#it's always the internalized hatred man | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

yesimwriting · 1 year ago

Note

omg i’m so happy ur taking young coriolanus requests!! i’d love a oneshot of him falling for reader (whos from the districts) and him trying to deal with it

Summary: Coriolanus has no interest in his assigned tribute beyond her potential assistance in helping him win the Plinth prize...or at the very least, that's what he tells himself.

Warnings: Coriolanus being kind of delusional (in deep denial) and possessive, jealousy, a crush being treated like a terminal illness, Coriolanus trying really hard to talk himself out of said crush by comparing the reader to an animal/pet in his internal thoughts

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His nails dig into the soft skin of his palm with enough force to leave stinging crescents in their wake. He's too far gone to feel the marks, to know when to relieve pressure to avoid breaking skin.

When the idea of having the best and brightest of the Academy's senior class was initially presented, the concerns about having such prominent members of the Capitol interacting so closely with representatives of the districts was highly contested. Most of the outcry had been from concerned parents--wealthy fathers and overly doting mothers desperately attempting to convince their leaders to not subject their poor, innocent children to that kind of proximity with something considered so other.

After all, those from the districts are closer to animal than man. If an outburst of hatred doesn't result in a Capitol heir's life and potential being cut short, perhaps some sort of disease would take them instead.

Coriolanus had found that part ridiculous. Not the way the tributes were seen, but the level of coddling the Capitol elite were willing to openly mark their children with. There are ways to mentor from a safe distance and there hasn't been public knowledge of a strange and fatal virus running through the districts in some time.

Now that he's here, standing at the zoo's entrance under the cover of night, food that he can't truly afford to waste tucked into the pocket of his coat, he realizes how naive he had been to not head their warnings. He's come down with something, that's the only explanation for the sweat coating his palms and the nervous turning of his stomach.

This infliction is something that you've done to him. Unintentionally, of course--your lack of cut throat nature and maliciousness had been a disappointing discovery at the time--but still true. Why else would he come here to feed you when his family can barely feed themselves?

Coriolanus walks further and further into the zoo until the familiar cage is in view. There are a no peacekeepers inside of the space and less than a hand full patrolling the perimeter. It's late and the games are tomorrow morning, any of the tributes that wanted to cause problems would have done so by now.

It shouldn't matter to him, none of them would turn him away. The mentors weren't explicitly told to stay away which means that the peacekeepers wouldn't bother him. He could always say that he's here to discuss last minute strategy, that the earlier bombing had cut his time short and that Dr. Gaul had given Academy students permission to make up that time if they so wished. But the thought of having less of an audience soothes him slightly.

He stands where he had stood beneath the daylight, near the corner, as far from the other tributes as physically possible. Regret begins to knot his stomach. Everyone's asleep. This will be the most alone together the two of you have ever been. It's also so dark, and you're likely asleep as well. How will he find you? Is it wrong to disturb the last peaceful rest you might ever experience?

The more he thinks, the more an urgency he can't wraps itself tight beneath his bones. The sensation, a likely byproduct of his ailment, makes him wish that there was some way to scratch beneath his skin. Right no longer matters, and neither does his growling stomach that begs him to just eat the food he had taken from the Academy's lunch and disappear back into the night. He needs to see you, to see that--

"You're going to be okay." Your voice, a soft whisper that brings him back to the present.

You're awake, the vague shape of your crouched form resting against one of the artificial rocks. You're also comforting someone with a much larger frame. Something in his chest turns to stone.

Here he is, wandering the Capitol streets in the dead of night, a pocket full of food that he had hidden from his own family for your sake and you're--you're not thinking of him at all.

Maybe his infliction had been more intentional than he thought possible. Your kindness could be a ruse and Coriolanus has heard rumors of your people. Some say that your ancestors practiced spirtual arts in order to enchant others. Perhaps you've bewitched him.

His own naivety burns through his chest. You're supposed to be his. If that's how it is, then he's freeing himself of you and your kind eyes and honey-laced voice. He'll--

"Coriolanus," a surprised, careful sound that's much warmer than your attempts at soothing someone had sounded.

His name forces the pinching feeling in his chest to be replaced by an uneasy warmth that crawls its way up his neck. He's suddenly glad for the darkness.

He follows your silhouette as you quickly push yourself to your feet with no regard for the boy next to you. Your movements are swift yet quiet, and the care behind them keeps him steady. You don't want to wake anyone; you want this to be just you and him.

"You're--" You stand so close to the bars that it'd take nothing at all to reach for you. "You're here." You place a hand on the bars that divide you, fingers curling around the cool metal. "Are you okay?"

The question is laughable. He's at the tribute zoo only a few hours before the games begin because some instinct had made seeing you again feel as important and necessary as breathing.

But you're not asking about that. You're asking about him, about his injuries from the bombing. "I'm fine," he assures you, "A little scraped up from the debris and I did lose consciousness, but I was treated for all injuries."

You're finally close enough for the moonlight to make a difference. He can make out the unruliness of your hair from the way that life has treated you since your reaping, the form of your tattered dress, your facial features and...the long gash that now marks your forehead.

"And I was told that you were as well." Someone in passing had mentioned that the tributes were cleaned up after the bombing. They weren't prioritized or given valuable resources, but they were cleaned up. Injuries were cleaned and dressed to prevent infection from getting in the way of the games.

You frown, tilting your head slightly as if to hide the length of the mark. Something in his chest tightens again, the sensation much more aggressive than before. Your smooth, gentle skin now marred...

His own defensiveness hits him like a physical blow. Coriolanus blames the feeling on familiarity. The desire to keep you in the best condition possible is no different than what someone would feel for a prized pet. You're his tribute, after all.

"It sort of happened after."

Panic seizes at his chest. After. One of the peacekeepers or another tribute had hurt you. "Who?" The coolness of his own voice shocks him.

You angle your head downwards, the motion distinctly dismissive. Coriolanus won't accept that. Who are you to hide something like this from him? After everything he's done for you, don't you trust him? His arm moves forward without his permission, pulling at your arm so that your body shifts closer to the bars. His other hand then slips between the poles and grasps your chin firmly between two fingers.

He tilts your head, giving himself the space needed to examine the entirety of the cut. It stretches down the start of your hairline and stops just short of your eyebrow. Not too long or wide, but the dried blood still smeared on you implies that it's deep.

"Who did this to you?"

His hold on you is steady, but not so tight that you couldn't step away if you wanted to. You hold still as he takes the time to examine the rest of your face for injuries. Your acceptance leaves a metallic taste in his mouth. Coriolanus releases you like you might burn him.

"I don't--" Of course you don't want to tell. Your nobility runs so deep, you don't care what it costs you.

An odd wave of distress washes over him. The night air feels wrong against his skin, too cold for the thin clothing he put on in his hurry to get to you. "You shouldn't alienate your mentor the night before the games."

Your lips pull down into what feels like a pout. You stare at him with wide eyes. "I'm not trying to alienate you." The genuineness of your words knots his stomach. "I--I'm glad that you're here, that you're okay." Usually, sugar coated words from you are enough to crack at his exterior. He's feeling a lot less amicable tonight. "The girl from district 4 was aggravated tonight. I think she wanted to intimidate the other careers into listening to her so she targeted Wovey and I was kind of--around."

Translation: your too-good-for-the-arena heart took over and you inserted yourself in a conflict that had nothing to do with you. "I told you to be careful."

You nod solemnly at the reprimand. Your lips part, but before you can say anything, the sound of your name steals your attention. You turn away from him, keeping one hand on the metal bars. "Yeah?"

"Are you coming back soon?"

The question jabs at him like a thumb finding a bruise. The tribute you were comforting may come from the same district as you, but that means nothing in the grand scheme of things. By morning, your destiny to be rivals in the arena will be sealed. He won't risk anything for you the way Coriolanus is. He'd snap your neck in an instant if it meant going back home. Surely, even you're not kind hearted enough to not see that.

You crane your neck to look back at him, but your body stays angled towards the other tribute. The urge to hold you in place, to bring your attention back to him physically aches. Is your final meeting before the games really going to be cut short because of some other tribute? The look you give him is apologetic enough to make his chest constrict. After all he's done for you.

"I'm talking to my mentor." Your response dislodges something from his chest. "Why don't you check on Wovey? I think that'll help."

The sound of shuffling fills the space, and then that's that. The two of you are as alone as two people like you can be.

"It was nice of you to come here," the admission leaves you carefully, "I-I tried to see what happened to you after, but they brought us back here so quickly, and I--"

"It's alright."

He never expected for you to be at the hospital. The mental image is strange enough as a concept in itself. You, sitting in one of those stiff hospital seats, waiting desperately at his bedside. You, in the same room as his cousin and grandmother, all three of you concerned and co-existing. It doesn't fit, you're not like them. You're district. That's inherently lesser, inherently replaceable no matter the level of your charm or--or appeal.

But if that's reality, than why was your name the first thing that stumbled past his lips when he woke up? Why was his first thought after being discharged about getting back to you? Why does the fact that you were sitting with the male tribute from your district turn his stomach? Why does he now have a personal vendetta against the girl from 4? These can't possibly all be things that someone would feel for a favorite pet, can they?

This train of thought is nauseating, and the last thing he wanted for the final night before the games. "I was worried." You force these words out in a jumble of colliding syllables, like if you didn't pry them out fast enough, they'd never manage to find their way out.

Coriolanus watches you carefully, imprinting the details of the small crease between your eyebrows and your nervous eyes to memory. The look tugs at something dangerously close to fondness. "Then you know how I'lll feel tomorrow." That, in itself, is a confession pulled from him the same way a rotten tooth would be extracted. "How I'll feel until you come back."

You stare at him, eyes wide. "If this is about the prize money the peacekeepers talk about, you're doing a good job."

There's a stiffness to the way you say this, a guarded quality that soothes him more than it should. The thought of him only being invested in you only because of what he can get out of your success displeases you.

It's instinct to want to ease you. It'd be easy, too. All it would take is a comment that implies that he can be here for more than one reason. The response sits at the back of his throat. Is that why he's here?

