#if only it were me. if i only i died in a fire

[pekkhum]

This part is false.

When I was laid off, my manager, Director, three VPs, and several peers across three areas all lodged direct complaints. Supposedly, the VPs actually tried to wheel and deal to ship me into other cost buckets, etc. The problem was, I was one of the last employees on an actual decent wage for the Los Angeles area.

If your value is undeniable and one in command knows it, but the numbers game turns against you, you are still gone. You are replaceable, not because someone else can do the job, but because the overall company value will not have immediate, direct, and noticable impacts from your job completely breaking down, while they hack together a way around it, using cheaper resources.

You know what might be able to protect you? A strong labor union that can shut the company down for mistreating you.

As for the employees in this specific case, many of them were fired in direct violation of federal law, which leads to the second thing that can help: a functioning government that will enforce its laws against the wealthy and powerful.

The US government only decided to grant us employee protections after multiple literal wars were fought, between labor unions and capitalists. Not strong words, but union workers defending themselves with guns and fortifications against armed mercenaries who were literally dropping bombs on them and making real attempts to wipe them out. Those mercenaries groups still exist today and at least one was contracted by Meta for union busting activities in recent history.

We are now at a point where the US government may not choose to continue honoring the laws those workers died for, so while we wait for a court to decide whether or not to enforce them, we should consider whether a unified working class will be required to ensure that their rights are protected (spoiler: it is).

[miss-oranje-disco-dancer]

then send me a son

pairing: joel miller x reader

cws/tags: so much angst (w/ happy ending! i swear), discussion of suicide attempt (the canon one), suicidal ideations, losing a child, losing a parent, survivors guilt, discussions of abortion, unplanned pregnancy, p in v, oral sex, virginity loss (but it's not that big of deal/not a kink), both dealing w grief, ellie is dead, this is set in jackson post tlou pt I

summary: joel is put on suicide watch after he returns to jackson w/o ellie and reader becomes his 'caregiver' of sorts. lowkey enemies to lovers but also not bc it's kinda one-sided 'hatred'

a/n: author is pro-choice! and also understands the complexities of mental health that reader and joel do not at times (just wanted to make it clear that i understand... from personal experience... what depression is like as well as suicidal ideation).

title is from the song 'the suburbs' by arcade fire, but listen to the entirety of the suburbs (album) and funeral (album) if you want to understand my mindframe while writing this

the last sentence is a quote and i've reblogged it before but i'll find the image and post it/reblog it again

wc: 9.4k

masterlist | ko-fi | taglist

Joel is just surprised Tommy has the gall to ask, “Where’s Ellie?” when he arrives in Jackson alone. 

In this world, when two people leave and only one comes back, you don’t ask because you already know what happened. You wait for that person to tell you about a miracle, and when they don’t, you know for sure. 

“Heaven, if you believe in that sort of thing,” is Joel’s response. 

But Joel doesn’t believe in Heaven or Hell, or anything other than ashes and dirt. 

“I don’t know what to say,” Tommy says because he’d already said ‘I’m sorry’ when Sarah died, and that didn’t bring her back. 

It takes a hefty amount of booze to get Joel to tell the story.

“I just hope she died for something. Then, at least, I’ll know I’m being selfish.”

I didn’t get that with Sarah, he thinks. She didn’t die for a ‘noble cause’. He doubts Ellie did either. 

“You’re being put on watch,” Maria tells him the next morning – when he’s sober and asking what his duties are now that he’s back. 

Life goes on, which means work goes on, so what’s my job? As long as it’s not burning bodies, I’ll be okay. 

“Watch? Like I’m watching, or I’m being watched.”

“Being watched.”

He asks why, though he doesn’t need to. Tommy knows why he’s got that scar on his forehead. 

“Fucking authoritarian bullshit,” he mutters, half into his pillow. “Thought you were a communist.”

“I am. And this has nothing to do with that.”

“I bet Tommy put you up to it anyway.”

“He didn’t ‘put me up to anything’.”

“But he told you, didn’t he?”

“He told me a long time ago.”

“Figures. You always knew I was a coward.”

“You say stuff like that, and then act like you don’t need help.”

“I didn’t say I don’t need help. I said I don’t want it.”

She’s silent, letting him continue. “Now let me grieve in peace, will you?”

She hums something akin to agreement, but asks for something that sounds like protest to him. “Where’s your gun?”

“Which one?”

“All of ‘em.”

He tells her because he doesn’t want Tommy or anyone else searching through all his bullshit because that’s what happens if he doesn’t give ‘em up.

“Want my kitchen knives too?” he says, almost wryly. 

She takes most of them, but leaves the more blunt ones out of sympathy. He can have butter on his toast. Unless she takes the toaster so he can’t take it with him in the bathtub. 

She leaves the toaster, and then, leaves him alone. 

Quite frankly, he’s too old to kill himself. Sure, people do it at his age, but he’s so goddamn tired. Moreover, he knows he could get someone else to do it pretty easily. Maybe he could be a martyr. He could save someone from a clicker or a soldier. He could save someone’s life for once. But would that be enough to save his soul? To make it to Heaven and see Ellie and Sarah again?

Maybe, he would, if God really does love people the way some say he does. But if Joel was God, he’d deny himself entry.

He stays in bed for the rest of the day. Aside from the two times he eats. And once in the middle of the night to take a piss because he may be depressed, but the last of his dignity is motivation enough not to wet the bed. 

He doesn’t shower or change his clothes. Not like he’s wearing a shirt anyway, just boxers ‘cause it’s too hot outside and he doesn’t want to get up and turn on the fan. Sleep doesn’t come easy, but it comes. It comes because it has to, reluctant as it is.

He wakes up to the voice of an unfamiliar woman. Quieter than Ellie or Sarah, less stern than Maria or Tess. Not like he was expecting to hear from three out of four of those women, not outside of his dreams. 

You’ve always cared about people, saving lives and all that. But you’re no good with a gun, so Tommy finds a better job than patrol for you.  

“You’re going to be watching my brother, Joel.”

“Like, spying on him?”

“No, like making sure he doesn’t kill himself.”

A suicidal man is nothing new, especially in this world, but Tommy’s bluntness about it is. He acts as if it’s a normal job. Like the ones in office buildings that sound wonderful even though the people who tell you about them assure you it was barely better than life is now. This new watchmen position is the same as patrol, in a way. Terrifying in the gravity it holds. You have to keep someone alive.

You can shoot deer, you can run quickly, you can hide well. You can survive on your own. But, at age 10, your mom bled out as you sat by her side. You were too weak to carry her, to dig a grave and bury her. Your survival feels unearned, but you’re no good with guns. You’d miss if you tried to do it. That’s a rare thought anyway, and surely not one you plan to ever speak aloud. They’d put you on watch too, which sounds suffocating, in all honesty.

You don’t know Joel. You’ve heard his name in passing, but you arrived in Jackson during the period of time he was gone. He was going to take some girl to some hospital for something or other. 

“What about that girl?” you ask. “Is she not taking care of him?”

“She’s not around anymore.”

“Oh,” you say. 

He just nods. The ‘why’ of the whole arrangement makes sense, but you’re still unclear on the ‘how’. Am I just supposed to stay in his house 24/7? Is he allowed to shower on his own? Do I have to cook or do laundry?

“Just check in on him. He’s not the most… personable, but don’t take anything he says to heart.”

Just check in on him. It sounds simpler than it will be, you know that much. Even keeping a plant alive takes more than ‘checking in on it’. 

You arrive at his house around 10 AM. You assume he’ll be awake, but when you look around his living room and kitchen, you can’t find him. Oh God, you think. What if he’s… 

He’s asleep in bed. You’re pretty sure. He’s lying there and there’s no evidence that anything’s wrong, but when you say his name from the doorway, he doesn’t move. So, you walk closer to him, just to make sure he’s breathing. 

“Joel,” you say softly – because your other option is reaching out to touch him, and you feel that’s a little too personal, especially when he’s not wearing a shirt. 

“Who the Hell are you and how did you get into my house?” he says. 

“Tommy sent me.”

“Oh, so they’re making you watch me?”

“Yeah.”

You’re glad he knows about the arrangement. Maybe he’ll give you some direction on what to do with him. 

“Must hate you if they stuck you with me.” 

You can’t tell if he’s being ironic, but you hope so. Still, you don’t know how to respond. You decide on a simple, “I’ll let you get some sleep. I’ll be downstairs if you need anything.”

Though you’re alone in the room, you sit with perfect posture on Joel’s couch, looking around at the decor – or lack thereof – looking for clues about who this man is. 

You think about making him breakfast, but you’d have to raid his cabinets to do so, and you’re terrified to make any missteps when it comes to Joel. You don’t think he’ll kill himself over burnt toast, but there is a persistent need lodged inside your brain to make him like you. It’s a little selfish when you should be focused on just keeping him alive, but maybe if he likes you, he’ll feel better, maybe you’ll feel better too. That’s still nothing but the ever-lingering hope in your heart. But it’s something.

He comes downstairs eventually, in a t-shirt and a pair of pajama bottoms. 

“Good morning,” you say. 

“No, it ain’t,” he says, heading in the direction of the kitchen. 

“Do you want me to help you with anything? Breakfast or coffee?”

“I can make my own damn coffee, kid.”

And he does. The first shred of kindness you get from him is an offer to pour you a cup. 

“I’m alright, but thank you.”

He sits down in a chair across from you and sips his coffee as you watch him awkwardly. 

“Are you really gonna do that all day?”

“Do what?”

“Sit there and stare at me.”

“I don’t know what else to do.”

“You could leave, for starters.”

“I’ll get in trouble.”

“What? You afraid Tommy’ll get upset with you?”

“A little.”

“He’s a softie. I wouldn’t worry too much.”

You are worried. Sure, you want Tommy to be happy with you, but moreover, you don’t want to leave Joel alone lest something happen to him. You might not know the guy very well, but you’d hate to see someone take their own life. 

“Can I just stay here? I promise I’ll leave you alone.”

He shrugs, and you take it as a yes.

He does not need a caregiver or a watchman. He does not need you, but you look like a kicked puppy and there’s no way he’ll force you to leave. Another young girl he’ll reluctantly let stick by his side. It’s almost cruel of Tommy to send someone like you. Someone young and full of life. Someone he has a hard time pushing away. 

He should’ve sent Joel a crotchety old bitch or a drill sergeant. Maybe Tommy thinks he’s doing Joel a favor by giving him a nice girl, polite and eager to please. It’s a good thing your chipper attitude irritates him. It’s the first item on the very small list of qualities that Joel dislikes.

At first, he insists on making his own food. You’re still a guest, even if he’s reluctant to have you as one. It doesn’t matter where he lives, he’ll always have been raised in Texas. He’ll always hear his mother calling him out on his lack of manners. His hospitality is force of habit.

Plus, if he lets you do anything for him, he’ll owe you something – at least in his mind. And he doesn’t want to owe anyone anything. He doesn’t want to give or get or build any kind of rapport with you whatsoever, especially since you seem to take all attention as progress, despite the fact that Joel is harsh with you most of the time. 

The whole ordeal makes him feel like more of a failure than he did before. He couldn’t save Ellie, or Sarah for that matter, and now he’s being forced into his own retirement or held hostage depending on how you look at it, so he can’t even get the satisfaction that productivity brings.

He also finds himself pretty fucking bored without work. He became so used to being in constant battle, even in his sleep. One wrong move and he was dead. The worst injury he’s gotten in the past few weeks was a paper cut.

Reading was never his biggest hobby, but it’s not bad when you find the right book. Often, you’ll sit across the room from him and read a book of your own, and the silence as he relaxes into the couch is quite peaceful for a change. 

No amount of peace and quiet can cure his boredom, though. It makes him antsy, and you notice. You notice a lot when your job is just staring at him, it seems.

“I found a book of crossword puzzles,” you announce. 

“Congratulations,” Joel says. 

“I thought since you were bored, I’d give them to you, and maybe you could do them…”

By the look on your face, he can guess that you’re regretting your words. Lest he make you cry, he accepts the book. 

“Plus, it looks kind of old so I don’t know if I’d know how to do it myself,” you add.

He knows you don’t mean it as an insult, but it sounds like one, and it makes him laugh. The list of qualities Joel likes about you is already long — and buried deep in his subconscious — but he’ll have to add the fact that you can make him laugh.

“Are you calling me old?”

“Not in a bad way. You’re just older than I am.”

He flips through the book and finds that about 80% of them are done. 

“Somebody did most of these already.”

“I’m sorry… maybe I could erase that person’s answers and then you could do them?”

“I think I’d still be able to tell.”

You hang your head in defeat. 

“Gimme a pencil and I’ll try the ones that aren’t done yet.”

You look through his junk drawer, find a pencil, and hand it to him. He doesn’t expect you to sit on the couch next to him. 

“I know you’re supposed to watch me, but you don’t have to watch that closely.”

You move away slightly, no longer looking over his shoulder. 

“I was just curious about the answers.”

“I was kidding around,” he says (though, it’s only a half-truth). “Come back here.”

It takes him about a week to finish the book. 

“Had to go back and fix some of the others,” he says. “The person who originally filled ‘em out was an idiot.”

“That’s not very nice. Maybe it was a kid.”

“Kid had great handwriting, then.”

You pause, hesitating for a reason he can’t pinpoint. 

“What? You want me to say sorry for calling that guy an idiot. ‘Cause I will if it matters that much to you.”

“No, no, fuck that guy, he was an idiot,” you say, clearly taking after him. 

