one at that.

He can’t blame you. He ditched you, after all–not just emotionally, but physically.

You observe from afar for a while, like a timid animal meeting its first human. You watch his reunion with his brother, how he seems to fit like a puzzle piece into such a tight knit community. You even see him interacting with the young girl he’s brought along with him, and you wonder if he’s changed. If maybe he’s allowed his heart to open even just the slightest fraction.

The whole of Jackson gathers to greet this newest member, and you’re on the very edge of the crowd. But it’s like there’s an invisible string connecting the two of you—like the sea of people parts to make a path for your reunion.

Joel doesn’t know what to say. It’s been so long, and yet it feels like just yesterday he still had you in his arms.

You nod at him and awkwardly shuffle your feet against the cracked pavement. ”Hey.”

”Hey.” He stuffs his hands in his pockets to keep himself from reaching for you.

You don’t show the same restraint.

In mere seconds you’re on him, arms around his neck and lips pressed to his like he’s air—like if you don’t breathe him in you’ll die.

He grunts in surprise at the suddenness, but more at the fact that he can’t believe this is happening. That you’re really here, really in his arms, really kissing him. He doesn’t know if it would be better to talk through everything first, but he’s missed you so badly that there doesn’t seem to be another way to communicate it other than to show you. His hands settle on your waist and pull you tightly against him, lips parting to allow your tongue access. It’s harsh and it’s frenzied, but it’s beautiful in the way a force of nature is.

And then you remember the prying eyes surrounding you and you reluctantly pull out of his grasp.

There’s a bit of muffled conversation and a particularly loud wolf-whistle from Tommy before the crowd disperses, and you’re alone together for the first time in more than a year.

”Sorry—“ “That was—”

He clears his throat, and you nod in signal for him to take his turn.

“How did you get here?”

“It was a fluke, really. I caught a radio broadcast and decided to check it out. The QZ didn’t feel like home anymore after you left.”

Joel tries as hard as he can not to read too far into that, but he can’t help the fleeting hope that it means you wanted to fix things. That maybe you weren’t as unbothered as you always seemed to be.

You clear your throat and continue. “But… what about you? Who’s the kid? Where’s Tess?”

”I’m takin’ the kid to the fireflies. Tess is gone.”

Your face falls instantly. You’ve admittedly always been a little bit jealous of Tess and her closeness to Joel, but you never wished this upon her.

“Oh. I’m sorry.”

Joel grunts noncommittally, and you’re left to awkwardly shuffle your feet while you think of something else to say. You’ve spent so much time apart, there should be so much more to talk about. But even in the QZ, talking was never your speciality—and it definitely wasn’t Joel’s. More than anything with him, you’re familiar with the comfortable silence that surrounds two people who’ve spent a lifetime together. Your lifetime with Joel just happened to be over the span of a couple of months; but that’s how it goes with someone who matches you so completely. There doesn’t have to be anything said when he already knows what you’re thinking—when you’re two parts of a whole.

”Sorry. About kissing you. I… I’m normally better controlled,” you mumble.

”Don’t be.” He clears his throat, shifts his feet—does everything within his power from making eye contact with you because he knows if he does he won’t be able to stop himself. “Wasn’t bad.”

”We did agree we weren’t gonna do that anymore,” you point out.

”That was back in the QZ.”

”And here?”

The hope in your voice is unmistakable. You’ve missed him, and that’s almost impossible for him to comprehend. Joel wants nothing more than to lean into your hope; to give you—and him—exactly what you want. You’ve missed out on so much time, and there’s little time available to make up for it.

Fuck it, he decides. “Here? I’m pullin’ my head out of my ass.”

And then he kisses you, and it’s not sweet. It burns—with passion, desire, regret. He presses his lips to yours like he’s finally realizing what he’s lost and might never get back. Joel Miller isn’t a man who can say sorry easily, but he says it to you now with his lips, and his tongue, and his hands.

It feels like you’re learning him all over again. You marvel at how tall he is, how broad his shoulders are as you run your palms across them. You revel in the softness of his lips and the contrasting scratch of his patchy beard. More than anything, you’re in awe of the feeling of his hands—how familiar they feel even after so long as they trail down your neck from your face on the way to your hips.

You pull away sooner than you want to, but you both seem to realize that you can’t just snog in the middle of the street. Most of the crowd has cleared out by now, but there’s a few sets of wandering eyes to worry about.

“Tommy didn’t happen to show you your house, did he?”

Joel’s brow furrows in the most adorable way as he suddenly becomes aware of his surroundings.

“I have a house? Is that where he’s taken Ellie off to?”

“C’mon, follow me.” With a wave of your hand, you’re headed down the street. Joel stands frozen in disbelief for a moment, utterly dumbfounded that you’re really here and really still want him the way you used to. He has to jog the few steps to catch up to your side, and then every ounce of effort goes into not grabbing your hand and lacing his fingers with yours.

You clear your throat in preparation for the question you have to ask. “I… I swear I don’t want to push labels or anything, but… what exactly is going on here?”

Joel sighs, and it’s easy to mistake it as a sigh of annoyance. You open your mouth to expand on your question, but he stops you.

”I made a mistake. I know it, I knew it while I was makin’ it. But I didn’t stop myself because… because you deserve better.”

You open your mouth again, and he holds up a hand to stop you. “Don’t argue. You know it’s true. And the thing is… I’ve spent a lot of time bein’ selfish, if fightin’ to survive can be called that. You’re good, and I don’t deserve to be selfish when it comes to you.”

”I want you to be selfish,” you insist as firmly as you can. “Joel, you don’t seem to understand how much I adore you, how much I rely on you. How much it hurt to lose you.”

He tries to shrug, but it’s half-hearted. There’s a kind of sick satisfaction to the fact that you were struggling just as much as he was. ”You seemed fine.”

”I was dying, Joel.” There are tears in your eyes now, and he feels guilty for insinuating that your pain wasn’t real.

”I was, too.”

”I just wish you would’ve talked to me,” you whisper. “I could’ve made it better. Things could’ve been different.”

”But they aren’t.” His tone is firm, but not malicious. He’s not trying to be mean—all he wants is for you to understand that there’s no point dwelling on the past. It’s something he’s learned over twenty years; that no matter how hard to focuses on all the mistakes he’s made and the things he regrets, there’s no way to undo any of them. No point in focusing on them at all, really.

”I… I miss you,” you tell him. “I don’t wanna keep going to bed alone and waking up wishing you were there. I don’t want to pretend we’re just friends with benefits or whatever the fuck we were supposed to have been. I don’t want to lose you over any more stupid arguments. I loved you, Joel. I still do.”

Joel swallows thickly. He’s known for a long time how he feels, and he also knows he doesn’t deserve to feel the way he does. Telling you might be the hardest thing he’s ever had to do. ”I love you too.”

”Then can we… stop being stupid?” There’s a giggle behind your tears, and it brings the smallest of smiles to his face.

”Yeah. Yeah, I think so.” He kisses you again, pausing on the steps of the house he’s supposed to occupy so he can pull you tightly into his arms. This one is sweeter, almost like a promise. Like he’s going to be a new man and this is his seal of authentication.

He scoops you up in his arms despite your squeal of protest, barely pausing enough to read the note on the door.

Took Ellie on a grand tour. We’ll meet y’all at dinner. - Tommy

You glance at your watch, then look up into his eyes. He’s thinking exactly what you are; his dark eyes are burning with tension. ”A whole hour of pure uninterrupted bliss. What’re we gonna do with ourselves?”

”I’ve got a couple ideas,” Joel grunts as he pushes the door open with his back, careful not to jostle you too much. “Startin’ with makin’ up for lost time.”

This time, he kisses you like you’re unbreakable. Like he’s diamond and testing your hardness, and you’re determined to meet his standards. You meet his lips with ferocity and take the initiative to slide your tongue over his bottom lip, reveling in the slight uptilt of his lips as he parts them for you.

You’re still in tune to his reactions, even after so long. You still know exactly where to pull his hair to make his hips buck towards you, where to kiss his neck to make him moan, where to place your hands so he’ll pull you impossibly tighter against him. He’s a puzzle you solved long ago, and even after taking the pieces apart you know where to put them back together again.

Joel’s head is all but spinning as he pulls you deeper inside, ignoring the urge to explore the unfamiliar surroundings for now in favor of finding a place that’s suitable to take you. He’s feverish and hurried, far from gentle because he knows he doesn’t need to be. You’re taking everything he’ll give and more. Later, there will be time for the gentle love-making that he admittedly prefers sometimes. For now, it’s desperate, wild, overwhelming in the best way possible. It’s getting reacquainted after so much time apart—old lovers using old tricks.

His hands have gotten rougher and even more calloused, but they remember you like it’s only been days since they were last on you. His palms trace every curve like you’re precious art. He holds you like water, like the slightest mishandle will send you spilling away from him; in complete contrast to the way he kisses you, harsh and nearly biting. It fogs your mind, sends you into autopilot. Your muscle memory takes command as you strip him bare and toss his clothes to the side, appreciating how little he’s changed besides the length of his hair and the extra gray that’s sprouted. He’s still your Joel, even after being apart for what seems like a lifetime.

”I never appreciated you enough,” he whispers into your neck as he unhooks your bra with a snap of his fingers. “Never worshiped you the way I should’ve.”

”I’m not a god,” you tell him, breath heavy even after parting from his lips.

”You are to me,” he mumbles into your skin, contrasting the honeyed praise with a stinging bite to the precise spot that makes your back arch.

He trails gentler bites down the flesh of your torso, leaving marks that contrast his statement. Gods aren’t meant to be owned, and yet he claims you in every way he can. He lays on you any little trace of his possession he can, because he knows how easily it could be taken away from him. He lost you once before, marks faded from your skin completely. He doesn’t ever want it to happen again.

The scent of you is heady, mouth-watering to a mind that was so sure it would never have you again. He knows he’s pressed for time, and he really does consider taking all of it to drink from you; to get his fill and leave himself unsatisfied if he has to.

But you’re whining and squirming, tugging at his hair in a feeble attempt to pull him up to you, and he knows he’d much rather give you what you want.

You’re wet enough to take him, but it’s still nearly painful when he pushes his full length into you for the first time in so long. He growls at the sensation, at every little pulse and flutter of your cunt around him as you struggle to accommodate him.

Your breath is airy and whiny as you glance up at him. ”Joel…”

”I know baby,” he coos, fighting for restraint so he doesn’t hurt you. “I know it’s a lot. But you can take it pretty girl, can’t you?”

You would take literally anything so long as he keeps talking to you like that.

You nod up at him, but it’s not enough.

”Words, honey. Tell me you can take me.”

He doesn’t miss the way your cunt contracts around him as you vow, “I can take you, Joel.”

”Atta girl.”

He starts off easy, slow enough not to overwhelm you but deep enough to nearly make you choke. His hips are flush with your ass at the base of every stroke, like he’s trying to push even further with each thrust of his hips. Maybe he is. Maybe all he wants is to get deeper and deeper until there’s nothing left out—until you’ve consumed him completely. He already feels halfway there as it is.

Your legs wrap around his waist in a desperate attempt to que him in on what you need—not long, languid strokes but hard, fast thrusts that’ll get the job done quickly. There is a time constraint to factor in, after all.

He grants your wish instantly, glad for the invitation because he’s finding it hard to continue his facade of self-control. He ruts hard and fiercely, one hand trailing from your waist to your knee so he can prop your leg up and allow an even deeper angle.

With the slightest shift of his hips he finds it—the spot that makes you writhe and scream for more. He revels in all the noises you make for him as you toss your head back and forth, like the pleasure is so overwhelming that you want to squirm away yet press closer simultaneously.

“That’s my girl,” he mumbles as his free hand finds its way between your entangled bodies. It’s almost like you’re magnetic, his fingers find your clit so easily. The small, firm circles he rubs against it with his calloused fingers are almost too much, but also almost not enough. Not until he picks up his pace, drilling into exactly where you need him with a fervor you didn’t even know he possessed.

It takes all the effort you can muster to warn him, ”S-so close…”

”I know sweetie,” he purrs, breath heavy against your ear as he shifts his hand to hitch your leg just the slightest bit higher over his hip. “It’s okay. Let go f’me.”

You’re nothing if not obedient, and Joel knows it. It’s only confirmed by the way you squeeze around him in a vice grip, legs shaking in his grip as your eyes practically roll back in your head. It’s bone-shattering pleasure, like he’s pulling you apart stitch by stitch and sewing you back together again with newer, more pleasurable fabric.

He’s quick to pull out, maybe a little prematurely as you’re still twitching with the aftershocks of your own orgasm, but even his pleasure-addled brain knows the risk he runs if he stays buried deep inside you any longer. He gives himself two, three firm strokes, then allows himself to spill over your stomach in thick, hot ropes that make you moan all over again.

He doesn’t hold himself up much longer before collapsing on the too-soft mattress with a heavy grunt.