The natural answer is of course. Why else would he lose sleep? What other reason could he have for risking taking Academy food and exposing his poverty? Something he's rarely willing to do for himself and his own family.

"A person can want more than one thing at the same time."

You can't hold his gaze, eyes cautiously darting downwards. The display of shyness makes things feel a little warmer. It makes him bolder. Coriolanus moves his hand again, letting his fingers cover yours. You don't move away.

"I almost forgot." His free hand makes its way into the pocket of his coat, finding the carefully folded napkin. He's going out of his way to emphasize the casualness of food. The only thing caring about this gesture is that he had thought to come, not the food itself. There's no such thing as scarcity in the Capitol. "Here."

He offers the neatly tied fabric in the gaps between the bars. You don't attempt to take back the hand pressed between the pole and his own palm. You take the gift in your free hand and don't attempt to let go of him until you realize that you won't be able to untie the makeshift parcel with one hand.

You open it slowly, examining the contents of his offering carefully. Two biscuits, a few crackers, a small wedge of cheese, and another baked good that reminds him of a denser, more durable version of cake.

"Thank you," The truth to your gratitude forces something uncomfortable to wedge itself between his ribs.

You don't start eating right away, your head instinctually turning back. He realizes what you're doing almost instantly. "If you're going to share everything I give you, there's not much point in bringing it."

A little harsher than he meant to be out loud. It's not your fault. Your family is large and of a taking care of each other mentality. If there's food for one, there's food for all.

You nod, accepting the criticism the way you usually do. It's a good thing that you're so pliable, that you're eager to keep the usual comfortable atmosphere between the two of you. Sometimes, though, it feels a bit like kicking a puppy.

Carefully, you bring a cracker to your lips, chewing cautiously. Taking anything makes you guilty, another byproduct of your upbringing. Sometimes Coriolanus wonders if all of this would be easier if you were brought up like the majority of district children, more ravenous and unapologetic.

You'd told him about your mother before, a free spirit who works in a textile factory that produces lavish fabrics instead of standard peacekeeper uniforms. Even though the work isn't much different, you spoke about it like it made all the difference. My mother loves beautiful things so much she doesn't even care about who they're for.

That had been the first time he had found himself thinking about your appearance. If your mother's love is reliant on beauty, he realized, then you must have grown up with consistent affection.

You speak of her, of your entire family, in a way that confirms his hypothesis. You've told him stories of the way she hangs up the prettiest fabric she can find to hang up and turn one room into two--a necessity with so many of you living in a set of conjoined apartments.

"You're..."

You trail off, pressing your lips together nervously in a way that he's gotten used to. It usually signifies that you're concerned about being impolite. That's another thing that doesn't fit the district mold, even here you hold onto manners and social cues. Even when you first met him, you had fallen back on habit. He had introduced himself as your mentor and you absentmindedly asked how he was in that way that people do when they run into an acquaintance.

Normally, if he presses or even just prompts you once or twice you'll reveal your initial thoughts. They're rarely what he expects them to be. Instead of responding to the light raise of his eyebrows, you pick up a biscuit before stretching your arm towards him.

"Oh, no I'm--"

"You're hungry." That's what you almost blurted out.

You don't mean anything by it, or, at the very least, not anything beyond the realm of worry. Heat rises up Coriolanus's neck slowly but surely. You know nothing of his world and yet you knew that to have his hunger exposed would be embarrassing. You know that it's not the kind of hunger that comes from missing a meal or two on a particularly busy or chaotic day.

"Don't worry," you tack on, "It's not noticeable unless you know what to look for."

The comment is a little too reassuring, too on the nose. Can you read him that easily? Coriolanus takes the biscuit before he can pick apart your comment any further. The corner of your mouth shifts into an almost smile. You then break apart the wedge of cheese and try to hand him that along with most of your crackers and a piece of the pastry.

"No, I can't take all of that."

You stare at him oddly. "You've been injured," you stretch your hand out again, "You need your strength."

There are several reasons why you need your strength more than he does, but he can't figure out how to insist on that without making it seem like this is a final meal. He doesn't want to give you a chance to see it that way, so he takes the a little less than half of what you're offering. "Compromise."

You nod, accepting his terms. He's unsure who starts it, but the two of you end up sitting in front of each other. You smooth the napkin out in front of you, setting up what's left of your food like a makeshift picnic. "My mother used to take me for picnics."

"Yeah?" There's something about your stories about your life back home that are attention drawing. It's not so much mundane content of life in district 8 and the fact that it still managed to produce someone like you, it's the way you speak. You're expressive and bright.

"Mhm," you finish off your first cracker, "Eight isn't exactly full of nature, but there's this wooded area past the factories and if you know where to go, you'll find this clearing that's practically untouched. She'd go there sometimes on days off when she needed to collect wildflowers to turn into paints and she'd bring who she could...me, my siblings, cousins..."

You pick up a piece of cheese, setting it on a cracker. "Neighbors, sometimes." Your voice wavers in a way that sticks out. Despite an initial tearing up on your first night, you haven't cried or behaved in anyway that indicates that this could be your end. He doesn't want you losing hope now. "Tanner used to go with us."

It's whispered with the intensity of a confession. The boy you came with, the boy you were speaking with--you grew up with him. That's a bond that's not as easily dismissed. That's something strong enough to challenge his connection with you.

Why does it matter? He's earned enough of your trust, you spoke in a way that earned more donations than anyone else. You trust him enough to actually fight in the arena. It--it doesn't matter if you...

"Do you care for him?" The question surprises both of you equally. His own bluntness, the slight edge to his tone...it's too much for a mentor.

"Uh," you sniffle once, "He was a good friend when we were little, our families know each other." An knot so tight it's difficult to stay sitting there twists his stomach. "We're a little less close these days."

If you comforting him during the dead of night, losing sleep during your last chance to rest is your version of less close, Coriolanus doesn't even want to imagine your normal. "You shouldn't expect any loyalty during the games, the second the count down begins, there's no such thing as friendship."

You wipe at your face with the back of your palm. "What makes you so sure?"

Your question isn't a challenge or an attempt to convince him that the boy would never hurt you. You're asking because you're curious, because you want to know his thoughts. "Human nature."

It's more nihilistic than he usually is in front of you, but his patience is wearing thin. The soreness of his body is starting to catch up with him and wasting the little time you have less discussing someone so insignificant is draining.

His annoyance has to stem from how little the other tributes matter to him. That's the only reason he can piece together, especially when his brashness is likely pushing you away.

"Then why can I trust you?"

Another question that you mean. It's not a slight or an attempt to indicate that you're not there yet with him. He didn't come here to cast doubt on the bond he so carefully helped build.

He can't look at you as he speaks, "Because I'm going to do anything I can to get you back."

You nod, your eyes retreating to focus on your lap. "For the prize money, for your school."

He picks at the edge of his biscuit, a few crumbs falling to the ground. "I already told you, I want more than one thing."

That's not exactly what he said...this reiteration of it is more blatant. Heat burns his face. You peak up at him through your lashes.

If you had been born in the Capitol, you would have done well. You're found of civility and social norms despite a lifetime in the Districts and despite only knowing you stained in various levels of grime, he can tell that our features are pleasing. Polished, dressed, and brought up differently, you would have been a regular Capitol darling.

Coriolanus shakes his head once, an attempt to dismiss his thoughts. Why care about what you could have been? Why imagine what you'd be like if you were part of his word?

"You're not going to--to rely on him in the arena." It's framed as a question, but in reality, it's more of a hopeful statement.

You pause, genuinely thinking about your response. "No." You rest a hand on your bent knee, gently scratching at the skin. "Not rely."

The answer isn't concrete enough, but he has no right or reason to say much else. "Don't let your guard down. Not for anyone."

You nod, reaching for what's left of your biscuit, "I won't, I promise."

"Good, I'll be watching and I'll remember when you get back."

Get back. You wipe at your cheek with the back of your palm. "Yeah, when I get back."

The dryness of your voice cracks at him. If you consider yourself defeated before even stepping into the arena, you won't come back to him. For him. For the Plinth prize.

He shoves the thoughts down as deep as they'll go. They don't manage to get very far, crowding his throat in a way that makes it hard to breathe. Coriolanus doesn't trust himself to speak, so instead he slips his hand between the cage's bars. He lets his hand sit there, palm facing upwards in a silent offering.

Coriolanus stares at his arm as a way to prevent himself from taking in your reaction. A beat passes, and then the tips of your fingers are brushing against his before settling against his palm. He squeezes your hand tightly, so tightly he's aware that it's probably uncomfortable, but the prospect of holding you so tightly that you can't vanish is too assuring.

"Do you have to--to go soon?"

He adjusts his hold on you, bending his fingers so that they can rest between yours. The rest of his household is asleep by now, but they'd be able to tell if he spent the night here and that would worry them. It would also make the morning much more complicated...he'd have to shower and change before the games begin in order to hide where he spent the night.

"No," it leaves him before he realizes what he's saying, "I can stay as long as you'd like."

A hint of a smile tugs at your lips, "Good."

That makes something in his chest feels like it's going to burst. He shouldn't care. He should see this open display of clinginess as an inconvenience. And why would he risk getting caught as someone that spent the night on the floor of the zoo when there's nothing left to convince you of?

The answer strikes him so harshly he nearly lets go of you. He didn't just want you to ask him to stay to prove something, he wanted the excuse to stay. He--he wants to be near you...and not in the way that someone wants to spend time with a puppy.

The truth to it is simple. Straightforward. He cares about you.

He can hear that you're speaking, but your words are too distant to mean anything.

"Coriolanus?"

No. No. He--he isn't meant to care about you of all people, to feel these kinds of--No. No, he can't. He's not biologically wired to. And yet, he can't let go of your hand.

"Coriolanus?"

He squeezes your hand even tighter. "You didn't ask me."

"What?"

"The other thing I want, you didn't ask me about it." The words leave him in a rush, an uneasy mess that he needs out.

Confessing turns these kinds of thoughts into reality, an undeniable force that he wishes he could vanish. But maybe if he gets it out, the ache of it will be expelled from him. Maybe he'll finally be able to think about something else that doesn't involve analyzing your every expression like your life depends on it.

