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dustydaddyyy · 9 months

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v: continental drift | joel miller x f!reader

flash point (series) masterlist

pairing: pre-TLOU! joel x fem!reader (no use of y/n!) summary: on a particuarly wet night, you run across tess servopoulos and joel miller, and they help you out of a tight spot chapter warnings: canon-typical violence and gore, depictions of death and decapitation (don't fucking ask), wound stitching (not sure this is a warning but for my queasy peeps), swearing, FEDRA is still an authoritarian regime, decent amount of POV-changing, the slowest slow-burn of slow burns (because I'm trash and like to make you all wait for it), a decent amount of angst

a/n: the way i giggled nervously when I realized it's been a month and a half since my last update......sorry you guys. also the sam tea is hot so please enjoy it. also this is officially the end of side a so the next time we see joel and reader will be closer to the TLOU canon timeline

The next day, you’re surprised to find Joel back in the coffee shop at the end of your shift.

“Need something else already? Or just coming to make sure I haven’t been kidnapped?” you ask him sarcastically, as he steps up to the counter, raising a single eyebrow.

“Just came for some coffee, thanks,” he says, and you sigh.

“We’re closing in ten minutes,” you tell him, peering around the shop, “I just sold my last cup.”

“Oh,” Joel lets out, and for the first time since you’ve met him, Joel seems awkward.

“I’ll make you a fresh cup,” you say after a second, giving him a tired smile, “I work here, after all.”

“Thanks,” he lets out, and you have to bite back a laugh at how woody he sounds.

Who knew coffee would stump Joel Miller.

“Did you hear what happened?” he asks you, and while his tone isn’t necessarily urgent, it’s clear the information he acquired is worth sharing as you get to work making an extra cup.

“I came home yesterday and crashed,” you inform him, “So no,”

“Really?” Joel’s eyes fall pointedly on something that looks suspiciously like a fresh hickey at the top of your collarbone, “You. . . crashed?”

You give him an unimpressed look. “60 years of life and no one’s ever told you it’s rude to stick your nose in other people’s business?”

“60?” Joel asks, eyes widening and gruff expression melting from his features almost entirely for a second, “You think I’m sixty?”

Your cheeky smile gives you away as you let out a small chuckle, shaking your head before giving him an expectant eyebrow as his scowl returns. “What happened, then?”

“They found bodies this morning,”

“Bodies?” you ask with a frown, looking up at him, “Where?”

“Abandoned church on Salem," Joel says, and for a second, your eyes widen, before your frown sets deep again, "Two young guys, both carrying assault-rifle type weapons,"

"You don't think –"

"–that when your little soldier boyfriend said there was a good reason it had been boarded up, he was damn right? That's exactly what I think, sweetheart,"

Your mind is running too many miles per hour to pay any attention to the nickname or the much more comfortable tone Joel seems to take with you as your fingers absent-mindedly reach for the coffee tin.

"Infected?" you ask him, and he nods.

"Overheard a few of his guard buddies talking about it. They're pretty sure it was infected, bodies were so torn up they couldn't ID them,"

"Jesus," you mutter to yourself, your fingers absent-mindedly reaching for the coffee beans tin, only to find it empty, "Shit,"

"Still sure you got enough for a coffee?" he asks, undertone sarcastic, and you manage to roll your eyes.

"Yes," you say pointedly, before turning to peer upwards, where you spot one of the 5-kilo coffee bean bags, "But you're going to have to help take down the new bag,"

Joel nods, walking around and behind the counter to join you as your arms reach out, fingertips barely grasping the edges of the bag. Joel has an easier time reaching, and together, you manage to lug the thing down.

"But why would they stay in the church?" you wonder out loud as you set the bag down on the counter with a huff.

"Beats me," Joel says with a shrug, which only makes the gears in your head whirr harder, frown deepening.

"Doesn't make sense," you mutter to yourself as you use one of the scissors on the counter to open a corner of the bag, leaning it slightly over the edge so you can fill the tin easily.

"What are you thinking?" Joel asks as he observes your face, and you look up at him for a second as your hands go on autopilot, dropping a handful of beans in the grinder.

"I'm thinking–" you say pointedly, "That they had no business being in that church, no reason to be there. . . the whole place was boarded up, there's signs everywhere. . . they may have been thugs but I doubt they were stupid enough to stick around,"

"Maybe they were just waiting to move the barrel," Joel says with a shrug, and you grimace slightly, shaking your head.

"There were three of them," you point out, pouring the ground coffee into a clean pot, the kettle whistling to your left, "And the checkpoint had already been abandoned for the night. . . best window to do it would’ve been immediately,"

"I'm not sure I follow," Joel says eventually as he stands next to you behind the counter, and you shake your head, bringing your hand up to rub your forehead.

"Don't mind me," you say with a sigh, "Been a long shift,"

The rest of the process happens in silence, neither you or Joel saying a word to each other as you finish making the coffee. Joel can tell from your expression that you're still pretty deep in thought, and the expression only clears from your face when you've made two steaming cups of fresh coffee. You hand one to Joel, who reaches into his pocket for a ration card.

“Don’t be silly,” you say, shaking your head with a frown as you finally seem to be pulled fully out of your thoughts, “I don’t want to see a single ration card come out of your pocket, Miller.”

Joel’s hand freezes in his pocket, and for a second, he doesn’t know what to say. He’s caught off guard by how friendly your tone is, and he’s silent for a minute before he clears his throat, his hands staying in his pockets.

“Alright.”

"Who was this job for, anyway?" you ask Joel as you take a sip of the coffee you've just made, and he shrugs.

"Dunno," he says, and you resist an urge to smile at the fact that he's talking to you now, "Some wiry fucker Tess knew. . . I think his name was Peter,"

You grimace. "Creepy name for a creepy dude,”

Joel makes an agreeing snort into his coffee.

“Fertilizer, huh?" you say, making a face, "What the fuck's he gonna do? Plant a garden?"

Joel lets out a hum as he swallows down his sip.

"And fuel oil, for some reason," Joel says, clearing his throat, "You put anything extra in this?"

"Wait, rewind–" you say, and suddenly your voice is serious as you set down your cup, "You never mentioned he wanted fuel oil."

Your mind is racing as you finally put together the pieces of the puzzle. The reason they asked for such specific items, staying in the church after, not wanting to be asked nosy questions–

Joel frowns as he turns to look at you, raising a sarcastic eyebrow. "Shall I write you a full report? Or just the transcript of our negotiations?”

"Who was he?" you ask him, tone urgent as your eyes become wide, and Joel frowns deeper, “Joel, who was he?”

"Don't know, told you that already," Joel says, before his eyes flicker with mild concern, "What's wrong?"

You give him an alarmed look.

"Joel, ammonium nitrate is the main ingredient in fertilizer," you say, your voice low and filled with panic as your eyes flit around the half-empty coffeeshop, "And fuel oil––. . .they're making ANFO, Joel, it’s a goddamn–"

You don't know how Joel understands what you mean, but his eyes blow wide as he finally puts the pieces together

"-bomb," he breathes, and at that moment, there's a sound of crashing glass as something shatters the front window of the coffeeshop. Some people scream, those sitting by the window jumping away. It's a brick, and just as people gather to look at it, something else flies through the shattered window.

"Joel–" you yell, and you only just manage to turn your body, hand flying over Joel's shoulder as you push him down behind the counter, going to do the same–

BOOM.

The explosion is unlike anything you've ever heard, and if you hadn't had the good sense to press your hands over your ears as the sheer force of the explosives propelled you against the opposite wall, you're sure both your eardrums would have burst as sounds tear through the atmosphere around you.

When you open your eyes, you find yourself on your back, and everything hurts. Your gaze is directed at the ceiling of the building, your temples pulsing with pain, and all you can see above you is smoke, half burning embers floating through the air as you try to blink the dust out of your eyes. Plumes of dust and smoke obscure your vision, but you can still see the gaping holes in the ceiling from which pieces of stucco rain down. There’s a deafening silence in your head, filled only with a distant ringing, and your eyes blink several times as your vision becomes less blurry, bringing into focus the burning embers floating through the air as if dancing on the wind.

For a single moment, the silence is almost peaceful as you watch them flutter down around you, eyes still blinking as your mind seems to process what has just happened, before you feel your lungs expand with a breath, and the illusion of peace shatters.

The next breath you take is stifling, the dust scratching the inside of your throat as you try to breathe any kind of oxygen in your lungs. You’re vaguely aware of something entering your vision, a familiar face, but your eyes don’t immediately focus on Joel’s face until you feel his hands on either side of your arms, pulling you upright and propping you up against the wall. You're still dazed as your eyes roll over the scene. Most of the counter is still standing, but the front, near to where you’d been standing, has been blown to bits and everything once standing on it, is either in pieces, or strewn across the floor.

Your eyes are torn away from the scene as you feel a squeeze in your arms, and your gaze meets Joel’s. His face is dirty, covered in grime, but his eyes are alight like you’ve never seen them, more present and alert than ever as they inspect your face. He looks relatively unharmed, except for a few bleeding cuts and scratches on his face as his eyes search your face, and you see something in his eyes you'd not seen on him before. He looks worried.

You watch as he moves his mouth, and it looks like your name, but you still can’t hear anything except for that damn ringing. Your eyes try to make sense of the movement of his lips, but you’re too distracted by the thundering of your heartbeat in your chest. Joel seems to finally understand you can't hear him as his eyes look into yours. They’re wide with shell shock, continuously flitting between him and your surroundings in an effort to gain your bearings.

Everything feels like it's moving in slow motion. You swallow hard, trying to clear your ears, but still the ringing doesn't subside. The only thing that seems to work is your nose, and the smell is horrible, a mix of acrid smoke, burning plastic and thick dust which oppresses your lungs. Joel gives your arms another squeeze, forcing you to look back at him, the shape of your name once again appearing on his lips. You shake your head at him, eyes wide with fear as they stare into his. You watch him as he swallows hard, eyes flitting around desperately, seeming to consider something. Then he moves beside you, taking your arm and slinging it over his shoulder. He says something else that you still can’t hear, but you nod as he looks at you, anticipating it as he pulls you up. You let him, trying to cooperate as much as possible, but your whole body hurts, screaming at you to lie back down again.

The minute your eyes focus on the full scene of the coffeeshop, your stomach turns and you wish you had never seen it.

Smoke and debris fills the air, casting an eerie haze over the scene; tables and chairs are strewn about like discarded toys, and the floor is a harrowing canvas of debris, bodies, body parts. . . you can see some people moving, crying, screaming. . . bending over others that lie face down and deathly still, blood smeared across the floors of the shop like morbid strokes of paint. The entire front of the coffee shop has been blown open, and the ground is littered in glass from the shattered windows which glitters dangerously in the fading daylight.

You can’t focus on it any longer as you feel Joel pull you towards the back door, keeping one arm around your waist to hold you up and using the other to push open the door. You quickly move past the backroom, before Joel is pushing against the heavy fire escape door, which sends you both stumbling into the alleyway as it gives way. You let go of Joel at that moment, and he helps you down on one of the upturned boxes against the wall of the alley.