”Missed this,” you murmur next to his ear as he drapes an arm over your waist. He pulls you in close and hums at the way you nuzzle your face into his neck despite how sweaty he must be.

“How much time we got left?”

You take a peek at your watch, then groan. “Five minutes.”

”Shit.” He’s not ready to let you go yet, but he pushes himself up to sit on the edge of the bed anyway.

”We could just skip dinner,” you suggest with a hopeful pout to your lips as you stretch out further over the floral bedspread.

As much as he wants to… “Can’t. Gotta grab Ellie. Can’t leave her alone all day.”

”You must really care about her.” There’s no malice to your tone—it’s more surprise.

He simply grunts in response—he’ll never admit it, but he can’t deny it either. “C’mon. Clothes on.”

He gathers the pile from the floor and tosses it to you, practically burying you where you lay.

”Forgot how bossy you are,” you grumble but follow the instruction nevertheless.

It’s a little awkward, sitting across the table from your lover’s family like your legs aren’t still a little weak from being so thoroughly fucked. But Joel’s hand is a constant on your thigh, and you even catch him smirking a little as Ellie grills you with a million questions—mostly about your relationship with Joel.

For once, everything feels normal. For once, you forget about the crumbling world around you. In this bubble with Joel, everything is stable and secure. There’s a future on the horizon and a chance to write your own story.

You drag Joel back home at the soonest opportunity, patiently biding your time while he settles Ellie in for the night. You hear heated conversation bordering on an argument, but he doesn’t say anything about it when he enters the room for the night.

Instead he drags you to him in a heated kiss, his large hands practically engulfing your face as his tongue sweeps into your mouth to re-familiarize himself with known yet long-unexplored territory.

He hates having to tamp down your moans, but he loves being able to swallow them with his own mouth as his fingers trace through your slick folds. You’re still puffy, wet, and sensitive from his earlier onslaught, but it doesn’t deter you one bit. He revels in each little whimper and gasp, all the involuntary squirms and twitches as he brings you to the brink on his thick, calloused fingers. He swallows every little sound with a fevered kiss until your lips are swollen and red—and then you turn the tables on him. You take him in your palm, whispering praises about how your hand can barely close around him while stroking him with the gentle, languid movements that you know drive him crazy. He fights to keep his sounds down as you settle close in his lap, chest pressed to his and legs locked tight around his thighs until the moment he has to pull your hand away from fear of finishing too fast.

This is the exact foil of the way he fucked you earlier in a frenzied, desperate passion. Now it’s soft and languid, more like searching and exploring than trying to find the end goal. It’s hot and sweaty and sticky from where your skin is pressed so tightly against his, but his strong hands only drag you closer and closer and you really don’t even consider pulling away—not when he gently tugs your hair to tilt your head back for a deeper kiss, not when he lifts you up so effortlessly to help you sink down on his achingly hard cock, not even when his hands squeeze your hips hard enough to leave bruises at the feeling of bottoming out in your soaked cunt.

You couldn’t count the minutes you’re on top of him even if you cared to try. It’s an eternity of softly rocking hips and open-mouthed kisses, like if he breathes air from anywhere besides your lungs it’ll poison him. He doesn’t even care that it practically feels like torture—like not enough but simultaneously far too much as you do nothing more than rock on his length. It takes a lifetime before he loses his patience and anchors your hips in his capable hands so he can fuck you properly. He guides you to bounce on him, hitting deeper with each perfectly matched upward thrust of his own hips.

You’re falling apart before you even know what’s hit you, biting your lip almost to the point of drawing blood to keep your sounds under control as you fall limp in his arms.

And Joel—sweet, sweet Joel—has the foresight to check in with you before he does what he has to.

”Good, baby? Feel okay? Wanna stop?”

You shake your head, and it takes you a moment to find breath enough to tell him, “Don’t stop. Come in me.”

The demand is so unexpected that it hits him like a tidal wave—and before he knows it, his cock is twitching with forceful spasms as he paints you from the inside out until you’re dripping his spend out around his softening length.

Evidently, you’re not the only one caught up in this bubble of paradise within the walls of Jackson.

He doesn’t say anything, just rolls onto his side so he can hold you closer without his cock slipping from your warmth. That’s exactly how you fall asleep—him snuggly inside you, kissing your hair and whispering the sweetest of nothings into your ear.

When you wake up, you feel empty in more ways than one.

There’s dust particles swirling in the sunbeam streaming through the far window, and your stomach sinks when you reach over and feel Joel’s side of the bed completely cold.

You try not to jump to conclusions, but you know exactly what you’ll find even before you read the note left on the nightstand.

Easier not to say goodbye. I promised I’d take Ellie to the Fireflies, and you know I always make good on my promises.

I promise I’ll come back for you.

Joel

It’s not a promise that he can make with complete certainty, and you know it. You’re sure he knew it, too; and yet he did it anyway, promised you the impossible.

You remember far too suddenly that there’s risks involved with literally anything done in this crumbling, broken world—and just like that, the perfect little bubble you’ve lived in for the past sixteen hours has popped. There’s no fairytale endings here, no happily ever afters.

There’s you, alone and aching, hoping beyond hope the man you love will return to your side.

And there’s Joel, out in the wilderness somewhere, wondering if he’s even worthy of returning to your side.

Maybe he’s not. But maybe making good on this promise—dropping Ellie off so they can find a cure—will tip his scales. Maybe he’ll be worthy of finally settling down with you the way he wants to after this one last job. He knows he’ll have to spend hours upon hours apologizing to you for it, but it would be worth it to know that he finally made the world at least a little bit better rather than worse—to know that he’s finally done something for you to be proud of.

He knows he has to prove himself one way or another before he can return to your side. And he will.

After all, Joel Miller is a man who always makes good on his promises.

THE END

Want to see more from me in the future? Follow @freelancearsonist-updates and turn on post notifications to be notified when I post new fics!

Want to support me? Please consider donating to or commissioning me through my Ko-Fi, I would really appreciate it! 💕

#cece writes #joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller smut #the last of us #the last of us fanfiction #the last of us smut

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painted-bees · 4 months

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You know, if/when Margie ever goes to get assessed for ADHD or such, it'll be over some executive function-related failure on a project that she had hoped would prove to her that she can excel at things so long as she actually 'cares' about them. It'd be something music related for sure--maybe some kind of collaborative videogame music charity thing that some other online music nerds have organized together--I dunno what the indie online musician equivalent of a "zine" is lmfao

Like, it's not even a big prestige thing, and she's not getting any money from it--but it's an exciting project and she gets to compose covers of her favorite viddy game songs and have her music featured alongside other artists she enjoys. But--you know, there's a hard deadline. And there are certain expectations--she want's to make something good and memorable with this.

She gets started on it, and it's going well--well enough for her to be like, "great, I can come back to this later and I'll have it done no problem!" And then she forgets. And then she gets a reminder in her email that submissions are due by the end of the week. The email was sent on Monday, it's Thursday evening. She panics, and tries to put together the rest of the composition that same night, dismayed beyond words that she had put this thing off until literally the last minute. And it's not coming together, she had this great sound and idea in her head, and now it's failing to materialize for her. Her mounting frustration and panic has built up past being a helpful motivator, and is now actively sabotaging her efforts until she can't do anything but cry about it. It's 3 am, the work isn't done, it's isn't going to get done...she utterly failed. At this thing she's good at, that she wanted to do, that she was eager to be a part of.

Materially, she loses nothing by being like "well, I can ask for an extension, and if that's not possible then oh well." It wasn't a paid gig, it wasn't some huge, prestigious feature, there were no awards or accolades on the line, really. But it was supposed to be an easy thing she could do to remind herself that she's perfectly capable at completing things if she just--yanno--cares enoug, puts her mind to it and deems it worth her effort. It was supposed to be easy self-reassurance. And she failed.

and so she's crying in the wee hours of the morning over some small, unremarkable thing that she had chosen to do, for free, in her spare time because she hung all her confidence and self-worth on her ability to complete it in a manner that she could be proud of.

And Raf's the one holding her, trying to figure out how to impress on her that this whole fiasco is not...a suitable way of measuring her worth. Like--it's not proof that she's 'lazy'. This isn't what laziness looks like, this isn't what a "lack of care" or "lack of motivation" looks like. Ugly crying over a low-stakes, free-time, "for fun" project after forcing yourself to work fruitlessly through the night is...disordered. Like, Raf of all people, gets it. He completely understands lmao but it requires attention and help. It's not the first time he's suggested to Margie that she should book an assessment. He's offered to help her get the process started several times in the past. She's always been very "yeahhh...nah" about it. He figured it was because she was afraid of being told that there was something """wrong """ with her. Which--he empathized with a lot, and so never really pressed her about it.

But, over this specific event, it becomes clear that what Margie is most afraid of is hearing and knowing definitively that's there's nothing wrong with her. She worries that her inability to complete things on time, to remember things, to keep organized and clean and to prioritize things is just something everyone has to deal with, and they just care enough to deal with it properly--while she has somehow internalized that crying about it means she won't have to worry about it anymore. Maybe cuz she was spoiled growing up, like her parents use to suggest; that she was never truly forced to face the consequences of her inaction. And, for what ever reason, that'd mean she's just...a bad person.

And once Raf realizes that this is what has been keeping her away from getting assessed, he commits to fully pleading with her to get assessed, promising that no possible outcome will change his opinion of her at his very core. And it works. He's able to get a referral for her from his therapist, gets her booked, and over the course of three appointments, she goes through the assessment--feeling an undeterred mix of anxiety and shame all the while 'cus what if they just think "this girl walks in with a latte and a 'problem' but her real problem is that she has never experienced a real struggle in her life lol" or "she's exaggerating things just so she can get drugs, no way is anyone actually this stupid" or "this is a huge waste of time". That's not how it turns out, of course. Between the self assessment, the assessment she had to give to 3 trusted friends/family members to fill out, the IQ test, the cognitive ability tests, and whatever else happened during the dialogue between her and the psychologist--Margie gets her ADHD diagnosis and an autism diagnosis. She gets Raf to sit in with her while the psychologist goes over the results with her, 'cus she doesn't trust her ability to recite any of that information to him herself afterward lmao To her surprise (and to Raf's quiet, triumphant validation for calling it correctly), Margie's IQ is, apparently, a very sexy 136...but is undercut by remarkably low results on tests pertaining to certain cognitive abilities--to the point of qualifying as significant impairments.

On the list of treatments, medication is suggested as a footnote following a list of things including therapy, habit-building and behavioral exercises, dietary suggestions, and further reading suggestions. Which comes to her as a relief, because it's gonna take her a few more years before she's comfortable with the idea of medicating (imagining in her mind that one unfortunate unofficial Calvin and Hobbes comic that has made her fear losing her enthusiasm for her creative musical endeavors lmao). Until then though, the therapy is, perhaps, the most helpful treatment suggestion on that list. Aside from contributing to supportive mental/emotional/behavioral exercises--after the initial relief of "omg there WAS something wrong, I'm not just a bad, lazy, uncaring person!!"--the backlog of hurt that follows the "I needed help but they punished me instead" revelation provides a lot to work through.

#hi-note #magritte

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deathbxnny · 1 year

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hello! can you do headcanons of jing yuan, blade, dan heng and luocha with a nilou like s/o? not necessarily a dancer could be any other art that embodies beauty, just her peaceful nature, positivity, innocense and kindness and wanting to make other's happy? thank you alot!

-----♡

A/N: Hello! Thank you for the request! I absolutely love the idea! It's so cute!<33

Content: Established relationship, fluff, dancer reader, romance, sfw

Reader has no set pronouns!

((Not fully proofread!))

-----♡

》Jing Yuan

This man is absolutely whipped for you, that's for sure. He loves absolutely everything about you.

Your innocence and kindness is exactly what he needs as a general with hard and long hours of work. You motivate him to give his all and best everyday. You motivate him to wake up in the mornings with your gentleness and positivity. Your existence motivates him to breathe.

He is proud to have you at his side, always flaunting you to his coworkers and showing you off at any given moment. Who would not be jealous of the general, when he has such a great s/o?

Jing Yuan adores your dances more than life itself at times. He attends absolutely every single performance, no matter how nusy he actually is, and enjoys every second of it.

In fact, he makes sure everyone watches them as well with his influence, promoting your art so well, that absolutely everyone in the Xianzhou Luofu knows about it.

He'd do anything for you and makes sure to keep that pretty smile on your face no matter what.

-----♡

》Blade

He swore to himself, that he'd protect your innocence and positivity with his life. Whilst he sees nothing positive or good in the world anymore, you motivate him to continue living everyday and therefore finds it only fair to protect you from the horrible truths of this world.

You're so different than him and somehow, that makes you two work. You bring warm light into his dark, cold world and he's more grateful for that than he'd ever dare admit. You keep him sane and relaxed on even his worst days with your naturally peaceful nature and he loves you for it. It's what drew him to you in the first place.

He enjoys watching you perform a dance for him, mainly because he's too possessive over you, to let anyone else see it. It is something only for his eyes to see. No one deserves to see you dance, except for him.