"No," your eyes are wide, a deer realizing they're not the only ones at the watering hole, "I-I didn't."

A small part of him is disappointed that you don't take the opportunity to press. You usually do, chatting like you're a regular friend and not his tribute. "I'll tell you anyways." He swallows, gripping your hand like a lifeline. You squeeze back, a silent display of support. "It's you."

Your hand goes slack in his. Coriolanus warns himself that it's best to keep his eyes away from you, to not read any--he breaks, gaze snapping upwards to watch you.

"Me?" Your voice is fragile and impossible to read. You lift your intertwined hands as best you can between the poles that make up the cage. You lean forward, pressing your lips against the back of his palm. Your eyes briefly fall shut.

"I--" You set your intertwined hands back in place. "I think the practical thing to do would be to forget about me." The rejection cuts through him. All he can do is stare. "You know what's going to happen tomorrow."

Your twist your hand in an attempt to steal it back as you push yourself upwards, adjusting so that your weight is on your knees. Coriolanus instinctively shifts forward, grabbing your arm to keep you close. He moves to sit up on his knees. "You're going to come back." You stop trying to push him away. "Do you care about me?"

"You're being unfair," your whisper is harsh, "Even--even if I win, where would that leave us?" He's silent. "I'll be back in a cage and you'll stay on the outside, only this time they won't be in proximity to each other."

You're logical. You're right. And he can't bring himself to care. "Do you care about me?"

"Of course I do," the response is frustrated, exhausted, "I think I might even--" Your mouth clamps shut, eyes briefly leaving him. "I think I love you." You drop head, giving Coriolanus only the slightest glimpse of your now glassy eyes. "But what does that matter?"

The word loosens something in his chest. He gets as close to the bars as physically possible, pulling on your arm in a way that almost makes you fall forward. The new proximity seems to drain any remaining fight from you.

He leans forward, his lips finding yours in the space between metal. It takes you a second to catch up with what's happening, but once you do, you return the display of affection. He pulls your bottom lip between his own before releasing you enough to let you breathe.

"Is this real?" The question takes its time coming out, slow and through pants. If he thought thinking about you before was a type of sickness, then this is something terminal. You nod instinctually, urgingly. "Then we'll find a way." You're both resting your head against the bars. If it wasn't for the invasive metal in the way, you'd be resting against each other. "Just come back to me, and everything else--we'll figure it out."

He can write to you. He can find an excuse to bring you back to him. Maybe another aspect of the games--something that requires victors to visit the Capitol.

You nod, acceptance finally coloring your features as you squeeze his hand. "We'll figure it out."

----

a/n i've gotten so many Coriolanus/thg requests,, pls feel free to keep them coming <3

#the hunger games #coriolanus snow x reader #coriolanus snow #the hunger games x reader #the ballad of songbirds and snakes x reader #the ballad of songbirds and snakes #coriolanus x reader

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razrbladekiss · 2 months ago

Text

MAPLE HAZEL | Joel Miller — Part Three

SUMMARY: joel’s misery is palpable. you’re oblivious to it. until you’re not.

PAIRING: no outbreak!joel miller x afab!reader

WORD COUNT: 5.9k, you are welcum.

WARNINGS: angst. reader is an eagles fan (do NOT come for me, they are my boys. go birds 🦅). F L U F F. mentions of reader’s dad. tommy and joel are jerks, but joel redeems himself. tommy can suck a fat one. i kidddd <3 this is probably the angst-iest this story’ll get because im addicted to the fluff so. enjoy. 🤞🏼 not proof read or edited, i cannot be fucked for that.

TAGS: if you would like to be added for future installments, then let me know besties!! if i’ve forgotten anyone that’s asked to get added, then please slap me. @millersleee @goodvibesonly421 @j0elmlllers @scorpio-echo

SERIES MASTERLIST

Joel’s hands seize the steering wheel of his truck—the same one that’s presently stationed on your driveway—knuckles turning sheet white for the hold that he has is completely unforgiving. And sore.

He’s irascible. Livid. His anger is sheathed by shame and hatred for himself as the way that he conducted himself this morning was unseemly. Even for Joel, it was appalling. And though you didn’t appear to have any reservations, he knew that he bothered you. Your face didn’t allude to irritation, nor did your tone or mannerisms, but Joel was more than conscious of your internal hurt.

He just knows you that well.

But now he’s sitting—legs numb and cheeks charring red—striving to conjure up an apology that’ll help to shirk any ill-feeling that you may have toward him. Because he was a fucking jerk this morning.

And it was all because of an Eagles sweater, believe it or not.

9.42 AM

Birch Grove is bustling. It's considerably brighter, this morning. The doom and gloom that enveloped your small town yesterday has now dissipated, leaving nothing but small puddles of rainwater and grit in its wake, and it’s beautiful. A sight to behold when you’re leaving your house today.

You avoid the wetness on the road—hoping not to muddy your shoes—and bounce onto the sidewalk, admiring the oil slick that blankets damp gravel on your way over to Joel’s. You swear that there’s a divot in the concrete that holds semblance to a heart, but you’re not sure if that’s just a delusion from lack of sleep or some sort of sign from the universe telling you that perhaps it’s time to find a significant other.

Nonetheless, you take in the scene. How yesterday—in the midst of a storm—not a single body littered the crosswalk, therefore leaving Joel’s little coffee shop completely empty. But today—now that the air has cleared and rain almost dried up—it’s like nothing had even happened, and the entire town is out in force. Like they always should be.

Joel watches in awe as you make tracks across the street toward the cafe—wondering how he ever deserved such a buoyant presence like you in his life despite the fact that he’s a perpetually miserable middle-aged man—and busies himself so you don’t think he’s been ogling you this entire time.

But then the bell rings, Joel’s eyes flick up—against his own will—and you bound over the threshold with the biggest smile. He swallows extremely thickly.

“Good morning.” You say, as happy as ever—clearly on a high from your not-date—and pad through the room toward him. “Can I please have a—“

“You’re late.”

One of your perfectly tweezed brows raises.

“For work.” He elaborates. Joel clears his throat. “You’re late for work.”

“I got the day off.” You remind him. He vaguely remembers you saying something about this elusive break on Monday, but was honestly too distracted by his brother attempting to use the coffee machine.

Joel nods, taking your favorite mug off of the shelf. You smile at the sentiment.

“Ah, you’re going shopping. Right?”

You nod. Your stomach gurgles when your eyes satisfy the gaze of a perfectly plump cinnamon roll. Not too thick, not too over-done, and the right bun to icing ratio. It’s sitting—alone—in one of the little cake cases.

“I am.” You reply, taking the glass dome off of the top. Like last time, you swipe the sweet treat right from underneath Joel’s nose. Only, today, you slide two dollars across so he can’t complain.

But he wouldn’t anyway. Not today. Because he admires the fact that you’re ungovernable, while simultaneously respecting him. To an extent, anyway.

“I can get you some fall decor.”

“No—“

“He needs to spruce this place up.”

His eyes roll when he’s pouring the frothed milk atop your latte, hardly going unnoticed by his larger-than-life, sometimes a bit too overbearing brother.

Tommy acknowledges you by saying your name, and you grin back at him. It’s nice to see one of the Miller’s with anything but a stoic expression slapped against those rough, rugged features. Though there’s something about Joel’s that seems rather superficial.

Despite being perennial at times, you feel as though you’ve cracked through his tough exterior and. You’re certainly able to decipher between his real and mock revulsion. Last night was the first time that Joel’s guard had truly been down, and it was wonderful.

“Get him some pumpkins. A wreath—“

“I don’t need no pumpkins. And what the hell is a wreath?”

The youngest brother pulls a stool out next to you, and bumps your shoulder as he sits. He looks at you as if to say get a load of this guy, and you laugh. Joel passes you your latte, and you think that you see a hint of a smile tugging at those plush lips. But you won’t swear to it.

“A wreath is what Mrs. McKlaren has on her front door for each season.”

“Yeah.” Tommy chimes in. He pulls one of the Birch Grove Gazettes from the pile beside the cake case, and opens it up. “But you knew that. You’re just playin’ dumb in front of—“

You elbow him. “Quit teasin’.” Further defending your friend, you say; “it’s not his fault if he’s not too polished up on the names of things. He’s not pussy-whipped like you are, Tom.”

Joel chuckles at that comment, thanking you with a nod. A man of few words, though you get him. Down to a fine art.

“True.” He flicks through a few pages, before he’s turning to you with a grimace when you take off your jacket to reveal one of your dad’s old Eagles sweaters. “Oh, God no.”

You frown, putting it to sit on the seat next to you.

It’s common knowledge around these parts that there are two teams, and two teams only that it’s acceptable to support. Unless you’re flaunting the badge of the Texans or Dallas Cowboys, then you’re basically committing a federal crime. And the men of Birch Grove take this very, very seriously.

“Joel. I know you’re friends with this broad—“

“Watch your mouth.” He grumbles, appearing from the kitchen. He has his head down, hands full of cutlery.

“Sorry.” Tommy says oh so quietly. “But—but look. She’s wearing the mark of the devil.”

Your eyes are rolling so hard you fear that they’ll roll straight from their sockets and into your coffee. You just know that beneath the green flannel, Joel is donning an Aikman jersey.

“That’s so dramatic.” Arms are being folded over as you speak, and he still hasn’t looked in your direction. “It’s just a football team—“

“Woah.” The two Millers harmonize. Joel eyes you directly and turns his nose up as soon as he heeds the shade of green that should be classed as blasphemy, not midnight.

He didn’t know that you liked them. Tess liked them, too. But you know that. You’re not fucking stupid.

And perhaps she might’ve aided the disgust that percolates through Joel whenever he hears someone utter the name Brian Dawkins, but he can’t help associating them with her. That same way he thinks of her whenever Fall rolls around, or whenever you step into his little cafe.

He has such strong feelings for you, but needs to put them aside. He needs to bury them deep for fear of the past repeating itself because he isn’t sure if he can go through that again. His guard goes up, and eyes go down. He busies himself with cleaning.