Your hearing is slowly returning, the ringing becoming less and less as you can start to hear your own heavy breaths. It’s still muffled as you try and calm your thundering heartbeat, hand coming down to rest on your knees as your bow your head, shoulders shuddering. Your mind keeps flashing back to the images from inside, the acrid smell of smoke and burning flesh still so present in your nostrils it makes you violently nauseous; the tears streaming down one woman’s grime-covered face, the man screaming in pain as his hands desperately the thigh from which his bone is protruding, a teddybear lying in a pool of blood, loosely clenched in the hand of its lifeless owner. . .

Your breathing is shallow as you register what you've just seen, trying hard to keep your breath under control, but your pants are ragged as you try to steady your shaking hands on your legs.

"Oh god,"

You bring a hand to your mouth, the feeling of wanting to throw up overcoming you suddenly, but you find that nothing comes out except for a hoarse cough.

A voice drifts through the fog, muffled at first, before it becomes clearer as it repeats your name. You look up at Joel as your hearing finally sharpens, so you can hear the blaring of sirens in the street as several trucks drive past the alleyway, the shouts from outside and the screams from inside.

“Those people. . .” you stammer, your eyes wide as they meet Joel’s, glittering with tears, “We have to–”

“There’s nothing we can do,” he says, a little breathless, but his voice solemn, “We have to get out of here. . . there could be more–”

“Joel!” you let out, your voice still tinged with horror and shock.

“We can’t!” he lets out, shaking his head as he looks down at you, “We can’t help them, okay? We have to go. . . if they decide to blow up another building, or god forbid, the fucking FEDRA army descending on this place right now, we’re in deep shit.”

After a second in which you stare at each other, you nod shortly, heaving a breath.

“You still have the keys to your place?” Joel asks, and you take a second to feel for them in your back pocket. Thankfully, they appear not to have fallen out during your ordeal, and you nod.

“Alright,” Joel says with a curt nod, before looking down at you, “Can you stand?”

You nod weakly, before getting to your feet. Your legs are still wobbling a little, and you frown as you feel pain flare through your ankle. Joel notices, and doesn’t even ask before he stands beside you again, taking your arm again to steady you against him.

You go as fast as possible, but it still feels like an eternity before you reach the building in which you live, the people in the streets either too busy running towards or away from the wreckage of the shop to pay attention to you. The minute the door closes behind you, Joel walks you over to the kitchen table, and sits you on top, your chest heaving a pained sigh.

“Are you hurt?” he asks, and even though his tone is neutral, his hand comes up, two fingers gently taking your jaw to analyze your face. He tilts your head to look at the side of your face as you groan slightly.

“I can’t hear anything on the left,” you say, and he hums.

“You’re bleeding. . . eardrum must be bust.”

“Shit,” you let out, closing your eyes and trying to take a deep breath as you feel Joel's fingers leave your face before he steps away from you.

“You got a first aid kit? Anything like that?”

You nod, motioning towards the sink. “Cupboard under the sink.”

Joel moves towards the sink, before crouching down and opening the cupboard under it.

“What about Tess–”

“She’s a smart woman,” he says through a strained voice as he gets to his feet again, setting the kit down on the counter, “She’ll figure out where we’ve gone if she has any suspicion we survived that. . . ANFO. . . I should’ve fucking known,”

Joel feels his stomach churn with guilt; of course he knew what ANFO was, they use to use it quite a bit way back when he was still rebuilding houses for a living.

“What was that?” you let out, and Joel’s face darkens as he grabs a glass from the upper cupboard and fills it with water.

“Pipe bomb,” he mutters, before he looks over his shoulder briefly, eyes pausing on the scratches that litter your arms, “Something like nails of bolts in it, from what I can see. . . the ANFO packs a pretty big punch in of itself, but the nails and bolts do double the damage because they act like shrapnel. . . it’s what the Unabomber did,”

Joel vaguely remembers watching a TV documentary on the Unabomber with his ex-wife, which had detailed his similar methods. He briefly wonders– or rather hopes– that the dude died during the Outbreak.

“Jesus Christ,” you let out in a breath, burying your head in your hands, “Who the fuck would do that?”

“People who feel like they aren’t being heard,” Joel says darkly as you hear him step back towards you, and you feel like sobbing.

Hadn’t the outbreak been punishment enough? Weren’t people sick of pain and grief?

“We sold them that shit, Joel,” you say through your hands, the despair and guilt in your tone clear as day.

He comes to stand in front of you again, leaving the kit and the glass of water on the table next to you, before pulling one of the chairs from the side of the table to sit facing you.

“I know,” he says solemnly as he sits down and opens the first aid box, pulling out some rolls of gauze. You finally look back up, eyes meeting his, and Joel can see in your eyes that you’re struggling with grasping this particular fact.

Of course Joel feels guilty, to some extent, but he'd been in the smuggling business long enough to adhere to the policy that once it was out of his hands, it was no longer his business.

“Here,” he says, swallowing as he grabs your arm, zeroing in on the largest cut.

Ironically it looks much worse than it actually feels, and almost the majority of your forearm seems covered in dried and fresh blood from this particular wound. Joel works in silence, cleaning the large cuts one by one and dressing them. You don’t mutter a word either, as you sit still and stare ahead of yourself a little. Joel knows you must be in shock, and he feels a strange amount of concern every time a loud sound from the street makes you flinch.

“Sorry,” you mutter after a particularly loud bang in the street outside makes you jump, and Joel temporarily loosens his grip on your arm as he bandages it.

“S’okay,” he says after a second, looking up at you briefly only to find your eyes unfocused once again, staring almost vacantly at the window. He notices your ears straining for sounds from the street, brows tied tightly together like you were searching them. Then, you feel Joel’s fingers back on your chin as he gently turns your head away from him.

“Still nothing?” he asks as he cleans the trickle of blood that has run from your ears down your neck. You shake your head as you feel his other hand come up, “What about this?”

You assume he snaps his fingers, but you only hear it on your other side. You shake your head.

“No,” you say, swallowing.

Joel lets out a sigh before his hand falls back down to his lap.

“Shouldn’t last very long,” he says, in an attempt to distract you, “Maybe one or two weeks.”

You give a non-committal hum as you nod, eyes still not meeting his as he returns to the final scratches on your arms.

“Stop thinking about it,” he says after a second, and this gets your attention, your head turning to look at him as he hunches over your arm.

“How?” you return, and he looks up at you, “How do you stop thinking about it? I–. . . those people are all dead, Joel. . . that could’ve been us.”

“Well lucky for me you got some fast reflexes,” he says, his tone almost joking as he looks back down to your arm, and you shake your head ever so slightly.

“This isn’t funny, Joel,” you say, and your voice is heavy with emotion as he looks up at you, your eyes shining with tears.

“I know,” he replies with a sigh, looking up at you, “I never said it was.”

There’s a split second in which you look at each other, before you swallow shakily and look away again, silence falling over you both.

It lasts only a second before you speak up again.

“How come you’re always the one patching me up?” you mutter, your tone half-hearted, making Joel let out a small scoff.

“Maybe because you keep getting yourself into trouble, sweetheart,” he returns as he wraps the rest of the bandage over a particularly large gash on your arm, careful to keep his grip loose around the fresh scar of your stab wound.

“Saving your life, you mean,” you mutter, and Joel emits a dry chuckle, before looking up at you from where he’s sitting hunched towards you. He’s not sure what he’s thinking, or if it's even a good idea, but he finds himself putting a reassuring hand on your knee, which he feels under his fingers is still trembling.

“That’s twice now,” he says with a squeeze of your knee, “You done being a hero? ‘Cause I’m afraid there won’t be much left of ya if this happens again.”

His face doesn’t reveal much, but his tone is strangely gentle, caring. . . something you’ve never before heard from Joel.

“Yeah, I’m done,” you say with a groan as you try to sit up a little more, Joel’s hand leaving your knee with a slight pat, before he gets to his feet. Then, his eyes fall on something under your chair, and he frowns.

“Are you bleeding?” he asks you, looking back up, and your eyebrows knit together as you follow Joel’s eyeline and find, to your great concern, a rapidly growing pool of blood gathering at your feet.

“I–. . . I didn’t think I was,” you let out, frowning slightly, before Joel steps around you, and you listen as he takes a sharp intake of breath.

“Your shoulder,” he says as you watch his hand go into the first aid kit and reach for the scissors, “You don’t feel that?”

“I mean a little, but, fuck–. . . ! What was that for?” you ask him, turning around to glare at Joel, who just used what felt like his entire hand to press down on the wound, making your shoulders erupt with pain.

“Sorry,” Joel mutters, as you feel his fingers pick up the hem of your shirt. Then, you hear the scissors cutting through the fabric of your top, “Doesn’t look too deep, but you’ll need a few stitches I think.”

“More fucking stitches,” you grumble to yourself, shaking your head as Joel peels the shirt from your back, “At this rate I’m going to be, like, 90% scar tissue.”

“And water,” Joel adds in an attempt at a joke, and to his credit, you chuckle slightly.

“And water, I suppose,” you say with a nod of your head as he reaches into the first aid kit for something to suture you with. You sit in silence as Joel cleans the needle and then your wound, before you feel him put his hand on your shoulder and he starts to sew you up.

It hurts, and you immediately feel tears spring into your eyes as your shoulders tense and your fingers tighten around the edge of the table, knuckles whitening.

“If you relax, it’ll hurt less,” Joel says, and his voice is practically in your ear, his breath fanning over your exposed skin.

“I’m being stitched up by a stranger with no pain medication or alcohol. . . I think you can understand why I’m tense,” you reply with a sigh.

Joel says nothing, but you can hear him thinking. You wonder about what.

“Stranger, huh?” Joel asks you with a hum, and you snort.

“What word would you use?” you reply, eyebrows creasing, “Because something tells me you’re not the type to have friends.”

Joel says nothing, only letting out a grudging sound as you feel the needle pierce your skin again, which makes you grit your teeth, shoulder tensing up again.

“Jesus Christ woman, relax,” Joel says again, letting out a breath as you feel him put a hand on your other shoulder, “Or I’ll sew you up crooked.”

You try your hardest, letting out a shaky breath and forcing your shoulders to un-tense, but it still isn’t enough, and Joel heaves a sigh as he tries to think of a way to distract you enough so he can sew you up at least half-properly.

“Be honest,” he says eventually, “How the fuck did you survive a month and a half out in the open?”

You’re silent for a second, and Joel waits for your answer before getting back to work.

“I was by myself,” you say eventually, as Joel places another stitch, which you react less violently to than the last one, “That sounds stupid, but I’m pretty sure that’s how. . . you have nobody else relying on you, you’re responsible for nobody and only have yourself to answer to. . . you’re entirely alone.”

“Here I was thinking that’s exactly what leads people to giving up,” Joel notes, throwing another stitch, and you let out a breath.