“Language, Missy,” he says, jokingly scolding you. 

“Sorry. I should stop swearing.”

“It’s okay. You probably picked it up from me anyway.”

“Maybe,” you agree. You’re fidgeting, holding something behind your back, he notices. 

“Whatcha got there?”

“Oh, it’s nothing, really,” you say, holding it out to him. “I just figured since you finished the crossword book, I should get you more.”

He only did the crosswords for you. He never really cared for them anyway. He just wanted to make you happy — he’d rather have you content than pissy or whiny. The only thing worse than your constant insistence on getting his approval would be if you just sat there and cried all day.

He’d tried to give the book back to you, but you couldn’t do ‘em on your own since you were lacking in 90s pop culture knowledge. So, he did them, with you watching over his shoulder the whole time. 

He’s about to admit this to you and hand the new one back over to you when he looks at the pages – white paper, stapled together, all drawn up in pen. 

“Did you make these?” he asks, in awe of both your ability to draw perfectly straight lines, and moreover, how much you must care if you’re willing to go to these lengths. Kiss-ass behavior, he tells himself.

You nod, and he gets the sudden urge to hug you, but opts for a thank you with a smile he can’t repress.

“You didn’t have to do all this, but it’s very sweet of you.”

He considers taking back the ‘very sweet’ comment when he finds that 3 down is four letters with the prompt “grumpy old man”. JOEL fits perfectly in the blank spaces. 

You go on walks, read endless books, and Joel finally lets you start taking on some of the housework. It should be nice, but you get the feeling he’s not all that happy about this situation. Not that he tells you it outright. He doesn’t tell you much at all. And you’ve tried. It’s not like you’re asking hard-hitting questions. 

“How old are you?” 

“56.”

“What’s your favorite color?”

“Blue.”

He doesn’t even bother to ask the same question back to you. Sometimes, he doesn’t even look up at you when you speak to him. You know it’s the depression of losing someone close to you, you know what that feels like – the problem is, you don’t know how to fix it. You only know how to hide it.

It’s quite simple, in theory. All you have to do is give him the desire to get out of bed every day. But you don’t even know what he likes. All you know is that your presence is not high on his list of favorite things. You try and try until you swear his shitty attitude is rubbing off on you. 

Tommy checks in with you periodically, asking you how things are going with Joel, and this would be the perfect opportunity for you to get out of this position, which Joel would probably love, but to spite him, you tell Tommy it’s going well.

And it is, in a way – Joel is not actively mean to you. He doesn’t insult you or argue with you, he just mostly ignores you. So, you figure if you ignore him, maybe he’ll miss your attention. Stupid teenage bullshit mindset, acting like you have a crush on him, playing some sort of push and pull game that he’s not even privy to. 

But that’s not like you. That brooding behavior is all Joel, so it lasts no more than a day or so until you go back to trying, and accept the fact that he’s just an asshole. Doesn’t mean you have to be one. 

You never expected to win him over with the crossword puzzles but you see the look in his eyes when you give him the homemade ones, and you know there’s something in there besides all that pain. You know that look, can’t put a name to it, all you know is that it’s a good sign, one you had yet to see from Joel.

Joel wouldn’t have thought he’d get tired of hearing someone ask, “can I do anything for you?”, constantly begging to dote on him, to care for him. The last time someone did this for him was on Father’s Day, which is an ancient holiday now, almost mythical.

But it’s been weeks of the same old shit. It has nothing to do with you. In fact, you’re probably the best ‘caregiver’ he could’ve gotten stuck with. Thing is, though, he doesn’t want a caregiver, and he’s tired of said caregiver bombarding him. It’s enough to just have her watching him like a hawk, but yapping in his ear is another thing. Because he enjoys the quiet (and because the way you ask him questions reminds him of Ellie.)

It’s a joke, a stupid joke. It’s his patience wearing thin.

“Can I get you anything?” you ask. 

“Sure. A beer, maybe. And a fuckin’ blowjob,” he mutters. Yeah, that’d be the dream but it’s a joke, bordering on a jab at you. 

“I don’t think we have any beer,” you say. You both know damn well there’s no alcohol in the house. 

“I know.”

“And, as for the other thing- is that something that you’d want… me to do?”

“Hey,” his tone softens. “Sweetheart, it was a joke. I was messing with you.”

“Okay, so you don’t want that, correct?”

“It was a joke. I’m sorry I even said it.”

“Don’t be sorry,” you say, sheepishly. “It’s your house, your rules, right?”

The concept of free speech in his house was one he’d brought up regarding ‘swear words’— It’s his house so he’s allowed to say ‘fuck’, ‘shit’, ‘bitch’, and every other word he could come up with, and he came up with some deep cuts just to make you laugh. Admittedly, it’s a nice sound.

“Yeah.” He thinks for a moment. “I just think that these sorts of topics aren’t appropriate for someone…”

“You know I’m an adult, right, Joel?”

“Yes, I know, but you’re still young and you seem a little innocent. I don’t want to put those types of thoughts in your head.”

“I know what a blowjob is, and I know what sex is. I just haven’t found the right person yet. That doesn’t mean I’ve never thought about it or whatever.”

You rarely snap at him, so he knows that word — innocent — must’ve been more offensive than he’d meant it. Maybe you’re not innocent. Maybe you’re just kind and a hell of a lot younger than him. Maybe it just seems like you should be.

“Hey, I didn’t mean to offend you. I’m just saying that I don’t want to take advantage of you.”

“But do you want it?” You punctuate every word with a newfound annoyance.

“It’s not about that.”

“Yes it is.” You’re quite incredulous for someone who has been presented with the idea only a moment ago.

“Fine. Yes, in theory, if we were just two people who know each other, then, sure, if you offered, I’d say yes.”

“I offered.”

The way he calls you ‘sweetheart’ feels more like an insult than a term of endearment. You’d rather be ‘kid’ or nothing at all, anything less patronizing. It’s worse when he calls you innocent. You’re not innocent, you’re just nice — something that Joel is not. You’re painfully nice. You’ve heard it makes people like you. You’re still waiting on the results, though.

But, if he’d ordered you to suck him off, you’d have kneed him in the balls, and he would’ve thought twice about calling you ‘sweetheart’. The thing is, he doesn’t. Instead, he backs away from the opportunity, tells you it was a joke. 

But you see two things behind his eyes: one, he wants this. He might not want to want this, but he does. More importantly, you see his genuine concern for your well-being override this desire and you realize you feel safer around him than you do around most men. That’s one of the reasons that you do give him ‘a fuckin’ blowjob’. The other being that, sometimes, before you go to bed, you can’t sleep, and a certain man comes to mind as your fingers slip beneath the waistband of your panties. 

When you reiterate that you offered, you exchange a long stare wherein you try to reach into each other’s souls and sort this shit out but when you both realize you can’t, Joel says, “Okay.”

And you say, “Okay.”

A new kind of tension bubbles to the surface as Joel sits down on the couch and you kneel before him. 

You fiddle with his belt, eventually managing to get it undone, but Joel does the rest of the work it takes to get his pants down to his ankles, boxers too. 

You’d imagined he’d be big, but that’s how fantasies work. Every man’s dick is big in your lewd daydreams, but it’s like you manifested it with Joel. You begin to feel like you’re in over your head, and though you aren’t innocent, you aren’t experienced enough to take him. But who are you to back down from a challenge?

Joel can see hesitation wash over your face for the first time. You pause, study the scene like you’re trying to decide your approach, and then you take his cock in your hand, looking up at him like you’re asking for the green light.

He gives you the go-ahead with the only piece of advice he thinks you’ll need. “Just don’t bite, and you’ll do fine.”

He probably should’ve mentioned another thing: don’t take too much at once or you’ll choke. His head lolls back and his eyes fall closed the moment your lips meet the tip of it. He doesn’t touch you, doesn’t want you to feel intimidated by his presence while you’re exploring, so to speak. He lets out a low groan of approval to let you know he’s still with you.

But he’s fading into a beautiful oblivion until he hears you gag, feels you sputter and it shocks him out of that blissful feeling. His eyes snap open and he cradles the back of your head. 

“Easy, easy,” he says. “Don’t hurt yourself.” 

You pull away briefly and catch your breath. 

“That’s good,” he says. “Breathe, baby.”

He can see you looking for instructions, so he takes your hand and helps you get a firm grip on his cock, sliding your hand up and down, and finally letting you do it on your own. 

“Doin’ good, baby,” he says. “You gotta give your mouth a break sometimes.”

You’ve never gotten anything close to praise from Joel before. It’d warm your heart like nothing else if it weren’t so goddamn sexy in this context. 

You nod, wipe the spit from your chin, and give your mouth a brief break, but you can’t hold yourself back forever. Soon, your lips are back on his cock, kissing from the base to the tip, flicking your tongue over the head, seeing what reactions you can get from him. 

When you get into the rhythm of hand and mouth in tandem, you barely register him telling you that he’s gonna come. 

You imagine it’s an acquired taste but it’s not awful. You can swallow it. So, you do, and you look up at him with a smile. 

He looks like he’s woken up from a dream and he’s still getting his bearings straight, but he’s quick to stand up and take your hand. 

“Where are we going?”

“To my bed.”

You’d follow him anywhere but bed does sound good to you right now. It sounds like an adventure. You don’t go into his bedroom unless absolutely necessary. You’d think he was hiding something horrible in there if you didn’t have a mutual feeling regarding your own bedroom.

“Are we going to have sex?” you ask. 

“No,” he says. 

“Then, what are we going to do?”

“You,” he begins. “Are going to lie back and relax.”

He coaxes you to lie down, and he doesn’t have to try hard. 

“I,” he continues. “Am going to make you feel good.”

You’re fairly certain about what he means, so there’s nothing left for you to do but let him do the work. It’s just another part of the job you’ll have to learn from experience.

“Tell me if you want me to stop,” he says. 

You nod. 

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

“Let’s get you out of these clothes,” he says, playing with the hem of your t-shirt. 

“Wait-” you say, sitting up, and he withdraws. “Can we kiss… first?”

He looks surprised for a moment, and you worry you’ve fucked up. 

“I just feel like we should do that,” you say, much quieter.

“Yeah,” he says. “I guess that makes sense.”

His hand cups your cheek and he looks you in the eyes like he’s trying to find answers somewhere in there. 

“Has anyone ever kissed you before?”

“Not really, not the way I want you to kiss me.”

“Feels a bit rude of me to have put my dick in your mouth before you’d even been kissed.”

Still, he leans in and kisses you, but it’s soft, gentle. It’s not a peck on the lips, though, it’s more. It gradually gains momentum and passion. Eventually, he slips his tongue in your mouth and you take it in stride. 

“You’re very good at this,” he says. “If I didn’t know any better, I wouldn’t think this was your first time.”

“Is that a compliment?” you ask, doubting Joel is capable of such things.

He ignores your question, and sighs. You know it’s not directed at you because you’re fairly sure he’s not listening.

“I know I said I was gonna do some things with you, but I don’t wanna take things too fast, okay?”

“Are you saying you’re just going to kiss me?”

“I think that’d be the right thing to do.”

“That’s not fair,” you whine.

You wish you could sound sexy, or whatever, but you probably come off like a bratty child.  

“Excuse me?”

“That’s not fair. You said you’d make me feel good. I thought you were gonna return the favor.”

“I was.”

“Then, why are you backing out?”

You’re shocked that he’s the pussy — pun-intended — in this scenario.

“I thought it might be too much for you.”

You grab his hand and slip it under the flimsy fabric of your shorts. 

His eyes go wide. 

Fucking hell, you’re wet, is the only thought on Joel’s mind. It makes sense. He’d be offended, maybe even worried if you were dry as a desert down there, but he’s barely touched you. Either you really enjoyed kissing him or you actually liked sucking him off too.

He gently presses the pads of his fingers against the wet spot on your panties.

“You’re right, baby. It’s only fair if I help you out.”

He’s able to get your shorts and your panties down in one swift pull. You look impressed by the action. Just you wait, he thinks. He’s not an expert by any means, but it’s not too hard to learn if you pay attention — and sex is one of the only times Joel does listen — it’s also not a skill you lose over time. It’s muscle memory, or maybe it’s innate.

His thumb rubs your clit lazily as he watches your face scrunch up in pleasure, your eyes fill with need. When the first finger slips inside you, he hears a breathy sigh come from above — it sounds like relief though he knows you haven’t come yet.

He’s never had a woman have such a strong reaction to his lips on her clit. It almost startles him at first. You’re frantic from the moment his lips meet your skin, crying out for him like you’re scared he’ll stop.

“Hey,” he says, “I’m right here. Don’t have to get so worked up. I’m gonna take care of you.”

He can’t say another word because his lips are occupied, so he relies on his hands, his soothing touch, to tell you that everything is alright. He gets the urge to tell you how good you are for him, how good you taste, how pretty you are like this, but he knows it’d be cruel to let up now. He’s callous often, sometimes harsh, but rarely cruel.

His instinct tells him to drag this out, to make your thighs shake, to have tears running down your cheeks, to tease you. To be the asshole that he tends to be when you’re around (and when you’re not). This is a version of Joel you might come to like.

He’s lived long enough to be well-practiced in this field of life. Doesn’t matter if he’s particularly romantic or even sociable, it’s just happened enough times over the course of fifty plus years for him to know the ins and outs. He can get you there quickly and lead you through it slowly.

He’s so used to you saying his name in a tone he considers pestering that he’s begun to hate the word itself. But when it’s drawn out and desperate like this, it sounds wonderful.