“Sacrilege.” Tommy spits. “It’s not just a football team, woman. It’s Irreverent. To come in here and wear that is absolutely ridiculous.”

Your jaw rolls and you look down at the faded logo.

“I respect that you root for the birds, I do. It must be hard to support such a shit team—“

“Language.” Joel scolds, a little heated. “But, I agree. Can’t go wearin’ that ‘round these parts. It’s almost as bad as you comin’ in here wearing a Steelers jersey.”

Tommy grimaces. It’s not quite as bad, but it certainly sucks.

But, to you, what sucks is the fact that these men—grown fucking men—are chewing you out over a sweater. It’s child’s play.

“They’re not a shitty team. They’re great.” You defend your guys, watching Joel try to control the bitterness threatening to bust right out of his lips. “I’ve always loved them. My dad is from Philly—“

“Explains why you have such crappy taste.”

You blink at Tommy.

“Anyway.” You clear your throat. “I’ll always root for the birds, because they’re my favorites. I also, believe it or not, enjoy the Cowboys when they play at home, or against the Giants. It’s patriotic. But they are a pretty shitty team—“

“No, they ain’t.”

“They are.” You uphold, making direct eye contact with the youngest sibling. “Remind me, when was the last time they went to the Superbowl?”

Tommy’s jaw rolls, and Joel can feel himself slipping.

“Ninety-five.” Begrudgingly, he says. “But that don’t mean shit—“

“Kinda does.”

“No it don’t.” He growls. “When was the last time those damn birds won the big game, huh?”

Without missing a beat, you say; “twenty-eighteen. They beat the Patriots by eight points, Brady sucked and Foles was the MVP. I tailgated at the stadium with my dad and uncle—“

“In Minnesota?”

“Yessir.” You tell Tommy before taking the last sip of your—now lukewarm—coffee. “I’ll also be heading to Philly to see the Eagles v Steelers game.”

Joel scoffs.

“Got somethin’ to say, old timer?”

He grinds his lips together before saying; “just baffles me s’all. Don’t get how someone—Dallas born ‘n raised—can root for a team from Philadelphia.”

“Just the way it goes. But I did say that I enjoy them from time to time.”

“Shouldn’t be that way.” Tommy interjects. “Texans are meant to support Texan-made teams all the time. Not fuckin’—“

“Tommy.” Joel gestures to the customers, scolding him again for his crudeness.

You pull cash from your purse while the two of them bicker, putting atop the counter before Joel can even refuse. You shrug on your jacket, too, promptly doing up the buttons so the tension can dissipate a little. But it doesn’t.

“I’m not arguing with you two morons over football any longer.” A little meaner than intended, you tell the two of them. You turn to Joel, brows furrowing. “And I know why you despise the Eagles; I’m not an idiot. I saw her walking ‘round the place with her scarves in the winter, ‘n the occasional jersey on football Sundays.”

Tommy looks between the two of you, sensing some friction.

“Don’t project Tess’s shit onto me, Joel.” Blunt, you say. “I’m sorry that I was the reason for her leaving, but it ain’t my fault we have the same interests. You can’t pussyfoot around forever, and I don’t appreciate gettin’ admonished for a fucking football sweatshirt.”

“Don’t.” He warns, wrenching a dish rag between calloused fingertips. He knew that last night’s conversation was deep-rooted in something more than just you being curious. “I’m not pussyfootin’ ‘round. I just don’t wanna talk about her.”

“I know.” You say—realizing that you were a little too hot off the mark—but you don’t feel sorry. “But there’ll always be people who like the same things that she did, or say the same things, or remind you of her.”

He looks at you. He knows what you mean. He knows that you know that—in some kind of way—you make Joel think of her. You’re so strong, like Tess. So outspoken, exactly like her. But you’re caring and kind, and don’t get jealous over the slightest little things, and you let him speak.

You let him tell you about his troubles, not that he shares too much. And you’re not pushy. But now, it feels like you’re being exactly that.

“I’m sorry that my mere presence as a Goddamn Eagles fan pisses you off, Joel, but I’m not going to be able to change that. You’ll just have to try and detach those memories—“

The dishrag is being hurled onto the bar along with his fists. “I’m not gonna detach those memories! I ain’t gonna forget her just ‘cus you think you know me and my relationship with that woman so well! You don’t know shit. All you do is come in here ‘n drink coffee, rant about crap that nobody cares about, make me listen to your stupid fuckin’ problems—and I’m sick of it!”

You blink back tears as you stare at him, for the volume is intimidating and completely unwavering. You’ve never been yelled at before—in front of customers, by Joel—and you want to be sick. Everyone is staring. Some people are even leaving.

Has he always felt this way? You wonder. Has Joel always thought that your ramblings are pointless, and that your issues are facetious? You’re sure that he’s just spewing nonsense at this point, but it still stings.

“Joel—“

“Get out.” He looks down, hands gripping tightly the wooden countertop. He refuses eye contact.

Tommy gives you a weak smile, immediately regretting setting foot into Joel’s this morning. Quite like you, really.

“I’m really sorry for bringing her up, Joel, I know how—“

“Go.” His eyes lift to satisfy your gaze, hurt written over his features. “Please…Just leave.”

“Okay.” You nod, lifting your purse from the stool. It’s a quick bye to Tommy that has those damn tears spilling as you walk to your car, not even looking back to wave or smile at your friend like you usually do.

You fear that this’ll change the trajectory of your relationship with Joel. And his brother knows that.

He knows that if he doesn’t say something—at this point, anything—then Joel will just let this sit and fester, and become something that it has absolutely no business being.

His brother knows that you’re the only constant in his life—aside from family—and if he lets you go, then he’ll be considerably more bleak. He’ll have his patrons to keep him company, but he won’t have you. The girl that has—unbeknownst to her��given Joel something to look forward to every day.

The girl that Joel can’t help thinking of, or talking about, whenever he gets the chance. And despite not always showing his admiration, he’s besotted with you. Infatuated, perhaps. His fondness so clear that everyone can see it. Everyone, aside from you.

Especially after that.

“You’re a fucking jerk.” Tommy chastises. “She shouldn’t have mentioned Tess, but that was horrible—“

“I don’t care.” Through gritted teeth, he tells him. “She took it too far—“

“No, we did.” He admits. “She probably wouldn’t have brought the bitch up if we didn’t tease her for wearing her dad’s fuckin’ sweater.”

Joel swallows the lump in his throat, refusing to admit that Tommy could be right about this.

“You need’a get a hold of your emotions, brother. Can’t be sendin’ her away like that when we both know you’ve got feelings for her—“

Joel grumbles as he rounds the counter, polishing a few tables in hopes that his sibling will go and leave him to it. But he doesn’t.

“Can’t let Tess be the reason you two ain’t talkin’. ‘Specially ‘cus she ain’t even in the state anymore.”

Fuck. Off.

Tommy watches him feign emotion, knowing deep down that his brother wants to beat himself to a pulp because you didn’t deserve any of that.

“She’s right, y’know?”

“What?”

Tommy says your name. “She’s right. If you don’t cut ties with the things that remind you of Tess, then you’ll never be happy. Always be comparin’ shit to her, and makin’ yourself miserable. Or miserable-r.”

“That ain’t even a word, dipshit.”

“True, though.” He says. “Joel, you’re so in love with this girl, you can’t let her go over a Goddamn football team—“

“Not in love.”

“Bullshit.” The youngest spits. “You get literal heart eyes whenever you look at her, and don’t even try ‘n deny it ‘cus Maria notices too.”

Joel blinks at him, wondering how he’d been so openly vulnerable. He‘a confused at how he’d unintentionally let his guard down enough to display his feelings. The ones that he wasn’t even certain about.

“It mightn’t be love, Joel, but you’re mad about this girl.” He says a bit softer. Quieter. “And you can try to put these feelings aside, but what’re you gonna do if she walks in here with another man? Or she goes on more dates and finds the one? You just gonna live with it? Just gonna be jealous and miserable for the rest of your life?”

Joel walks to the café window and just stares for a few moments, secretly hoping to see you stomp across the street to give him a piece of your mind. But you don’t.

“Think you’ve done enough wallowin’ in the past, don’t you?”

He supposes that he’s right. Joel knows that there’s some truth to what is being said to him, and so he turns the Open sign to Closed, and gestures for Tommy to get the remaining customers to leave.

“What’re you gonna do?”

“Make things right.” Joel grabs his jacket from the coat stand beside the door, and throws the shop keys to his brother. “Close up for me, will ‘ya?”

Tommy shakes his head. He gets off of his stool and goes behind the counter, grabbing one of the aprons from the hook beside the kitchen door.

“Turn the sign back ‘round. You might’ve just lost your most loyal customer, you can’t afford to fuckin’ lose no more.”

Joel just nods. He has no fight left inside of him. He does as told, and storms across the sidewalk to his truck.

He’s been stationary for the last fuck knows how long, just mentally preparing himself for whatever bullshit will spill from his lips the second he sees you. If you even want to open your door to him. He wouldn’t blame you, if you didn’t. He gave you shit, and kicked you out when you spoke your mind. And the truth. Because, that’s what it was, wasn’t it? As harsh as it might’ve been, it was the truth and it was what he needed to hear.

It’s been two hours since getting a verbal beat-down and, strangely, he really misses the sound of your voice. The oddly dulcet tone. The sweet, honeyed rhythm that slips from between two of the plushest, softest looking lips he’s ever bared witness to in his entire life. And even though some of the words that fell from them were harsh, he no longer cares.

If he doesn’t apologize, then he might not get to hear you speak again. And he’ll take several scoldings if it means that he can listen to your beautiful tone.

Fuck.

“C’mon, dickhead.” He tells his reflection in the mirror. He eyes himself, wondering whether the hat should stay on or off. Because if he takes it off, then his hair might look bad, but if he keeps it on then you mightn’t be able to take him seriously.

He’s overthinking it.