Watching you move so smoothly with the music keeps him at ease and makes his troubled thoughts and soul still for even just a moment.

If you look closely, you might even catch a small smile on his face, as his dreamy eyes watch you move.

-----♡

》Dan Heng

At first, he was a little confused and unimpressed with your positive and happy nature... yet overtime, he began falling in love with you for it.

You didn't mind how quiet or reserved he was. You didn't judge him, for not really knowing how to be in a relationship. Instead, you were patient and gentle with him, always so peaceful and kind.

You coaxed him out of his shell with your sweet words and kind gestures, making him feel a warmth he never thought he'd ever deserve to feel again.

He watches your dances with wonder in his eyes, his heart thumping wildly in his chest, as he's completely unable to look away. You take away his ability to breathe with your beauty and dance alone and he doesn't mind it at all. In fact, he'd die, if it meant to see you dance just for him one more time.

He protects you with his life, knowing the cruelty of the world too well to ever dare lose you.

-----♡

》Luocha

The stern doctor and happy-go-lucky assistant/dancer duo people really need.

Your positivity and want to help everyone comes in perfectly here. You sometimes help him out at work, mostly calming and caring for patients, as they receive their treatment.

You keep him calm and focused on very stressful days, always there to motivate him and remind him how far he's come. He truly couldn't do it all without you.

He especially loves it, when you also take care of him as well with your gentle and peaceful nature. Luocha thinks it's nice to be the one taken care of for once and you are more than willing to do so.

Absolutely protects you from more gory sights at work and doesn't let anyone harm you. Your innocence and kindness is something he deems as special in this dark world.

He loves watching your performances alot. They give him peace and a break from all his troubles. If he could watch you all day for hours on end, then he would, without hesitation.

-----♡

A/N: I hope this was okay! I'm barely awake rn, so I'm sorry if there are many mistakes! Thank you again for the request!

#honkai star rail fanfic #honkai star rail x reader #honkai star rail #honkai star rail x you #hsr x reader #hsr blade #hsr blade x reader #hsr luocha #hsr luocha x reader #hsr jing yuan #hsr jing yuan x reader #hsr dan heng #hsr dan heng x reader

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toastsrambles · 2 months

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One of the Best Sherlock Holmes Adaptations No One Seems to Know

I know that I’ve been mostly (read: only) doing Moriarty the Patriot metas, but I wanted to talk about something different.

I’ve been obsessed with Sherlock Holmes for… a while. Seriously, everyone I talk to is sick of this Victorian detective by now. I’ve also encountered my fair share of adaptations (shoutout to A Study in Emerald, a short story by Neil Gaiman and 221B, a poem by Vincent Starrett, for being some more of my favorite adaptations). But I’ve seen no one - no one - actually talk about my favorite - and in my opinion, one of the best - Sherlock Holmes adaptations.

Sherlock: the Musical (2022)

With a book by Stefan van de Graaff and Denning Burton, and Music and Lyrics by Denning Burton. It’s currently touring, with the full musical available, professionally filmed, on YouTube. The official cast recording is available on YouTube, Apple Music, Spotify, and more.

I could geek out about this musical for literal hours, so some of my favorite highlights will be under the cut. Spoilers ahead, so if you really want to go in blind, listen/watch first.

Now, important to note that this is not an adaptation of BBC Sherlock, like the name might imply. This is an adaptation of the original stories by Arthur Conan Doyle.

Firstly, the opening song, Streets of London.

This song gives you the perfect insight into all the major characters (sans Moriarty).

Sherlock Holmes, the famous consulting detective, is completely confident in his abilities. No criminals can escape: “not when you're messing with Sherlock and John/you just lose your freedom”.

John Watson is Holmes’ loyal companion, his Boswell. Whereas Holmes sets them up as partners, John sees things a bit differently: “right by his side is my spot/and I’m just fine writing lines of what he did”.

Lestrade is impressed by “this Baker Street detective”, while fellow Scotland Yard officer Alice is a bit more judgemental and skeptical: “he doesn’t have any friends”.

youtube

We also get this lovely chorus (00:54):

”Streets of London hide

Nothing from Sherlock’s eyes

This darkening plot

Is not what you thought, so

Are you watching close enough?

Blink you’ll miss this mystery unwind

He won’t be undone

Sherlock Holmes, always one step ahead of them

There’s only one you can’t outrun in London”

This song establishes the two main conflicts of the musical: the public perception of Sherlock Holmes and Watson’s relationship to Holmes.

Now, Holmes and Watson have a duet, Elementary, where their chorus reads:

“It’s elementary

Without a doubt, we’re the greatest duo sround

Elementary

The higher we go, the further they fall down

It’s just like gravity

How do we do the things we do?

It’s a natural phenomenon

That the best things come in two

It’s elementary”

And yet, Watson still says in the bridge: “behind every legend stand dynamic friends”. He’s behind the legend, in that he’s responsible for Holmes’ fame, but he’s also behind the legend; he’s just… not as important as Sherlock Holmes.

And, in case you didn’t notice: in Streets of London, the ensembles sings Holmes’ praises. Not Watson’s. The only person who notices Watson’s contributions is Holmes. Not even Moriarty does, not all the way.

Moriarty first becomes known when he plants a bomb that even Sherlock wasn’t able find- it was Watson who found it. However, the bomb never went off. Still, the story somehow makes it to the paper that Sherlock stopped the bomb.

The song Read All About It is something of a reprise of Streets of London, both in music and theme. It drills in the fact that Sherlock works alone, that it’s him and him alone who can save London. The way the public is whipped into a fervor of idealism is almost similar to Moriarty the Patriot, actually.

However, while the public places their faith in Holmes, he worries:

“Terror in London Nowhere to hide, fear in the streets, people are running Running to me How could I not see it coming? How do I not know what’s coming?”

See, the climax of this musical is the song One Step Ahead. Moriarty has lured both Holmes and Watson to Reichenbach Falls under the assumption that the other is in danger. Moriarty then holds Watson at gun point and tells Holmes that if he doesn’t jump, he’ll shoot Watson. In the end, Holmes agrees, and the song ends with this exchange:

“Holmes: I have to save John

So this is how it ends

Not enough time

Maybe death will be a friend

Moriarty: You? You don’t have any friends-

Watson: This time I’m one step ahead of you!”

Watson then tackles Moriarty off the cliff before Holmes can jump, leaving Holmes alone on the cliff.

The next song, Love Someone, is just- it’s so good. It can be read as both platonic or romantic, but the underlying fact is that Watson has shown Sherlock how important loving someone is, and how important it is to hold the ones you love close because “time is yours before it slips away”.

And, some more of my favorite lyrics from this song:

“It was love that took all my fear away If that love could be here and here to stay How would things change?”

“Love someone Love can hold the world until healing comes The greatest conclusion yet, when all is said and done”

“If you’ve prayed for a moment, pled to take their place And yet how quiet it felt, when you imagined their face Pure love, unchanged, a peace that carries your pain Time is yours, before it slips away”

And of course, the last line: “things have changed now”. The acknowledgement that Holmes is fundamentally different without Watson, and maybe can’t even be Holmes without Watson. It’s so incredibly touching.

Of course, though, Watson isn’t truly gone. We learn shortly after his funeral that he managed to survive by holding onto a ledge he spotted when making his way up the cliff in the first place.

This is where we truly learn how much everyone underestimated Watson. See, while Moriarty was the only one to see Watson’s importance to Sherlock, Holmes was the only one to see Watson’s true value. Watson is smart and competent; when Moriarty planted a bomb, he was the one who jumped on top of it with no hesitation (a la Captain America).

We wrap up with Streets of London (Reprise), where Holmes and Watson accept a new case and return to 221B.

Honorable mentions of stuff I ADORE about this musical:

Watson’s song Into the Shadow. Not only are the vocals superb, this song perfectly encapsulates how Watson has faded into Holmes’ shadow in the public eye. But his solemn acceptance of this - “if it saves your life/and they forget mine/then I don’t mind/stepping back into the shadows” - just makes it heartbreaking.

The fact that every single musical number is just awesome. A Different Story, where Holmes, Watson, Lestrade, and Alice interrogate a suspect? A Most Unusual Case, where we see the people who come to Holmes for help? The Greatest Mind, where Holmes and Moriarty first face off? ALL OF THEM are great, including the ones I didn’t just list. The lyrics, instrumentation, and vocals just blow me away.

The references to other cases! For just two examples: in A Most Unusual Case, the blue diamond in a coat sleeve is a reference to The Blue Carbuncle; and in Streets of London (Reprise), the recently engaged typist with a mysteriously vanished fiancée is A Case of Identity.

Also, Watson making deductions in Streets of London (Reprise) is just great :D

The way Watson supposedly dies at Reichenbach, and the subconscious message that it doesn’t matter that it was Watson who died instead of Holmes; either way, Holmes and Watson are dead. The death of one is the death of the other.

The way minor characters like Mrs. Hudson and Mycroft are portrayed is amazing. Seriously, I love the characterization here.

Just… I love this musical so much. It just feels like a love letter to Sherlock Holmes, and the passion behind it is astounding.

So, yeah. If you like Sherlock Holmes, give this a watch/listen. (Please, I really need to know that more people are aware of this masterpiece).

#sherlock holmes #acd holmes #sherlock the musical #make that a tag #acd watson #moriarty

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ssturniolo · 1 year

Text

Mistake

𝔭𝔞𝔦𝔯𝔦𝔫𝔤 - Mattxfem!reader

𝔰𝔲𝔪𝔪𝔞𝔯𝔶 - after a mistake on the ice, Matt comforts reader, making sure she knows a mistake doesn’t identify he ability.

𝔴𝔞𝔯𝔫𝔦𝔫𝔤𝔰 - mentions of injury, swearing, i think that’s it?(not proofread)

𝔞/𝔫 - i accidentally wrote this in first person and I really don’t feel like changing it.

I take a deep breath as me and my partners names are announced. Interlocking hands, we skate to the middle of the rink getting into our starting positions.

This performance determines if we make it to nationals or not, and I’ve been dreaming of this since a very young age. This being such an important competition, also means our routines have grown increasingly more difficult, leading to challenging jumps and lifts.

We start gliding across the ice as our music plays, nailing every move, our bodies in sync. I smile as I land a triple axel, a move I’ve been working on perfecting for weeks.

I skate towards my partner slightly nervous for the lift we’re about to do. This was added into our routine last minute, only giving us two days to practice it which lowered my confidence in our success.

My partner lifts me into the air his grip tight. Until it’s not.

Shit, I’m going down.

Matt’s POV:

I watch in horror as y/ns partner loses his balance, sending her skidding across the ice.

It all happens so fast. Her slamming into the rinks wall, the med team rushing out to her, and me just standing here unable to do anything. I feels so helpless.

***mini time skip***

I knock on the medics door lightly, opening it when I hear a small ‘come in’ from y/n.

“Hey pretty girl, how’re you doing?” I ask, moving towards her slowly incase anything’s wrong. My heart breakes seeing her tear-stained face, puffy from crying.

“I blew it” she sniffles, covering her face with her hands.

“No you didn’t my love, it was a simple mistake and it doesn’t define your ability as a skater,” I reassure her before continuing. “Now, are you ok?” I ask again, this time more firm so she knows I’m being serious.

“Yeah, I don’t have a concussion, just a few bruises” she says, turning so I can see her bruise covered back.

“Oh my god” I whisper, tracing a finger around a large bruise, pulling back as she winces.

I’ll thank god every day that it wasn’t worse.

Y/n’s POV:

I can’t believe this happened on one of the most important competitions. Me and my partner have been working so hard for this, and now the poor guy is beating himself up for ‘ruining it for me’. I know it’s not completely his fault, but I need someone to blame right now so I don’t totally fall apart.

Turning back towards Matt, I wrap him in a hug, burying my face in his neck. I slightly sway us back and forth as Matt’s hands come to rest on my hips, careful not to hit any bruises.

“Thanks for being here Matt, you’ve made this horrible experience a little less horrible,” I say breathing in his comforting scent.

“I’ll always be here for you, no matter how you do, I’ll be here.”

/////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

I finally got a request done ✊

XOXO - Zoe

#fypage #sturniolo triplets #chris sturniolo #sturniolo fanfic #matt sturniolo #christopher sturniolo #nick sturniolo #imagine #matthew sturniolo x reader #matt sturniolo imagine #matt sturniolo x reader #matt sturniolo fanfiction #matthew sturniolo #matthew sturniolo imagine #ice skating #boyfriend #dating #zoe talks !#fypppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppp

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scarletmultiverse · 1 year

Text

your girlfriend is... | elizabeth olsen characters x reader

Hey people! New blog over here!

I've wanted to do something like this for a while, just with Lizzie's characters, because I feel like all my blogs always have pictures with them, but it's never enough...

Anyway, I'm starting here too and if you want to follow me on the other half inactive account, I think I'll write there again. @sawyercomfort is the user!