“You’d think that, but spite is a good motivator,” you admit, “Most of my time traveling I was just angry at the universe for putting me through the ringer. . . so I kept going. . . kind of like a ‘fuck you’, huh?”

“So you’re telling me–” Joel says, stopping to place another stitch, which you hiss at slightly, “–that you survived 2 months of hiking through the American backcountry as a fuck you to the Universe?”

“Canadian backcountry, actually,” you correct, before chuckling slightly, “But yeah, pretty much.”

“Canada?”

“Hm,” you give an agreeing hum, “We’d heard the midwest was hell on earth. . . as much hell as you can get in an apocalypse, I suppose. . . so I crossed the border somewhere in North Dakota, walked along the border.”

“What about infected?” Joel asks, and you shake your head.

“Only in and around big cities,” you note, “The rest is mostly national parks and forest, so I ran into relatively little trouble. . .infected were really the least of my worries, it’s the people.”

Joel gives an agreeing hum, but before he can open his mouth to reply, your front door flies inward with an almighty sound and you hear someone’s hoarse voice call out your name.

You jump again, eyes widening. From behind you, you’re vaguely aware of Joel’s hands having left your shoulders, and you hear the unmistakable sound of a safety clicking off.

Sam doesn’t look too injured as his wide eyes search the room before falling on you. His rifle is slung over his shoulder, and he has some smears of grime on his cheek, as well as a bloody handprint on the side of his pants that looks too small to be his. When he sees you, his face simultaneously relaxes and tightens at once.

“Are you alright?” he asks, his voice hoarse as he eyes the cuts on your arms, seemingly not even noticing Joel sitting behind you, and you nod.

“Just a few scratches,” you assure him, and he lets out a breath, before his expression becomes stormy. Behind you, Joel moves again, his hands coming back up to your wound where you assume he’s almost finished.

“The fertilizer,” Sam pants in a panicked voice, “Who did you give it to, speedy?”

“I kno–” you say, but Sam doesn’t listen.

“–because if you mix fertilizer with fuel oil you get–”

“–a bomb,” you finish, “I know, Sam.”

Sam’s voice stalls in his throat, eyes widening. “You knew? You knew they were planning on blowing people up and you went along with it anyway?”

“Obviously, I didn’t know that,” you reply sarcastically, and Sam lets out a scoff as Joel puts another stitch in your shoulder, palms coming up to steady your bicep.

“Sweetheart, I’m sure this is a very important conversation, but I’m gonna need you to hold still for me,” he says, his voice low but still audible as he focuses on the stitch.

Something in Sam's face twists when he hears the nickname, and Joel recognizes the flash of jealousy behind the young soldier's eyes that makes him realize this might not have been his smartest move. He doesn't find himself caring too much, drawing some satisfaction in the way Sam sizes him up.

"I'm sorry, but who the fuck are you?" he asks him, moving his rifle towards Joel; not quite pointing it, but enough to tell him his attention has shifted, and not in a good way.

Joel takes up the challenge, moving his gaze from you to Sam, his shoulders setting imposingly as he gives Sam an almost unimpressed eyebrow from over your shoulder.

"Someone who doesn't have the fucking time for your little schoolboy crush."

"Joel," your voice is a sharp warning, "Not helping. . . Sam, I didn’t know.”

“I don’t care,” Sam says with a shake of his head, “Come on, you can’t be stupid like this, speedy.”

You close your eyes as you feel another stitch, face contorting in pain momentarily before you sigh. “I know.”

“–and all those people. . . did you know they killed fucking kids? I mean Jesus Christ,” Sam lets out again, and at this your jaw sets slightly.

“FEDRA hung an entire family for trying to come into the QZ last week,” you say, your tone cold, “You don’t need to lecture me on the blood staining my hands, thanks.”

There’s an uneasy silence between the two of you as Sam takes heavy, angry breaths, and after a second, Joel clears his throat, chair grating as he gets to his feet.

“All done,” he says, his voice back its usual stoicism, but neither you nor Sam pay him any attention as he walks to the other end of the room to clean his hands in the sink.

“You have to stop,” Sam says with a shake of his head, hands on his hips as he gives you a look.

“I have stopped–”

“No, I mean you have to stop smuggling,” he says with a shake of his head, “I don’t ever want you anywhere near this shit again.”

Normally you’d agree with Sam, but something about his tone irks you. It’s too authoritative, too controlling.

“Excuse me?” you utter, eyebrows flying up your forehead, “I don’t need you telling me to do anything, Sam.”

“Clearly, I have to– given you’re in absolutely no fit state to make any sound fucking decisions,” he hisses at you, and his tone has a venom to it you've only heard him use a handful of times.

“What the fuck is your problem?” you let out, and Joel can hear in your voice that you’re stung.

“You really want to know what my problem is?” he seethes, before motioning towards Joel, “This. . . ! This is my problem! This ridiculous rebellion you have going on, that you’ve had since the day you left the academy, that makes you run around here like some kind of untouchable, twisted version of Robin Hood. . . it’s stupid, speedy, and sooner or later it’s going to get you killed.”

“Hasn’t gotten me killed yet,” you retort, crossing your arms over your chest, and Sam lets out a sound of exasperation.

"I don't fucking care!" Sam lets out, his voice loud with anger and frustration, "You aren't listening–. . . the Fireflies’ cause isn’t any more noble than FEDRA’s regime. . . they’re all the fucking same, they lie and they kill, and sooner or later, they'll turn on you and you'll end up like your fucking dad."

"What?"

Your tone is shocked, and Sam watches with a guilty turn of his stomach as your eyes widen in shock, and grief, glistening with the oncoming threat of tears. "What the fuck is that supposed to mean?"

Sam says your name, but you interrupt him as you get to your feet suddenly, the sound of the grating chair filling the otherwise silent room.

"Tell me," you say through gritted teeth, and Samuel purses his lips, jaw clenching in frustration with himself as he takes a second to answer you.

The room is so silent that even with his bad ear, Joel is sure he could hear a pin if it dropped.

"It wasn't some random bystander that snitched on your dad," Samuel admits finally, and Joel realizes with a horrible turn of his stomach what he's about to say, "It was the Fireflies. They weren't happy he stopped helping them, and so they tipped FEDRA off that he’d been letting them run operations through the shop."

Your vision is starting to narrow as you take a shallow breath, eyes boring into Samuel. "How do you know this?"

“It doesn’t matter–”

"No– Samuel, how do you know this?" you say, your gaze going back to the boy you'd known for 13 years, your eyes filled with the puzzle pieces you're struggling to put into place, "If we were ever friends. . . please tell me."

Samuel's eyes plead with yours as your brain works overtime, before he lets out a defeated breath, shaking his head. "Burke is my mom's name, I took it when I joined the academy because I was sure they wouldn’t let me in otherwise. . . my dad's name is Hartwin."

Even Joel recognizes the name; it had been whispered in the streets for the past few years as word spread of the Fireflies' revolution and victory in San Francisco, led by a hardened ex-marine called Jack Hartwin. His name had been spoken with a twisted kind of admiration, word of his liberal use of violence somehow less known.

"Sam," you let out, your voice trembling as you blink once, tears still refusing to spill down your cheeks as your face becomes a mask of realization, "Oh god.”

“Speedy, please–”

He takes a small step in your direction, but you respond with a step back, your body almost flinching at that stupid nickname falling over his lips. It had been for a stupid reason, as well, a name he’d called you after you’d out-sprinted almost your entire class during a training exercise at the academy. You had let him, allowing the nickname to take hold until eventually he had started to use it more than your actual name. Now, the name sounds poisonous coming out of his mouth.

“How long have you known?” you ask him, your voice is trembling with both rage and betrayal, “And don’t you fucking even think about lying to me.”

Sam’s face becomes a mask of solemn guilt.

“Since the beginning,” he admits sorrowfully, “I found out who you were a few days after you joined.”

“You knew–” you say, your voice stalling in your throat as you hear your heartbeat thunder in your ears, “You knew all this time, and you never told me?”

“What would you have done with that information? We were sixteen, speedy,” Sam pleads.

“You were protecting him,” you accuse, your voice hoarse with pain and anger.

"I was protecting you," Samuel shouts back, his eyes wide and pleading, "That's all I ever wanted to do, okay? My father would've destroyed you if you'd gone after him. . . you were my friend, the first and only one I’d ever had, and I couldn’t in good conscience say anything–"

“That wasn’t your decision to make!” you explode, and finally the tears flow freely over your cheeks, “This whole time, you lied to me. . . you looked me the face and you lied to me, for thirteen fucking years, I–”

Your voice stalls in your throat as you take a shaky breath, your trembling hand coming up onto your forehead, your chest tight and uncomfortable as you fight the overwhelming urge to hurl.

“Speedy, please,” Sam says, and his voice is shaky, “I wasn’t protecting him. . . I want nothing to do with him. . . I was horrified when I found out what he’d done, I joined the academy out of spite because I wanted to get as far away from him as I possibly could.”

“How fucking noble of you,” you spit, your tone venomous as you refuse to look at him.

Silence falls on the kitchen, not a word spoken by anyone, until eventually you let the breath out again, just as shaky as when it came in. Sam tries one more time, saying your name, your actual one. . . but you interrupt him before he can get any further.

“Get out,” you say, and this time, your voice is firm and furious. His eyes widen with surprise and hurt for a second, before his brow creases slightly.

“What?” he utters, his voice filled with pain, his eyes even flitting helplessly to Joel for a second, who is still standing in the corner as quietly as he can, wishing he had the superpower to turn invisible right now.

“You heard me, get out,” you repeat, and you’re still not looking at him, fingers pressed against your mouth lightly as your eyes look down at your feet.

His expression becomes almost pleading. “Speedy–”

“Samuel,” you return, your eyes, alight with fury, finally meeting his.

You say it like a warning, and Sam presses his lips together as he watches your expression.

“Get out of my house before I do something I regret,” you seethe, and Joel watches your fists clench at your side. He feels his shoulders tense slightly, readying to move just in case your common sense fails you and he has to actually pull you off the soldier standing in your living room holding an assault rifle. When Sam says nothing, you repeat yourself, your voice raising. “I said get out, Sam, fucking get out, before I–”

“What?” Sam interrupts you anyway, shaking his head “Before you kill me. . . ?”

He doesn’t say it with scorn nor anger, tone maybe a little disbelieving but open and vulnerable nonetheless.

When you say nothing, he takes a breath. “You would do that to me, Speedy?”

Joel knows it’s going to happen before it does, watches as your fingers curl around the glass of water on the table, hears the sound of it shattering as you knock it over. It doesn’t hit anyone, but Sam jumps slightly at the sound, but to his credit, his gun remains unfired.

“Don’t fucking call me that! Don’t you ever fucking call me that again,” you shout at him, “Get out of my face. . . I don’t ever want to see you again.”

“You don’t mean that,” Sam says, and Joel notes that he actually sounds genuinely upset.