It stays on when he’s lugging his body—warm and palpitating—from the cabin, and onto the gravel of your driveway. He minds the flower beds when his boots hit ground, knowing that he’ll have hell to pay if he crushes your blooms or kicks up any mud.

His breath is hot and heavy. It’s like he’s just ran the Boston fucking marathon, not sit in his truck for the better part of twenty minutes being too much of a pussy to knock at your front door.

But now he’s strolling to your porch, and can’t put it off any longer. He doesn’t even know if you’re home, but he guesses that you are. The wreath that you got today—golden leaves adorned with acorns and berries—is hanging proudly against the wood that you’ve painted sage.

He laughs to himself when his hand comes up to knock, number eight. It’s almost comical how the number of your house coalesces with the number of his favorite ex-Cowboys player. But he’s not going to bring that up. Maybe another time.

Joel takes a few deep breaths, heart only stuttering when he hears your footsteps approaching over the suspended wood flooring. The one that he actually had to help you sand down just eight months ago because you always felt that they looked too dark. Depressing.

He smiles weakly. It doesn’t last long. When you swing the door open and your face falls, then so does Joel’s.

“Hi.” He whispers, internally kicking himself for being such a wimp. He clears his throat. “Nice wreath.”

You fight a grin. Your disappointment outweighs any semblance of softness at this very juncture.

After a few hours of mulling it over—and rage shopping—you’ve come to the conclusion that you were at fault. But Joel certainly didn’t make it any better when he kicked you off the premises after his hurtful monologue.

“Thanks.” Your cardigan is pulled tightly around your body. Cream always looks so good on you. “Is—uh—is there something that I can help you with?”

Joel looks down for a split second. It feels like forever before he’s looking directly at you again. The thumping inside of his chest hasn’t once subsided since appearing at your street, he’s never felt like this before. At least, he can’t ever remember feeling like this.

And it’s because of this—feeling—that he’s struggling to extrapolate his inward thoughts. You heed it. You know him like the back of your hand, apparently. His face is sullen—almost remorseful—and eyes hazy.

Has he been crying? No. He’s probably just really annoyed. He looks like that sometimes when Tommy’s pissed him off, and he needs to vent.

You shift aside, gesturing for Joel to come in. He hesitates for a moment, before he’s stepping over the threshold and into your beautiful home. The home that presently smells like a mixture of Sandalwood and Lavender, but Neroli and Bergamot in the summer months.

What the fuck is Bergamot? Why do I know what that smells like?

He takes it in. The subtle scent, the fall decorations that make your cozy home look even more appeasing. It’s cute. It’s put together, clean, and inviting. It’s so you.

You shut the door behind him when he takes a few paces into the entryway, just watching him. His broad shoulders swathed in soft, green flannel are tipped slightly forward. He’s not holding himself the way that he usually does.

“Is everything okay, Joel?” You break the silence, shuffling past him through the hallway and to the kitchen. You hear him follow behind. Those heavyset footsteps make your heart ache, for some reason.

Even by the way he walks—slow, long strides—he seems down. Remorseful, perhaps. And though he doesn’t wear his heart on his sleeve, it’s always easy to tell how he feels.

“Tea?” You offer without turning around, taking the kettle that’s just come to a boil on the stove. “I have chamomile, green, or English.”

“No coffee?” Your head shakes, pulling two mugs from the small shelf above the counter. Joel sits at your kitchen island. “How come?”

Two English teabags are being lifted from the carton—he didn’t specify, you just guess—and plopped into ceramic.

“I don’t make my own coffee. Don’t taste the same when I do.”

His heart aches. After skipping a beat, of course. He takes a seat at your kitchen island, watching you potter around, clearly not prepared for a guest.

“Tea is a little more warming, anyway.” You gesture for the sugar and he shakes his head. “Don’t enjoy coffee when I’m on my own. Only when I’m with someone.”

“That why you always come to see me in the mornin’?”

Faintly, you smile. Your head bobs a little bit, hanging low.

He says your name. You look at him. “Y’know, if you ever want a coffee outta hours, I’m usually at home. You can come ‘round, if you wanna.”

That strange gnawing sensation returns beside a debilitating thumping. He feels the same, but you don’t know that.

“Same here.” A weak smile tugs at the corners of your lips and you bring Joel his tea. The white ceramic is festooned with acorns and leaves, and he swears that you’ve just given him one of your best mugs.

You sip quietly your warm beverage, standing opposite to where he sits in an uncomfortable silence. A lull that neither of you realize lasts an entire minute before you’re clearing your throat, and Joel is still trying to find his words.

“Listen.” He sets down the tea—the best he’s ever had—and shifts a little bit. Joel tries to avoid eye contact with you, but understands that this is one of the times that he needs to show you just how important this is. It’s not just a casual conversation at the coffee house, anymore.

You’re facing him fully, now. Eyes wide, lips parted a little bit.

“I’m really sorry about earlier.” His tone is honest, wreathed with a hint of genuine sadness. “I had no business being such a jerkoff to you, kid. I said some hurtful shit, and I let my mouth get away from me.”

“You were a total dick, Joel.”

He nods. “I know.”

“And I know that I never shoulda brought her up, but I didn’t think you’d yell at me. In front of everyone.”

He starts to cringe as he remembers what he said. How he said those horrible things. You’re such a sweet girl, he can’t believe he flipped out on you that way.

“Do you really think that what comes outta my mouth is crap?”

“No, of course not—“

“Is everything I say fucking pointless?”

“Hon—no—no, of course not.” Joel fumbles his words a bit, just glad that he didn’t refer to you as any other embarrassing fucking pet name. He's not even sure that you caught it, what with being blinded by such a haze of anger.

You do, though. You just don’t acknowledge it.

Your thumb loops through the glossy handle, and you look into your mug.

“I choose to start each morning the same way; at your café. I don’t do it because I want to come in and ruin your day by ranting, or spillin’ my guts about shitty dates and bad friends.” You refuse eye contact, still watching the tea slosh around as you move the cup ever so slightly. “I do it because I like you, Joel. You’re a great guy, and make my days a little bit easier. I’d even go so far as to consider you one of my friends. But, if you don’t feel that way—“

“Hey.” He reaches out for your hand. He’s surprised that you don’t pull away when his tan flesh meets yours so suddenly. Joel asks you to look at him, and you oblige.

It’s so sad. Your eyes—so full of hurt—now locked on his. Soft, warm fingers wound between his thick digits. He frowns.

“Listen to me.” Stern, though soft, he tells you. “Of course I feel that way. I tell you shit that I ain’t even told my own brother, ‘course I see you as a friend. Probably the only person I’d even wanna spend time with, if I’m honest.”

“You’re just sayin’ that, ‘cus you hurt my feelings—“

“No, I ain’t.” Joel shakes his head, trying to ignore the fact that he hurt your feelings. “I’m serious.”

“As a heart attack?”

He chuckles. “Yeah, kiddo, as a heart attack.”

Eyes roll at the sentiment, wondering whether there’ll ever be a time where Joel doesn’t refer to you as kid or kiddo. He tells you that it’s because he’s a lot older than you, but you both know there’s not even a ten year gap between the pair of you. He’s just dramatic and wishing his life away.

“I’m—uh—I’m no good at this shit.” He looks down, a little curl poking through the back strap of his cap catches your eye. “Feelings, ‘n all.”

Instinctively, your thumb traces over the skin of his hand. You nod. You know.

He's not the most sentimental person—nor does he cogitate with his heart—but Joel is one of the most thoughtful men you’ve ever met, and these last few days have you feeling a different way about him. You can’t say that it’s a crush—crushes are for kids, is what your mother often tells you—but it’s certainly something.

You’re just worried about the fact that he can’t let go of Tess.

“Don’t gotta explain feelings, sweetie.” You tell him with a smile, reaching for your mug. The tea is cool, now. A little bit easier to drink than when it was piping hot and burning the roof of your mouth. “Just gotta feel ‘em, that’s all. Explain once you understand.”

You take a sip of the drink you made a short while ago, hands detaching. Joel almost feels weak without your touch, now. But he supposes that had it lasted any longer, he’d crumble.

“Always know what to say, dontcha?”

“I do.” Conceited—though completely satirical—you say. He smiles, and so do you. “But in all seriousness, Joel, I know that you appreciate me. And I know that today was a complete one-off, but I just gotta know one thing.”

“Go for it.”

You suck in a breath, hating where you’re about to lead the conversation. “Did last night make you think differently of me? Y’know, when I asked those questions and pried a little?”

Joel’s heart thumps. Again. He doesn’t know how to say yeah, last night changed everything. But not ‘cus of what you asked me.

He supposes that he can’t lie to you. He’s as transparent as a pane of fucking glass, at this point.

“No. Definitely not.”

“Really?”

He nods. “Really. You had the right to know. Nothin’ has changed.”

Liar.

He’s looking at you with those big fucking heart eyes that his brother teased him about earlier, and he knows it. He knows that he’s smitten. Truly, Joel is more than conscious of the fact that he’s falling—or more appropriately, fallen—for you, but he’s not at liberty to say.

“You can tell me, y’know?”

He nods. “I know. There’s nothin’ to tell.”

“Okay.” Your tone is skeptical. He’s lying.

He’s also been sitting here for far too long and is in desperate need of a long, cold shower to wash away the day and shirk any feelings before they come to bite him on his perfectly round ass. So he gets up—pushing the seat back beneath the island—and smiles at you.

“Left Tommy behind the counter?”

Joel nods. “Yeah. He’s probably cussin’ me out right ‘bout now.”

Your laugh is genuine. Hearty. “Best get back then, hon.”

Joel’s mouth goes dry when his lips part to speak. Nothing materializes. Not even when he’s walking to the front door—you’re hot on his heels—can he figure out what to say.

He’s opening it before he’s even certain of what he’s doing.

“Miller.” You say and he turns around. He can’t help looking directly at your lips. “I’ll see ‘ya tomorrow.”

“Yeah.” He coughs. “Have a good night.”

“You too.”

He’s about to walk away—and you’re about to shut the door—before he’s leaning over the threshold and letting all rationality dissipate. Joel’s left hand meets the doorframe—mere inches from your own—and his breathing grows sporadic.