You’re at his mercy, he thinks. Which means he’s in control. And, as much as he’d hate to admit it, control does not mean he can kill you, control means he can care for you.

When you come down from your high, Joel is looking up at you from between your thighs with messy hair and kiss-dark lips. His smile looks like one of pride. Your cheeks heat up, only half-remembering what just happened. You could describe the event simply in a cause and effect relationship — he went down on you, so you came. You know what an orgasm feels like, but that was something beyond anything you’d ever experienced before. You fear an addiction may be coming on.

Your voice comes out shaky, which only makes your first words after a long silence sound stupider. “Thank you.”

He looks confused, and it takes him a moment to respond. “My pleasure,” he says, and you swear it might be when you see a semi through his sweatpants.

You’d offer more ‘help’ but you truly don’t think you can manage it. You can feel your body pulling you towards sleep. Your eyes have barely opened and they want to close again.

Joel notices because how could he not, you’re completely naked in every sense of the word.

“Get some rest,” he says before standing up.

He’s leaving.

“Where are you going?” you ask, instinctively.

“Downstairs.”

You do not want to say it. The fear of rejection is too strong, but so is the sudden urge to cry. Holding back tears is a strength of yours, though, so Joel never sees them. Somehow, after doing one of the most adult things, you feel like a baby in the wake of it. You are supposed to be taking care of him, and you are failing.

“What?” is his response to your refusal to meet his eyes.

“I just assumed you were going to stay. That’s all.”

“I can. If that’s what you need me to do.”

You don’t say anything. He climbs into bed anyway after picking up your underwear and handing it to you.

He doesn’t hold you but he doesn’t leave either. What he does do is kiss you on the forehead when he thinks you’re already asleep. It’s a compromise between your fear and your desire.

It isn’t as weird as one might think it would be — acting as if you’ve never done anything remotely sexual with one another. It’s easier because you don’t have to go back to being friends. You never really were. It was always awkward. What’s new? Only your knowledge that at least some of your feelings are mutual. Only the fact that you think about having sex with him every time he’s in front of you. It’s really just out of curiosity sometimes. What would he be like in bed? Does he want it too? How would you even broach the subject?

Sometimes, it’s not just curiosity. Those days are harder to navigate. You have to pretend like every little touch — most of them accidental — fuels the fire. It’s not the sensation itself. It’s just the acute awareness of his body, how close it is to yours, how easily you could reach out and touch him, that enters your mind.

“You’re staring.” Joel says from the other side of the couch.

“Sorry. I zoned out.”

“Got something’ on your mind?”

“Not really.”

“C’mon, what is it?”

“Why do you suddenly care about my thoughts?” About me.

“You think I didn’t care about you before? You’ve been in my house everyday for months now.”

“So?”

“And, I haven’t tried to kick you out yet.”

“You’re not allowed to kick me out. That doesn’t mean anything.”

“Okay. How ‘bout this: I’m down here sitting with you because I know you don’t like to be alone.”

“So you pity me?”

“No, if I pitied you, I’d have told Tommy to give you a new job.”

“Okay, so, you expect me to believe you care but you refuse to talk to me half the time.”

“I’m not much of a talker. But, now that I’m trying to talk to you, you’re shutting me out.”

“I’m not— It’s just not a big deal. I don’t even remember what I was thinking about anyway.”

“Bullshit.”

“What?”

“I said, that’s bullshit.”

“Okay, fine. I’ll talk.”

You take a deep breath before speaking, one long enough that he gestures for you to go on.

“I was just thinking about what it would be like if we had sex.”

“Excuse me?”

“Well, since we, you know, we did that stuff… it’s not like it’s a totally crazy thought.”

“‘That stuff’? Be more specific, honey.”

“You know what I’m talking about.”

“I do, but you can’t be thinking about having sex with me when you can’t even use big girl words when you’re talking about it.”

“It doesn’t even matter.” Your face is burning. It so, totally, does matter. “I was just curious.”

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Mm-hmm. Go on thinking, I’ll get back to reading.”

“Wait, what? You just made me tell you that to make me embarrassed? You’re not even gonna—”

“What? Gonna fuck you?”

The word slips out of his mouth so easily.

“I don’t know, maybe.”

“Well, I’m not.”

Truth is: he’s been thinking about you every day since. He only caught you staring because he was doing the same. He tries to restrain himself because it feels like the right thing to do.

But he still, he acquiesces and takes you upstairs to his bedroom.

He lays you down on the bed and undresses you slowly like you’re a gift and he doesn’t want to tear the paper. He places your clothes atop the dresser, but leaves his strewn across the floor.

Wonder fills your eyes as he reveals his naked body. Hesitation and awe wrapped up in one.

“Wow,” you say, breaking the silence, “it’s, um, you know— do you think it’ll fit?”

It’s not the first time he’s heard that. It no longer brings him that bashful pride that it did when he was younger. It’s just a fact. A nuisance sometimes.

“Not if we don’t get you ready first.”

“Do you need to get ready first too?”

He looks down at his cock, rock-hard and eager.

“No, baby, just looking at you is enough to get me ready.”

A thought crosses his mind — one he thought he’d left in his teenage years — what if he comes too quickly?

He lies back on the bed next to you and reaches for you, waits for you to let him maneuver you.

“Come here,” he says.

You sit up and face him, slowly inch towards his arms that beckon you.

You’re fairly sure you know what he wants you to do. Sit on his face. But god, something about it seems awkward in the amount of control you simultaneously give up and are given in turn.

“You trust me, right?” he asks.

“Of course.”

An answer you wouldn’t have ever thought you’d give back when you first met.

“Then, come sit on my face.”

You swing your leg over him and steady yourself above his face.

He grips your thighs to guide you. You grip the headboard to save yourself from passing out the moment Joel’s mouth meets your skin.

Joel wouldn’t be the man you’d have thought would have such a talented tongue based on how little he uses it. You can’t blame him for not talking right now. Your moans echo off his bedroom walls and permeate the balmy summer air. The windows are closed and the curtains shield your naked bodies from the neighbors but even if you’d left them open, you wouldn’t have the sense to care.

You’re an incoherent mess of moans and half-words, trembling thighs and sweat. Your orgasm comes on strong, and if your eyes weren’t screwed shut, maybe you’d see the gates of heaven.

It’s been a while since he’s done this. Tess never liked it like this and the last woman before her was one from another lifetime, pre-outbreak, an inconceivable world despite having once called it home.

He’s not really thinking about that, though, in this moment, all Joel can think of is you. Your skin, your sweat, your heat, and the pretty noises you make. At one point, he swears he hears his name though your thighs are covering his ears. And he doesn’t mind it one bit.

“I’m gonna pass out,” he hears from above him.

“No, you’re not. I’ve got you,” he tries to say, though surely his words are muffled.

“Don’t let me go.”

He doesn’t. He carefully helps you lie back on the bed. When he meets your gaze, he swears he’s never seen adoration like that in anyone’s eyes before. At least, not in a long time.

It terrifies him, but in spite of his hesitation, he holds you close.

A blanket of peaceful silence settles over your bare bodies.

You speak quietly, trying not to awaken Joel’s senses. The ones that pull him away from you. The moment feels like glass in your hands.

“Are we going to have sex?”

“Hm?”

“We were going to, right? You were getting me ready for it.”

“I thought I wore you out.”

“Maybe, but that doesn’t mean I want to stop.”

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

“I’d tell you if you were.”

He hesitates.

“I’ll be good. I promise.”

Those are the words that awaken his arousal. In an instant, you find his body looming above yours. He kisses you until your lips are red and puffy. He doesn’t break your gaze as he positions his cock at your entrance. Your green light is your needy hips begging him to fuck you.

He starts slow, even the head is a stretch. You scrunch up your face and hold back the urge to squirm.

“It’s gonna be a little uncomfortable at first, baby, and that’s why we’re gonna take it slow.”

Slow is an understatement. It takes ages for him to give you another inch — or maybe you’re just antsy. This one makes you whimper, makes you clamp down around him.

“It’s okay, baby. You’re gonna be fine.”

Joel’s voice is tender and sweet, and it gives you enough hope to ask for something you think he’d usually deny you.

“Can you hold my hand?”

He interlocks his fingers with yours. It feels oddly natural. He doubts he’s heard someone ask to hold his hand since— not now, he’ll go soft if he thinks about her. He’ll close in on himself and you need him — in more ways than one.

He continues slowly as he promised he would until he hears your moans of pleasure and your pleas for more, more, more. More is a little bit faster, a little bit harder, as deep as you can take it, and most importantly, his thumb tracing circles on your clit.

You squeeze his hand with yours as your inner walls clamp down around him.

“Just let it happen. It’s okay. I’m right here.”

When you come, he does too — the most blissful mistake he’s ever made.

Curses fly out of his mouth through his orgasm, stopping briefly as he catches his breath, and resuming when he pulls out and watches as his come drips out of you.

“Fuck. Shit. Fuck, I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” you insist. “I liked it.”

“I’m glad you liked it.” Because I fucking loved it. “But, it’s dangerous. We’ve gotta be more careful.”

In the future — it’s implied. Another time is nothing when the lines have all been crossed and when the other side brings him a warmth the hot summer never could.

You have more power over him than the sun.

It becomes a routine — briefly — and you are more careful. You discreetly buy condoms, but when your next period doesn’t come, you fear it might be too late.

You don’t tell Joel, not at first. Sometimes, they’re irregular, and you don’t want to give the man a heart attack. But then a week passes, another week passes, and eventually you have to — especially when you’re beginning to feel a bit nauseous and have no other explanation for it. It’s better to say something before he asks.

“Joel,” you say, “I haven’t gotten my period yet.”

A look of horror crosses his face before he asks, “How late is it?”

You take a breath before admitting, “A few weeks.”

“How many?”

“Almost three.”

“Fuck.” He sighs in preemptive defeat. “Have you taken a test?”

“No, I thought it would come so I didn’t want to overreact.”

“We’re going to go get one.”

He stands up immediately and turns towards the door.

“Wait,” you say, stopping him in his tracks.

“I should probably get it. It’ll look less suspicious.”

No, it won’t. Those who suspect something is up with you, will have their suspicions, and those who don’t, won’t think to pay attention.

They recommend taking multiple because false negatives are common.

The first one is a clear positive, so clear you think it might be a false positive, so you wait to freak out until you see two lines come up on the second test.

Joel is silent, even when you hand him the test.

But, so are you, because what more is there to say? The tests say it all.

“I’ll do whatever you need me to,” he says, and you’re surprised until he clarifies.

“I doubt they’ll make you pay for the pill or the procedure — however they do it, but I’ll take care of you while you’re recovering. I’ll be there through it all. Promise.”

The pill or the procedure. The abortion that he expects you to have. Truth be told, you hadn’t really thought about what you’d do until now. It’s probably the right decision. Do you really want to bring a baby into this world? Can you even take care of one?

“Okay,” you say. “I’ll make an appointment.”

You save your tears for Maria. She approaches you in the clinic. You’d be delighted to see her at any other moment.

“Making an appointment?” she asks.

“Yeah, just a checkup,” you lie.

The woman at the counter clarifies with you. “Just a checkup? Is that what you’d prefer?”

You turn back and forth between her and Maria.

“Um, no,” you say, “keep it as is.”

Maria raises an eyebrow and there is nowhere left to hide. You might be able to outrun her, but she knows where you live and isn’t afraid to confront you at your doorstep.

She saves you some of your dignity when she whispers, “How about a chat at my place? I have some tea that helps with nausea.”

The tea is persuasive but you’d have to go anyway. You don’t speak on the walk to Maria’s. She brews the tea and you sit across from each other in the kitchen before she finally speaks.

“What’s the appointment for?” she asks. “And I’m not here to judge you, I just want the truth.”

You’re not my mom, you could say, but she’s the closest thing you’ve had to one since your own passed.

“An abortion,” you say quietly, looking down at the table, at your hands around the mug.

“Okay,” she says, gently. “There’s nothing to be embarrassed about.”

You try to reply but all the comes out is a sob.

Eventually, she pries the truth out of you. You explain what happened when you told Joel the news.

“So, he made the decision, and then told you he’d be there for you if he did what you wanted?”

“I guess. But, I think it might be the right choice. I mean, it'd be hard to raise a child in this world…” You cut yourself off when you look at her bump. She’s gonna be a mom, a good mom. And, stupidly, you’re jealous.

Even though it’s not there yet, you swear you can see a high chair in your periphery. You could be holding a warm bottle instead of a hot mug of tea. Maria could be feeding her child his first bite of baby food next to you.

“Let me ask you something, and I want you to really think about it, and be honest with me.”

You nod and wait for her question.

“If Joel had said he’d support you no matter what, even if you wanted to keep the child, if he said he’d step up as a father, would you have made the appointment?”

“I don’t know.” Oh, but you do. Maria waits for you to come to a conclusion, for you to spit it out.

“I like the idea of having a kid. I love kids, and I sometimes think about what it would be like being a mom, but I know that I can’t be one. Not right now.”

If there is one thing Joel can’t be, it’s a father. Not again. He’s too old, too grouchy, too cynical. He’s not the man he used to be. He was never good at it anyway. He couldn’t save his own kid. He’s already a failed father — once, if not, twice.

You’d be a great mother, and that’s the greatest tragedy. He’s failed you already. He’s not good at the kinder things of life. He shouldn’t have indulged in you, in the love you gave him when he cannot give it back. There are a lot of things Joel can’t quite get right — being a lover, a father, a good man.