This is a preference that will kind of introduce the characters I'm going to write imagines about, so if you have any story suggestions, send me an ask!

Hope you like it!

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

your girlfriend is... wanda maximoff.

ok, we know that wanda is the sweetest of girlfriends.

she would literally move WORLDS (and multiverses) for you.

wanda certainly loves to pamper you in the best way.

occasionally she uses her abilities on you, but it's so rare because she's afraid she might hurt you by accident.

kisses and cuddles when you need them.

the fights between you are intense, but wanda loves you so much that it's impossible for her to really let you go all at once.

you are like best friends with each other, the ones you would trust with your life.

your girlfriend is... taylor sloane.

taylor is clearly a total dominatrix.

she LOVES the control she has over you.

to the point where she does drama to get what she wants.

but at the same time, she's a caring girlfriend and would probably drop any project just to pay attention to you.

she also likes to post pictures and show off your relationship to the world. She makes sure that the moments between you are always saved somewhere.

the fights between you are usually pretty hot too, and it's always the same reason: exaggerated jealousy and the pressure she puts on you.

but you always end up working out one way or another.

your girlfriend is... zooey kern.

personally, for me, zooey is the best on the list.

she may seem extremely laid back at first, but when you least expect it, she's capable of anything to surprise you.

and when I say anything, it means anything at all.

you guys love to drive around aimlessly, just enjoying the music on the radio and the ever-changing landscapes.

by the way, music is something that surprisingly involves your relationship almost completely.

zooey knows she can't fight you, but it's her instinct to be extremely overprotective of the things you do, and that can get pretty annoying.

your girlfriend is... jane banner.

you can expect jane to be controlling.

this is bad, but it's good at the same time.

in fact, she would equally move worlds for you.

including facing people who might treat you badly or criticize your relationship.

she is still a little afraid of losing you, because there were too many personal reasons for her to come to terms with who she was.

jane has her romantic side and makes a point of showing it to you when she feels like she needs it.

the fights between you are fervent and usually end up in a breakup or a night out.

but she always ends up admitting that she overreacted and promises that she won't raise her voice at you anymore, even if it seems impossible.

your girlfriend is... leigh shaw.

leigh has been through a lot to get here.

and she doesn't want that to happen again with you.

she has issues too strong to deal with alone, and you have become her safe haven since she appeared in your life

that's why she's sure you're the one.

leigh will do anything to make you feel loved, from sightseeing to places where you both have a story.

even cuddling in bed and secluding in your room.

a lot of music.

and you wouldn't dare fight with leigh, ever. she's too good for you, and you couldn't imagine a world where she wasn't by your side for your whole life.

hope you really enjoyed this short preference. just a note here, i don't know if i'm going to write about lizzie because i'm afraid i'm forcing something and that it might misunderstand me. but anyway, if you have requests with her, send them to me too, I can make an effort!

and if you feel comfortable, please specify the reader's gender in your request as well. there will be gender-neutral stories here, luckily!

thanks for reading!

(won’t be writing for candy as well, obv!)

#elizabeth olsen #elizabeth olsen x reader #lizzie olsen x reader #wanda maximoff x reader #taylor sloane x reader #jane banner x reader #zooey kern x reader #leigh shaw x reader #lgbt #preference #romance #send me asks #i love lizzie

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lpwrites · 1 year

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On Wasted Potential

(The return of the early morning meta post before work.)

It’s been hard to put into words what is so odd about fandom’s reaction to Stiles and Scott and the concept of being a werewolf in Teen Wolf, but a recent comment I saw mentioned something that maybe puts things into better perspective.

The comment boiled down to the idea that being a werewolf and having powers was wasted on Scott. I don’t recall having seen comments like that before, but it makes sense if people are looking at it in that way. He’s wasting his powers, he’s not using them to their full potential and therefore he’s not a good werewolf.

The thing that clicked for me with that comment is that people are treating Scott’s werewolf powers the same way Stiles did in early Season 1: with excitement, like it’s something cool that should be used always to solve every problem, including using it to murder people (but only the Right people, of course).

That in itself isn’t too weird to me: we see the same kind of suspension of disbelief in all sorts of media, especially those involving kids or teenagers. If you give a kid a sword in order to go on a question (Percy Jackson, for example), it’s not a bad thing, it’s part of the story. You obviously wouldn’t give an actual 11-year old a weapon, because they could hurt themselves or someone else, but for the sake of the story? Hell yeah, go around waving that thing, no problem.

Teenager has superpowers that could very easily be used to do bad things if so inclined? Yeah, that sounds about right, as long as an adult figure reminds them that they need to be responsible with their newfound abilities. (Uncle Ben’s only line in any Spiderman project comes to mind, obviously.) There is a lack of weight behind the statement, though, until something bad happens and our teenage hero realizes they have a real responsibility to be good or save lives or whatever, but the real consequences of those powers are never really touched on unless it’s a specific plot beat.

Teen Wolf doesn’t do that.

From the very beginning, the bite is framed like a horror movie. A kid is attacked in the woods in the middle of the night by a monster and he’s left to walk home alone in the dark. He tells his best friend about it the next day and the very real, very terrifying attack is treated like a joke. (And in his defense, Stiles didn’t know, so I don’t actually hold it against him too much at this point.)

He starts experiencing weird changes in his body, hearing and seeing things he’s not used to, and while some are benefits -- no asthma is a plus -- he’s clearly shown to be unnerved by it. He snaps at Jackson and spills almost everything because he’s scared, and that’s completely reasonable. Scott doesn’t get a cool little montage set to catchy music where he gets to practice his Cool New Abilities in his room while his mom calls out from another room asking if he’s okay. He’s immediately thrust into a situation where he is being manipulated by the Alpha, thrust into a world he doesn’t fully understand, and is intimidated and threatened by the only other werewolf around.

Derek calls the bite a gift, and I partially blame that scene for fandom’s idea of it, but you wouldn’t have to change much to make Scott’s werewolf origins into a full-blown horror series. He’s been given a weapon he can’t control, that he knows he needs to control, while there’s an active threat of death and violence hanging over his head. The Sheriff gets injured peripherally to what’s happening to him, and Stiles loses it and hurts him because in his teenage brain that’s all he can do, and fandom thinks Scott’s in the wrong? He’s living a nightmare and all people can focus on is the fact that he’s not following the trope, so obviously having these powers is wasted on him.

Even in later seasons, fandom holds Scott’s reluctance to embrace his powers to the fullest against him. He doesn’t want to be a killing machine, he never wanted the powers in the first place, and even if he had been asked I don’t think Scott would have agreed. He was fine being normal, and all he’s gotten since the bite is death and violence and threats against the people he loves. Peter gave a teenager a gun and set people after him, and fandom is angry that the teenager isn’t going full John Wick on his enemies so it’s a waste.

Teen Wolf’s writing isn’t always the best, but it does a good job of flipping tropes around and exploring interesting concepts. Scott’s story isn’t a hero origin story: it’s a horror story where the victim becomes a hero in the end without losing his humanity. And fandom hates the idea of it, because fandom has been conditioned to believe a hero is only ever good if they embrace violence to the fullest.

#teen wolf #scott mccall #scott mccall defense squad #pro scott mccall #i could be sleeping an extra hour but instead my brain decided it was meta time #there's more i'd wanna add to this #b ut it's hard to verbalize the stiles aspect of it without breaking apart the fandom idea of stiles which i know they hate #anyways we love a boy

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winterflowersftw · 5 months

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Blue Lock characters as Taylor Swift songs + explanation

Notes: Hi guys, so this was another random idea I so...here I am, I guess? But yea do tell me if you guys disagree with any of the song choices here lmao. Would love to hear from you guys

ISAGI YOICHI

"I laid the groundwork and then, just like clockwork

The dominoes cascaded in a line

What if I told you I'm a mastermind?"

And

"If you fail to plan, you plan to fail

Strategy sets the scene for the tale"

And

"Of a chain reaction of countermoves

To assess the equation of you

Checkmate, I couldn't lose."

My boy Isagi came into the Blue Lock system as the second last player and crept his way to the top. He's literally the mastermind pulling the pieces together and winning matches. It's really amazing how he had no ability tha made him stand out much except his brain and that was enough for him.

So yea this is HIS song.

BACHIRA MEGURU

"I never miss a beat

I'm lightnin' on my feet"

And

"I'm dancin' on my own (dancin' on my own)

I make the moves up as I go (moves up as I go)

But I keep cruisin'

Can't stop, won't stop groovin'

It's like I got this music in my mind

Sayin' it's gonna be alright"

The song 100% represents Bachira' childish, carefree and happy-to-go personality and some of the lyrics (which I put above) totally show his abilities like cmon. 😭

Okay so the first two lines are like about his dribbling ability, right? And even in the next para the top lines are like how he's not following a rhythm and is doing whatever he wants to and THAT IS SOMETHING HE DOES IN THE NEL. (Sorry got too excited)

And the last two lines are about the "monster" he had, which existed in his mind. It was very relevant in the first selection.

NAGI SEISHIRO

"And I'm just getting color back into my face

I'm just mad as hell cause I loved this place

For so long, London

Had a good run

A moment of warm sun"

This is VERY specific but I do think this fits really well during the second selection when Nagi chooses to go with Isagi and leaves Reo. Nagi actually stops being the lazy-genius he had been until episode 10 of the anime which has the match between Team V and Team Z where has an awakening (hence the "getting color back into his face" lyric) and he is gaining a passion for football which he never thought someone like him could even have. In Episode Nagi, even Reo acknowledges that the one who made Nagi put in actual efforts in a football match (which he had never done before) was Isagi and not him. Isagi was the reason of Nagi's awakening. And Reo was so sad that he was not the reason.

And right after his awakening, he decides to leave Reo because now he actually wants to improve and has a goal: To beat Isagi. And for that he has to leave Reo. So...yeah.

ITOSHI RIN

"And you call me up again just to break me like a promise

So casually cruel in the name of being honest"

And

"Time won't fly, it's like I'm paralyzed by it

I'd like to be my old self again

But I'm still trying to find it"

And

"You kept me like a secret, but I kept you like an oath"

Okay again this one is also very specific just like Nagi's but i think this song completely represents Rin's relationship with his brother, Sae. Beating Sae is the only reason we have been given for whatever he does.

When we first see Rin at the start of the second selection, one of the first things he says is how he has to beat his brother and that's basically the bane of his existence.

And in between the confrontation between the brothers when Sae comes home from Spain and thenU20 VS Blue Lock Eleven match; a year has passed and Rin's feeling fir his brother is EXACTLY the same. (Hence the second para)

Also we can notice this during the Itoshi brothers' flashback, Sae had always been the way he is at this point since childhood. But Rin was different, he was a happy and naive kid. But that's gone now. Also how after the U20 VS the Blue Lock Eleven match when Sae comes to Rin, and Rin (and us, the audience) think that Sae is going to praise Rin who had just been in his berserk mode before; the expression change on Rin's face is so evident and heartbreaking. His expression is almost the same one he had when he was a little kid. So yeah, its very heartbreaking when Sae praises Isagi and not him when Rin has been craving for his validation for a longggg time.

Notes part 2: This took me a lot of time to wrote so please don't let this flop 😭🤞

#blue lock #blue lock brain rot #why did i add angst for nagi and rin #blue lock manga #blue lock anime #blue lock headcanons #isagi yoichi #blue lock isagi #bllk isagi #itoshi rin #rin itoshi #blue lock rin #nagi seishiro #blue lock nagi #bachira meguru #bllk bachira #blue lock thoughts #Spotify

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stopaskinf · 5 months

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“I think we can last forever.”

Things Ateez boys remind me of:

Summary: This is the part.2 of my series of “things kpop idols reminds me of”

Genre: Fluff, Ateez hyung line

Word count: 1K

CW: Honestly, there are a few suggestive lines in this, but other than that nothing much. (MDNI on my page in general)

A/N: This one is more casual than my BTS reminders. Honestly don’t know how I feel about this, but hope yall enjoy.🫡

Hongjoong:

🪲Scorpions: It might have to do with the fact that he is canonically a Scorpio, but also the contrasting idea that something so small can be so prickly and deadly when it wants to be.

🪲To add to that thought: Hongjoong reminds me of bug lollipops. Specifically ones with scorpions, spiders, and beetles. Combining the sweet, childlike flavors and colors of lollipops with the primal fear and disgust people have of bugs screams Hongjoong to me. Maybe it's the deadliness transparent beneath the sugary outside.

🪲Smoke, specifically cigarette smoke. I’m not sure if he smokes in real life or not, but he always gives me the vibe that he smells of nicotine and Jean Paul Gaultier cologne. Imagine he takes a break during an interview and he just has a Marlboro between his fingers that he steps out as the staff calls him back to continue his captain duties.

🪲Additionally, this is very specific but I feel like he has a tad minty smell to him. Even if he does or doesn’t smoke, I feel like he’s the type to always have gum on him. Type of guy who needs to be prepared for any situation and to calm his nerves. He also may have an oral fixation

🪲 Chipped nail polish. I feel like he’s been seen with chipped nails before. However, I cannot remember. It’s pretty self-explanatory; his love of queer and androgynous figures combined with being an idol on top of his bad sense of self-care leads to chipped nails.