“With all my heart I fucking mean that, Samuel,” you say, your voice barely controlled as your eyes shine with tears of anger, “I mean it. . . I don’t want to see your face, I don’t want to hear your name. . .I curse the fucking day you ever even spoke to me, if you’d just minded your own damn business you’d have saved us both the fucking trouble.”

Sam is completely silent as he processes your words, the only sounds in the room that of your breathing.

“Get.out.”

Sam heaves a defeated sigh, his own eyes shining with threatening tears. He doesn’t seem to care one bit that Joel is witnessing this, his eyes focused only on you as his eyes plead with yours.

Finally, he turns on his heel and walks to the door, before pulling it open. He pauses there, before turning his head slightly over his shoulder, but without looking at you.

“For what it’s worth,” he says, before swallowing harshly, “I only did it because I love you. . . you’re my family, not him.”

Every word he says feels like a gut punch, and you show him your back as you try and take a deep breath, feeling your face contort as you’re overtaken with the sudden urge to cry.

The door clicks shut quietly behind him.

You take a deep breath, clearing your throat and looking at the ceiling for a second, before walking towards the door that leads to what he assumes is your bedroom, passing by Joel standing in the corner in silence. Your face is a mask of so many emotions Joel can hardly keep count; hurt, betrayal, rage, and he can see the tears pooling in your eyes and down your cheeks, but you don’t meet his gaze. He says your name, but you ignore him as you pass him by, only saying in a hoarse voice:

“Please do me a favor and show yourself out.”

Joel barely has time to nod wordlessly before your door slams shut with an almighty bang.

END OF SIDE A

a/n: ya'll i PROMISE it gets more exciting/more spicyyy. i just needed to establish this so i could flesh out the reader/joel dynamic and the basis for their relationship. please please bear with me, i have a plan heheheh. as usual, please let me know what you thought of this chapter and the story as a whole, i love hearing your input/feedback :)

taglist:

apart from those of you who explicitly asked to be added, i also took the liberty of tagging some of you that showed interest in more parts (if you do not want to be tagged, please please let me know, in which case i apologize in advance for doing so!)

@tanushreeg27 @user1112223334449890171 @frecklefacelm @samarav @alyssiamarierenee @platinumblondeedition @huntersandpie @lizlil @lumpypoll @pedro-pascal-3nthusiast @phryne-fish @ponyboys-sunsets

as usual, replies, reblogs and likes are highly appreciated!

#joel miller #joel miller x reader #pedro pascal #the last of us #joel miller fic

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qprpbj · 20 days

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do you have any tips on how to start writing fics?

the outsiders brainrot actually has me coming up with ideas and i have a desire to start writing them into actual stories but i've never written outside of class papers/assignments and i don't really know where/how to start since it's all just my own prompts and ideas and there's no grading rubric lmaoooo

like do you plan out each fic with a list first or do you just start writing about the main plot point of the chapter and fill in out of order or do you just start writing and see where it takes you... do you do any research while you're planning or pull from other authors/fics/posts or write from experience...

how do you decide when to stop writing or decide on which endings/paths/plot points to go with... the deadly combo of indecisiveness and perfectionism along with having no guidelines or due dates is crippling me so im asking some of my fav authors (who have also been inspiring me to write and be creative)

wait hi this is so sweet thank you!!! 🥹🥹 i will preface All This (sorry i yapped so much lol) by. i’ve been writing fic for like ten years and i think a lot of my old fic, while deeply cringe and awful, was all very important to getting me where i am today where i feel i can accurately get across what im trying to say!!!

first. hone your ideas!!! try to find a good niche you feel comfortable in (but also. don’t limit your creativity!!!). idk for me it’s easier to start specific and small rather than super general bc then i have Tooooo much freedom u know. i think my niche sorta across fandoms is generally softer dialogue, exploring close siblings or familial or friendship bonds an dynamics through situation, a lot of fluff, maybe a lil hurt comfort

i basically exclusively write in order! unless i get a really cool line/paragraph in my head that i write out and save for later to fit in somewhere. i usually have a like one-line idea that just Comes to me (ex. this was my entire line idea that turned into that pony getting jumped fic!)

then i’ll expand it a little more into a shitty little paragraph (ex. here’s a few!!!)

and then tbh after that i just kinda write everything in order from top to bottom from there. i wish i were more organized tbh and writing long fic/chaptered stuff is still sooo hard for me (which is why i don’t do it much yet lol) but im really trying to break out of it!! slowly we are learning!!! retaining the inspo and drive necessary to write that much is harddddd lmfao

before writing i always do have a solid idea where i want it to start and go and end though. like that ponyboy jumping fic i Knew i wanted to have pony get jumped in the opening scene, then go home, try to break down cutting his own hair, brothers come in and talk him down and it ends with talking abt johnny, even if i didn’t like. List that all out in words in a document.

definitely do research!!! espppp for outsiders bc it was like 60 years ago!!! well researched fics are soooo obviously tonally different and it’s always super obvious imo when that sort of care is put into ur writing. that fic i wrote about darry getting a panic attack was important researching bc panic attacks weren’t well known or researched or even Called panic attacks back then, so it’d be hella jarring seeing like 1967 13y/o pony whip out “you’re having a panic attack darry 🤓👆” yk lmfaoo

i SOO get the perfectionism and having no due dates thing btw. i have literally like 5 fics i’ve started and not finished in my docs rn with like 15 more ideas i wanna write someday. tbh! try to enter that Hyperfixation Zone and be really excited about what you’re making!!! helps it go by easier bc i swear sometimes i’ll write fic and it feels like pulling teeth even though it’s supposed to be fun!!!

last thing. try and find friends to bounce ideas off of and go crazy with you <3 or ppl to beta read!!! makes writing SO much easier and sm more fun having a your own lil personal cheerleader!!! if you ever need a beta id be soooo happy to read whatever you’ve got and hype u up!!! <3 i hope this helped at least a little bit LOL my writing process is kinda chaotic ngl

#the outsiders #this was so nice 🥹🥹🥹#thank u for reading my silly lil fics <33 #i always think they sound so goofy (imposter syndrome is crazyyyy) but stuff like this makes me sooosjsbsksdjw <3333333 #asks #oh also forgot to say but i don’t tend to look to other authors really esp regarding fic concepts #lots of ppl inspire me but imo it’s just too easy to accidentally read things and then plagiarize or copy ideas even if you don’t mean to!#just be careful of that LOL #just use my good ol imagination 98% of the time!

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keiththecat · 1 year

Text

Admissible (Part Two)

Pairing: Sam Winchester x Female Reader (You)

Summary: You've always hunted alone. That is, until Bobby sends you on a hunt near the Winchester brothers. How will things change when they come to help?

Word Count: 2.5k

Warnings: 18+, series typical violence and monsters, weapons, cursing, groping/ almost sexual assault, self-doubt/ self-esteem issues, character death, injuries, hurt/comfort

Author's Note: Warning! The groping and almost sexual assault is stopped, but it is at the beginning of this part. I have marked the end of the section to skip with <>. (Be warned, the section to be skipped starts right at the beginning of this part!) I have also put a small summary at the very end of this part to explain what you need to know about the part that is skipped. (So if you're skipping the start, scroll down to the end, read the short summary, and come back up to the <>). Feel free to message me if you have any questions or concerns about anything. Y/N is your name, and feedback is always welcome. Thanks for reading and thanks for all the love so far! <3

Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural, or any of the related characters. The Supernatural series is created by Eric Kripke and owned by The CW Network. This work of fan fiction is for entertainment only. I am not making a profit of any kind from this story. All rights of the original Supernatural series belong to The CW Network.

Part One

AO3 link here

You’ve been patted down, fingerprinted, photographed, and now you’re sitting handcuffed to the table in an interrogation room in front of Officers Davis and Johnson. Davis is the ray of sunshine that arrested you and processed you, getting a little too handsy when patting you down and taking your weapons and belongings. Johnson is a very tall and gaunt man in his 60s with the worst dark circles you’ve ever seen. He also looks like he hasn’t seen sunlight in probably the last five years. Desk jobs will do that to you, I guess. Davis is the one doing all the talking, leering at you.

“So here’s what we know,” Davis says, counting offenses on his fingers, “You’re not FBI. In fact, the name on your badge is completely fake. You had illegal knives on you and an illegal unregistered pistol. And you were caught around two of the families who have already had members killed recently. Sure does make us wonder who you are and what you were doing.”

Missus Miller must have been the one who called them. You stay silent, knowing that it’s your best bet. They won’t find an ID by searching your prints, but they will likely find them tied to other crime scenes, just due to the nature of your job as a hunter. They won’t find any record of the pistol, the serial numbers have been filed off for years. You send up a prayer to anything listening that they won’t find anything serious enough to keep you for more than a few days.

“You would be smart to talk to us, explain some of this. Maybe if you gave us some answers, we could help,” Davis says.

You know he’s lying. The last thing you want to do is dig this hole any deeper. You smirk at him, then look at the ceiling and start counting the tiles to kill the time.

The officers sit, watching you for several more minutes. Davis continues trying to get you to talk, you continue ignoring him. This is going to be a very boring few days. I hope the boys can figure everything out and kill whatever it is before it gets anyone else. I hope they’re doing okay.

“I don’t think she’s talking, man. I’m taking a few,” Johnson gets up and walks out, leaving you alone with Davis.

After a moment, Davis gets out of his seat, moving around to lean on your side of the table. He places his hand on your chin, forcing you to look at him. “Just us now, sweetheart.” You glance at the camera in the corner of the room and notice the red recording light is no longer on. He’s leaning closer and you’re trying to decide if you can get away with headbutting him, adding assault to your charges, when there’s a knock at the door. Davis drops his hand as the door opens and Sam walks in.

“I certainly hope you haven’t been questioning my client without me, Officer,” Sam says, practically spitting out the last word. “I trust she has been informed of her rights and any charges against her?”

Davis moves away from you, “You’re her attorney?”

“I am, and I need a moment with my client. Thank you,” Sam leaves no room for discussion, taking a seat across from you and looking at Davis expectantly.

Davis looks between the two of you for a moment, then scoffs and goes to leave.

“And make sure all recording devices to this room are off,” Sam calls after him.

Davis grumbles under his breath, closing the door behind him, leaving you alone with Sam.

“Not that I don’t appreciate you being here, because I do,” you say, “but why aren’t you still out there hunting this thing? I can handle a day or two in jail-”

“Y/N,” Sam cuts you off, “I’m here. I’m getting you out of here. Dean is working on it. He can handle himself for a few hours. Besides, I saw how that creep was with you, I’m definitely not leaving you here. They’d probably have you here for longer than a couple days, impersonating a federal officer is a felony. Anyway, I’ve called in some help. What do they have of yours? Anything we can leave behind?”

You tell him about your weapons, holsters, and phone. He nods, looking up and seeming to think to himself for a moment. He pulls out a small kit from his pocket and picks the lock on your handcuffs, finally freeing your wrists. You reflexively rub at the red skin. “You seem strangely comfortable here,” you comment.