Every night since the outbreak began, he’s watched Sarah bleed out in his arms. Sometimes he sees Tess, Sam and Henry, Bill, even Tommy which feels like an augury. Ellie is there almost every night, losing consciousness. Only sometimes is she in that hospital bed, often, she’s lying in the show, with blue lips and almost no pulse. Now, you’ve begun to enter his subconscious. You’re always too far out of reach, screaming his name until he’s shot dead, and the last thing he hears is you shriek as you watch him die in front of you.

Another person is another tragedy once they have the misfortune of coming into his life. There cannot be another person, especially not a child.

You should be back by now, he thinks as he splashes water on his face for the umpteenth time, hoping it’ll wash away all the mistakes he’s made.

He can tell it’s Maria by the way her knuckles rap on his front door. He can tell she’s pissed too.

When he opens the door, he sees you in standing behind her, like you’re afraid of him.

“Unless you want to have this discussion on your doorstep, I suggest you let me — us — inside.”

He does, reluctantly.

“Joel Miller, when do you plan on becoming a man?”

“What?”

“You just told her to make an appointment, didn’t even give her a chance to think about it? You managed to run away from your problems while you’re on house arrest. Impressive.”

“I thought that was what we both wanted,” he says, looking past her, to you.

“I guess, maybe,” you shrug.

The one thing he’s grateful for is Maria’s suggestion that you talk privately.

You sit further from him than usual, you refuse to meet his eyes.

“I’m sorry I didn’t ask what you wanted. I thought I was making the right choice.”

“It’s okay. I don’t even know what I want.”

But the tears suggest otherwise.

“Do you want to keep the baby?”

“Maybe, but I can’t. It’s not a good idea.”

“That’s what I think, but Maria’s right, it’s your choice.”

“But I don’t know how to make that choice.”

“You’ve got a good heart. Follow it.”

You spend a lot of time thinking, remembering, and trying to convince yourself that there is no part of you that wants to be a mother. But, in your bedside drawer, there is a handful of photos — all from before the outbreak. You see your mom as a child on a swing set, and as a teen blowing out candles on her birthday. Her mom is in that one too, sitting next to her, smiling. You wish more than anything to have pictures of you and your mom.

You think about the little girl who pretended a ratty old stuffed bear was her baby. You can hear your mom telling you that you’re doing a good job, how you’ll be good at this one day. Your bedtime stories were never about fairy princesses, but about your family, the ones you didn’t get to meet.

“I wish I could have that,” you’d say.

“One day, you might be able to — the world is scary right now, but that doesn’t mean it’s gonna be like this forever,” she’d insist.

In retrospect, you wonder if she really believed that, if she really believed that teddy bear would one day be a baby that you’d be the one carrying, and she’d be the proud grandmother.

“I told her I wanted to be a mom like her,” you explain to Joel, and he understands.

You know about Ellie, but not about Sarah. Joel never brings either of them up to you. Until now. It’s a fair trade, he tells himself. Photos for photos, info for info. But it’s more than that.

“Hold on for one minute, I’m gonna go get something, and I’ll be right back.”

It’ll only take him a second to grab the pictures, but he’ll need a moment to compose himself.

“This is Sarah,” he says, pointing to the little girl in the photo. “My daughter.”

You’re silent for a moment, gazing at the photo, at a younger Joel you’ve never met.

You’re the first person not to tell him that you’re sorry for his loss, and he is relieved not to hear the empty sympathies once more.

“What was she like?” you ask.

It’s hard to explain, and for that reason, he talks for at least a half hour about Sarah. All her likes and dislikes, all his favorite moments from the day she was born until the day she died. He tells the story of that too.

When you try to tell him that he sounds like he was a good dad, he has to explain why he wasn’t.

“I couldn’t save her,” he says.

“I couldn’t save her either,” you say, pointing to your mother in one of the photos.

“You were just a child,” he says. “It’s not your fault.”

“And, you were just a man,” you say. “It’s not your fault.”

“A grown man.”

“Doing the best that you could.”

And you’re right. He did try his best. He stops arguing not because he’ll ever concede but because the weight of the present falls upon him all at once as he meets your eyes and remembers why you’re here.

He can’t have Sarah back, he can’t have Ellie back, but you’re right in front of him — and he loves you. It’s too late to turn back and kick you out on your first day, it’s too late to never speak to you, it’s too late to not love you.

It’s not too late to fail you like he’s failed everyone else. It’s not too late to do the opposite either.

You tell him your decision, and wait for his disagreement, for him to dissuade you. But, he doesn’t.

“Okay,” he says.

“What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to try my best.”

You cancel the appointment and make the final decision, but it doesn’t feel real until Joel finishes building the crib in the spare bedroom. The most unexpected part is how excited you feel even when you’re nauseous, even when your feet are bloated, even when your back is killing you.

You’re also terrified, particularly when you hear Maria’s account of her labor and delivery. For someone describing how painful it was, she seems oddly unfazed, happy even. She’s too focused on her baby boy, and you get it — he is pretty cute.

When the day comes, you find that you’ve underestimated the pain entirely. The wounds you’ve gotten in combat are nothing compared to this. Every hour that goes by feels like a full day for you. Every time the doctor checks your dilation it’s still not yet time.

Until it is. And everything becomes a million times more chaotic. You swear the only thing keeping you sane is Joel’s hand in yours. (You have to apologize later for squeezing it so tightly.)

Finally, the telltale cry comes, and it feels like you’ve run a marathon by how exhausted you are and by how proud you are of yourself for doing it. This will go down as the greatest feat of your life and you are more than satisfied with that fact.

The doctor announces that it’s a boy and though he said he’d be fine with either gender, Joel’s smile is wider than you’ve ever seen it. You’re smiling almost as big. It hurts your cheek muscles but you can’t stop, especially when they hand you your baby boy. Though he doesn’t know how to speak, his hand wrapped around your finger tells you that it’s going to be okay.

There is so much pain in this world, but not in this room.

[nyxanarchy]

SOTR SPOILERS

anyway. Back to my obsession.

-Thinking about Tam Amber and Carmine Clerk "not again". All the covey singers are dead (THEIR SONGBIRDS). Maude Ivory, Lucy Gray, Lenore Dove. All of them are dead, and the coveys don't sing anymore. That is why Katniss knows only two of their song. The only survivors are musicians. (I feel like this has to mean something, but maybe I'm just crazy.)

-Thinking about Clerk Carmine, that we know is the fiddler in the Odair's wedding, playing alone. (thinking also about Haymitch seeing him play. Did he talk to him? Did they ever talk about Lenore Dove? Did Carmine Clerk forgive him? Maybe he never blamed him at all.)

-I wonder if at the end of the war Carmine Clerk was able to talk with others coveys, maybe from other districts (because they were travelers, maybe they were separated before the war)

-Barb Azure. We don't know anything about her. She vanished from the narrative. Is she Burdock's mother? That would explain his connection to Lenore Dove and why Burdock knows the covey's song (ofc he could also have learned it from Lenore Dove, even tho I would argue it's weird that Katniss seems to have Maude Ivory's exact skill for remembering music). But what happened to her? She is not dead, because if she was, she would have been probably buried next to the other girls. (MY SHAYLAS) [Also I feel like it's significant that the singers are the first to die.] If she is Burdock's mother I wonder what happened to the girl she was seeing. Was she forced to marry, to keep her secret? Or maybe she was bi and she fell in love with a man? But then why doesn't Burdock have a covey name? (even tho it's not lost on me the fact that Everdeen is really similar to Evergreen) Maybe because she thought it was starting to be dangerous? I also read a theory that Burdock is the niece of her girlfriend. That would make her his aunt, and would explain why he hasn't a covey name. I need more lore, I'm going insane.

-Snow is definitely the culprit of their music getting banned. He really wanted to destroy them, all because of Lucy Gray. She really did a number on him, he is still obsessed after all this time. Pathetic little man.

-Also can we talk about the fact that in 40 years he was able to make Panem homophobic again?

-Beete wife and second son?? They are dead right? I don't remember them, I will reread the series soon, but I feel like I would remember if they were alive. So Snow kept his wife and his second son alive, to keep him doing what he wanted, just to kill them after some time?

-Wyatt makes my heart bleed. I love him so much, every time he talks I feel like I'm gonna cry. Imagine knowing your father will accept bets on you. Also during the reaping some of his family said something along the lines of "you brought him bad luck" (I read it in Italian so I don't know the exact sentence) Does that mean someone already bet he was going to be reaped? That honestly kills me.

-I also kinda like WyattxMaysilee. I feel like I'm alone in this. But also I think she could also be a lipstick lesbian. I'm conflicted. This is not really important, just some thoughts.

-Thinking about all the tries it must have taken the rebels to finally win. How many mockinjays died in their arenas, because it was just not the right time? They tried, but they couldn't. And no one knows what happened. I hope that in the future schools of Panem they will talk about all of them.

-The boy who created sparks waiting for the girl on fire. Inconsolable.

-Please Suzanne give us Annie's game because after this book I believe wholeheartedly that she tried to destroy her arena and went mad because they tortured her.

-Haymitch having to hit Asterid with a stone. UGH. This book makes me sick to my stomach to a concerning degree.

-Also haymitch being closed in a bird cage?????? This will haunt me.

-Merrilee. In the original series she is always in bed. She has the drugs to sleep. I feel like her illness is just depression. I always thought about it but I think this is confirmation.

[kaeyas-beloved]

small words, big meanings

Character: Leon S. Kennedy

— Leon feels too much and nothing at all, you're offering what support you can for him

cw: gn!reader, rev. comfort, i imagined more re4r Leon but really any leon post-rc would work <3 not proofread cause i really just wanted to let the words flow

Leon catches himself mourning the young man he once was more than he'd like to admit. For fleeting moments when looking in the mirror, he can see the boy who was much happier, who thought he had the whole world in front of him with so much to see and do and learn. Who was about to have his dream come true, have something finally go his way after pouring so much dedication during his time in the academy.

Leon breaks a little each day he remembers that time has passed and won't ever come back. He doesn't think he'll ever smile like he did when he was 21, won't feel the lightness in his chest when walking the streets of towns and cities he's staying in. While the world changed around him, he felt like a man frozen and unable to move, like his heart beat slower than anyone else's around him, like his body morphed and changed in slow-mo and other's appeared accelerated.

Even next to you this feeling crept up in his chest, and fuck did he hate it. He didn't want to think about all the shit in his life when he had you who made things just a little easier from time to time. But he did, so fuck him he guesses.

You're not entirely blind to this either, but you can admit it's hard sometimes. It's hard to catch the shift because Leon has that stoic look on his face a lot of the time as a default, leaving you to rely on his eyes and subtle movements to understand what he's thinking. It's hard to watch the little light he mange to hold fizzle from his palms like a spark that pops off a roaring fire - there one second and gone the next.

It kills you to know you can only do so much for him.

It's something you tossed around in your mind as you watch him grab what he needs to head to the store, ingredients needed for dinner missing from the pantry. You would've gone or joined him, but he... not so much insisted, but with the way he spoke you knew he needed this. You get it, you've been there, needing a moment out of the house that became so familiar it was suffocating. So, you relented. Anything for him, anything you'd give if it even had the chance of helping him.

You're pulled from your thoughts as Leon addresses you, going over what he needs to grab one more time.

You wonder if he knows you know, if there was an unspoken dark figure standing in the room with you both that's getting ignored, or if he thinks you don't suspect anything.

After reciting the store mental grocery list, Leon turns back to head out the door with a small I'll be back, but before the door even had a chance to open you were on your feet, swallowing in hopes to rid yourself of the sudden dryness in your throat.

Calling his name, you cross the small distance and wrap your arms around him, resting your head wherever you could just to feel a little closer to him. The stiffness of Leon's shoulders eases after a moment and he looks over his shoulder at you, a brow slightly risen.

"I love you," you murmur, soft, but in the quiet room it sounded and weighted so much more. Good, they're suppose to, because there were far too many things you're not saying yet definitely feeling.

Anything Leon may have had to say dies on his tongue and he's left with just looking at you. Things that made up you started to leave that heavy feeling in his chest, twisting before his very eyes - had you changed too? Of course, you weren't always like you are now, but his eyes play tricks and the you now suddenly doesn't feel like you from this morning, or even the you from mere minutes ago, even when he knew deep in his bones you were.

"I hope one day you can see the world as you've taught me to see it, beyond the scary things it shows us everyday," you say next, and all at once that pressure in his chest eases, just a little. He hopes so too.

Wordless, Leon turns, taking your hands into his and pressing a lingering kiss to your fingers before pulling you into his arms. You could feel the tender way his lips then met your forehead, see the tension leave the slope of his shoulders, hear the breathes he took - in through the mouth and out the nose - and in that moment all you could smell was him with every breath you yourself took.

When the man who holds your entire heart and soul pulls you a little closer to him, pressed flushed against one another and his face still resting against your forehead, you knew Leon was still here with you, still fighting.

And when he pulled away after a long moment basking in your entirety, the tiniest of upturns to the edge of his lips and his own few quiet words were said, it solidified he got your message, both the one spoken and unspoken.

"I love you, too."

[she-posts-nerdy-stuff]

If we get another Hunger Games book, I think it will be about Annie’s games

Allow me to explain:

Sunrise on the Reaping spoilers ahead!

First of all, I do think that we’ll be seeing a third book to close off this recent run as a prequel trilogy, though I also understand the arguments that the SotR epilogue could arguably function as a goodbye to the characters.