Seonghwa:

🐇Lofi beats: The aesthetic of his Lego building lives is this. Additionally, whenever I see him, I feel like he’s the type who needs something lowkey in a lot of moments. He needs something almost comforting after he finishes his work.

🐇 Anime endings: The same reasoning applied to Lofi beats applies to this. A constant need for something more soft and sweet. Almost melancholy and quiet when compared to the bright energy of their openings. It’s something to signal that there’s no need to put in more energy because you’ve already completed what you needed to.

🐇 Polaroids: Another thing that I’m pretty sure has been attached to either him or Ateez. I feel like Seonghwa if given the time, would be good at photography. Polaroid cameras would be his favorite because of their easy portability and the intimacy of it. He can just pull it out any moment and take a beautiful candid shot that he can keep hung up in his room. Something that he took himself and gets to keep.

🐇 Valentino perfumes- this one is pretty simple. Valentino prides itself on their gender-neutral scents so it makes sense that Seong Hwa gets associated with it. Specifically, the Uomo born in Roma perfume reminds me of him. Genderless, sleek, and subtly powerful.

🐇 Cute keychains - Seonghwa looks to love cute things. He’s also constantly on the move, so cute keychains seem up his alley. Something small from a lover that he can carry around as a sign of devotion and affection. Something superficially cute but to him holds a silent love story.

Yunho:

🌼 High school crushes - The type of guy you see in class once and you instantly get attracted. He’s tall, sweet, friendly. Everything you could want in a high school boyfriend. He’s a little awkward and uncoordinated, but the small things like walking you to and from your classes and sitting with you at lunch? Makes every flaw unnoticeable.

🌼 Headphones - He seems like the type who likes to enclose himself. Specifically, with music. The ability to focus and lose himself within the melodies and lyrics refreshes him. Especially when he’s listening to a song that reminds him of his lover.

🌼Anime love interest - He feels like a shoujo ML. The guy who is desired by all, but had by only one. The tall, beautiful man who calmly introspects and throws himself into vulnerability. He is the type of guy who looks at you and says, “I like you way more than you think…” He has the type of love that feels pure, almost everlasting.

🌼 That one ML manhwa sweater - Y’all know exactly what sweater I’m talking about. This connects to the anime love interest in that he feels too good to be true. The guy who you’ve always dreamed about, but thought was unrealistic. Additionally, whenever I see comfy sweaters, it always reminds me of him. He needs to wear something comfortable to keep himself cozy and soft. Oh, and to make sure you have something to borrow from him.

🌼Old white sneakers - Yunho feels nostalgic. The type of person who gladly accepts change and challenges because he sees them as a sign of love. To be loved is to be changed. He’ll wear his scars and rough edges with pride, for you shaped him.

Yeosang:

🍄Green - This is mostly due to his crazy form hair and that one SCRUMPTIOUS bouncy shirt. However, it’s also because he reminds me of nature. He has an almost fairy/nymph-like quality. The beautiful face lures you deeper and deeper into the woods, only to trap you within its beautiful prison. You’re both moths to each other’s flame.

🍄London blue - This color feels elegant, almost regal. It gives the feeling of something encased within time but also out of it. Something that feels freighting and mysterious when it encompasses a house, though that quality makes it even more alluring.

🍄 Music boxes - Yeosang reminds me of very material but immaterial things. A small dancer frozen in time that only shows their beauty when called upon. Something delicate but sturdy. Beautiful, but skittish.

🍄 Precious little moments - Another thing that is immaterial and a little silly. Something about those little porcelain figures with their big eyes and warm but stagnant smiles. It’s familiar, friendly, but immovable.

🍄Faded scraps/scabs - This is different when compared to the rest. They’re little blemishes that tell long-ago stories. You fell on concrete when you were a child, you accidentally cut yourself with a knife, or you fell out of a tree. Moments that brought so much pain that it’s engraved onto you. Something that seemed so harrowing, but now you hardly notice. Unless someone else points it out, of course.

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abybweisse · 1 year

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Why I think Undertaker has to be Cedric, revisited

At this point in the series, I'm a bit surprised how many in the fandom not just don't see him as Cedric K. Ros-- but actually rail against the idea.

So, here's a long, somewhat thorough overview of the situational and physical clues that he's Cedric, the father of Vincent and Francis/Frances.

Situational hints

How he cries over the details of Vincent's death. Not just that he died but what became of his remains. I'd cry over my dead son, too, especially if I had the ability to reanimate corpses but his body was destroyed by fire so that I couldn't do that. Let alone the fact his cinematic records were destroyed, so I not only couldn't make a bizarre doll of him, but I couldn't even review his memories to see what happened right before he died. This ties in with what he later says about not wanting to lose any more Phantomhives. But it strongly suggests that whoever set the fire did so specifically to thwart the efforts of a grim reaper. Whoever did that either knew Undertaker was a reaper or was at least following the instructions of someone who knew.

The whole not wanting to lose more Phantomhives thing. Claudia/Cloudia is gone, and so is Vincent. Reanimating real Ciel is the best he can do to not let the older twin go. He tried to destroy Sebastian to release our earl "Ciel" from their demon contract and might try again. Makes you wonder just how many Phantomhives he's really lost already. As well as where others might still be alive. What exactly was his business in France? 🤔

Even his odd comment to our earl (before the attack) that he wasn't sure which twin this was... but that it didn't matter because they were both Phantomhives. Instead of seeing an heir and a spare, he saw them equally. At least he did then. I suspect he now sees our earl as a spare soul... or conversely sees real Ciel as a spare body. I guess both could be true, making them still essentially equal in his eyes. Again, this could be another attempt to save our earl from Sebastian. By putting our earl's soul into the unmarked body of real Ciel, that might void the contract... unless the seal on our earl's eye also somehow affected his soul. 🤔 Anyway. I digress, since that gets into a separate theory discussion.

Standing in to help young Mr. Pitt take a photo of the twins. That's right after telling our earl it doesn't matter which twin he is. Then the other twin and Mr. Pitt arrive, the latter holding a new camera. It's odd that Mr. Pitt would ask a non-relative of the kids (besides a nanny) to help stage the photo, though Pitt is perhaps the non-traditionalist anyway. Undertaker seems like he's shocked to be asked, but he also seems amused. Mr. Pitt likely doesn't even suspect Undertaker is the twins' paternal grandfather, otherwise he might have seen it as a scoop, á la "LOWLY UNDERTAKER IS SIRE TO PROMINENT NOBLE FAMILY" or something equally scandalous. Because undertakers were considered low class citizens. So, Undertaker acts shocked but complies with giddy delight. By asking Undertaker to help stage the photo, he has likely, unwittingly asked a relative of the boys, which would be considered completely appropriate for the time period.

How he treats the Midfords. He recognizes Lizzie's talents and skill with a sword, otherwise he wouldn't have wanted her at Sphere Music Hall as a protector of the lords of the stars, while he kept them and Blavat hidden away. So he probably had Blavat bring her into the cult. Undertaker might see some of himself in Lizzie, but he definitely sees it in Frances/Francis, and I don't just mean physically. Both women fight in a similar manner as he does: highly skillful and graceful. Idk what he thinks of Edward, but I know he got a great laugh from watching the Phantom Five (including Edward) perform onstage. He doesn't interact much, if at all, with Alexis, who isn't a Phantomhive.

What he says to Francis/Frances, as well as how she responds. Again, he hardly acknowledges Alexis' existence, but Undertaker speaks directly with "Lady Phantomhive". That's really important because she's married into the Midford family and hasn't gone by her maiden name in many years. As long as Edward is old plus at least a bit longer, since she strikes me as too proper for a shotgun wedding, even if she weren't a noble. So, he sets her apart from her husband because she was born a Phantomhive. He doesn't want to lose her, either, because she is her mother's daughter. Then, when she nervously states he hasn't changed in roughly four years, he pokes fun at the fact he hasn't changed in a much longer time frame. He says her birth, over 30 years ago, seems like just yesterday. She's sweating bullets, and it's not just his creepy vibes. She knows he means it -- that 30-some-odd years is nothing to him... and that he very specifically recalls her birth. I'm pretty sure she knows he's her father, and she's horribly embarrassed by the fact. Alexis doesn't have a clue about it, and she'd rather keep it that way. But what he says strongly implies that he was present at her birth. Maybe down the hall, like Vincent was when his sons were born, but there... and just as anxious and excited and proud.

How the years for Cedric's birth and death dates are hidden by a speech bubble. Cloudia/Claudia's dates are fully shown because she's a regular human being. Well... a human, anyway. But if Undertaker is Cedric, then the birth and death dates for him would be from when he was a human, before he committed suicide and was sentenced to serve out his punishment as a reaper. That death date could be decades or even centuries before Cloudia/Claudia was even born. Remember that this family tree isn't one prepared by humans; it's part of the dossier that the German reapers have for our earl. The focus is purely biological ancestry, not marriages. Cloudia/Claudia and Cedric don't have to be married to be on this family tree; he is biologically the father of both Vincent and Francis/Frances.

Physical hints

He looks a lot like Francis/Frances and Edward. And Yana-san tweeted years ago that Francis and Edward look like Cedric. Here's a comparison between Edward and Undertaker. Here's one between Francis/Frances and Undertaker.

The place on his right where his hair has a long braid seems to match up with Lizzie's and Francis/Frances' right side locks that tend to stick out. He's got it tucked behind his right ear, but the braid might originate from the same spot. If Lizzie and her mother pushed those locks back, behind their right ears, the placement would be the same as Undertaker's braid.

He has the exact same baby hairs at the nape of his neck as Lizzie and Francis/Frances. They might be a bit shorter, but they are definitely there. Here's an old post about it. Edward possibly does, too, and we could tell if his hair was grown out and pulled up, but his hair is short and a bit shaggy on the nape of his neck, so we can't be sure.

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defectivevillain · 1 year

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this broken design, ch5

summary: “Dr. Lecter?” You blink a few times, convinced that you’re dreaming. The man’s gleaming eyes and concerned expression seem a bit too realistic to be conjured by your sleeping mind, though. You’re not sure if you’ve ever seen him look worried. You quickly decide that you don’t like it.

“Hannibal, please,” the doctor responds nonchalantly. You stare at him in utter confusion. Just what is happening right now? You thought you were dreaming, but this feels a bit too vivid. “What are you doing out here?”

read from the beginning here! [this won’t make much sense, otherwise]

[ao3 version]

notes: I privated my ao3 account so that only registered users can see it... since all the ai stuff has been going on and I'd rather be safe than sorry.... I'm not sure how many ppl follow with the series here on Tumblr, but I figured I'd post it here too, in case any of you don’t have an ao3 account... [I posted this a bit ago on ao3, so apologies for the tardiness]

the gif above is so funny. the lil head tilt is killing me, idk.

warnings: panic attack, self harm (digging nails into skin), franklyn having zero boundaries

You’re in Hannibal’s home again. You really need to have more self-preservation—you’re practically a gift-wrapped murder victim here. Although, he hasn’t killed you yet. Maybe you’ll be fine. Perhaps you aren’t as rude as you thought you were. The thought amuses you.

Inexplicably, as you’re speaking with Hannibal, he asks you to accompany him to the opera. The request is so unexpected that it takes you several moments to realize you heard him correctly. Hannibal stares at you expectantly and you take a deep breath.

“You realize I don’t know the first thing about opera,” you remark apprehensively. “Surely there are far better choices than me.” Doesn’t he have acquaintances that are more suited for this type of outing? You’re certain you would look extremely out of place amidst the typical visitors. Surely, Hannibal knows that he will put his reputation at risk by bringing you along. You try to convey those sentiments in the eye contact you’re currently maintaining with the man, but he doesn’t seem dissuaded in the slightest.

“You are my friend and I want to spend time with you,” Hannibal states easily. You envy his ability to be so straightforward with his thoughts and feelings. “Is that really so strange?”

“I suppose not,” you frown. Fond of breaking doctor-patient boundaries, are we, Dr. Lecter? You dispel the thought. Admittedly, from the first moment you interacted with Hannibal, you knew he would be more than a psychiatrist. You’re happy to consider him a close friend now.

“Are you amenable?” Hannibal then asks, just before you can zone out and lose focus.

“When is it?” You ask, despite knowing that you don’t have much going on this week anyway.

“Tomorrow night,�� Hannibal answers. You raise an eyebrow.

“Rather late notice,” you say, if only to make him sweat a bit. Of course, Hannibal’s perfectly crafted mask remains in place. “Did your date cancel on you?” Hannibal’s eyebrows furrow and he crosses his arms over his chest. You decide to take pity on him and stop messing around.