“Yeah, I was on my way to becoming a lawyer before... well, just before.” He stands, coming to your side of the table. “Ready?”

“Um, I guess?” you answer, “Want to fill me in on this plan of yours?”

You hear what sounds like wings fluttering, you register a hand on your shoulder, and the next instant, you’re standing inside your hotel room. Sam is still in front of you, “yeah. That’s my plan. Meet Castiel,” Sam gestures behind you.

You turn around, looking into comforting blue eyes. A man stands in front of you, messy dark brown hair, wearing a suit and tan trench coat. “Hello, Y/N. It’s nice to meet you,” he says. “You’ll find your belongings on the bed. Don’t worry, I disabled their cameras. They were not able to see me retrieving your things or us leaving.”

“Oh, wow, um, thanks,” you stutter out. “I’m so sorry, I don’t mean to be rude, but who are you? What are you? How did you do that?”

Castiel takes it all in stride, “Not rude at all, Y/N. I would expect you to be curious. I am Castiel, an angel.”

“Oh. Okay.” That’ll take some getting used to. “Thank you, Castiel.”

“Of course, Y/N. Any friend of Sam and Dean is a friend of mine. Pray to me if you should need help again,” he says, then nods at Sam and disappears.

“I can send you his cell number, too,” Sam says, pulling out his phone.

“He’s an angel with a cell phone?” you ask, starting to pick up your things and put your weapons back in their places on your body.

“Yeah,” Sam says, “he’s basically one of us but with perks.”

Sam’s phone rings and he answers, “Hey Dean, you’re on speaker. Y/N is here.”

“You busted out already? That was fast,” Dean says.

“We had some help. I called Cas,” Sam tells him. “What’d you find out?”

“Well, Sam, remember the bank in Milwaukee?”

“A shifter?”

“You betcha. All dealt with. I’m on my way back to the motel now. You guys need a ride?”

Hearing it’s over, you let their voices trail off and sink down onto the edge of the bed. I stupidly got caught, Sam had to save me, and Dean finished the case. Maybe I’m not good enough for this job after all. You realize Sam is no longer on the phone and is looking at you in concern. “You okay, Y/N?”

“Yeah, I’m good,” you try to convince yourself.

You can tell he doesn’t believe you, but he doesn’t push the issue. He goes to watch out the window for his brother. A few minutes later, the Impala is pulling up outside and Dean is knocking on the door.

“Alright, Princess, I figured out what is wrong with your car. I can get it up and running in the morning, should be able to have you out of town by noon, “ he says, making himself comfortable on the chair across the room.

“Sounds good. Thanks, Dean. What do I owe you?”

“Hmmm,” he taps his chin, thinking, “I’ll consider us even if you buy me some pie at that diner.”

“That’s it?” You ask. He nods. You smirk, “Wow, you’re easier than they say. Deal. Let’s go.”

You end up at the diner, all having a slice of pie, Dean filling you in on the details of the shifter. Apparently Missus Miller was the shifter, or rather the shifter was pretending to be Missus Miller. Dean went back to question her, and she recoiled when he shook her hand. “Silver ring,” Dean explained, holding up his right hand and wiggling his fingers in the air. He was able to draw his silver knife and stab her in the heart before she could attack him. “Reflexes like a cat,” Dean bragged, mouth full of pie. You can’t help but smile at him.

You all finish your pie and pile back into the Impala to go back to your rooms for the night. Once again, you can feel both of them watching you during the drive. You do your best to ignore it, watching the streetlights pass by outside.

Outside your rooms, Dean promises to text you when he’s done with your car tomorrow. You thank him, say goodnight to the brothers, and head into your room for the night.

You strip down, deciding to take a bath to unwind. With the bath full of warm water, you sink in and hear your phone go off.

[Sam 9:52PM: You doing okay?]

[Y/N 9:53PM: Doing fine, sunshine. Why?]

[Sam 9:53PM: You’ve seemed off since Dean’s phone call earlier.]

Yeah, I’ve seemed off. I should be able to do this job by myself. I have been able to, until now. I shouldn’t have to rely on you and your brother and your angel friend to save my ass and finish my case.

[Sam 9:55PM: You know you’re one of the best hunters out there, right?]

You let his message go unanswered again. After a few more minutes, you decide to call it a night. You get out of the bathtub, dry yourself off, and put on your favorite pajamas. You’re crawling into bed when you hear a knock at the door. You get up and look through the peephole, seeing Sam standing there in black sweatpants and a long-sleeved grey henley. You sigh and open the door, “Yes, Sam?”

“You stopped answering, so I figured you could use a pick-me-up,” he holds up the bags in his hands, small smile on his face and dimples peeking out. Damn that smile and those dimples. You step out of the way, letting him inside. He comes in, emptying the bags onto the small table while you close and lock the door. “So, I brought ice cream: Phish Food and Americone Dream. I also got some Kit-Kats and M&Ms. We can talk or watch some TV. I’ve also been told I give good hugs.”

You feel like you’re in shock. He just met you today. Sure, he had apparently heard about you from Bobby, but you’ve only known each other for about ten hours. So far in those ten hours, he has taken your sarcasm in stride, gotten you out of jail, went shopping for snacks for you, and is now standing in your room offering hugs. Either he’s insane, or I’ve stumbled upon the eighth wonder of the world. You’ve spent your entire life building walls around your heart, firmly believing that feelings lead to nothing but hurt or death. Somehow in less than half of a day, this man in front of you has managed to obliterate them, leaving you feeling more vulnerable than you ever thought possible.

He turns around, looking at you, unsure what to make of your silence. “Or I can leave. I mean, if you want to be alone-”

He’s cut off by you rushing forward into his chest, wrapping your arms around his middle and resting your head against his chest. My God, he’s solid like a tree. Once his brain catches up, his arms wrap around you too and he rests his chin on your head. He’s absolutely right, this is the best hug ever. He squeezes you a little and then runs his fingers through your hair. You feel all your muscles relaxing. You stay like this for a while, his hands switching between playing with your hair and rubbing circles on your back.

“I’m strong,” you whisper.

“I know,” he says.

“I can take care of myself.”

“You do,” he agrees. “And you’ll continue to. We’ve just joined in now.”

You pull back a little, tears forming in your eyes. You look at each other, his eyes flicking to your lips for a moment before returning to your eyes. You shy away, pulling out of his arms and clearing your throat. “This all seems very… not your taste, Mister Chicken Wrap,” you joke, gesturing to the sweets and trying to deflect.

He shrugs, “Not really yours either, Miss Salad. But sometimes a little sugar rush can be a good thing.”

You give him a small smile, greatly appreciating that he is willing to change topic, opening the M&Ms and pouring yourself a few before offering the bag to him. He takes the bag, pouring out a couple into his hand and popping one into his mouth.

You sit on the bed, back against the headboard, and pat the space beside you, "So, tell me all about the enigma that is Mister Sam Winchester."

He sits beside you, and you spend the next few hours trading questions and learning all the little things about each other. You learn that his favorite color is blue, he is full of knowledge about true crime and serial killers, and he hates clowns. He listens to The Smiths, Bon Jovi, and Celine Dion. He prefers to eat healthily, and he runs at least once a day to stay in shape. “There are so many unknowns in this world and so many things that can take you out, I refuse to let my cholesterol be what does it,” he reasons. You open up to him as well, telling him your favorite holiday, color, music, and foods. By the time 2AM rolls around, he has resorted to telling you terrible dad jokes.

“You know,” he says, sounding serious, “I’ve realized I only know 25 letters of the alphabet. I don’t know y.”

You groan and laugh at the same time, “Your jokes are terrible, Sam!”

“Oh, I’m well aware. But hey, they make you laugh,” he says, laughing and nudging your shoulder with his.

Your laugh dying down, you rest your head against his shoulder and sigh. “I guess we should get some sleep.”

“Yeah,” he sighs, “you’re probably right.” He pats your head before getting up. You follow him to the door and when he turns around to say his goodbye, you wrap your arms around him again. “Thank you, Sam. You’re kind of alright, I guess.”

He laughs a little, “yeah, you too, I suppose.” You think you feel the ghost of his lips on the top of your head before he pulls away from the embrace. With a smile and small wave, he closes the door, leaving you alone but your heart feeling lighter than it ever has. You crawl under the covers, smiling to yourself and sending one more message before turning out the lights.

[Y/N 2:09AM: Goodnight, Sam.]

[Sam 2:09AM: Goodnight, Y/N.]

<> You have been arrested and are being questioned in an interrogation room by two officers, Davis (who arrested you) and Johnson. You stay silent throughout their questioning, despite their threats and their attempts to coerce you into talking. Johnson leaves, and Sam enters shortly after.

Part Three

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hiemaldesirae · 6 months

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Question: how would your characterization of demon Alastor react to finding out for the last 60+ years that what he thought was Vox breaking up with him was actually Demon!Valentino drugging/r**ping him with his venom/aphrodisiac and Vox has No memory of what he and Alastor actually had? No memory of anything except maybe the last month? And to find out Valentino only did this so Vox (who was becoming a TV mogul) would put his pornos on the tv. How would he help Vox remember? What would he do to Valentino? Would Velvette also suffer?

okay so. nonny, i wont blame you for not knowing, especially since ive never explicitly talked about it on main, but for future reference, im not that big on the whole abusive staticmoth dynamic. i can see why others enjoy it, and i do read stories with it from time to time simply because the premise captivates me that much, but in general id say i much more prefer a version where val and vox are at the very least best friends if not crossing into the sort of blurry best friends who smooch sometimes territory.

now having said that, i'll still answer your question because again, not very fair of me to just brush you off for no reason when i never made my preferences clear beforehand. (this gets long, so i'll leave a readmore.) warning: my demon radiostatics are always freak4freak no matter what. so this does get a little iffy in terms of ethics

my favourite interpretation of radiostatic is two sickos who are just as closely obsessed with each other, so in the unlikely case that al would let vox go for that long, when he realizes again the first thing he's going to do is go and. well. for lack of a better term, atticwife him (i hope to god this isn't just a term used in east asian fandoms because if i have to explain this ill eat lead). maybe after a little bit of time, he'll allow vox some liberties, but even then it'd be very little. ill put it this way- imagine the most toxic irl relationship you can: someone who tracks and micromanages their partners every move, barely lets them outside the house without going with them, monitors every friendship that they allow their partner to have, and there you have it. thats radiostatic! ah, young love. so sweet, dont you think? after all, alastor can't risk his muse's eyes slipping off him again. he's been deprived of that attention for far too long, and it wasn't even by his own doing! that's an offense in and of itself.