In my opinion, the most likely people we would learn more about in another book, considering how much we already know about everyone else in all 5 books combined, are Mags, Joanna, and Finnick. But we essentially know Finnick’s story; if there was a book for him individually then I can only see the games being a small section of it, and we know enough to know that if we had dedicated and detailed descriptions of what he was put through in the aftermath from his perspective that the book would have to cross the line into adult fiction, a line the franchise already very closely presses against and arguably bends out of shape. I think that this most likely removes him from the running as an option for a POV, and I also think that Joanna is an unlikely candidate simply for how similar her story is to Haymitch’s, leaving Mags as the most likely character that we have more to explore about (I discount Wiress and Beetee on account of how much more we learned about them in sunrise). However, if we were going to have a Mags book I think it would have been written before SotR to keep this series chronological - especially because arguably a lot of the propaganda themes could have been applied to the little we know about her as well.

Of the main cast of victors introduced to us in Catching Fire who go on to remain important characters but who we don’t already know intimately, then, all of whom have been the most likely candidates for further exploration imo, we have to look at Annie. We know very little about Annie’s games, to my recollection, except that she went into hiding after her district-mate was killed and won mostly due to her swimming ability when the arena was flooded by the gamemakers. But you know what we’ve learned from sunrise, if nothing else? We’ve learned that everything we know about every single game except the ones we witnessed firsthand from inside the arena are most likely being lied about. Not knowing any differently, we fell for the Capitol propaganda; we believed that the broadcasts were accurate. Now that we know for a solid fact that, like Haymitch’s, any one of these, probably most to all of them, have been tampered with, we know nothing.

The order of Haymitch’s days and his interactions with others were completely altered in the “highlight reel” and presumably, based on how the audience appears to respond, during the full broadcast as well - at least to an extent, if not quite so much as this. Even if there was more truth to broadcast, which we can cast doubt on now that we also have hard evidence the “live” broadcasts of reapings aren’t actually live, we can safely assume plenty of edits, tampering, and ‘card-stacking’ goes on (remember Plutarch says of the reaping that the footage only wasn’t fully tampered with because there wasn’t enough time, so he just shuffled the deck instead). With this in mind, did Annie really spend the entire games hiding after her district-mate died? I’m not convinced she did.

If Annie was hiding for a large portion of her games, the camera probably wasn’t showing her off that often; there wasn’t much to watch. And if that’s the case, it would be really easy to keep reusing footage of her hiding at any given point, say immediately after the other tribute’s death for example, and either using various short clips far enough apart that no-one questions them or combining this with subtly tampered footage to make it seem as though hours have passed with her barely moving. After all, Annie is from a career district: would the gamemakers not be doing everything they could to drive her out of her hiding place and into the action, to force her to fight? And especially since we now know how embarrassing it was for the gamemakers that they couldn’t reach Wiress’ hiding place, it seems incredibly unlikely to me that they’d let that ever happen again. After the secret spot was found in the 49th arena, they’d be forever making sure there would never again be anywhere accessible to the tributes that was inaccessible to cameras, sponsorship drones, and gamemakers. So why would they leave Annie alone?

But what if they needed to make it look like Annie hadn’t moved? What if they couldn’t let anyone see what she was actually doing? What if part of the trauma responses we see in Annie are a product of punishment after the games, as well as the experiences of the arena itself?

One of Haymitch’s first thoughts when he finds the massive tankard of water under the arena is to wonder if the gamemakers intend to the flood it. Now this I think, in part, was potentially a painful hint to the dry cistern at his house considering the volcano of the arena being about to erupt, but it also made me think immediately of Annie’s games. If this is indeed going to be a trilogy of prequels then, although clearly they don’t immediately follow on from each other, there have to be clear threads that weave them. We saw a lot of threads weaving SotR to Ballad so I’m not going to go on about that here, but it’s true that Mags, the water, and even the beheadings that Haymitch and Annie both witness could be a strong thread to carry between Sunrise and a potential future book that focused around Annie.

Did she flood the arena herself? Did the gamemakers flood it to hide something she’d done, maybe an attempt to break it, forgetting in their panic that she would likely be the only survivor of such an action?

A book exploring Annie’s games would also give us strong potential to explore Mags’ and Finnick’s stories in more detail. Although we know that Finnick was her mentor, Mags would also likely have been a presence for both of them at this time. Annie also won her games at 18, which gives us a new perspective as someone who would have aged out of the reaping of she’d made it through that final year, and more political insight into a career district would be a new and interesting endeavour to learn about. Insight into career districts would carry plenty of weight in the propaganda themes, in the reframing of narratives, and in the exploration of conditioning and manipulation, as well as overcoming it.

Anyway these are just some thoughts I had, but does anyone agree? Does anyone have alternate theories on what might be in store for us with another book? I’d love to hear any thoughts

EDIT: sorry I just posted this and realised I forgot to say that this idea was partially inspired by a video by stillfrombrooklyn on tiktok, who didn’t theorise a new book from this perspective or go into all the same details I have but did question whether what we know about Annie’s games is actually true and raised theories about the footage of her hiding being fake.

[maeintree]

baby, oh baby. | j. miller

some blurby angst coz i've been so busy lately. i'm so sorry my loves!

tags: established relationship, death, graphic description of wounds, joel miller being a sad old fuck, dialogue is heavily inspired from when sarah died :(

you, ellie, and joel had barely made it out of k.c., the horror of sam and henry still fresh in your minds. there was no time to grieve, no time to rest. you just had to keep moving, get closer to wyoming, push forward—because stopping obviously meant dying.

unfortunately, raiders didn’t care about those plans.

the ambush came out of nowhere. a bullet shattered the windshield of an old ford truck joel managed to have hotwired. then came gunfire. you barely had time to react before you were running—through the trees, through the dark, through the biting wind—until the sharp, searing pain in your stomach stopped you cold.

you didn’t even realize you’d been stabbed at first. not until you looked down and saw the knife buried hilt-deep in your gut. not until the raider sneered and twisted the blade, making your knees buckle, your breath hitch in a strangled gasp.

and then joel was there.

a gunshot. the raider dropped.

you drop to your knees, a sharp gasp tearing from your throat as pain rips through you. your hand instinctively clamps over your stomach, but it does nothing to stop the blood—warm, thick, spilling through your fingers in heavy pulses.

oh, god.

you can feel it—your strength draining away, your body growing weaker by the second. how could someone lose so much in mere moments? how could you go from running, breathing, living—to this?

your vision blurs. the trees sway. the cold bites at your skin.

and then—

“j-joel…” your voice is barely a whisper, but it’s enough.

his footsteps thunder toward you, fast, desperate. he’s on you in seconds, dropping to his knees, tossing his rifle aside as his hands find you.

“fuck—fuck—you’re okay, you’re okay, i got you,” he mutters, but there’s panic in his voice, raw and unsteady. his hands press against the wound, but it only makes you whimper, your body jerking as fresh pain shoots through you.

joel flinches. “shit, i-i know, i know, baby, i know—just hold on, okay?”

you try to breathe, but every inhale feels like fire licking through your ribs. you let out a shaky, bitter laugh, gripping onto his arms, fingers digging in as the agony becomes unbearable.

“the movies—” you choke out, a joke beginning to come out, your breath hitching, “—they don’t make it seem… t-this painful…”

joel swallows thickly, his face twisting. “i know, baby, i know, but you gotta—you gotta hold on—”

a fresh wave of blood gushes out, warm and relentless, coating his hands.

“no—no, no, no, you’re losing too much—shit—fuck—ELLIE!” his voice cracks as he screams for her, for anyone, for help that isn’t coming fast enough.

his hands—warm, rough, shaking—pressed against your stomach, trying, failing, to keep everything inside. but there was too much. too much blood, spilling between his fingers, soaking through the layers of your clothes, pooling beneath you. it was thick, warm at first, but cooling too fast.

joel was muttering, barely coherent. his breath came in short, ragged gasps, his words tumbling out in panicked desperation.

“shh—shit, shit, shit—no, nonononono, baby, look at me—l-look at me, keep your eyes open, d-don’t—don’t you fuckin’ close ‘em, okay?”

you tried. you really did. but it was hard. everything was fading—blurring at the edges, the sounds, the sights, the pain all dulling like you were sinking underwater.

joel’s hands pressed harder. you choked on a gasp as the pain flared, white-hot, deep in your gut. you could feel it—could feel the way your insides weren’t right anymore, the sick, awful way something inside you had ripped.

joel knew it, too.

his breathing hitched. “no, no, no, baby, d-don’t—don’t go quiet on me. i-i’m gonna fix this, i—fuck, i just—” his voice cracked, raw and broken. “ellie’s comin’ back with help, you just gotta hold on a little longer, okay? j-just—fuckin’ hold on—WHERE THE FUCK IS ELLIE?”

you wanted to tell him it was okay. that he didn’t have to lie.

but when you tried to speak, all that came out was a wet, gurgling cough. something warm trickled from the corner of your lips—coppery, thick. joel flinched like you’d shot him, his grip on you tightening.

“hey, hey, hey—breathe, baby, breathe—c’mon, stay with me, s-stay with me, please—”

his voice was shaking. joel miller—who never fucking stuttered, never lost his composure, never let anyone see him break—was unraveling right in front of you. his face was streaked with dirt, with sweat, his eyes blown wide, wild, terrified.

he was crying. joel miller doesn't cry. he wasn't like this when tess died.

“i-i can’t—” your voice was barely there, strangled by the blood rising in your throat.

joel made a sound—half a sob, half a curse. he pressed his forehead against yours, his breath hot and frantic against your skin.

“you can. you can, baby, please—please, don’t do this to me.” his voice was hoarse, crumbling under the weight of something too heavy to bear. “i c-can’t—i can’t lose you, i c-can’t—”

his hands were trembling. they weren’t supposed to do that. joel’s hands were supposed to be steady, strong, unshakable. but now they were gripping you like they were the only thing keeping him from falling apart completely.

you tried to lift a hand—to touch him, to wipe away the tears staining his face—but your arm wouldn’t move. it was too heavy. everything was too heavy.

“i love you,” you whispered, lips barely forming the words.

joel let out a broken, wrecked sound, pressing a desperate, shaking kiss against your temple, your hair, anywhere he could reach.

“i love you—i love you so goddamn much, baby, please don’t go, please—”

and then—nothing.

this seems a little too ooc for joel, but i'd like to think reader meant a whole lot to him. sorry for being gone for a whilee <3

[ummachistaamenos-blog]

filthy me - part 2

summary: You are a young engineer who moves to the Scottish Highlands, your dream country. Amidst the adaptation, you keep bumping into a charming, mysterious, and much older man named Joel Miller, one of the heirs to one of Scotland's oldest clans and a business magnate. And you can't stop having filthy thoughts about him.

warnings: big girthy age gap (20 & late 50s), daddy kink, breeding kink, orgasm control (sort of), Joel calls reader "baby girl" or "mygirl", pervert!joel, discussion of free use kink note: just an experiment—if you like it, I’ll continue.

note: could you guys recommend me some fics with joel (or pedro) as a sugar daddy? i'm kinda new here ... i've read swept sway by punkshort recently and love it!!!!

part: 1 | 2 | 3

...

His mouth closed around my right nipple, and when he sucked hard, my knees threaten to give out. Firm hands in my ass. My fingers tighten around the silky curls of his hair.

We were in a dark corridor; that was all I could gather about the environment around us.

He groans, his mouth feathering over my chest to the other nipple. The first isn’t left alone, though, and his hand closes over my breast. I had always loved having my breasts played with, but no one had ever used their teeth and he uses his teeth to lightly bite.

I’m sinking. And his mouth never stops kissing, nibbling, and then moving down my ribcage. He pulls up the skirt of my dress in one swift movement and spreads my thighs with the next. I barely have time to catch my breath before I lose it again. His mouth is on my clit.

"Put your leg here," he said, placing my left leg on his shoulder.

My vision was blurry; something was growing intensely inside me. He is so good at this. He knows exactly what I like, and he does just that, pressing open-mouthed kisses to my pussy. Finding my clit and teasing it with his tongue, over and over again, with a steady pressure that sends my arousal sky-high.

"Look at me," he ordered, and I obeyed. And I nearly died.

While his tongue worked with mastery, his eyes locked onto mine, intense, saying a thousand things and yet nothing at all. And I held that gaze, his dark eyes never leaving mine, as if he were memorising me. He slightly arched his eyebrow, a subtle challenge, and he tilted his head, a half-smirk playing on his lips. It was as if he were making me a promise, committing to me.

A sound began to play, growing louder with each passing second. Loud and irritating. Repetitive and stressful, just like my alarm clock.

"No, no..." I started to complain. This couldn't be a dream.

But it was, and as soon as my eyes opened, my reality was different. The only thing between my legs was the pillow I used for support, and I wasn't in a dark corridor with Joel Miller kneeling between my legs. I was comfortably lying in my bed, in my flat.

“Oh my God,” I breathe. It’s too much. It’s not enough.

…

The crisp morning air filled my lungs in a rhythm coordinated with the steady impact of my trainers against the gravel trail in the park. The Scottish autumn painted the trees with a palette of golds, reds, and ochres that resembled a gentle fire, spreading through the branches and reflecting in the small lakes that lined the path. The scent of damp earth mingled with the slightly sweet aroma of dry leaves, a natural perfume that always made her feel present, connected to the moment. It was my little refuge, a space where my body and mind aligned in a kind of solitary dance, the cadence of the run pushing away the weight of my thoughts.