“I’m just kidding,” you interject with a grin. It’s kind of fun to see how much you can push Hannibal around. You get the feeling that no one really questions him. It’s amusing to see him scramble for an explanation, even though the effort is perfectly rehearsed. “I think I’m free; I’d love to go. You just may have to deal with my complete ignorance when it comes to opera music.”

“I think I’ll survive,” Hannibal smiles. Is he playing along? You raise your eyebrows in surprise. Admittedly, you weren’t expecting that. It’s nice to know that Hannibal can take a joke.

“Anyway, thank you for inviting me into your home again; I hope I’m not intruding.”

“Of course not,” Hannibal says with a shake of his head, as if the very thought is ludicrous.

“I invited you.” Hannibal then excuses himself for a moment and you take the opportunity to look around his kitchen. You suppress the extremely compelling urge to look through his drawers—you know what you’ll find and you’re certain you don’t want to see it. Instead, you let your eyes rove over the polished cabinets and clean counters. Just before you can lose interest, your gaze falls on the rolodex. Interest peaking, you decide to walk towards it.

It appears the rolodex holds business cards of people Hannibal has met. You idly flip through the rolodex, needing something to occupy your restless hands. A few of the names are (unsurprisingly) ones you recognize. It takes you a few moments of observation to realize just what purpose this rolodex serves. It appears this is a list of potential murder victims. Flipping through the various business cards, you don’t see a common denominator. “Whenever feasible, one should always try to eat the rude,” Hannibal had told you once. On second thought, these business cards are probably people that Hannibal has determined to be rude. You go through the names with renewed interest. A few of them are rather fancy. One even looks remarkably close to yours. You move to the next one before a breath catches in your chest and you find yourself returning to the one that caught your eye.

The business card is extremely similar to yours—same color and font. You squint at it, heart racing in your chest as you look at the name written on it. It must be another government agent, surely. You all have similar, standard-issue business cards. You just hope it isn’t any of your acquaintances. You’re expecting to see anyone from Jack Crawford to Alana Bloom. You close your eyes for a moment, before finally giving in and reading the name. It’s… It’s your name.

You stare at the card in disbelief. Where did Hannibal get your business card? It has your name, phone number, email address… It even has your office location at headquarters. You swallow past the trepidation building in your core. You can’t quite stop the choked laugh that escapes your lips. You let your guard down. You had foolishly hoped that maybe, just maybe, things would be different. You let your guard down and, now, your name rests amidst the names of current and future Ripper victims.

“Is everything alright?” The timing could not be worse. Hannibal walks in as you’re looking at the rolodex and you quickly turn around, trying to shield it from his view. You’re not sure what expression is on your face, but it must be suitably harrowed, because his face twists in concern—mock concern, your mind supplies. “You look rather shaken.”

“Yes, of course,” you answer. It takes every ounce of practice you’ve accumulated to keep the fear from your voice. You sound slightly flat, but you’re convinced that you’ve mostly concealed your true feelings. “Apologies, Dr. Lecter. I think I’d better get going.”

You can tell that Hannibal is suspicious, but you don’t give him the chance to ask you about it—instead deigning to murmur a quick goodbye and walk out to your car. You’re infinitely grateful that you had the foresight to drive yourself. You’re not sure that you would’ve had the energy to maintain your composure in Hannibal’s company.

You wait until you’re a sufficient distance from Hannibal’s home to sag in your seat and sigh heavily. You’d been growing too big of an ego. Hannibal is the Chesapeake Ripper. The two of you are friends and you foolishly assumed that your friendship gave you immunity. Clearly, that isn’t the case. You need to remember yourself, remember that the composed dinner host you often sit across from is a practiced killer. One false move and you’re dead. Once you get home, you spend the remainder of the evening in an anxious and paranoid haze. It takes you a while to fall asleep that night and, when you do, the Ripper follows you into your dreams.

The next morning, you receive a text from Hannibal—which includes the details of the opera and what time he plans to pick you up. It takes you several moments to ground yourself in reality and remember that Hannibal isn’t aware of your knowledge that he’s the Ripper. Once you collect your composure, you insist that you can drive yourself—but he waves off the suggestion and maintains that he’ll drive. Admittedly, now that you’re thinking about it, you don’t have the slightest clue what to wear. You’ve never really been to an opera performance before, and you can only imagine what the people in attendance will be wearing. You have no idea where to begin searching for an outfit. Your closet isn’t exactly the best.

Eventually, you swallow your pride and text Hannibal. He knows you’re not sophisticated, you think to yourself. Asking him for help isn’t that embarrassing. In fact, you’d rather ask and lose a bit of dignity than try to puzzle it out on your own [and fail miserably.] Hannibal is quick to respond—almost as if he had been expecting the question—and says that he’ll bring clothes for you. You immediately have several objections to that, but they fall on determined ears. You regret asking, now.

A few hours later, there’s a quiet knock on your door. You open the door to find Hannibal waiting on your doorstep, folded clothing in hand. You shake your head in exasperation and let him in. “Thank you,” you say, taking the clothes he’s extending out to you. You still feel the need to try to argue one more time. “I could’ve found something on my own.”

Hannibal looks you up and down, in a manner that makes you feel extremely self conscious. You aren’t exactly wearing the fanciest clothing right now, but that’s only because you knew you’d be changing. “Doubtful,” Hannibal remarks. You glare at him, only to find his lips twisted in that slightly amused smirk. You roll your eyes.

“I’m going to change,” You then realize that this is the first time that Hannibal has been in your home. He’s driven you many times, but he’s never gotten out of the car before. “Feel free to explore, I guess.” You’re struck with the sudden mundane feeling of shame, as you recognize how much less luxurious your home is. Hannibal doesn’t seem to mind, though, as he starts to walk around and look at things. Meanwhile, you head to the bathroom.

Once you place the clothes on the bathroom counter, you’re once again realizing that you’re out of your depth. The outfit he’s given you is extremely lavish: an extravagant suit with dress pants. Upon further examination, you realize that he even gave you an undershirt. You push aside all the strange, conflicting feelings you have about wearing clothes your psychiatrist provided you. The clothes even smell very strongly of Hannibal’s cologne. It takes all of your resistance not to cough once you put them on. You’re not very fond of fragrances to begin with, since they often give you headaches. But, you know you have no right to complain. It was extremely generous of Hannibal to lend you clothing, and you don’t plan to disrespect the gesture by complaining about his cologne. You put on the rest of the clothing and assess yourself in the mirror. You look rather good, you have to admit. Of course, it’s all due to Hannibal’s clothing. You take a moment to brush your teeth again before walking back out into the main area of the house, where Hannibal seems to be looking at your decorations with a keen eye. He turns around upon hearing you enter and, for a long moment, the two of you stare at each other in silence.

Inexplicably, Hannibal breaks the distance between you and reaches out. Your heart is racing in your chest but you manage to remain still. He fiddles with your collar for a moment before stepping back, apparently satisfied with his work. You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.

“Better?” You ask sardonically.

“Much,” Hannibal remarks. “Shall we?” He holds out an arm and you scoff. Hannibal freezes and you do, too. Shit. You hadn’t meant to scoff aloud. You compensate by putting your hand on his arm and he sends you a smile that is almost… fond. You immediately disregard that notion.

The drive to the opera house is enjoyable. Hannibal is one of the few people that you feel comfortable enough to share silence with. You don’t feel the need to constantly fill the air and, so, you spend most of the ride staring out the window and looking at the trees. Before long, Hannibal is pulling into a parking space and the two of you are ascending the stairs leading to the opera house. The building is rather grand, with beautiful towering pillars and elegant statues decorating the path to the entrance. When you enter, you’re unsurprised to see Hannibal’s mask slide neatly into place.

Evidently, Hannibal has been here before, because he navigates the opera house with practiced ease. There are several people that greet him upon his entrance, and he smiles and sends them a courteous wave. You idly wonder if he truly likes any of these people, or if he merely tolerates them. As you continue to walk in, you’re brutally aware of the gazes searing into your back. You’re sure that Hannibal will be the talk of the town soon enough—you get the feeling he never brings people to these kinds of events. Indeed, he seems the type to want to appreciate art in solitude. You debate asking him once more if he’s okay with being seen with you here. Within a few moments, you’re finally in the area where the performance is scheduled to occur. Hannibal leads you to your seats—which are in one of the balconies—and you can’t suppress your thoughts any longer. Thankfully, it seems no one else has found their seats in your section just yet.

“You realize how this looks, right?” You finally ask. Hannibal sends a curious glance at you and you refuse to acknowledge how handsome he looks right now. You avert your eyes for a moment, instead watching as the people below file into their seats. “Everyone thinks that I’m… you know.” Hannibal continues to stare at you with a blank expression. Damn it, is he really going to make you explain it? You try to push past your embarrassment and remain professional. “I think they’re under the impression that we’re… dating.”

“The thought makes you uncomfortable,” Hannibal states, crossing one leg over the other. That must be why he chose these seats—he probably needs the legroom. The people below are milling about, talking with one another. You’re grateful that these seats are isolated from everyone else—there’s no expectation for you to talk to anyone.

“No, it doesn’t,” you clarify, wondering how he justified that leap in logic. “Besides, if anyone’s reputation is going to be at risk, it’ll be yours.”

“I appreciate your concern,” Hannibal says, something akin to amusement on his face. You’re not sure what he’s finding so amusing—you don’t think your statement was far-fetched or unreasonable. From the moment you walked in, you noticed quite a few people staring at Hannibal and you. They seemed to be making their own conclusions about the two of you; you just wanted to warn him. “I am not worried about my reputation.”

“You think your reputation won’t be affected?” You squint at him, trying to watch for a reaction. “...Or you just don’t care?” Your companion is silent for a moment.

“I was under the impression that I was the psychiatrist here,” Hannibal then remarks lightly. He sends you a look and you feel a momentary inkling of shame.

“Sorry,” you grimace. Hannibal’s lips quirk at the sides—a sign that he isn’t truly upset about your sudden psychoanalysis. You feel the need to justify your reaction regardless. “It’s easy to slip into the criminal profiling mindset sometimes,”

You spend the next several minutes having lighthearted conversation. It’s rather nice. The theater slowly begins to fill up until, finally, the lights dim and someone appears on the stage. To your surprise, the performance is rather enjoyable. You must be rather horrible at hiding your preconceptions, because Hannibal sends you a knowing look after the first song. You pretend not to notice the smugness radiating off the man, and instead focus on the singer. They’re quite talented, unsurprisingly. You’re not quite sure how much the tickets were, but judging from your surroundings, you’d guess they were rather expensive.

You take advantage of the brief intermission in the middle of the program to use the facilities. Once you’re finished, you move to go back into the theatre. However, there’s suddenly a hand grabbing your shoulder and you’re forcefully guided into a deserted hallway. You chance a glance over your shoulder, only to find a far too familiar patient of Dr. Lecter’s: Franklyn Froideveaux.

“Franklyn,” you remark, feeling extremely apprehensive once you recognize him. The man is wearing a three-piece suit again, but this time it’s eerily similar to something Hannibal might wear. You frown at the thought. Franklyn’s obsession with Dr. Lecter is really rather creepy. If Hannibal weren’t such a capable killer, perhaps you’d be worried for him.

“I saw you with Dr. Lecter,” Franklyn states matter-of-factly. He crowds you against the wall and you have to lean back against it to avoid touching him. The look in the man’s eyes is unnerving. It sends a shiver down your spine. There’s nothing in his irises except madness.

“Yes,” you respond, once you realize that Franklyn is awaiting an answer. You don’t tell him that Hannibal invited you, but he seems to come to that conclusion on his own.

“What did he do?” Franklyn asks. “Did he hold the car door open for you? What cologne does he wear? I have a few ideas but I can’t decide between them.” You feel your head begin to ache at his persistent badgering. You’re deeply unsettled by him.

“What’s it like being friends with Dr. Lecter?” He continues. Franklyn doesn’t even give you a chance to respond, as he continues rattling off questions. “Is he a good friend? Do you two spend time together?”

“Um-” You try to say, only for Franklyn to stop mid-tirade. His eyes quickly lock on the suit you’re wearing and you grit your teeth. This is easily one of the most uncomfortable interactions you’ve ever had, and it isn’t even over yet. You flinch as he puts a hand on your shoulder.

“That’s not your clothing,” Franklyn remarks, a dangerous gleam in his eyes. His fingers dig into your shoulder and you wince. His grip is beginning to hurt; you think you may have bruises later. “You're wearing something Dr. Lecter gave you.”

“No, I’m not,” you try to argue, well aware that your voice doesn't sound very convincing.

“Yes, you are,” Franklyn asserts, not indicating that he’s hearing you or even seeing you. His eyes are glazed and it almost seems as if he’s looking directly through you. “He gave you clothes. Why? What does he see in you?”

Ouch. That hurts for a microsecond, before you then realize that Franklyn’s opinion bears absolutely no relevance to your life. You want to speak on those thoughts, but there’s a crazed look in the man’s eyes and you decide to stay silent. Franklyn seems to take your silence as an argument itself, though, because his hand tightens on your shoulder rather painfully. You try to shove him off, but the man’s grip is unyielding.