Well, now or never, I ‘spose.

Your fingers tingle, legs weaken. It’s only a split second, but it feels like an eternity that Joel is just standing there; staring at you. He’s waiting to make a move, you’re almost certain of it.

“You gonna do somethin’?” You taunt, tilting your head a little. It almost snaps him out of his anxiety-induced haze. It eggs him on, if anything.

“Fuck—shit—yeah.” Joel steps forward so that he’s no longer leaning, and the tips of his boots meet your toes. He’s careful not to stand on them. It’s sweet.

He’s sweet.

“C’mere.” He’s telling you when one of his calloused hands meets the nape of your neck, and both of yours are instinctively pawing at his chest. The soft, white jersey beneath that customary flannel is like satin against your fingertips. He draws you in closer. “I lied.”

“‘Bout what?” You whisper, letting Joel’s hand shift to your cheek. It’s hard not to melt into his touch.

His thumb brushes over your skin. You wilt beneath it.

“Last night.” Your eyes are locked. “Everythin’ has changed.”

You nod. You feel the same way.

“And I dunno how to go ‘bout this, ‘cus I can’t do this whole lovey-dovey crap, but I do know that I wanna kiss you.”

He pulls you forward so that your faces are almost touching, and your hands have no choice but to rest atop the peaks of his glorious shoulders. This is something you only could’ve dreamed of. You and Joel in this position—on your doorstep—like something out of a fucking romcom, or Gilmore Girls.

C’mon, man. Kiss her.

The man’s heart juts in his throat. Two noses graze one another—when Joel angles his face so that he’s not pushing too firmly against yours—and you can’t help smiling wide at the prospect of Joel Miller, grumpiest man in Birch Grove, taking a liking to you.

It’s almost as if your entire time with Joel flashes before your eyes—all of the early mornings and late nights spent at his coffee house, the stories shared and secrets told—and everything comes to a head in this particular moment.

Your smile doesn’t falter. Not even when his lips meet yours, and he pushes the most dulcet kiss against your mouth. It’s so gentle. Nothing more than a delicate peck, but so passionate in the sense that; the two of you need this. The tenderness of the other’s touch—the sweet, cloying taste of sugar on your tongue meshed with malt from the tea—is welcomed almost immediately, accommodated by an unexpected desire and thirst for intimacy.

And though it is but a peck, the two of you know that this is the start of something. Something completely unexplainable and somewhat unexpected, but something nonetheless.

You’re the first to pull away. He’s too enamored with you.

“Joel.” You breathe against his lips. Cheeks are flushed red, eyes hooded and completely blown with lust. “Thanks for comin’ here, and apologizing.”

“Thanks for acceptin’ my apology.” He tells you. Joel takes a step back—not before running his thumb over your skin one last time—for fear of initiating something else. “Wouldn’t have blamed you if you didn’t wanna.”

“Don’t go sayin’ that. ‘Course I’ll always accept your apologies.”

Joel’s heart rate must be through the roof at this point.

“Even if I run outta maple hazel syrup?”

A gasp falls from your lips and you feign anguish. You soon smile. He looks at his wristwatch, and sighs.

“I better get goin’. Left Tommy alone a while, now. Not sure if I’ll have a cafe to get back to, if I keep him any longer.”

You laugh. “Go on. I’ll be there tomorrow.”

“If it hasn’t been burned to the ground, you mean?”

“Yeah, if it hasn’t been burned to the ground.”

Joel nods. He’s fishing about the pocket of his flannel for the key.

“Enjoy the rest of your day, hon.”

His cheeks heat up. “Yeah, you too, kid.”

You can’t help letting out a little ha ha when he’s getting into his truck, and you’re watching from your post against the doorframe. When he gives you a little wave, he pulls away and you’re ambling back into your hallway. Satisfied. Though somewhat confused.

Nothing could’ve prepared you for the trajectory of this day, and you suppose that nothing will ever come close. You just need to figure out what happens next.

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aphroditelovesu · 8 months ago

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hey its my first time requesting...

maybe can I request yandere Daemon Targaryen with velaryon or hightower reader

❝ 🐉 — lady l: this is actually quite cute lol. A soft yandere, but Daemon is only soft to the Reader, the rest be burned alive, in his view. Anyway, I hope you like it and forgive me for any mistakes! 💚🖤

❝tw: mention of death, obsessive behavior, family conflicts, fluff and soft!yandere basically.

❝🐉pairing: yandere!daemon targaryen x hightower!female!reader.

Daemon doesn't like the people in your family, the damn Hightower's. He hates them all, especially Otto, your father. He has always made this very clear, never trying to hide the disdain he feels for your family. Daemon just didn't expect to fall in love with a Hightower.

Daemon paid you no attention at first. He thought you were like your father and siblings and he wanted distance from you all. He even tried to fight the feelings that came over him when he saw you, but it soon became useless.

Daemon's constant presence, initially cold and distant, changed around you. His furtive glances became more frequent, his words, once sharp, began to soften. He could no longer ignore the truth that was right in front of his eyes: you were different. Different from Otto, different from your sibilings. And despite all the hatred he felt for the Hightowers, he found himself wanting to be in their presence more and more.

Every time he met you, he felt a growing internal conflict: the deep-rooted hatred towards your family and the irresistible attraction he felt for you. Daemon found himself wanting you, wanting you and not just in a sexual way. He wanted to have you.

Finally, Daemon had to accept that, against all expectations and against his own will, he had fallen in love with you, had become obsessed with you and he was going to have you no matter what. Daemon knew that Otto would never consent to you and him being together but Daemon doesn't give a fuck about your father.

Daemon began to plan. He was not a man who let something so trivial decide what he could or couldn't have. If Otto Hightower was an obstacle, then he would be removed. It didn't matter the cost. Daemon used his cunning and influence to create opportunities for furtive encounters. Every touch, every word whispered in the silence of the night only strengthened his resolve. You also couldn't help but be drawn to his intensity, the danger he represented, and the promise of a passion that burned hotter than anything you had ever known.

You were conflicted as well. Daemon Targaryen was a man you were warned to stay away from, your father and your sister, now the Queen, had told you to stay away from the King's troublesome brother. But you couldn't. Daemon was kind to you, he liked you and you knew you liked him. Maybe you even loved him but you knew your father and sister would never allow it.

The nights became secret meetings, increasingly daring and passionate. Daemon was determined to make sure his love for you wasn't discovered until he wanted it to be revealed, for now, it was fun to be with you in secret. He knew that when the moment came, he would need to be prepared to protect you and the future he envisioned with you. And he would protect you with everything in him.

Every furtive encounter, every whispered conversation in the darkness, every touch that set your body on fire, only increased your dilemma. On the one hand, there was your loyalty to your family, your need to live up to their expectations, and your fear of repercussions. On the other, there was Daemon, with his magnetic presence, his bold words and his protective manner, which made your heart race in a way you had never experienced before.

You tried to keep your distance, and obey your family's warnings, but you always ended up returning to Daemon. He was irresistible, and the way he looked at you, with a mixture of desire and tenderness, made you feel special, seen, and loved. Daemon understood you in a way no one else could, and that was both a blessing and a curse.

Daemon wouldn't let you get away. He didn't care, he wanted you and that's why he went to his brother and asked him for you. Daemon knew that Viserys would agree to the request, after all, he owed him that. Viserys, although distressed at the thought of causing conflict with Alicent and Otto, gave in to his brother's wishes and you were formally granted to you as his wife (after the latter's mysterious death). And you finally officially became his in every way that mattered.

When you finally married him, Daemon became more protective than ever and he displayed you in front of his family like a trophy. He loved you but he loved teasing Otto and Alicent even more. When the conflict between the Greens and the Blacks began, Daemon would keep you tied to him tightly.

After all, you're just another reminder of why he should get rid of all the Greens. Especially because, when you became pregnant in the middle of the conflict, Daemon could not allow any threat to you or the baby in your womb.

#house of the dragon #hotd #asoiaf x reader #a song of ice and fire #yandere asoiaf #x reader #daemon targaryen x reader #yandere daemon targaryen #yandere daemon targaryen x reader #yandere headcanons #headcanons #yandere hotd #yandere house of the dragon #hightower!reader #soft yandere #romantic yandere

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maruyaaya · 1 month ago

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OH MY GODDDD IM OBSESSED IM OBSESSED achilles is my fav greek figure ever i love how u drew him sm oh my gosh i love his stupid face sm. i’m so amazed ur art is so gorgeous im dumbfounded im obsessed

some of you may know that i’m about 22k words into an enemies to lovers telemachus/neoptolemus fic rn and for those of you don’t know that, hi, i am in fact writing that.

their dynamic is very special to me (especially the version in my head where they attempt to kill each other on multiple occasions but it only causes them to fall more in love with each other) but genuinely the way i came to the idea of shipping them was literally just bc i was thinking “odysseus and achilles would HATE to be in-laws”

like you cannot tell me that achilles wouldn’t be spinning in his grave at the idea of his son dating the son of odysseus. his ass could NOT handle having to see odysseus at family gatherings. and odysseus would find it all so fucking funny. like on principle he would not approve of his son dating achilles’ son, but he’d also see achilles bursting a blood vessel trying to be diplomatic and he’d decide that it’s all worth it.

and in my head there’s this modern au where like achilles is alive and neo, his estranged son who he doesn’t have a good relationship with, comes to him like “father i want to get your blessing on my relationship” and achilles is thinking “ok let’s not fuck this up this is my chance to rekindle my relationship with my son” but then when neo says “i am gay. i am dating odysseus’ son” achilles has a fucking panic attack and neo assumes it’s bc achilles is homophobic and he’s like “father i cannot change who i am. i am gay” and achilles is frantically like “NO IDC THAT UR GAY BUT CAN YOU PLEASE BE GAY WITH LITERALLY ANYBODY ELSE??????”

it’s romeo and juliet core if you think abt it. the feud is achilles hating odysseus and odysseus thinking it’s the funniest thing ever

ofc i actually do really like neo and telemachus’ potential dynamic and i have a lot a lot of thoughts on it but i just think it’s so funny to look at achilles and odysseus’ perspective on this