But that specific thought stubbornly lingered.

How was it possible that, in less than seven days since I first bumped into him, my mind was already conjuring such… intense images? Dreams that made me wake up with hot skin, a tense body, and my heart pounding in my chest. Everything about him seemed designed to awaken me in ways I hadn’t expected: the magnetism, the posture, the piercing gaze that seemed to analyse me effortlessly. And now? Now even in my dreams he touched me, his husky voice echoing in my ear like a dangerous promise.

I shook my head, letting out a low, nervous laugh.

"This is getting ridiculous…" I murmured to myself, quickening my pace as if I could leave the memories behind.

That’s when I spotted him.

Further ahead, another figure was running. His movement was fluid, disciplined, his tall and strong body moving with precision. He wore dark workout clothes that outlined his athletic build, and his pace was enviable, clearly someone who had been running for years. I noticed the way the muscles in his shoulders and back flexed under the long-sleeved shirt, the way his arms moved in sync with his firm strides without wasting energy.

My gaze swept over him with curiosity, and in a flash, I realised. It was him.

Joel Miller.

The shock sent a chill down my spine for a moment, followed by a wave of nervousness. What on earth was he doing here? Well, the question was stupid—he was obviously running, just like me—but the coincidence made me feel as if I were being pulled into some game whose rules I didn’t know.

He hadn’t noticed me, completely immersed in his own run, headphones in, his gaze fixed ahead. His jaw was set, his lips slightly parted to control his breathing. He ran as he did everything else: with control, determination, as if the world around him didn’t exist. My heart raced for a completely different reason now.

What if he saw me here? What should I say?

"Good morning, Mr. Miller. Thanks for the champagne and the flowers, and oh, just so you know, you’ve been the star of my dreams lately, did you know that?"

I wanted to laugh and curse myself at the same time. Without realising it, I slowed my pace a little, keeping a safe distance, but my eyes didn’t leave him. I felt like a pathetic teenager spying on her school crush through the hallways, too afraid to face him directly. I needed to stop this. … The bell above the door of Fras tinkled softly as I walked in, bringing with me the cold morning air and the residual warmth of the run. The interior of the café was a cosy embrace against the Scottish chill—the unmistakable aroma of freshly brewed coffee. The place had a lazy rhythm, a refuge from the biting wind outside.

From behind the counter, Marlon looked up and flashed a wide smile as soon as he saw me.

"Good morning, athlete!" he announced, leaning on the counter with an amused expression. "You’re really something, aren’t you? Who in their right mind wakes up on a freezing Saturday and goes running like they’re fleeing a kidnapping?"

I let out a short laugh, shaking my head, still feeling the warm pulse of the run under my skin.

"I needed to clear my head."

Marlon narrowed his eyes at me, crossing his arms.

"And what exactly are you running from?"

I rolled my eyes and smiled faintly.

"I like running. It helps me think."

He raised his hands in surrender.

"Fair enough. But if I ran in this cold, my only thought would be: "I’m going to die.""

I laughed again, and he picked up a cloth, wiping the counter distractedly.

"The usual?"

"Just a filter coffee today."

He stopped what he was doing and looked at me as if I’d insulted his mother. "BLASPHEMY!"

I blinked, confused.

"What?" "Black coffee with no soul? In MY establishment? You dishonour me."

The laugh came before I could stop it.

"It’s just coffee, Marlon."

He sighed dramatically.

"I’ll bring it to your table before this offends me further."

I went to a table near the window, watching the street outside through the slightly fogged glass. A few people walked briskly, shoulders hunched against the icy wind, while the warm scent of coffee hung in the air, mixed with something that smelled like cinnamon and freshly baked bread.

I rested my chin on my hand and sighed. I was trying not to think about him. But it was impossible.

The flowers. The champagne. The note.

Joel Miller.

His name came and went in my mind like a persistent echo. For the first time in the week, I wasn’t flooded with thoughts and worries about work. That was some kind of relief, in a way.

Why? Why did he do that?

Our interactions had been… curious, to say the least. He was always so closed off, so distant. And then, suddenly, a gesture like that? A man like him, sending a gift, accompanied by a compliment that still made my stomach flip just thinking about it.

And the dreams?

My face heated up immediately, and I looked away, as if someone there could guess what I was thinking. It was ridiculous. How, in just a few days, had he become this overwhelming presence in my mind?

I think I’m just lonely. Ugh, I hate this!

Before I could continue berating myself, Marlon appeared beside me, placing the cup in front of me with an exaggerated gesture.

"Your black boring coffee, ma'am."

I huffed and held the cup between my hands, absorbing the warmth. But to my surprise, he pulled out the chair across from me and sat down, crossing his legs.

"I like you."

I raised an eyebrow to him.

"Should I feel flattered?"

He tilted his head, thoughtful.

"Yes. You were kind of like a fresh start."

I frowned. "A fresh start?"

Marlon shrugged, playing with the rim of his cup.

"I don’t know. I’ve had some big disappointments with friends lately. People I thought were genuine, but they weren’t. Then you showed up, out of nowhere, all confused in this new city, and I thought: 'Hm, this girl has calm energy.'"

I smiled, feeling a genuine warmth in my chest. "I’m glad."

He watched me for a moment before smiling.

"Alright, but what about you? Besides being a badass engineer, what are your dreams?"

I hesitated.

"Right now, my focus is adapting here and growing in my career. But what about you? What brought you here?"

His confident smile was immediate.

"Journalism. I’m studying at the local university. But my family’s from Glasgow."

That explains why his accent is so strong—I’ve always struggled to understand the English spoken by people from that region.

"Wow, that makes so much sense!"

"Right?" He winked. "Second year already. My dream is to be an anchor for a big news network, like CNN."

I smiled, impressed.

"I can see you there."

He placed a hand over his chest, feigning emotion.

"My God, I’ll remember this when I’m famous!"

I laughed but soon bit my lip, hesitant.

"Speaking of remembering… I need to share something with you." Marlon’s eyes lit up with immediate interest.

"Oh, my God. I love gossip!"

I watched him for a moment. Could I trust him?

"I don’t want it to be exactly gossip. Can you keep it a secret?"

"With my life."

I took a deep breath and told him. Every detail. The waiter appearing, the bucket of champagne, the flowers, the note signed by Joel.

Marlon’s jaw dropped.

"YOU’RE KIDDING ME!"

"I don’t even know what to think."

He slammed his hand on the table.

"You exchanged numbers with him, didn’t you?!"

"No!"

"GIRL, ARE YOU CRAZY?!"

I let out a nervous laugh.

"At the time, he was already leaving—I didn’t even have time. I wasn’t going to run after him through the restaurant like a madwoman. I might be attracted to him, but I’d never act desperate."

He sighed and then laughed, shaking his head.

…

When I got home, the apartment was silent, except for the faint hum of the heater in the corner of the living room. I kicked off my trainers near the door, feeling the warmth of the carpet against my cold feet, and walked straight to the table where the flowers still sat.

The arrangement looked even more beautiful now under the warm glow of the lamp. The deep hues of the petals contrasted with the vibrant green of the leaves, and even after a full day, the sweet scent still lingered in the air. I reached out, brushing my fingers against one of the petals. Soft, delicate.

My eyes fell on the card again.

Until that moment, I’d only seen his signature. The name that had haunted me all day. But as I picked it up now, I noticed something I’d missed before. The paper was thicker than a simple accompanying card. There was something written on the back.

My chest tightened as I turned the paper over, my fingers slightly trembling. The handwriting was slanted, firm, that of a man who wrote with conviction.

"I don’t want to impose and ruin a moment that seems yours, but if you’d give me the pleasure of dining with me, I’ll be at this same restaurant tomorrow, at the same time."

Below, just a signature.

Joel.

My heart gave a violent jolt.

My hands started to sweat, and I had to put the card back on the table, as if that could stop the effect those words had on me. I couldn’t say how long I stood there, just staring at the note as if it could come to life and give me answers to all the questions swirling in my head.

I tried to go on with my day as if nothing had happened. I went to the gym, as usual. I did my workout, tried to channel the anxiety into something productive. I came home, showered, worked a bit on some company tasks. But every time I glanced at the clock, a different kind of nervousness crept up my spine.

And when the time to get ready came, I chose a dress that hugged my body in all the right places, the fabric flowing but elegant. A long coat to protect against the cold, mid-heel boots that elongated my legs. I spritzed on perfume with a little more intention, adjusted my hair until I found the balance between natural and sophisticated.

I looked in the mirror.

I looked good.

Maybe better than I had the night before.

And as I crossed the threshold of the apartment and headed to the restaurant, I felt that flutter in my stomach I hadn’t felt in a long time.

…

The restaurant was warm, cosy, a welcome refuge against the biting cold outside. The scent of wine and herbs hung in the air, mingling with the muffled sound of conversations and the soft clinking of cutlery against porcelain. As soon as I entered, I was greeted by the same waiter from the night before. He didn’t say anything—he didn’t need to. There was just that brief moment of silent recognition between us before he made a discreet gesture, indicating I should follow him.

My heart pounded hard in my chest as I walked through the dining room. The restaurant, already sophisticated on its own, seemed even more intimidating now.

When the waiter finally stopped and stepped aside, I saw him. Joel was sitting at a more secluded table, discreet, almost isolated from the rest of the restaurant. The golden light from the lamps created soft shadows on his face, accentuating his sharp features—the strong jaw, the well-groomed beard, the gaze absorbed in his phone screen as he typed something with long, firm fingers.

He seemed oblivious to the surroundings, completely focused. But the moment I approached, he felt my presence. He turned his head slowly, and as soon as his eyes met mine, something in the air seemed to shift. He set his phone down unhurriedly and stood up. His gaze didn’t waver for a second as he closed the distance between us. And before I could say anything, his large, warm hand enveloped mine.

His touch was firm but controlled. He raised my hand slowly and brought it to his lips, placing a long, deliberate kiss against my skin. I held my breath. The warmth of his mouth contrasted with the cold still lingering on my fingers, and his neatly trimmed beard brushed lightly against my skin, leaving a trail of goosebumps. He didn’t just kiss my hand—he held it there, long enough for me to feel his warm breath against my fingers, for me to notice how his eyes watched me closely, intently.

It was… erotic.

When he finally released my hand, his voice came out low, thick.

"Glad you came."

I swallowed hard, feeling a different kind of warmth spread through my body.

Joel made a slight gesture to the waiter.

"Bring more wine."

Then, he pointed to the chair beside him.

"Please, sit here."

I moved without protest. I couldn’t explain why, but there was something in the way he asked—or rather, in the way he spoke to me—that made me want to obey. Not out of submission, but because it felt natural, as if somehow he already knew I wanted to be there. As soon as I settled beside him, he turned his body slightly toward me, resting his arm on the back of the chair, his attention completely on me.

"I’m glad you accepted my invitation to dinner."

The tone of his voice carried something beyond mere courtesy. A certain weight to his words, a genuine satisfaction.

"I…" I tried to choose the right words but felt a smile tug at my lips. "I thought it would be rude to ignore such a well-written invitation."

Joel let out a low, amused laugh.

"I didn’t think a note would have such an effect."

"You knew it would." I crossed my arms, giving him an assessing look. "If you didn’t, you wouldn’t have left it."

He tilted his head slightly, a curious glint in his eyes.

"I like testing hypotheses."

"And what was your hypothesis?"

He leaned in a few inches, his voice dropping to a lower, more intimate tone.

"I have several hypotheses about you."

My cheeks warmed against my will. Before I could formulate a response, the waiter returned with the wine, pouring for both of us. I took a small sip, needing something to divert my attention, to calm the nerves that, somehow, were too restless near him. But then I remembered.

I set the glass down and tilted my head toward him.

"I saw you this morning."

He frowned slightly.

"When?"

"Running." I crossed my legs under the table. "I was running too."

Joel brought the glass to his lips, but his eyes stayed on me, assessing.

"And why didn’t you come up to me?"

The question came quickly, without hesitation.

I shrugged, playing with the rim of the glass between my fingers.

"You seemed focused. I didn’t want to interrupt."

He took a deep breath, as if reflecting on my answer, then shook his head, a small smile forming on his lips.

"You would’ve interrupted in a good way."

My stomach did a little flip. His gaze was an invisible touch, sliding, exploring.

"So…" He ran his thumb slowly along the rim of the glass, his voice laden with something that made me hold my breath. "If you had come up to me, what would I have seen?"

My heart skipped a beat.

"What do you mean?"

Joel tilted his head slightly, his eyes fixed on mine.

"You said you were running. I was focused, yes, but maybe… I would’ve been distracted if I’d seen you there, so close."

Heat rose to my cheeks, but I didn’t want to back down. I leaned forward slightly, resting my chin on my hand.

"And what exactly would’ve distracted you?"

His eyes darkened a little, the wine reflecting in those honey and amber tones. He didn’t answer immediately. Just let his gaze slide over my face, then down, slowly, along my neck, my chest exposed by the discreet neckline of the dress I’d chosen with more intention than I’d like to admit.

He smiled, almost imperceptibly, before raising the glass again and saying, without taking his eyes off me:

"Everything."

A sensation washed over me that didn’t just come from the words, but from the way he said them—low, laden with a weight that seemed to press against something inside me.

I picked up my own glass, trying to maintain some composure.

"You seem very confident."

Joel set the glass aside and ran his fingers along the stem.

"I am."

I let out a short laugh, shaking my head.