now im assuming that its only val who's doing the exploitation here so presumably vel would have no hand in any of the mess, and perhaps not even be fully aware of the nuances behind the scenes. i mean, it wouldn't really matter either way because once alastor finds out the reason why his other half hasnt been reciprocating their insane little song and dance he's getting rid of any and all obstacles, permanently. vox doesnt need anyone else so long as he has him- and hey, he was friends with him, rosie and husk first, so its not even as if its much of a loss. the only people he'd presumably leave alive would be voxs own contracted souls, and even then thats a bit of a gamble depending on just how bad i want the both of them to be: without his contracted souls, vox would be weaker and more susceptible to whatever alastor wants, so i guess its a matter of whether or not i want the freak4freak relationship where theyre both equally strong but vox willingly submits because he gets more thrill out of it that way or whether i want freak4freak where vox has to struggle way harder and still ends up giving in anyway because al is simply stronger

as for what he'd actually *do* to val. i mean. he does still have that radio broadcast of his, doesn't he? i think you can probably put the pieces together. the thing with animal sinners is that theres simply so many parts of them to break... show-wise, i never understood how overlords like alastor or val could even rise to their position, with the amount of weak spots they must have. that broken antenna vox and val share is certainly something that speaks to their higher vulnerability. and moth wings are especially fragile: i owned little silkworm moths at one point (they were my babies, i loved them for the month or so i got to care for them) but their wings were so thin they were wearing holes in them by the second or third day. val's coat-wings look much thicker in comparison, but of course, my perception is limited by the show only. so i mean, who knows? im sure whatever happens, itll make the best entertainment in al's eyes :)

#if you guys want to hear more unhinged radiostatic i mean #im always glad to share it but in my head the vees are very tightknit #like very difficult to distinguish them between a polyam relationship and normal friendship tightknit #so i do dislike making val the main 'villain' just for tension purposes #but freak4freak radiostatic questions are always welcome!#ran rambles #hazbin hotel #radiostatic #general asks

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hollowknightinsanity · 10 months

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baby. fuck you

[Image ID: A black sketch of an infant bug, curled up on the ground with its eyes closed, drawn on a dull pink background. There is an arrow pointing at the child’s head with text that says, “Full of leaf”. /End ID]

This is Somber, the newborn child of Holly and my self-insert, who i still haven’t made.

Said self-insert is a silkworm moth, and I’m thinking of making him half-wyrm, but I’m not sure if I’ll actually do that

Anyway, logistics and uh. Lore ig? Under the cut

Ok, so. In my AUs, Holly (THK) is a hybrid between a Rootkin (White Lady’s species) and a Wyrm (Pale King’s species). Rootkin are strictly an egg-laying species, but Wyrms are capable of both laying eggs and giving live birth — it mostly depends on the environment/subspecies the Wyrm belongs to.

PK is part of the subspecies that gives live birth, but using his Soul magic, he’s capable of fertilizing eggs from laying species, such as Rootkin and Weavers, hence Hornet and the Vessels.

Holly takes after their mother — this is true across all my AUs — and as such, they adopted her reproductive system, so they lay eggs.

They had a condition that caused them to begin producing and laying eggs early, and started laying when they were 14. Now, this sucked for them in various ways; for one, early egg production and laying is very painful, and considering the state of their (mostly missing) organs, their pain was amplified tenfold when they started.

Secondly, if their parents found their eggs, they would immediately be outed as impure, and they did not want that. At the time, they thought that if they were outed, their parents would literally kill them — which isn’t true, by the way, but they had no way of knowing that — so they kept it a secret.

Initially, Holly attempted to just hide the eggs, but after a while, they started worrying about the hiding place being found, so they began destroying the eggs instead.

They laid once every two months, and every egg they laid was broken and thrown out. What exactly they did I’m unsure of, but I feel like they’d crack the eggs into some type of disposal area they made/found, and crush the shells into dust.

Anyway, they destroyed all the eggs they laid, except for one.

When they were 16, about a week before their sealing, they started thinking. They thought maybe, if they did get out alive, if they did escape the Black Egg, then maybe they could have a family. Keep the Pale King’s legacy going. They knew he was poisoned with Void and destined to die, so they thought that maybe if they survived, they could keep Hallownest alive by birthing an heir.

So, they took the last egg, and made a nest in the Queen’s Gardens, where they decided they would hide it, and they placed two Seals of Binding on it to protect it in case the nest were found by the Mantis Traitors.

The egg and nest were very well hidden, though, so nobody ever found it. Holly was sealed, and that was that.

Decades later, after escaping the Black Egg (which they heavily doubted they would, but hey, a bug can hope), they and my self-insert (who I’ll just call K here, I’m still trying to figure out a name for him) met and started a QPR. They ended up getting very close in their relationship, and Holly decided to carry out their plan from when they were 16. Though, instead of wanting to continue Hallownest as a kingdom, they just wanted a family.

At some point, after Holly gets quote-unquote “outed” to PK about their impurity (he knew since they were 10, but they didn’t know that), they ask K to come with them to the Gardens, as they had something important they wanted to speak to him about in private.

Some conversation happens, and Holly shows him the nest and tells him that they want to start a family. Because I need to be super self-indulgent when it comes to my writing sometimes, he of course agrees, and the 60-year-old binding-protected egg is fertilized, and later hatches into the itty bitty baby in the sketch, who Holly named Somber.

Google’s definition of somber is “oppressively solemn or sober in mood; grave,” and I believe that would fit the AU perfectly, so the child is named Somber.

For an in-universe explanation for the name, Holly would name their child after themself, I think. According to Google, a similar word to somber is solemn, which could mean either “not cheerful or smiling; serious” or “characterized by deep sincerity,” which both fit their life to a T.

As for when exactly this takes place, all I’m sure of is it happens after they out themself to PK. Maybe it’s somewhere around the same time the rain oneshot happens, or maybe a bit before or after — I’m not sure. It’s just around that timeframe.

Anyway thank you for coming to my ted talk, I will now sink into the fuckin. Swamps of Sadness from The Neverending Story.

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someone-always-cares · 10 months

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chapter 5, page 60

first - previous - next

[image description: an sac webcomic page. the shelf crashes onto schmidt, pinning them. her mask is now fully formed, aside from the growing horns, showing the eye holes surrounded by branching tendrils that match the ones on her shoulder and hands. markings that are easier to view in the close up of her, glaring directly at the viewer, the highlights in her eyes now more like her tendril shapes rather than the wiggly lines they were before. with one hand on the counter, lewis quickly vaults over the shelf and person trapped under it, all that is seen of them is the sparking hand reaching up at him. jade worriedly grimaces downwards at schmidt, one hand on the doorframe she's facing, the one they just tried a few pages ago. end id]

so i didnt finish this page due to stomach pain on monday so it wasnt done tuesday, so i thought, okay, well, lets get it finished on wednesday after i take my bro out for a birthday movie.

and then i got back, took a 20 minute nap so id have a little energy to draw comics! and then i woke up 5-6 hours later, at 3am. 3 alarms slept through (despite being a light sleeper) and lights still on. the 5 hours sleep each day took its toll i suppose, so i went back to sleep, so heres the comic today!!!

speaking of waits for comics! its time for the annual fucking off period! also known as "taking a break" like i do in december, buts lets be honest, i will not be taking a break. like always i will just be working on other things because i cant just not draw for too long.

hopefully this means i will be working on a buffer, finally. i will for sure be working on making chapter 1 book ready! if im very lucky i will get that sorted and ready before next febuary (got a couple large cons there) but thats a very generous estimate and assuming self funded and not kickstarter, but i can do that with some savings if i only get a small amount of books because chapter 1 isnt long. wish me luck.

so yes, this is the last update until january unless i end up making a holiday drawing who knows.

until then, im also going to try and upload more art to my art blogs (@galaxia-art on tumblr and galaxiaprince on instagram) and speaking of socials, shameless self promotion for my etsy because if youre looking to buy something from outside the uk then the last days for doing that and getting it before christmas is the 4th-7th december (depending on country) (or the 18th if you're in the uk). if you dont care when it arrives then all's good whenever!

anyway, thank you all so much for reading my comic, and i hope you all have a great rest of the year!

#sac #someone always cares #webcomic #webcomics #comics

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harveybwabbit92 · 1 year

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[Akari takes Dan (Ultraseven) and Shin (Zero) through the ARD customs where the scanners start to short out when scanning Dan.]

Security officer, into his radio: Shut it down!

[The guard is silence by the person on the other end.]

Security officer: What? You sure?....Okay.

[The guard turns to the Moroboshi family.]

Security officer: Sorry for the inconvenience, sir. Somethings wrong with our scanner, it seems to think your dead.

Dan: Ah, yes. I was listed as missing in action a few years back.

Officer: Regardless of the reason, my captain wants to see you at her station, just pass the doors up front you can't miss it.

{The three do as the officer instructed, they are greeted by a tired looking woman in her early 40s waiting for them.]

Captain Akine : Yes. I see the problem already Mr. Moroboshi, my console says your dead...

Dan: How can you be so sure that it's truly me and not someone pretending to be me?

Captain Akine: This outpost has the best scanners on earth that money can buy, It could get DNA off of skin flakes. Plus, I'm fairly sure it's you. You worked with my father after all.

Dan: Your father?

Captain Akine: *Nods* Sugo.

Dan: Sugo's child...Right, he did have a girlfriend he was talking about marriage last I heard.

Captain Akine: Right, Now. Let's focus on your situation. Now usually, you'd have to go through security admin to reactivate your IDs, Then through Customs and immigration for a citizenship card to gain access to both the Alien refugee and Earth residential districts themselves, and then maybe visit the Bank while your at it: spending 50 years dead is popular tax dodge...

[Dan and Shin looked blue in the face causing Akari to snicker at them.]

Captain Akine: But.. I can see you're a busy man. So how about I just press this little button here, and we call it done?

Shin: Is that even legal?

Captain Akine: Would you rather sit in stuffy room for hours with 60 other people waiting for some machine to call your number just so you can fill out what is essentially just the same form 50 times over? or would you rather take my shortcut?

Dan: Do it.

Captain Akine, presses the button: There now you're already to go, enjoy your stay in the ARD and try to stay out of trouble, tensions are high enough already.

Akari, as they're leaving the station: You got lucky it was her that flagged you guys down and not the other captain.

Shin: Does the other captain not like Aliens sharing space with humans?

Akari, looks disgusted: He had lady Valky who runs a bakery a few blocks from here arrested. Her crime? For having a human son! He had that poor woman held up in interrogation for hours cos' he was so convinced that she had kidnapped the boy; despite everyone showing him the proof that she had adopted the kid...

Shin: That's awful.

Akari: Yeah...Luckily, everything was ok in the end; The UFG stepped in and he backed off, but that fool had no idea how close he came to starting a riot on both sides with his narrow mindedness... My place is this way.

[Akari proceeded to show her father and brother around the Alien refugee district before taking them junkyard she was living in.]

#don't tag as ship #S: Mass effect 2 #ultraman incorrect quotes #tokusatsu incorrect quotes #ultraman #tokusatsu #ultraseven #ultraman zero #ultrawoman oc: Akari Yuri #ultrawoman oc #half-alien oc

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sirowsky · 2 years

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Driving Mr. Tovar

Chapter 1 - Don't Get Comfortable

Description: We’re introduced to Reader, as you drive out of the city to meet the reclusive billionaire Samuel Rose, hoping to go to work for him at his estate.