#I FEEL THE SAME WAY ABT ACHILLES he has no scars to me he’s just that cool and sexy #i’m actually obsessed idk what to say this is so gorgeous #NEO A MAN OF ACTIONS!!!#he’s so bad with his words he has to use actions to show his love #and telemachus is the opposite bc he’s a charmer #old women probably love to pinch his cheeks #tele kisses neo on the cheek and neo BLUESCREENS #he’d pass out #they’d have such a fun dynamic as kids #just two lil guys #NO YES U MAKE SM SENSE TALKING ABT NEO ACHILLES AND DEIDAMIA #like deidamia would have tried to raise neo with sm love #but neo still craves something from his father that he never gets #and he’s torn between hating his dad and just wanting approval from him #and in my head neo looks like a carbon copy of achilles just with red hair #and he looks in the mirror and he’s always reminded of the person who will never give him what he wants #AND DEIDAMIA TOO she and achilles have a ….. not very good relationship to say the least #and she looks at neo and sees achilles even if she doesn’t want to #and neo just internalizes sm self hatred over it bc to him all these problems are bc of HIM #i just love him sm #he’s also completely a simp yes #he’s all angsty and brooding except for when he sees telemachus #he just turns into the blushy emoji #fic art #art museum

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strawberrystepmom · 6 days ago

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bakugou x f!reader. part 1 of a mini series called by heart. cw: mentions of alcohol, implied sexual content, weddings. | word count: 1.7k, reading time: ~10 minutes

For Katsuki Bakugou, the act of participating as a groomsman is as much fulfilling his duty as donning his suit and gauntlets to patrol the streets of Musutafu is. It’s natural and reflexive, he can handle the stress with little effort. Always responsible and on time, he has been asked several times despite his attitude because of his impeccable ability to keep things moving if they’re breaking down.

That being said, his designation as Best Man instead of a simple groomsman as a member of the Midoriya grooms party has been a different animal entirely.

The changes in his nice and comfy usual role started with requesting he arrive a day earlier than the other guests or party members, throwing off his schedule even if he knew about it ahead of time. Everything in his life is scheduled, planned, and measured including how many days he needs to request off to meet his own internal rules. Ideally this is no days off yet somehow this task has required an extra day compared to what he usually days.

Then he was told about the other duties - welcoming the families of Mr. and soon to be Mrs. Midoriya alike as they arrive at the hotel, ring keeping, disciplining, and the thing he’s looking forward to the least.

“Walking the maid of honor during the procession. And also if you’re feeling really generous and want to make sure your good friend has a great wedding, keeping her in line.”

Deku didn't have to say your name for him to know you were the one to whom he was referring.

“Is it really her?” Bakugou asked, unable to temper his annoyance though his lifelong friend would’ve picked up on it regardless.

“Who else would it be? They’re best friends, it would be like me being told that you couldn’t be my best man.”

This makes six out of six weddings the two of you have been paired up. Iida, Kirishima, Ashido, Todoroki, Yaoyorozu, and now Midoriya. It’s not a coincidence the two of you received your respective promotions for this event given your relationships to the bride and groom it just feels strange.

It’s not that he hates you or even dislikes you, it’s that things are just…kind of complicated. Nothing he feels for you is anything close to hatred. It’s what confuses him so badly about it because he should. You’re loud and messy and incredibly nosy and demand everyone’s attention when you walk into the room and your laugh is contagious and really you’re just an absolute pain in his ass he was hoping to be free of for one measly matrimonial weekend.

Since that day he’s been dreading what’s next to come despite how happy he is that his best friend has finally convinced the brilliant, compassionate stunner who puts up with him to do it forever. It felt and continues to feel like a huge dick move for him to say anything about so he’s kept his mouth shut.

Time passed in a flash and now that the day has finally come, arriving at the hotel hours later than originally anticipated hasn’t helped with the nerves that he swears he isn’t feeling.

Thankfully no additional issues popped up while getting off of the plane. Traffic on the way here was light. The cab driver had no desire to make small talk with him. Check-in was already completed before the glass doors could automatically part and welcome him into a gleaming lobby and onto a clean elevator that rides alone and that drops him directly on the 33rd floor.

It’s here that he breathes a sigh of relief. Nothing is unsalvageable today even if it got off to a rocky start. Things are going to be alright.

At least until he hears that sound.

Your laugh.

It permeates every single corner of the long marble hallway separating hotel suites and smaller single rooms alike. It echoes and bounces and shifts the world on its axis every time he hears it. Katsuki swallows through the tilt, clenching his fist around the carrying handle of the rolling suitcase it holds. His feet hurry toward room 3304. You offer a little goodbye to whoever you were talking to, footsteps thumping against the carpeted floor below them as you continue toward what assumes is his end of the hallway.

“God damn it,” he mutters under his breath, reaching into his pocket to dig for the keycard he was handed at the front as soon as he arrives at his destination. Perhaps if he’s really lucky he can make it inside before you catch sight of him, before you say his name and demand his time and fuck his night up before it even begins.

This evening��s plans are as follows: taking a long and thorough shower after spending nearly half a day on an airplane, nap for no longer than 30 minutes to recharge in preparation for the first celebratory dinner of what will be multiple over the next four days, and return to his hotel room before midnight and very much alone ready to sleep until his alarm goes off tomorrow morning so he can go for a run with Izuku before everyone communes again for brunch.

The less deviation there is from this plan, the better it is for everyone involved. It seems like everyone involved with this wedding and the others that have come before it has managed to finally accept this aspect of Bakugou’s personality besides you. His digging search becomes frantic the closer he hears your footsteps come and just when he thinks he can make it without being seen, you wordlessly slide up to Room 3302. Right next to him.

“Hiya neighbor.”

Actually, nothing from this day is worth saving. If the flight delay didn’t do him in, sharing a wall with you certainly will before the weekend is over.

“Uh hey,” he mutters back stiffly.

It’s still a strange comfort that while all of his and your friends get married off and start their families and build their lives that it will always be you and him starring as the lone wolves who are bound to be paired up in every wedding party for all eternity. While he’s never really been sure if it’s simply because you’re both single or if there is other meddling it’s something he has come to expect all the same. Even if the two of you have a pair of axes to grind.

Sighing, he slips his card into the lock and the light turns green. Turning to look at you he finds you already doing the same with a smile he should probably feel more irritation toward seeing on your face. Garnet colored eyes slip from your smile down to your hand and where it inserts the key into the door, repeating the steps he just completed. No ring, no indication that you have anyone waiting for you back at home.

The knowledge that you are likely still potentially single brings a sense of peace to the man, a feeling one could even call relief if they were feeling brave enough to confront their emotions to begin with.

“Don’t make me regret sharing this wall with you,” he finally says after an extremely loaded period of silence.

You giggle, mirthful and light and he wishes the ground would stop shifting, his hand now clutching the doorknob tightly while the edge of the keycard digs into his palm.

“What makes you say that?” A pout crosses your clever mouth, side leaning against the door to your room. “Do you regret other things you’ve shared with me?”

This is exactly why he was hoping not to see you. Dropping the knob, his hand finds its way to his face and he scrubs his palm down the length of it with a groan.

The souring that led to whatever rotten interaction is happening in this hallway right now began over Yaoyorozu’s wedding weekend last summer.

That sounds very dramatic. However, in both you and Katsuki’s defense, this situation is pretty dramatic. Two attractive, single people and endlessly flowing alcohol sharing a kiss that turned into more kissing which turned into carpet burns on your knees that you couldn’t get rid of for a month after the event occurred wouldn’t usually create this much issue especially after taking into consideration that you are both fully grown adults well into your lives.

The drama arrives at the party when you are reminded that you’ve known in your heart for as long as you’ve known him, Katsuki Bakugou isn’t a man who merely hooks up. He treats people more carefully than that, even delicate in the way he’s responded to your own shameless attempts to get him to flirt with you over the course of six wedding parties in as many years.

You certainly thought he wasn’t this type until he not only hooked up with you, he left before what happened the evening prior could even be discussed. You woke up to a dry mouth, pounding head, and empty bed with no trace of blonde hair or scarred torso left behind. It’s the sole reason why you’re gripping the handle of your own suitcase so tightly your knuckles are turning white, practically burning holes into him with your angry, weighty glance.

“Do you mind if we talk more later? I’m tired from the flight.”

He doesn’t meet your eyes when he asks. You roll yours and that laugh he’s so shaken by regularly becomes something a little jilted, harsh and nasally in its near snort-like form when you let it loose.

“Yeah, if you want. I mean you have had a whole year to clear the air so why not wait until two nights before we have no choice but to be amicable to do it?”

Ah yes. Now he meets your gaze, nodding silently. It’s not shocking that you’re upset, only that you’re still this upset.

“We’ll talk later.”

You don’t bother to argue knowing you’ll never win one against him. It also doesn’t help that he immediately flung the door to his room open and stomped inside, punctuating his sentence with a slamming door.

Rolling your eyes, you finish your safe entry into your own room and begin to dread what the future has in store for you.

#bakugou x reader #bakugou x you #bakugo x reader #bakugo x you #kendall writes #by heart

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fushiguruuzzzz · 1 month ago

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xiv ⊹ ࣪ ˖ Love and (Internal) War

Series mlist

Tags — possibly offensive humour, Megumi’s self hatred peeking through, oblivious idiot yn

Words — 1.2k

The soft knock echoed throughout your otherwise lifeless room, a reminder that the boy on your mind was more than just text bubbles on a screen. You let out a low sound of acknowledgment, sliding off of your plush bed. The floor felt cold beneath you, the wood pressing firmly against the soles of your feet.

You opened the door, the hinges creaking ever so quietly in the midst of the nights peace. It was late, very much so, but you were sure many of your neighbours were awake. That’s what students did, cramming everything into one short span of hours, usually at the most inconvenient times of night. By now, though, Megumi was usually asleep. It was something you often teased him for, referred to him as an old man. Truth be told, he just loved sleeping. There wasn’t much more to say. So why was he standing in your hallway looking like a lost dog?