"Arrogant."

He raised an eyebrow.

"Realistic."

I raised an eyebrow back.

"So you’re saying you really think I would’ve stopped my run to approach you?"

"I think you wanted to."

I opened my mouth to respond, but nothing came out immediately. Because the truth? The truth was, yes, I had wanted to. When I saw him that morning, running with long strides, his shirt slightly clinging to his chest, his face focused… I’d had to fight the urge to slow down and get closer.

And the worst part? He knew. He noticed my hesitation and smiled. That slow, corner-of-the-mouth smile, as if he’d already won a battle I didn’t even know I was fighting.

"Are you always like this?" I asked, crossing my legs, trying to regain control of the conversation.

"Like what?"

"Intense."

He leaned in a little closer, closing the distance between us even more.

"Only when I’m interested."

My chest rose and fell in a slower breath. He rested one arm on the back of my chair, and suddenly, the position made me feel like he was surrounding me—without touching, without doing anything physical, but still enveloping me in his presence.

"And am I interesting to you?" My voice came out lower than I intended.

His smile deepened, but his gaze… that dark, heavy gaze fixed on me, it held no trace of playfulness.

"Isn’t it obvious?"

My breath caught in my throat.

And in that moment, I realised that maybe it wasn’t him playing this game. No game was being played at all.

"Can I smell your perfume?"

Without waiting for permission, Joel leaned in slowly, closing the distance between us with a naturalness that made me hold my breath. The approach was slow, intentional. The heat of his body radiated against my skin before he even touched me.

Then, I felt it.

The light brush of his beard against the sensitive curve of my neck. It was a minimal touch, but it ignited something deep within me. A sharp mix of shiver and warmth. He inhaled near my skin, and I nearly died.

The warm air of his breath caressed my skin as he subtly inhaled, taking in the perfume I’d chosen with a care that now seemed ridiculous.

"Hm." The low sound, almost a satisfied purr, resonated against my skin. "You smell exactly as I imagined."

My mouth went dry. My chest rose and fell faster than it should have. Before I could process, he pulled back just enough to look at me, his eyes sliding from my neck to my lips before meeting my eyes.

"Sweet." He murmured, his voice almost gravelly, as if he could already taste it. "Vanilla, a bit of flowers, and a woody base. The scent of a woman who has to deal with many men daily but doesn’t lose her feminine essence and delicacy."

How the hell did he know?

I tightened my fingers around the wine glass, trying to ignore the fact that my entire body seemed to be on fire.

[anonmousegosqueek]

Angsty one that you're going to HATE love me for ʘ⁠‿⁠ʘ

Before Gary died, it wasn't exactly a secret that he and Simon were a thing. It was, at best, an open secret that they gave little kisses to each other when no one was looking. It was, at best, an open secret that they'd have some...alone time in one the closets in the more deserted side of the base. No one said anything, but everyone knew, especially Johnny. And he hated it.

Well, hates a strong word, it bothered him. Why wouldn't it bother you that the guy he'd been crushing on was very obviously going out with someone else? But he never said it out long, just told himself he was happy for Simon. And then, Gary died. Unexpected and expected, his recklessness would catch up to him one of these days...

Johnny and Simon did date after Gary's passing, but Johnny wasn't some vulture, swooping in on a grieving man. It had just been a random kiss one night, that turned into more. This is were Johnny likes to say the story ended, him and Simon were happy, the end!

But deep down he knows, he knows who Simon thinks about when they kiss. He knows who Simon thinks about when they go to bed. He knows who Simon thinks about in the nights of passion. And he knows it's not him, not fully. Simon does love Johnny, and he knows that, he wouldn't let himself be some rebound. But...Johnny knows Simon loves Roach more.

When Price died, it wasn't dramatic, he wasn't doing anything anymore besides laying in bed, it was best to pull the plug. That night, Johnny heard Simon mumble, of course he turned to comfort him, and then he heard it:

"Gary...Price is..." Is what he heard Simon say before he devolved into unintellibility. After all these years, Gary was still number one. Simon didn't question the dampness from tears on his chest the next morning. Price passing affected him too, I mean, why else would Johnny have been crying?

The years passed, and Johnny kept hearing it, realizing. Like little paper cuts that told him who was Simon's real love, even if he had the ring on his finger.

And then Simon passed, when they were old and wrinkled. Johnny could tell when he got in bed, he was too still, too cold. And Johnny laid next to him, like he'd done for the past few decades. And he blinked away his tears, he wasn't going to cry, not on his last night. He refused, even if he knew that if an afterlife existed somewhere, Simon was in Gary's arm's, hugging and kissing the man he loves the most.

(Sorry)

WHY

I'm literally crying, like real tears are coming from my eyes. This isn't a joke, I'm actually crying. You underestimate how weak I am, I genuinely can't handle angst at all.

I'm not usually one for "fixing art", but in this case I need to. (Kinda a joke, I'm genuinely not into fixing art I just wanna give them a happy ending.)

So cut to the afterlife (I have my own private au, there are rules and stuff but I don't wanna explain them right now).

Soap is the only one alive.

Obviously Roach was first. He remembered the fire, the pain, and then... Nothing. Calm. For the first time in years, there was no pain.

Then came Price. Mission went wrong, comma, no way he was waking up. But he did. And who was there, but... Gary? Alive and breathing, happy as ever. Price could walk better than ever, no pain or joint ache. He spent the first few days just cuddling Roach, the boy he thought he lost (and that he blamed himself for the death of)

Surprisingly enough, Nikolai was next. They dunno how he died, he doesn't say. All they know is that he disappeared, few months later he was in John's arms. Young like when he first met him.

Gaz was... Gaz was the worst. No one was at his funeral, no one there to bury the body. His corpse just rotting on a random battlefield. He remembers a slow and painful death, only to wake up in Roach's lap. Looking up at someone he dreams of every night. I think he clings to Price a lot now, never fully recovering during life when he lost his captain, taking his time in death.

Finally. Ghost.

Forever sleep, literally. Days melding together, his memories fuzzy and unclear.

Once he woke up, once he found Price and Nik and Gaz and...

He cries when he hugs Gary for the first time.

Cut to all of them, watching Soap continue on. They see his sluggish state, they see how he's practically dead already. I think the worst part was when Ghost (in Ghost form, obviously) was sitting next to Soap. He remembers watching his love, his Johnny, crying. He remembers hearing him sob about never being enough, about how he was never Ghost's like Roach was. He remembers laying down. Holding his love, now old and weak, yet just as beautiful as ever. He's always loved Johnny, he hates that he could ever think he didn't. Yeah he missed Roach but... He loved both of them. He will always love both of them.

He just needs to tell Soap that.

Ghost... No, not Ghost anymore. Simon kills Johnny.

There's not much he can do in ghost form, basic haunting at most, but somehow (and maybe with some help from Nikolai, the unmoral brothers) he does it.

Cue Johnny waking up, feeling strong and youthful as ever. Simon's sobbing face looking down at him, instantly pulling him close.

"'m so sorry luv, I'm so sorry."

Gary is there too. He doesn't look mad, he doesn't look jealous, if anything he looks... Happy?

Anyways, they talk it out and it turns out Gary had a pretty big crush on Johnny back when they were alive.

NOW THEY'RE ALL HAPPY AND TOGETHER AND Y'KNOW WHAT? KYLE JOINS IN AND SMOOCHS GARY AND ITS ONLY WHOLESOME.

[sincerelyzee]

old man!sebastian x old woman!reader | 735

“Sebastian! hurry it up in there!” your voice barely carried throughout the farmhouse. how can your husband be so slow when your babies were coming today? “relax, relax. i’m here.” he slowly makes his way out the door, his feet shuffling against the hardwood floor of the porch. when he passes you, you hear his mumble something strangely close to ‘toad’. you click your tongue at him and poke his back with your walking stick, earning a cheeky chuckle from him.

the two of you slowly make it down the stairs, making sure to hold onto the sidebars and then you both make your way to the bus stop to wait. “listen here, wife,” Sebastian starts, clearing his throat and gathering his words, “you’d better not hog all my kids like last time.” you roll your eyes at him and wave him off, “i’m serious! not even a hundred kisses would make me forgive you.”

“five kisses and you’ll have forgotten why you were angry.” you look at him, a challenging fire in your eyes. he pulls a sour face in response and kisses your cheek. “you may be right about that.” you smile and press a sweet kiss to his lips then pat his back, “you’ll come alright, just wait your turn.” you cheekily reassure him, he grumbles in response and you both turn into the bus stop and wait for the bus to arrive, hand in hand.

once you’ve greeted your daughter, your son in-law and their children, you all make it back to the farm. “dad, i hope you know we didn’t come so we can work on the farm.” he scoffs at your daughter’s words, “i said that to your mother when we married. look at where i am now.” your mouth opens in disbelief, “you offered to help me on the farm, you toad.” your daughter and son in-law both laugh at this exchange, making their daughters laugh, they all know how much he loves and cares for you and farm but enjoys being stubborn and making it sound like he hates the farm.

“Grandpa, why do you have scars on your mouth?” one of your grandchildren start, “and why do you have a hole on your eyebrow?” the other chimes in, “and so many holes in your ears?” the last one speaks up, “come inside, i’ll show you how cool Grandpa was when i was a youth.” he makes his way inside, looking for the picture album you started when you started dating all those years ago.

your daughter and her husband sit next to you on the bench on the porch, “mom, why don’t you and dad come back with us to the city? Pelican Town can be a holiday destination for all of us, then?” you shake your head profusely at her words. “never. now go water the plants in the greenhouse.” they both sigh and pick up watering cans and make their way to the greenhouse.

“what’s this i hear about moving to the city?” your husband emerges from the house to sit next to you. you shake your head, “she asked if we could leave with them to the city and only come back for holidays.” your head turns to look at him, to find out if that’s still a want of his. “who would tend to the farm?” he begins, giving the easy way out, “i thought you hated the farm?” you speak, he clicks his tongue, “this farm is my pride and joy. apart from our family.. and our marriage.. and the one time some years ago when i did that game for a client.. yeah. it’s fourth place.”

you roll your eyes and lean against him, his hand finds yours and he holds it then brings it up to press a lingering kiss. “that dream died a long time ago, honey,” a small smile sits on your lips but you don’t look at him “the city has nothing for me,” he sighs and kisses your hand again then he kisses your head.

“you are everything to me. i’ll die on this farm right next to you if that’s how you want me to prove it.”

a small laugh leaves your lips and you lean your head up to kiss his cheek. “you’ll die a bitter old man.” he smiles and kisses your forehead, “i'll die as your bitter old man, wouldn’t i?”

an: can a baddie emo loser hit my line and we go buy a plot of land to farm on and get married and get old and die together?

[thatnightlamp]

One last dance with Sanguinius.

cleaning my old works and found this treasure, when i first joined the fandom i fell in love with sanguinius at first sight, then I learned about his death right after. I was so sad at that time so i wrote this. I miss him so much.

Terra was burning.

The sky, once humanity’s protective dome, was now a crimson nightmare, swirling black smoke, flames erupting from fallen warships, and lightning from the Warp splitting the thick clouds apart. You stood atop a high ledge, overlooking the Imperial Palace - the last bastion of mankind, where every stone, every wall groaned under the relentless assault of the traitors.

But in this moment, none of that mattered.

Here, there were only two people.

You and him.

Sanguinius turned to look at you, his golden eyes still shining like the sun. But deep within them, you saw something you wished you hadn’t - acceptance. A farewell unspoken.

He knew he was going to die.

And so did you.

"Dance with me one last time?" he asked, his voice as gentle as the calm before the storm.

You looked at him, your chest tightening with a familiar pain, one that you had learned to ignore, but never truly escape. You knew you couldn't stop him. Nothing in this universe could stop Sanguinius once he had made up his mind.

But if this was the last time…

You took his hand, gripping it tightly, as if to hold onto this moment for just a little longer.

"For the last time."

The first time you danced with him, it had been a joke.

Sanguinius was always the angel in the sky, while you were bound to the ground by gravity. But you refused to accept that. You chased after him, riding the winds, leaping from impossible heights, laughing as Sanguinius turned to look at you in disbelief.

The second time, you danced on the battlefield, dodging bullets, weaving between blades. You remembered nearly plummeting into a bottomless ravine when an explosion shattered the ground beneath your feet. But Sanguinius had swooped down, pulling you up, his white wings stained with soot and blood.

"Can you stop making my heart stop?" he had scolded, but there had been nothing but warmth in his eyes.

And you had laughed.

Now, you danced together for the last time.

The wind howled, sweeping away the screams of war below. The two of you fell through the sky, weightless, untethered, lost in absolute freedom.

Sanguinius twisted mid-air, grabbing your hand and spinning you with him. The fires of falling ships reflected in his golden eyes, turning them into burning suns.

"I win this time."

"You think so?"

You smirked, twisting out of his grip, diving faster. But Sanguinius only smiled, pulling in his wings, dropping like a spear.

He caught up to you effortlessly, spreading his wings wide to slow both your descents.

For just a moment, time stood still.

You looked at him.

He looked at you.

"I have to go."

"And if I try to stop you?"

He said nothing.

You hated his expression in that moment, there was no teasing, no resistance. Just quiet sorrow.

"You can’t stop me," he whispered, wings fluttering against the wind, guiding both of you toward the ledge. "Just as I can’t stop you."

You didn’t understand. Or maybe you did, but you didn’t want to.

The two of you landed lightly on the stone platform. Sanguinius held your hand a second longer, memorizing the feel of it.