Author’s Note: I chose to make reader in her 40’s because I wanted her to have history to bring to the table. This is a slow burn romance but will feature no pregnancies/babies.

Rating: Mature 18+ONLY Warnings: Pero x female reader, cursing, slight angst, Pero being mildly threatening. Word count: 3231 (335 words added) Masterlist (this story) Author’s Masterlist

You were never late. That was a fact of your existence. You always started too early, just in case, and your mind was always ten steps ahead, to make sure you didn’t miss anything. This morning, you’d gotten up at 4 am, to have time to do your yoga, go for your run, have breakfast, shower and get ready, and manage the hour-long drive from your apartment to the estate, all before 7 am.

In truth, you hated getting up early, and you absolutely despised morning workouts. It took time for your body to wake up properly, which made it feel a bit like trying to run whilst drunk. Nothing responded the way it was supposed to, and that put you off balance and made your body feel heavy and sluggish. You’d started the pre-run yoga routine in order to make sure your body was at least moderately awake by the time your feet hit the pavement, and it did help, but you really didn’t enjoy it.

So, why go through all that trouble? Because you thrived on discipline and descended into complete disarray without it. You might have hated it, but you needed it to stay sane. And quite possibly, alive.

You’d spent many long years making your way through the workweeks on caffeine and little else, and over time, it had worn you down to the point where your health had become an issue at just 40 years old. Your doctor had urged you to make some changes to your life, starting with your job, to get your internal stress under control, and he was also the one who had suggested you force your body into new routines.

You’d always been good at taking orders, as well as organizing and planning (as long as it wasn’t for yourself), so when he’d made it clear that if you wanted to live past 60, his admonishments shouldn’t be considered suggestions, you’d obeyed. You’d been a personal assistant to the owner of a bank for the better part of a decade, and she’d come to rely on you to keep her life outside of work on track. So much so, that her teenage children had been heartbroken to find out that you’d quit. You’d practically raised them.

But you did want to live to see retirement one day, and you’d begun to search for other jobs, trying to find something you might be good at that wouldn’t require you to keep another person’s entire life under minute control, whilst burying and disregarding your own. And that was how you’d ended up driving to an interview at the crack of dawn, in the middle of nowhere.

The application had been for a live-in driver but didn’t specify any more than that. But it was way out in the country, a lone estate on a huge property owned by a tech-genius, and you were a good driver, even if you’d never contemplated doing it for a living before.

You arrived at the huge, locked gates, nestled into the twenty-foot-high stonewalls that surrounded the main property, fifteen minutes early, and you were about to park the car a bit to the side while you waited for your appointed time. But just moments after you got there, the gates begun to swing open. No one was there to ask for ID or check your car for anything dangerous, you were just silently invited to enter.

This made you wonder two things: firstly, what piece of advanced technology had already determined your identification, and where was it? And second, what type of weaponry was being aimed at you, right now?

You drove inside, and the massive iron gates closed behind you, and you couldn’t help but feel a bit like a mouse in a trap. But then, that was probably the point. A sharply dressed man was standing by the foot of the front steps to the main house, directing you to park right in front of him, before opening the door for you as soon as you came to a stop.

“Good morning, miss,” he greeted politely.

He was probably in his mid-fifties, tall and just a bit plump, with an air about him that suggested he was at least somewhat trained as a butler, although he seemed more like someone that had been groomed by life, than school.

“Good morning, sir,” you answered. “I’m a bit early.”

“That’s fine. Mr. Rose appreciates the respectfulness and consideration for his time. He’s having breakfast at the moment, but he won’t mind starting the meeting early. I’ll show you to him. My name is Coulson.”

You gave him your name in return and thanked him as he led you up the stairs and held the front door for you. The main house was… huge. Some twenty rooms, you guessed. And while the outside design of it gave the impression that it was old but perfectly reconditioned, you knew that Mr. Rose had had the place built just ten years earlier, and the inside of it clearly reflected that.

The entry-hall was massive, with a large black granite staircase winding its way up to the second floor, taking up most of the rear half of the hall. And the placement of the rooms, the size and shape of them, all indicated that a modern designer had been involved with the architecture. It was efficiently designed and tailored to fit the needs of its owner. And most of the materials were modern and sustainable. It was beautiful.

Coulson led you through the left side of the house, past what appeared to be a smaller ballroom, and then a dining room that connected to the kitchen, in which Mr. Rose was indeed sitting, having breakfast and reading a newspaper. He was younger than you, mid-thirties, and average built but with an impeccable posture to help him carry the tailored suit he wore. His skin was almond colored, and his black hair was cropped short, simple and efficient, and the only jewelry he wore was a watch of a brand you didn’t recognize.

“Your seven-o-clock appointment, sir,” the butler announced while gesturing for you to approach.

“Thank you, Coulson,” Mr. Rose replied to him.

The butler just nodded and left, the same way you’d come in, and Mr. Rose gestured to a chair opposite him at his small breakfast-table.

“Welcome. How was the drive from the city?” he asked, sounding genuinely interested even in such a bland subject.

“It was good, thank you,” you answered, before trying to find a more rewarding reply. “I had plenty of time to go over just how many ways to screw up an interview, so if I still do, I’ll really have to kick myself.”

He chuckled a little and folded the newspaper away.

“I’m sure you have some questions. Feel free to ask them.”

“Um, well… When your assistant called me to set the meeting, I kind of expected to get some more information on what the job really is, but she said that I’d have to ask you about that.”

“First off, I don’t have an assistant, the woman you spoke to is my housekeeper, Laura. You’ll meet her later,” he explained, making you wonder why he would introduce you to the staff before even hiring you.

“Secondly, the application was quite vague,” he carried on, “but that was intentional. I didn’t want to narrow the applicants too much. I’ve learned that merits on paper do very little to tell you which person is going to fit any given position, so I like to keep the options open. Also, this job is going to be… challenging. I doubt that any previous merits would do anyone much good with this, although I suppose it doesn’t hurt to have some experience with assisting… shall we say demanding individuals.”

“That’s pretty much all I’ve ever done,” you conceded. “But I get the feeling we’re not talking about you, here?”

“No. But before we get to that, I’d like to talk a little more about you," he redirected, and you were instantly self-conscious. "From your records, I can see that you’ve been a very diligent worker your entire adult life. There’s nothing but praise for you from your previous employers. In fact, most of them cited you as being irreplaceable. So, why the sudden change?”

“Because it turns out that I’ve been a little too diligent. Sacrificing not just my personal time and social life to my jobs, but my health as well,” you explained. “I need a change of pace and if it comes with a change of scenery too, that’s probably just for the better.”

“I see,” he said after a brief pause. “What about family?”

“I have a sister, but we’re not close, we never really have been.”

He stayed quiet and just studied you for a few beats, before he spoke again.

“Okay, any other questions?” he asked, making you mentally start preparing for the end of this conversation, since that was what it sounded like you were heading for, and no three-minute interview had ever landed you a job before.

“Just about the security of this place,” you shrugged, “but I doubt you’d wanna share that with me until you’ve decided if I’m hired or not.”

“Oh, you are,” he said without pause, as if it was completely obvious. “Assuming you’ll still want the job once you’ve learned what it really is.”

You stared dumbly at him, feeling quite confused, since you’d just dismissed your own chances completely.

“I-I am…?”

“That surprises you?” he asked, looking somewhat bemused.

“Well, yeah. I mean, I assumed you’d have other applicants, other interviews to do before you made up your mind. Holy shit…” you breathed, truly staggered at this turn of events, while the billionaire across from you merely smiled softly and shook his head slowly a couple of times.

“It’s rare that I like a person on paper. Even rarer that I continue to like them after thoroughly researching them, and downright unique that my interest in them only grows as I meet them. You weren’t the only applicant, but you are the only one being interviewed,” he explained calmly.

“Oh,” you said, genuinely struggling to find any actual words to offer in return. “Sorry, I don’t know how to respond to that.”

“That’s okay,” he said with a small chuckle. “And about the security, there’s plenty of it, but it’s specifically designed not to be easily detectable, so you’ll have to forgive me if I don’t share the details of it. But, sufficed to say, I knew exactly what time you’d be arriving.”

“I assumed so. And I also assume I was allowed onto the premises without any obvious screening, because there are security measures in place that wouldn’t have allowed me to escape, had I come here with malicious intent?” you shared your observations, and that earned you a fuller smile from him.

“Exactly right. You’re gonna fit right in here, if you chose to stay.”

“You don’t seem very confident that I’ll want to…” you prodded, and his smile went from mildly impressed, to a bit annoyed.

Affectionate, but annoyed.

“Yes, well I suppose I can’t put it off much longer,” he sighed. “Come with me, and I’ll show you.”

He got up and led you back to the front entrance, and outside where he walked along the right side of the house, around the corner and onto a gravel path that led to a smaller side-building, nestled in between four big old oak-trees. It was small compared to the main building, but it was still a full-sized house. One floor, probably four or five rooms, plus the kitchen, and a big porch at the back.

Mr. Rose knocked on the door, and a muffled male voice called for him to enter. He nodded at you to follow him inside, and then started chatting as he walked into the kitchen.

“Morning, Tov. How’s your hand?”

You stepped into the hall, and just a few feet in, the living room opened up to your left, while the kitchen was a little further in, to the right, past the coat-hangers and closets in the hall. You stopped to admire the beautifully furnished living room, with a big fireplace taking center stage, while the tv was surpassed to the right wall. There were positively packed bookcases as well as glass cabinets filled with movies and LP-records, on every wall of the room, and the sofa and the two pulpy-looking armchairs just screamed leisurely comfort.

“Fine. Don’t tell me you came down so early to check on a few cuts, jefe.”

The grumpy, deep voice, with a thick Spanish accent, snapped you out of your reverie, and you quickly followed the sound over to the kitchen. You came into view behind Mr. Rose just as the unknown man turned from the kitchen counter, grasping a coffee-mug and bringing it to his mouth.

“No, I came to introduce you to your driver,” Mr. Rose declared.

The mug froze a few inches from the man’s lips as he saw you, and when he heard his boss declare who you were, his arm dropped all the way down to his waist, and a downright scary looking scowl came over his scarred face.

“Hijo de puta…” the man spat between tight jaws.

“Tov, we talked about this.”

“And I told you: I don’t need help,” the man snapped, getting angrier by the second, but Mr. Rose took it in stride.

“Since you refuse to get a driver’s license, you need a driver, you know that. I can’t keep sparing people from other positions to help you run errands.”

“Errands? I do not run errands, I do what must be done.”

“As do I,” Mr. Rose returned, and there was suddenly an authority to his voice that made the other man hold his tongue. “This is not a debate, Tov. I’m your boss and I’m telling you – this woman is your driver from now on.”

He gave the grumpy man your name, at which point he turned away from you, as though he could make you disappear if he just couldn’t see you. Mr. Rose seemed to stifle an eyeroll as he angled himself more towards you.