A familiar voice calls your name from further down the hallway. You squint, only to find Hannibal walking towards the two of you. There’s an inexplicable expression on his face, and you can’t even begin to dissect it.

“Hannibal,” you breathe, unable to hide the relief you feel at his presence. Franklyn finally releases his grip on you and you reach a hand up to massage your shoulder. The man’s attention is off of you now, thankfully.

“I presumed you to be lost, but I see that notion is incorrect,” Hannibal says, his gaze flitting about your face as if looking for any sign of distress. He then looks at Franklyn, disinterest and boredom evident in his expression. Of course, Franklyn doesn’t care to notice it. He sees what he wants to see, you think to yourself. “What is going on here? Franklyn?”

Franklyn looks to you expectantly, as if waiting for you to lie for him. You instead remain silent. You know that, right now, telling the truth will unnecessarily escalate the situation. Besides, your exhaustion is starting to catch up with you and you can’t find the energy to continue the conversation.

“We were just having a friendly conversation.” Franklyn answers. Hannibal looks to you for confirmation and you avert your eyes. Meanwhile, Franklyn seems to be falling over himself in an attempt to secure Hannibal’s attention. “Dr. Lecter, it’s so nice to see you here,” Franklyn says, his voice a far cry from the manic lunacy from before. The sudden change is rather dizzying. This man is suffocating to be around. “You know, I thought this might be your kind of place. I was just speaking to your friend here…”

You place a hand on your temple, beginning to get a migraine from the sheer burst of emotions surrounding Franklyn. Your skills in criminal profiling typically allow you to get a sense of other people’s feelings. At worst, you can get a trace of what they feel. Right now, however, you feel every emotion Franklyn is exuding, and it’s enough to make your vision grainy and fuzzy. He continues prattling on, but all you can sense is the horrible flood of obsession, jealousy, and a visceral desire so palpable that it makes you nauseous.

You put a hand to the wall behind you, feeling the need to brace yourself against something. Everything in the background falls to a dull buzzing rhythm—Franklyn’s giddy conversation with Hannibal, the muted sound of the performance that you can hear through the walls. You close your eyes and beg for the torture to stop. Maybe Franklyn will take pity on you and walk away. Maybe Hannibal will lose his patience and walk away, too—you wouldn’t be surprised.

Suddenly, there’s a hand on your forearm. You vaguely register—through swirling vision—Hannibal leading you further down the abandoned hallway until he stops and pushes you into an armchair. Despite the overwhelming emotionality that Franklyn practically assaulted you with, you manage to scrounge up a rather large amount of guilt.

“Sorry,” you choke out to Hannibal. Your breathing is still a bit rough and your clothes feel incredibly constricting. You roll up the sleeves of your jacket—well, Hannibal’s jacket—and try to stammer out the rest of your apology. “Feel free to go back inside; I just need a moment.”

You place a hand over your aching temple and another on the arm of the chair. Selfishly, you think that you could use Hannibal’s support, but you don’t want to occupy his attention when the performance is still happening. You close your eyes and try to pretend that your ears aren’t buzzing. You wait to hear his footsteps as he retreats; you wait to hear an acquiescence. A few seconds pass. Instead, there’s a hand on your shoulder.

“Dr. Lecter,” you choke out, your eyes beginning to burn. You wipe at them furiously, despite knowing that the effort is futile. “Go back inside.”

“No,” Hannibal says. You can’t see the expression on his face through your blurred vision—you just pray that it isn’t annoyance or irritation.

“I’ll be fine,” you maintain through gritted teeth. You think you hear Hannibal sigh at that, but it could easily be your imagination. The man looks down at you before pressing a cool hand to your forehead. Despite knowing that he’ll withdraw his hand in a few moments, you can’t help but lean into the touch.

“I’m sure,” Hannibal remarks, pulling you up to your feet and steadying you as your balance wavers. He places your hand on his arm and the two of you walk back in the direction you came. To your surprise, when you reach the door to the theater, Hannibal pivots and leads you towards the exit. You shake your head in disbelief as humiliation, shame, and guilt battle for prominence in your chest. Before long, Hannibal has led the two of you into his car. The moment you’re in his car, you bury your head in your hands.

Everything in your vision feels harsher and sharper. You begin to dig your nails into your palms unconsciously, hoping for some means to establish yourself in reality. You don’t realize you’re doing it until Hannibal reaches out and pries your hands apart. Your hands are trembling ever so slightly and you ball them into fists.

You’re not sure how much time you spend trying to regain your composure in the passenger seat of Hannibal’s car. Dignity is a foreign concept. You’re sure the embarrassment will catch up to you later—perhaps when you’re home and have some time to think.

At some point, Hannibal begins driving. Thankfully, the roads aren’t bumpy and the ride is rather smooth. He’s entirely silent and you feel the beginnings of remorse prickling along your skin. Hannibal never asked you to explain your interaction with Franklyn, but you feel that he deserves to know what happened.

“You realize Franklyn’s in love with you, right?” You blurt out, before quickly turning your head to look out the window and avoid Hannibal’s gaze. Truthfully, you had hoped to lead into that a little bit more. Somehow, that statement was what came from your lips.

“Yes.” Hannibal responds, his eyes still locked on the road. You take the afforded opportunity to look at him, confident in the notion that you aren’t being observed right back. Hannibal seems… entirely unruffled. Then again, he always looks unbothered. You wonder if you’ll ever be able to notice when something bothers him.

“He asked me what cologne you wear,” you decide to start with. You describe how you had tried to make your way back to the theater, only to be stopped by Hannibal’s patient and led off into a secluded hallway. “Franklyn knew that I was wearing your clothes; he also wanted to know what it’s like to be friends with you.”

“What did you say?” Hannibal asks, his attention still focused on the road.

“Nothing; he didn’t let me get a word in edgewise,” you admit. You run a finger along the smooth fabric of your shirt sleeve. Unbeknownst to you, the sleeve had started to roll up on its own; you take a moment to fix that before continuing to speak. “He’s so… suffocating.”

“It seemed his presence was harming you,” Hannibal remarks bluntly. You nod in agreement. At first, the interaction was merely uncomfortable. However, once Hannibal appeared, Franklyn’s emotions hit you with full force.

“I could feel everything,” you break off for a moment. “The love, the obsession, the jealousy, the envy… It was overwhelming. That man is the darkest person I’ve ever met.”

“He isn’t a killer,” Hannibal points out. That’s true—you’ve seen your fair share of killers, with minds so dark that you couldn’t hope to find an escape. Even so, those criminals were… straightforward. Franklyn, on the other hand, is a paradox.

“I know,” you acknowledge. “Franklyn is extremely neurotic, though—arguably the worst I’ve ever seen. It’s stifling. He has debilitating control issues and a crippling urge to prove himself. He’s often a victim of his own envy and jealousy. His self-concept is… I can’t even begin to describe it.” Yet, there’s a thinly-veiled hunger in Hannibal’s eyes—he wants to hear what you have to say. You inhale slowly. Again, you feel as if you owe him for absolutely ruining his night. Besides, you’re sure that he already knows all this information anyway. Franklyn is his patient, after all.

“Franklyn is sort of… a shapeshifter, for lack of a better term. He’ll adjust and change himself to fit the situation best. When he’s in love, he’s dangerously obsessed. His unconventional actions are reassuring to him, though, because they give him a modicum of control—a control that he cannot possess over anything else.” You have a lot more that you could divulge on the matter, but you decide to stop there. Again, you’re convinced that Hannibal already knows all of that.

“I see why you’re Jack’s best profiler,” Hannibal says, finally looking away from the road to look at you. His eyes are glittering in the darkness. You roll your eyes at the unnecessary compliment, too tired to start an argument. To your surprise, when you look out the window, you realize that he’s driving down your street. That car ride had passed rather fast and within a few seconds, Hannibal is pulling into your driveway.

“We’re here,” you announce unnecessarily, grabbing the door handle and stepping out of the vehicle. To your surprise, Hannibal also gets out of the car. You squint at him in confusion, but he doesn’t seem to notice. You’re not quite sure what he’s playing at, but you’re too exhausted to figure it out. Instead of inquiring about his sudden interest in following you inside, you simply allow him to do so before closing the door behind him.

“Do you want this clothing back now?” You ask, unable to come up with any other explanation for his presence in your home. It’s not that you mind his intrusion—not at all, actually—but you’d feel more comfortable with a legitimate reason for his presence.

“If that’s acceptable,” Hannibal answers, breaking you out of your thoughts. His eyes are fixed on something on one of your bookshelves. You shake your head at his strange fascination with your living room decorations.

“Sure, I’ll go change; mind waiting here?” He assures you that he doesn’t mind waiting. You shut the door behind you in the bathroom and stare at yourself in the mirror for a moment. There are dark circles under your eyes and you look a little frazzled. Otherwise, you don’t look bad. Amazingly, you managed not to ruin Hannibal’s clothing—a feat you’re rather proud of yourself for. You settle for changing into a simple long-sleeved shirt and sweatpants. As you change, you neatly fold Hannibal’s clothing into a pile. Once you’re done, you glance at your reflection one more time. You take a half-step backwards but, before you move to leave, your eyes catch on something below your collar. You squint and lean closer to the mirror, convinced that you’re seeing things. Somehow, though, you’re not. After a moment’s hesitation, you pull your shirt collar to the side, only to find harsh marks on your collarbone and shoulder. They’re almost in the shape of a handprint and it doesn’t take much detective work to realize who they’re from—Franklyn.

That realization is not very welcome, and you decide not to think about it right now. Remembering that Hannibal is waiting on you, you grab the folded pile of clothes and walk back out to the living room. Unsurprisingly, Hannibal is looking around with a scrutinizing gaze. You walk up to him and hold out the clothes, but his back is turned. You eventually just decide to place them on the entryway table—he’ll have to see them on the way out.

“Thank you for inviting me, it was very fun,” you smile. Hannibal turns around, seemingly just noticing your presence. Just what is he looking for in your humble living room? He certainly won’t find anything of value. Furthermore, your decoration skills are nowhere near his. You can’t find a reasonable explanation for his behavior and, eventually, you have to give up on trying to rationalize it.

“I’m glad you found the night enjoyable,” he answers diplomatically. You raise an eyebrow at the stiff response. Perhaps your little… episode… had annoyed him more than you initially thought. Another apology certainly wouldn’t hurt.

“I hope I didn’t ruin your experience too much,” you wince, sheepishly shoving your hands in your pockets. Hannibal shakes his head, before taking a step closer to you.

“On the contrary, I found the performance more enjoyable with your company,” he asserts. Hannibal still looks as handsome as he did when he first appeared on your doorstep this evening—not a hair out of place. You swallow hard, before roughly shoving the thought aside—now is not the time. “I apologize for Franklyn.” Your eyebrows furrow. Why is he apologizing?

“You can’t control his actions,” you say, waving his concern off. “No harm done.” At that, Hannibal’s expression darkens. He takes another step closer, until the two of you are standing face to face. For a while, there is nothing but tense, uncomfortable silence.

“I disagree,” Hannibal says darkly, his hand resting lightly on your collarbone. Before you can protest, he’s gently pushing away the collar of your shirt to look at your shoulder. He frowns and you realize that he’s looking at the marks Franklyn left behind. If you had thought his prior expression to be dark, the look on his face now is nothing short of murderous. You feel your breath stalling in your chest, as you ground yourself in the realization that you’re standing in front of a killer with absolutely nothing to protect you. Hannibal moves to cup your cheek with a tenderness you thought him to be incapable of. His touch makes your skin feel licked with flames. Each breath you take feels labored and harsh. You swear you see Hannibal’s gaze fall to your lips for a brief moment, but you put it down to your imagination. It’s kind of late and you’re tired—you’re probably just seeing things. For a long moment, neither of you move or speak.

“Good night,” Hannibal says, a strangely determined expression on his face. His gaze keeps moving to your collarbone and you idly wish you had concealed the marks better. His hand falls from your face and he stares at you for a long moment, as if regretting your parting. You make sure to remind him of the pile of folded clothes, which he takes into his arms before turning around to leave.

“Good night, Hannibal,” you respond, opening the door for him. You watch as he enters his car and drives away. Despite the knowledge that he’s already out of sight, you feel the urge to wait a few more minutes before looking away. Finally, you close the front door and fall back against it, your mind reeling.

chapter six

#defectivevillain #Hannibal Lecter x reader #Hannibal Lecter x male reader #hannibal x reader #hannibal x male reader #hannibal x gn reader #Hannibal Lecter x gn reader #hannibal lecter #hannibal nbc

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itwashotwestayedinthewater · 1 year

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edit: all 5 trax out NOW ❗❗ check it out n give ur girl a lil support <3 heres wht i said yesterday:

for some reason i have neglected to mention: the first Proper release of my own music is coming out tomorrow! it's on my good friend from Tūrangi's label Bankrupt Records and contains the beginnings of me actually creating with any sort of intent or drive, from 2019 to 2021. losing all ability to edit these songs at the start of '22 after my laptop died let me actually consider them complete reflections of something true to me! Some of you have known me for a very long time and known i've always been a music bitch at heart, and that this is a very long time coming. i'm proud of this! First track (audio at the top!!) from it was released last week, and it's the only time i've aimed for something that could be considered a House Banger, fed through my process of cutting everything from elsewhere, collaging it, warping it and shining it. dance music made from other dance music. CDs as an instrument. i hope you will like IM 1 !! cover by me:

yes that is a dyke badge <3

#music #Bandcamp #nz

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pileontheyears · 5 months

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hi jeanie!! i was wondering if u had any thoughts on what the quarry counselors' favorite nintendo franchises might me?