Then, he let go.

He pressed a kiss to your forehead, soft, fleeting, unfinished.

"Goodbye, my love."

Then he turned, stepping into the storm of war.

You stood there, watching his figure disappear into the fire and smoke.

When the news arrived that Sanguinius had died at Horus’s hands, you were still on that ledge.

You didn’t react. You didn’t cry, didn’t scream, didn’t break down.

You just stood there.

There were things you had learned to accept. The deaths of comrades. The endless war. The losses that could never be undone.

But not this.

Not him.

Not the one who had danced with you between the skies.

Not the one who had looked at you with love, even as he walked toward his own death.

You stepped onto the edge of the platform.

The wind still howled. The war still raged. But you couldn’t hear any of it anymore.

No one was waiting for you this time.

You didn’t open your arms. Didn’t adjust your fall.

You simply let yourself go.

Like an angel who had lost their wings.

Years later, when history spoke of fallen heroes, they told of Sanguinius’s great death.

They told of how he stood before Horus, unflinching even as he faced his fate.

But no one knew that you had jumped, too.

They told of his noble sacrifice.

No one knew that in his final moments, Sanguinius had thought of you.

The only one who had ever danced with him.

[vi-gilante-1010]

The beauty of timebomb as a ship for me before season 2 was that it was doomed to never work out. Jinx and Ekko were so close as kids, they pranked enforcers and built things together and had that childhood crush that's so powerful at the time because it's your first ever crush. But they grew into such opposite people. Jinx devolved into a self-serving maniac that bombed and attacked for her own fun and for the people she cared about, while Ekko became someone who fights for the safety of all Zaun, saddled with a sense of responsibility to build a life that people could feel safe in. Ekko builds to heal, while Jinx builds to destroy. They're opposites, but they once mattered so much to each other. Ekko is the one person from her childhood she didn't kill because she pushed him away. Powder is the one he had to watch due before his eyes in her transformation to Jinx. It's tragic and it's beautiful and it's the epitome of season 1's tragedy: it's what could've been.

Then season 2 arc 3 came and well. It's a little less beautiful now. Introducing some alternate universe that blames the arcane magic for everything that went wrong, but simultaneously shows peace and prosperity as gentrification, with all of Zaun's uniqueness and culture eradicated and absorbed by Piltover culture. And it's in this world where Timebomb is canon. It could happen, if only she'd lost her sister earlier! If only Silco hadn't been a revolutionary! And then Ekko, without much explanation, beelines for Jinx. Not for the tree he was supposedly trying to save, not for his unnamed friends, not even for Jayce's lab. He goes to Jinx. And he saves her- off screen, of course, can't have the actual heartfelt connection between them happen in front of the audience- and they paint all over each other and go to fight Ambessa, because gotta have them in the fight, I guess. And then she "dies" anyway, which does double down on the 'they're doomed' idea but forgets the reason why they were doomed in the first place. She'd MURDERED plenty of Fire lights, his friends, his allies. And we're just forgetting all that because the All Problems Are Solved au Powder danced with him in a pretty dress? Sure, yeah, okay, whatever.

The tree, Ekko's safe haven he'd worked so hard to build, the Fire lights as a whole are forgotten by the narrative. At best, they and the Jinxers are treated like one and the same by the end, which is silly because they should for all intents and purposes be rivals, if not flat out enemies. The tragedy is altered to be more palatable because look, they still live each other after all this time! But it severely waters down Ekko's resolve as a character and makes his growth contingent on her, yet also maintains the part where he's solely responsible for the future of Zaun and the safety of everyone by having him force himself to the brink to kill Viktor, and then he's alone. Alone, with no friends. The Fire lights were never valued enough by the narrative to have names. His and VI's relationship is completely dropped from season 2 as a whole. Jinx and Heimerdinger both fake their deaths and abandon him. We don't see the safe haven he poured his life into, we didn't see whether the tree survived or not. All we get is Ekko, alone on a roof in Zaun. The only Zaunite to not leave or die.

This was originally a timebomb post. But damn if Ekko wasn't done dirty. It's like everything he did was for nothing, and not even in a way that's tragic but satisfying to the narrative. We don't get to see the end results of either of the major points in his arc. We never find out what happened to the tree. We don't see him reconnect with Jinx. News flash, season 2: in order to cry 'show don't tell' for your characters, you have to actually show stuff. "Show don't tell" + "intentional omission" = "really well-animated nothing burger"

(This post was initially written before the timebomb MV. So I wanna go on record and say that that MV didn't help at all. I think it's a nice MV, but it makes Jinx's choice to disappear more confusing by doubling down on Ekko being her safe place, and is unequal in that it's all about Jinx's feelings and how Ekko is her saviour. Not a fan. And if that's supposed to be the reconnection of Jinx and Ekko, then why didn't we actually get that in the show? Bonus content is bonus; you shouldn't have to have it for the story to feel satisfying.)

[sober-stupid-shithead]

Had this idea on the mind that Ratchet has to eat a mini!Optimus to warm him up :3 kinda like that time he almost died of cold in the TFP show. So, willing pred, unwilling prey :3c

I hope this inspires you some!!!

👍

WOO! FINALLY FINISHED THIS ONE! I'm sorry it took so long, but I'm preparing to be VERY busy this year. Tysm for the ask though, its a super cute idea :3

I went a little bit emotional with this? Ratchet and Optimus just make me wanna throw up sobbing because I love them so much and their relationship is so complex. I apologize if it's a little out of character for that reason, but I think I did pretty good. Also the prompt behind what got him nommed makes NO sense but just pretend ok 💔 (also healing stomach trope how I love you)

(CW: vore, mild description of robotic injury, unwilling prey, safe/soft)

Ratchet just knew this mission had been a mistake. Too many risks, not enough information. But of course Optimus had insisted, and now look where they were.

They hadn't had enough time to decipher the coordinates of the next relic Megatron was after before it was already too late. In a mad dash to destroy the massive cannon that had been uncovered, Optimus decided to go alone in fear of needlessly endangering his teammates. He had of course instead needlessly endangered himself in the process. He had mass displaced himself to be able to sneak onto the Nemesis and dismantle the weapon from the inside.

Fortunately, despite how stupid the plan sounded it had worked. Unfortunately, Optimus had been found by the Decepticons and only managed to escape via jumping off the ship and down into the tundra plains below. His smaller size had made him much more susceptible to the cold, and his injuries only added to that. He was in near critical condition.

"Bulkhead, out of my way!" Ratchet yelled as he barreled through the base, a tiny Optimus cradled in his arms. He hadn't wasted a second of time once the ground bridge was open. He had a job to do and nobody would get in his way, accident or not.

He laid his leader down on the operating table and quickly swiveled the lamp usually used for surgery close above him, hoping the heat from the light would help keep him warm. He waved his servo over the frozen mech to scan his chassis, and… the injury report wasn't good. His chassis was dented in, several enegon tubes had ruptured, and his body was at far too dangerous of a temperature.

"Ratchet…" The small Prime murmured, optics flickering as his systems were struggling to stay awake.

"Don't waste the energy, Optimus." The medic snapped back, tapping furiously away at his monitor to figure out the best way to deal with all this. As greatly worrisome and dangerous as his injuries were, they were all well within the realm of fixing for a mech as seasoned as Ratchet, the problem was his size. Optimus didn't have the energy to revert his mass displacement, and even if he did he wouldn't be able to while his systems were nearly frozen solid. They needed to heat him up and fast.

For a moment the medic stalled. Nothing in the base would be able to heat Optimus up in time without hurting him. No form of fire would be safe while he was leaking energon, and no entirely safe alternatives were at all close enough to a Cybertronian's internal temperature…

A Cybertronian's internal temperature.

Maybe all was not lost.

He had tried it a few times before when their human allies needed first aid, but he'd never done it to one of his own kind before. There were a lot of preliminary tests that should be run before he could make sure the idea was totally safe, but they didn't have the time. He would just have to try it and see how it went. And ignore how guilty he felt for making an injured Optimus Prime be his test subject.

Ratchet halted his typing and stared at the holoscreen for brief second of hesitation. He sighed with resignation and looked over his shoulder to where his tiny leader lay. "I need to stabilize you as fast as I can so you can revert your mass displacement. Optimus… I'm sorry, but this is for your own good."

He stepped over to the medical slab and scooped him up onto his servos, faceplate creased with worry. He was freezing to the touch and so, so small. It was uncomfortable to see a Prime in such a vulnerable position.

"Old friend… What do you mean?" Optimus said in a soft, raspy voice. It was obvious he was straining to even be heard.

"Just relax, Optimus. You'll be alright." Ratchet hushed, bringing the tiny leader up to his face. He wanted to explain more, but they really didn't have the time. Instead, he simply opened his mouth and gently maneuvered Optimus's pedes onto his glossa. He was so cold that the medic nearly flinched in discomfort, but he didn't stop. He did his very best to be careful when moving such a small, injured body, but he knew it couldn't have felt great. The short moment of shocked silence between the two didn't help his rapidly mounting guilt either.

"Ratchet, I do not-"

Optimus was silenced by two comparatively massive jaws closing around him. Ratchet froze for a second, metaphorically swallowing down his panic and trying his best to not yet swallow down his own Prime. He knew one of the other team members was probably looking on in horror, but he tuned it all out. Only one mech mattered right now. Optimus was so cold against his glossa that it made his denta ache. The medic purposefully increased his oral lubricant production to coat the mech in the warm, protective substance. He could feel tiny servos weakly pressing against the roof of his intake, but he ignored the sign of protest and tilted his helm back.

He didn't want to accidentally make Optimus's injuries worse with the strong metal muscles in his throat, so he simply relaxed and let gravity guide his patient down. It was very strange, but he was mostly used to it. He closed his optics with an exvent of relief, a familiar feeling of protectivness wafting over him as the mini mech slid slowly into his tank. Only when he was sure Optimus had made it far enough to his destination did he swallow the leftover saliva and open his mouth with a sigh. There was another brief second of silence between the two, and a slow dropping sensation let him know Optimus was laying down once again.

"I apologize for doing that without warning, but it was the quickest way to warm you up… I hope you can forgive me." Ratchet murmured, instinctively placing a servo over his middle. He turned on all his internal scanners and flipped on a live feed, keeping the window open in the corner of his vision to keep an eye on how Optimus was handling things.

"It is… Alright." The Prime sighed, too exhausted to even care at this point. He was safe enough to recharge and heal, and that was all his aching processor cared about. Through the feed Ratchet could see him shutter his optics and relax into the soft mesh snugly hugging his frame. The internal fluid levels slowly rose until it was halfway up his shoulders, soaking all his major injuries.

Another massive wave of giddy relief washed through the old medic as he read the readings from the scanners inside his tank. All wounds were sealing off because of the healing agent in his stomach enzymes and his temperature was rapidly rising. In a few hours he would be able to retrieve him for aided mass displacement and surgery. Thank Primus himself.

"D-Did you just… Eat him!?"

Ratchet whirled around in surprise to be met with an even more shocked Smokescreen. He sighed again, this time in exhaustion. Time to explain himself.

[greywobbles]

Rest in Peace 🪦 Kermit the Frog

Beloved by the Joker, the Croaker, God

Wrongfully imprisoned in the meat closet, murdered by emos and died in agony. Taken too soon.

Hear the cries? The howls? You are hearing the brotherhood.. sisterhood… nonbinary hood (ally!) of the Muppet Joker.

May you and The Croaker be reunited in the afterlife once the time has come. And may sex in heaven be awesome.

Amen.

(written in my break room at work.. stay on that grind)

[nikolas-ghostbusters-fixation]

Something I've been thinking a lot about lately is how everyone thought Egon had gone insane. What Happened that made them think that. They've fought a gigantic Stay Puft Marshmellow Man TWICE (counting the 2009 video game because iirc it's canon? Correct me if I'm wrong), fought an interdimensional god, fought a blood thirsty ruler that killed thousands and was hated by all that was trapped in a painting (and managed to get in to beat him by making THE STATUE OF LIBERTY start walking down the street with slime that reacted purely based on vibes), found an underground abandoned transit system full of the moodslime, had a bathtub try to eat Dana and her baby, fought a giant murderous black widow lady, fought the fisherman ghost who turned an entire hotel floor into the bottom of a ocean, and that's not even mentioning them getting trapped on an island that randomly raised up from underwater that had been abandoned for decades created by Ivor Shandor who worshipped Gozer. So what did he do or say that made everyone else think he'd gone insane?? All I can think is maybe he was acting strange / eratic before, but he's always been like that to some degree.

I don't know. It's something that I've been thinking about. The correct answer is 'it's not that deep and they needed a reason that the others weren't together anymore and weren't aware of Egons death or know what was going on,' but also. What Was He Saying that prompted everyone, including Ray, to think he lost his mind when he'd been right almost every time before that.

I'm genuinely so curious as to what he was up to before this. What was he doing. What insane idea was working on prior to this or was he even working on anything at all??

Also want to clarify this post isn't negative 😭 I really love the newer movies and their lore / the newer storyline / characters, I just like thinking about small stupid things like this. Gives me something to think about / speculate about / figure out an answer to.

[eleu22]

hi

just as a little disclaimer

mw3 didnt happen to me i simply refuse to acknowledge it what so ever

shit writing, half of the game isnt even fully rendered it just wasnt it and i like the story from the first and second games and dont want the third to ruin it for me

ty!

[helianthus21]

best part about season 3 were the flashbacks to season 1<3