“I apologize for this man’s less than polite behavior, but if it’s of any comfort to you, he treats everyone like this. His name is Pero Tovar, and he’s what you might call the manager of this estate. His primary function is to take care of my horses, but he seems to just generally know everything that goes on here, from who the gardener’s dating, to which one of the housekeeper’s granddaughters just took up ballet.”

Mr. Tovar was busying himself with needlessly rearranging and fiddling with the things on his counter, anything to not have to turn around and acknowledge your presence.

“I have eyes and ears. This is all it takes,” he grumbled, but his employer just huffed at him.

“Honestly, I haven’t ruled out the possibility that he’s some form of sorcerer. But he’s also a skilled fighter, and his attitude of just not giving a shit if people like him, makes him good at weeding out bullshit. Which is just one of the reasons why I like to bring him along as my personal security from time to time. Now, since he doesn’t trust anyone else to tend to the horses, he’s in charge of making sure they have everything they need, which means weekly trips into town to restock on their feeds, treats and anything else he feels that they are lacking. And since he meddles in all other aspects of this estate as well, he usually ends up running errands for Coulson, the gardener, the cook and the housekeeper too.”

Mr. Tovar still had his back to you, and he grumbled something you couldn’t interpret, but Mr. Rose just ignored him and kept going.

“The problem is that he keeps borrowing people from my security team in order to run said errands, which was fine a year ago when I didn’t have that much need for them, but my circumstances have gotten more delicate, and I need them where they are. Obviously, that’s where you come in. And just so we’re clear: Tov is one of very few people I trust, and that makes him invaluable to me. So, in addition to driving him anywhere he wants to go, I’m expecting you to look after him, however much he protests, since he’s hopeless at taking care of himself. I have a room ready for you here, and I’d prefer it if you lived here while you work for me, even if it does mean sharing house with a brute.”

Right. Okay. This was so not what you’d expected. But, despite his gruffness, the Spaniard had something appealing about him. He was scarred and troubled, and inherently distrustful, as well as surprisingly easily offended for someone who was obviously held in the very highest regard by his employer. Still, he clearly took great pride in his work, and that was something that you understood, and respected. You squared your shoulders.

“Thank you for your trust, Mr. Rose. I won’t let you down.”

He seemed relieved that you didn’t just turn around and run away, making you wonder if there had been others that had. He thanked you in return, and told you to take the day to get familiar with everything, before he said something in Spanish to his friend, and then excused himself to get started on his workday. Allowing you and the brute a chance to hash it out.

“Just to be clear, Mr. Tovar; I won’t expect or ask you to like me, only that you respect that I have a strong work-ethic, just like you. I like to earn my keep, and I’m not afraid of hard work.”

He scoffed as he finally turned back towards you, to thoroughly look you over, head to toe and back again.

“A woman as soft as you, has not known hard work.”

“How would you know how soft I am?” you challenged.

“Your hands,” he replied with a sneer. “They are smooth, not used to toiling, no dirt under your nails. You are soft. No probado.”

Oh, was that how it was gonna be? Fine. You could play this game too.

“I might not have any battle-scars that you can see, but there’s more than one way to know hardship. You know nothing more about me than I do about you, so how about we get the pissing contest over with: Since you’re the only dick present, you’re automatically the biggest one. I am in no conceivable way any threat to you, so just let me work, okay?”

He just glared at you, still with something conniving in the depths of his eyes.

“Would you at least show me which room is mine, so I don’t wander into yours uninvited?” you asked with a mildly exasperated sigh.

He finally sipped his coffee, then pushed off the kitchen counter and headed off towards the bedrooms. He led you to the last room in the hall, and then just leaned against the doorframe while you walked inside and looked around. It was almost bigger than your whole apartment.

“Don’t get comfortable, blando. You won’t be staying.”

>>>>>>>>>> <<<<<<<<<<

Link to Chapter 2

Thank you for reading, and if you enjoyed this, please consider reblogging. I would dearly appreciate it <3

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beardedmrbean · 5 months

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Oh yes the hoteps, how the fuck they got together? And why their main base is in Chicago?! Is there a certain kool aid I don’t know about

Also about my ancestry, the thing is I may visit Nigeria if a close friend from they want to come or like for research.

I mean in my black oriented stories, I was slams a hammer so hard in the audience head pointing out the black Americans would see the native Africans as foreigners

Also make passive aggressive comments on the Dahomey.

Actually…I wonder if I could like every talk to a African and expose how bad our education system is telling the us the whole story about the Africa slave kingdoms

I imagine they would have downright shocked that black Americans of all people never learn about the Dahomey until the first women king trailer

Like to me, sorry not taking away the Jewish people struggles, just showing how bad my community knowledge is to our ancestry. Is like a Jewish person never taught what Emperor Hadrian did to ancient Israel.

Then how just about how people like you reveal we did the genetic history of black Americans ancestors with enslaved ancestry and parts we’re from

Why isn’t taught, a huge identity crisis among my community id that we were taught that our pre American ancestors were only slaves.

Of course we aren’t part of those tribes but give us better state of mind…ish

But one thing

Me: So you bitch about the war on drugs and militarization of police the elites did?

Black activists: yep

Me: Had it ever occurred to you that we are taughted a sanitized version of the African slave trade all the way to college while we get hit with the native atrocities and Japanese interment camps stuff in middle school. And how antagonistic we are on average towards African immigrants because we act like toddlers?

BA: nope

Good why am I doing research about our main ancestors more than you

Oh yeah the root thing

https://x.com/copicsquiddo/status/1392364456127221761?s=46

You know with the whole decolonization talks, I notice that the left intentionally leave out black Americans because at the end of the day we are the irreversible result of colonization…unless the left have this dumbass option that modern Yoruba culture is the same as my ancestors were part of-oh my god

So yeah we’re rootless, to where we only have middle upper class people povs of Africa until the 60’s

Also this idea that black people cant cruel as our white slave owners? Oh yeah that never-

*Phone call from the afterlife*

Hello? Oh it Maya Angelou, pointing out that she was RAPED by her mom’s boyfriend as a child and why she was muted for a few years. OW! Oh it Micheal Jackson hitting that high note point out how much of a pos his father was to him and his siblings

Remember that Jackson 5 mini series where they point out the dad was abusive as hell

Got a feel mj and the others did “uncredited” consultants on that series

I heard that mj dad didn’t even GRIEVE or act sad his fucking son was dead. My god, actually I was checking Paris Jackson, she was on an Amazon show called the Swarm where she said her was culturally black. Swarm centered around a serial killer obsessed with a beyonce stand in.

So have the daughter of a man who finger twitch at concert made people faint. Is a good reference

But I read up that MJ mom tried to funraise a documentary after her son death…holy fuck is the MJ we know is a least terrible result of the household he was in?

Um oh yeah, *phone rings* oh Tyler Perry, orphan (wait she was and tp were basically Judas for their higher ups), children of the welfare queens and abusive inner cities parents pointing out the hell they went through

Okay I’m talking about child abuse, but I notice when white, Asian, and Latinos point out their parents and elders shitty actions they are supported

But when black Americans points out that a lot of our parents beat us harder than overseers did to other field ancestors. We need to treat them with kids gloves

Of course not all and we do point out this shit. We need to treat these abusive tactics with kids gloves

“Slavery, racism, and systematic oppression is why!”

Hmmm, why I don’t see Mexicans, Indians, Argentinians, Chinese, Vietnamese, Native Americans, giving their elders who often went through hell too. The same execuses?

Oh yes the hoteps, how the fuck they got together? And why their main base is in Chicago?! Is there a certain kool aid I don’t know about

Splinter from nation of islam, or something like that is my guess. Nailed it

I mean in my black oriented stories, I was slams a hammer so hard in the audience head pointing out the black Americans would see the native Africans as foreigners Also make passive aggressive comments on the Dahomey.

To them here they would be, just like the other way around would work the same, and far more than passive aggressive, but they earned it.

Prev bit and Like to me, sorry not taking away the Jewish people struggles, just showing how bad my community knowledge is to our ancestry. Is like a Jewish person never taught what Emperor Hadrian did to ancient Israel.

I wonder where "ancient" stops applying, that one happened well after Jesus

an·cient ADJECTIVE

belonging to the very distant past and no longer in existence: "the ancient civilizations of the Mediterranean"

Suppose that works, nice and vague too. Granted that one doesn't turn up in Christianity so it's not too well known outside of Jewish circles, but they do their own schooling too, pretty much no matter where they are they have 'Jewish School' identity is important to them and all their holy days are confusing to a outsider.

There's a handy chart for us gentiles

Admittedly black Americans were not given the chance to do the same, there was "africatown" technically Plateau, Alabama where former slaves that still remembered home could go to escape Americans, not just white people.

Prev bit+ Of course we aren’t part of those tribes but give us better state of mind…ish

Absolutly be good to learn, sadly the nature of how so many got here y'all are likely to be in the same boat as so many of the rest of us are there, we're all mutts, I'm a european one they'd be african. Might explain some of the pan african stuff honestly, with DNA tests now you can pinpoint though just make sure the company isn't one that will sell your info to the cops or anyone else.

Me: So you bitch about the war on drugs and militarization of police the elites did? Black activists: yep Cont:

It's gonna start sinking in soon enough I think, the information is there and people know where to look now so there will be some folks that are not in the mood to be berated anymore that will begin the education process.

My guess at least.

This sounds familiar, can't just blame white people for that tho, also lots of the kingdoms and what not that did the selling and being sold don't exist anymore, makes it even harder.

Prev and I heard that mj dad didn’t even GRIEVE or act sad his fucking son was dead. My god, actually I was checking Paris Jackson, she was on an Amazon show called the Swarm where she said her was culturally black. Swarm centered around a serial killer obsessed with a beyonce stand in.

joe jackson that was bad ya, same with mya angelou, Tina Turner, and several other people through history, folks need to give up on the race dynamic parts of abuse and just focus on how to help people heal,

Blaming the actual abuser instead of some nebulous concept would be good too. Nice to give the bad guy a name, even if it's Joseph.

Okay I’m talking about child abuse, but I notice when white, Asian, and Latinos point out their parents and elders shitty actions they are supported But when black Americans points out that a lot of our parents beat us harder than overseers did to other field ancestors. We need to treat them with kids gloves

Overseers knew better than to beat the tractor with a baseball bat, one of those things that changed with slavery being abolished is working conditions could actually get worse.

Coal miner talking about the boss telling him to be sure and get the mule out if there's a cave in,

'what about me and the men boss'

'I can hire more men, gotta buy the mule'

“Slavery, racism, and systematic oppression is why!” Hmmm, why I don’t see Mexicans, Indians, Argentinians, Chinese, Vietnamese, Native Americans, giving their elders who often went through hell too. The same execuses?

there's a reason it changed to bipoc from just poc while the lgbt alphabet soup keeps getting longer and more inclusive.

#zoomer huey anon

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