-cas @chrashley :)

Hi Cas! 🥰 Ooh I love this question! I tried to stick with games I’m familiar with but there's a couple I've never played myself. That being said I'd be interested to hear what other's think in case I missed anything 👀

Abi - Animal Crossing, she enjoys more cozy games and it would bring out her artistic side, creating her own clothes and decorating her house/town/island. She doesn’t do anything extravagant but she plays a fair amount, she enjoys bug catching and visiting her favorite neighbors with gifts.

Dylan - The Legend of Zelda, nice mix of puzzles, action, and music depending on the game. He gets really into the new mechanics in BOTW and TOTK, going from creating really intricate mechanics to designing dick shaped machines. Perhaps projecting but I’d say he’d have a soft spot for Twilight Princess (you can hold and talk to cats!)

Kaitlyn - Splatoon, the shooter of the Nintendo franchises. She meticulously goes through all the weapons in order to pick the best one depending on specials and sub weapons (she strikes me as a sniper). She also loves the idols and music and designing her squid with all the fresh fashion choices. She definitely makes it to ruler rank whenever she participates in Splatfests (and claims bullshit if her team loses).

Ryan - Pokemon, perhaps inspired by Justice being in Detective Pikachu, but as an aspiring animator he’d be interested in all the different Pokemon designs. When Ryan builds his team he gets really attached to them. He’d never attempt a nuzlocke, he’s sticking with his whole team til the end. He of course loves the ghost types, but I think he’d also have something like Loudred or Golbat, something audio/sound related. He definitely plays a lot with Sarah.

Emma - Metroid, Emma is resourceful, working well under pressure and able to adapt to situations quickly, so when she takes the controller for Metroid she effortlessly switches from platforming to shooting, completely tearing the alien enemies to shreds. She loves Samus and probably got into the series for the leading lady. One of her favorite elements is the morph ball, but the arm canon might have it beat.

Jacob - WarioWare, while a more competitive game may seem like Jacob’s first choice I think if he had to choose a favorite he’d prefer the quick micro games that WarioWare has to offer. It’s fun, fast, no time to think just DO. He also really enjoys the zany humor and eccentric characters. It’s also a plus to play with others and can somehow still turn competitive, especially when playing with Nick.

Nick - Pikmin, Nick likes to go with the flow so he'd like something less fast paced but still something with some strategy. I think he'd find assigning Pikmin with their different abilities to various tasks satisfying. Since he also loves nature he'd enjoy the exploration element, as well. And really he just thinks the Pikmin are cute.

Laura - Animal Crossing, since she’s interested in veterinary science she’d probably enjoy the animal characters, Max most likely introduces her to the game for that reason. However, unlike Abi she plays it more seriously. She has to complete every task, pop every balloon, and fill the entire museum with every collectible. She has to stop playing when it cuts time into her personal productivity. She has a 5 star island.

Max - Yoshi, Max is definitely not a competitive player, he plays games that are more chill. He enjoys the straightforward mechanics of swallow enemies, throw eggs/yarn, with nothing too punishable or frustrating like with other tenser games. The vibrant, colorful world definitely doesn’t hurt with all the cute smiling flowers, shy guys on stilts, and most importantly: Poochy.

All the counselors love Mario Party and Mario Kart, some less so than others as the game progresses and they continue to lose (Jacob).

#the quarry #abigail blyg #dylan lenivy #kaitlyn ka #ryan erzahler #emma mountebank #jacob custos #nick furcillo #laura kearney #max brinly #almost gave nick star fox or donkey kong #emma was gonna be princess peach showtime but metroid kept calling to me #abi also gives me kirby vibes

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berystraw · 6 months

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Love Leaves Scars: Wounds Re-opened

[L.L.S Masterlist] | [Main Masterlist] | [G.H Masterlist]

Warning: none

Pairinh: Oc!Reader × Grayson Hawthorne

W.C: 1.7k

Note: IM SO SORRY IT TOOK SO LONG! It was exams, and I couldn't find the right time to post😭 BUT HERE IT ISSS!!!

I felt as if all the blood had been completely drained from my body. My chest tightened, and my heart started pounding loudly within my chest. I could hear its thumping in my ears. I felt myself stop breathing, and I knew it wasn't because my head was buried against the couch's mattress.

"Vers, are you alright?" Asnid asked, gently pushing my head up from the couch. Her eyes brimmed with concern and worry. Her eyebrows furrowed, and she chewed on her lips, a habitual gesture when she was anxious. Placing a tender hand on my head, she softly stroked my hair, attempting to soothe my nerves.

I never understood Asnid's ability to calm me down with a simple touch of her fingertips. It was as though she possessed some kind of superpower. Gradually, my breathing began to steady, and a sense of calm washed over me. We sat in silence, and she continued to stroke my head in a soothing manner.

Once I regained my composure, Asnid's question resurfaced in my mind. Tobias Hawthorne. A name I hadn't heard in the past three years. I had stopped following the news, fearing the mention of his name or my family's. It was fortunate that Asnid and I rarely watched the news.

"Are you okay now?" Asnid inquired, her comforting gestures never ceasing. I nodded faintly, and her hand gently rested on mine. "You should read it; it might be important," she suggested, taking my hand and placing the envelope in my palm. Planting a tender kiss on my forehead, she gave me a soft smile and left to change into her room.

As soon as I heard her door close, my gaze fell upon the envelope in my hand. Should I read it? Should I leave it unopened? Why had he suddenly reached out after three years? I sat there in silence, uncertain of my next move. In chess, every move must be calculated strategically. One wrong move could lead to losing the game, losing everything you have.

The only sound that filled the room was the ticking of the clock. I had been staring at the envelope for five minutes now. I felt frozen, unsure of what to do. Memories from my younger years flooded my mind. The days Tobias Hawthorne would open his home to me on Saturdays. We would solve riddles and play games with his grandsons. Some days I would win, and some days I would lose. Every Saturday followed the same routine: playing a game, either winning or losing, and receiving a lesson from Tobias on our mistakes.

I mustered the strength to rise from the couch and succeeded. My feet guided me to the kitchen and the trash bin. I had moved on from everything that happened in the past. I had no need for a reminder of that life, the life that had shattered me in ways I never thought possible.

I crumpled the envelope in my hand and tossed them into the trash bin. I stared at it and felt curiosity bubbling up in my chest. Determined, I closed the bin, turned away, and suppressed any hints of regret or curiosity that threatened to consume me. I tossed my backpack into my room, then collapsed onto my bed, drowning out the nagging questions and thoughts in my head with blaring music through my headphones.

Every Saturday, I received an invitation to Hawthorne House from Tobias Hawthorne himself. Like clockwork, his four grandchildren and I would gather there in the morning to solve the riddles he had prepared for us. Today was no exception. It was a scene of utter chaos.

Nash, Xander, and I watched as Jameson and Grayson tumbled and grappled on the floor. Jameson had suggested a wrestling match, with the key to a locked book we had discovered on the shelf as the prize. "Shouldn't we intervene?" nine-year-old Xander asked. Nash and I shook our heads in response. I uncrossed my arms, removed a hairpin from my hair, and used it to retrieve the book with the help of a stool.

With the hairpin, I skillfully picked the lock, and the book clicked open. Inside, we found nothing but a solitary rook chess piece nestled in a hidden compartment. Grayson and Jameson, having abandoned their feeble wrestling attempt, approached to see the revealed item. "You could have spared us the wrestling match," Grayson remarked, slightly irritated. "I wanted to see a little show," I shrugged, seizing the rook.

"That piece could be from one of the chess sets," Xander observed, examining the chess piece. Before his words had even left his lips, his three older siblings had dashed off. I heard him sigh in annoyance, and his hurried footsteps followed theirs until I could no longer hear it. Clutching the chess piece tightly, I glanced behind me to ensure none of the four Hawthorne children had remained. Then, I darted out the door and made my way to Tobias's study.

Upon entering, I found Tobias seated at his desk, a chessboard spread out before him. "I expected you would be the one to solve it," he said, flashing a faint smile that revealed the wrinkles of age. I took a seat in front of his desk and carefully placed the rook in its designated spot. "White moves first, my dear," he reminded me.

Minutes later, in the midst of our game in Tobias's study, the door burst open, and the four boys stumbled into the room, panting and disheveled. "You're all late. I was beginning to wonder when you would join us," Tobias remarked. "Checkmate," I declared. Tobias glanced down at the chessboard, and once he confirmed my victory, he beamed with pride. "It was a pleasure playing with you, Verity," Tobias said, shaking my hand in congratulations.

I turned to the boys, who still stood there gazing at us. "Well done, kid," Nash congratulated me.

"Verity? Verity!" I was jolted awake from my slumber by Asnid's voice and her rough shake. "You fell asleep and missed dinner," she informed me. I rubbed my eyes and nodded sleepily, propping my head up with my hand. "Are you alright?" she asked, concerned. "Yes, just had a dream," I replied, my voice hoarse. "Well, there's an elderly man in the living room who insists on seeing you," Asnid said, helping me tidy up my disheveled hair.

The drowsiness dissipated from my body the moment those words escaped Asnid's lips. I stared at her, my eyes widening. I felt rooted to the spot, unable to move or speak, stunned by the possibility that it could be him. But it couldn't be, could it? Why would he be here?

"I don't think I'm in the right state to entertain guests right now, Asnid," I told her, feeling the initial shock subside in my body. Countless possible answers to my question raced through my mind. I refused to believe that Tobias Hawthorne would be sitting in the living room of my apartment at this very moment.

"I already told him that, but he's quite stubborn," Asnid replied. That old man is still the same. I sighed and rubbed my temple before giving Asnid a brief nod. "I'll remain here. It seems like you have something important to discuss," she said and sat down on one of the bean chairs in the room. "Don't touch anything while I'm gone," I reminded her before heading towards the living room.

And there he was, resplendent in his presence. I positioned myself a few meters away, deliberately avoiding proximity. I straightened my posture and held my head high, attempting to intimidate him and convey the sense that he was intruding. Yet, I knew Tobias Hawthorne wouldn't be swayed by my actions.

"It's quite impolite to keep your visitors waiting, my dear Verity," his tone remained unchanged from the last time I saw him—still arrogant and self-assured. "You haven't been responding to my letters," he informed me, taking a sip from the drink Asnid had brought him. "I consider them of no importance," I tried to maintain a firm and strong voice. I heard him chuckle, aware of my feeble attempt to appear strong, knowing that he could see through my facade.

"You've grown into a beautiful young woman, my dear. But you've forgotten everything you learned from me," he remarked, placing the cup on the coffee table before him. "Sit," he commanded me. I scoffed at his audacity. How dare he order me around in my own home? "Sit," he repeated, this time with a firm tone, realizing I hadn't complied the first time.

"Why are you here?" I asked him. "I would be delighted to tell you if you choose to sit down instead of standing there like a child on the verge of a tantrum," he responded. Reluctantly, I took a seat in one of the chairs situated at a comfortable distance from him. "Come back home," he said, folding his hands over his knee. I laughed at his feeble attempt to coax me into returning. "Do you think those two simple words would be enough to make me come back home? Am I that easily manipulated in your eyes?" I retorted, feeling offended.

"You are not, but I don't care for begging, Verity. So I am merely asking you to return home," he tried once more. I rolled my eyes and stood up. "Leave," I glared at him with anger in my eyes. "Now," I added, pointing towards the door of my apartment. "You'll change your mind soon enough, my dear," he remarked, and I couldn't help but let out a derisive laugh. "You're not a very skilled seer, Tobias," I told him. "Goodbye, Verity," he bid me. "For now," he added before closing the door behind him. I heard his footsteps recede as he walked away from my apartment, and I felt my knees give way as I collapsed to the floor.

Clutching my chest with both hands, tears streamed down my face. I hadn't realized how much I had wanted to cry until now. I sobbed and gasped for air, my cries echoing through the room. A door creaked open, and Asnid quickly rushed to my side as soon as she spotted me on the carpeted floor. "Take a deep breath, Vers," she enveloped my shaking body in her arms, whispering soothing words in my ear, attempting to calm me. I clung to her clothes, continuing to sob and gasp for air as if it would never be enough to fill my lungs.

What I hadn't noticed at that moment was the envelope lying on the floor in front of the door. T.T.H.

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