“Hey,” you said, shuffling to the side as an indirect invitation for him to come in. He took it, though hesitantly, as if he hadn’t been the one to show up here in the first place. “What’s up? Are you okay?” you asked.

You gently pressed the door closed behind you, lingering in front of it, trying to gauge his mood. Your first instinct was to assume something had happened, something bad. Showing up at your dorm at 2 in the morning was a bold move for any average, semi-social person, let alone for Megumi. He shook his head, as if to shoot down any conclusions you’d jumped to.

“I couldn’t sleep,” he said. He shoved his hands into the pocket of the hoodie he’d haphazardly thrown on as he left his room, a snoring Yuji in the background. He spoke again, a mumble so quiet you’d think it hurt him to say. “…and I wanted to see you.”

At this, the tension in your shoulders faded, the harsh lines taking up your face smoothing out. Instead it was replaced by a grin, and the hidden bashfulness that came with the way your heart sped up at his confession.

“What was that?” you smirked, tilting your head in feigned confusion.

“Don’t be an asshole,” he deadpanned. You let out a laugh, probably too high in volume for the hour.

“Yeah, sorry. I missed you too.”

Your shoulder gently brushed against his as you passed him, and the small touch sent too many sparks flying over his skin. He didn’t like it. He didn’t like this. He didn’t like that he so desperately tried to avoid that longing, that feeling he only felt upon seeing your face, but somehow always found himself here. Well, not exactly here, but with you. No matter the place, he always found himself chasing you like you were all he needed. Like you were home. Maybe you were.

You plopped down on the bed, the covers rustling beneath you. You gave a discreet nod to the place beside you, noticing the way he stood near the door, barely moving. Did he have to be so mysterious all of the time? So guarded?

He sat by your side, looking ahead. Anyone could very easily tell something was bothering him, anyone that knew him well enough, at least. He was more tense than he usually was, his walls seeming higher than ever. Though with added height came the crushing weight on the body of them, leaving cracks and holes for hints of vulnerability to seep from.

“Megumi,” you whispered, a careful hand finding its home on his shoulder. “Is something wrong?”

He was silent for a moment, avoiding your eyes as he contemplated whether he would be honest or not. His fingers twitched in his pockets, itching to move. They didn’t.

“How was your date?” he asked, though a bitter feeling resided in his mouth once he spoke. Was that too forward? Too obvious? Were you about to kick him out and push him away? In his mind, those four simple words were as close to any sort of confession he was ready to give. In the few months since the two of you were reunited, he’d felt his walls be slowly chipped away, no matter how hard he fought it. With you, he just couldn’t. It was inevitable, and he was beginning to feel like that same stupid boy he was all those years ago. Stupid stupid boy, falling for you. In his mind, you were the sun and he was simple one of billions of stars yearning for your light. He could never amount to who he wanted to be, to be what you deserved. Wait.. falling for you? Had he just admitted that to himself?

You paused. Was that what was wrong? Your date? You didn’t understand why such a thing would bother him, let alone enough for him to lose sleep and show up at your dorm in the earliest hours of the morning. “It was nice… he’s nice. Why? Do you not like him?”

He stole a quick glance at you, softly shaking his head. “I’m not exactly fond of him, no.”

“Oh?” you said, tilting your head softly to the side. “I didn’t know.”

“I didn’t expect you to,” he said, shrugging. “Anyway, I didn’t come here to talk about him.” He let out a soft sigh, mindlessly grabbing a book off of your nightstand. He was all too aware of your hand on his shoulder, how close you were sitting to him, and it felt wrong. He shouldn’t be feeling this way. He didn’t deserve it.

“Mm,” he said, examining the cover. He felt an odd need to make conversation, which made him sure he was losing it. When was he ever one to speak when not necessary? Who even was he? You took notice of this, knowing that he must’ve just been distracting himself from whatever deeper level of the situation was nagging at him. “You have good taste in books,” he said.

For some reason, the compliment sounded much better coming from him than it did from Noritoshi. You summed it up to the fact that Megumi was more familiar, which wasn’t completely a lie, but… you knew better than that.

You spent the next couple of hours talking about everything and nothing in between comfortable silences and shared looks. Whether it was literature, your classes, your friends, hell, you even talked about politics, it was all so comfortable with him. Things felt as if they were meant to be that way. And then, before you knew it, the two of you were slumped against eachother, halfway lying down as you slept in each others arms. He’d mindlessly held you in his sleep, something that came to him subconsciously, as if embracing you was muscle memory. You hadn’t protested, even as you stirred and occasionally gained some of your consciousness. It was just one night, wasn’t it? At least he was sleeping at all. You were just comforting him, that was all.

Neither of you would voice it, but it was the best you’d slept in a long time.

Taglist !¡ —

@1l-ynn @meowymeowbreow @missunrise @kiss-my-asscheeks @starrysho @good-mourning0 @gumims @beaniesayshi @mrowwww @luvvmae @megumislovedoll @azharyy @starsryi @tibibibi123 @idkidk32 @dazaisfavgf @tlissablr @vi0let-writes @walllflowerrrsss @sh0ot1ngst4r @blubearxy @tvnamayo @san-it-is-i-guess @harryzcherry

sighhh I love them lwk been distracted from bttoh tho been nurturing the farmhand yuji fic a lil too much… nb gonna read ts are they cries anyway ermmmm can you guys not kill me or yourselves after the coming chapters release pretty please… with a cherry on top…

#jjk megumi #jjk #megumi fushiguro x reader #jujutsu kaisen #jjk smau #jjk x reader #megumi fushiguro #megumi x reader #fushiguro megumi #fushiguro x reader

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velvet4510 · 1 month ago

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Why Magneto’s Storyline in X-Men: Apocalypse is The Worst (it’s not just Cherik)

Ok I just need to vent because this has been chewing away at my brain for far too long.

Cherik is far from the only reason why Erik’s family plotline in X-Men: Apocalypse is some of the stupidest, sloppiest, and most character-ruining pieces of writing I’ve ever seen. Haters may say “oh you’re just upset because he married someone who wasn’t Charles.” But, like, aside from the fact that the original timeline already established that Erik’s top priority was always the fight for mutantkind and he had no interest in settling down - whether that had anything to do with his feelings for Charles or not - the problems with the Apocalypse writing go WAY beyond just him & Charles:

Erik would never abandon his cause at this point. By the end of DOFP, Erik has just been imprisoned for a full 10 years thanks to the JFK situation. Meaning he has spent a full decade being forcibly inactive in the fight for mutants. And he just learned that all of his fears about humans and mutants came to pass in the future to the level where a time-traveler had to be sent to change the past. And he was so set on averting that future that he tried to kill his friend and the sister of the man he loved, and then made a whole speech on international TV begging for the mutants of the world to fight alongside him. This is the POLAR OPPOSITE of a man who would feel like settling down and walking away from the fight within the next decade. The Sentinels being cancelled did NOT make mutant life easy overnight; Stryker was still up to no good, and there is no way that there weren’t others like him doing the same. Yes, Raven’s actions made a very positive difference, but I think we have enough brain cells to agree that this did not mean things for mutants immediately became sunshine and rainbows to the level where Erik - the most (understandably) paranoid character in the X-Men series - would even consider taking a break, let alone giving up the fight permanently. Knowing what he did about the possibilities of the future would’ve made the Erik we know double down on his commitment to his cause and follow up on his actions in Washington.

Erik wouldn’t risk starting a young family at this moment in his life. Erik was a Holocaust prisoner, his people were massacred, his mom was shot when he couldn’t move the coin, and then Charles was shot when Erik accidentally deflected a bullet into him, and then every member of his Brotherhood save Raven were captured and killed. Not only is this more than enough grief for one character to have, but the man wouldn’t dare risk having a new family of his own when everyone he’s ever loved has gotten hurt (largely because of him), and when he’s an international fugitive. That is no time to risk being selfish, and he would know. He would’ve been the first to realize that a potential spouse and child would also end up killed, and so he’d avoid that altogether. In fact, he wouldn’t even consider it, because, as mentioned, he wouldn’t leave his cause behind. You know, if he was actually in character.

Magda is a human. At this point, Erik hates humans. Again, he has just been imprisoned by humans for 10 years for trying to save a mutant, and he just learned that in the future, humans would’ve wiped out mutants, exactly as he feared. Everything that happened in DOFP would only further inflame his already-passionate hatred of humans. He is not in the mental state to even begin to consider Charles’ philosophy and give a human a chance at a relationship, let alone marry a human.

The family lives in Poland. The country where Auschwitz is. The country where Erik and his family and people was imprisoned, tortured, and executed. The country where Erik had to watch Shaw kill his mother. Basically the LAST country in the freaking WORLD that Erik would want to ever see again, let alone spend the rest of his life in. Erik is fluent in multiple languages - he is shown to easily converse in French and Spanish in First Class - and has been all over the world thanks to his Nazi hunting, so if he really needed to flee the U.S., there were a hundred other countries he could’ve gone to and blended into (Canada, France, Mexico, anywhere in South America, heck, he even could’ve discovered Genosha during this time). But in the original timeline, he didn’t leave the U.S. at all despite being a national fugitive after escaping his plastic prison, and he never did get caught again, so….

Erik’s first meeting with Magda is completely OOC for him. Erik mentions that he told Magda who he was the first night they met and he trusted her then. EXCUSE ME??? Erik Lehnsherr does not trust strangers. Erik Lehnsherr does not tell the complete truth about himself and his past to just anyone; look at how deeply Charles had to probe before Erik opened up to him. This stupid line was obviously shoehorned in just to make their relationship seem like perfect soulmates and thus ensure it is doubly tragic when she gets thrown in the fridge 5 minutes later (more on that in a sec). Obviously the intention is for the audience to go “aww, he instantly trusted her, she instantly accepted him, this is true love…” Give me a break. You’re really telling me that Magda met this stranger one night, found out he was none other than the international fugitive who apparently killed the U.S. president and just tried to kill another president on live TV, and went “oh, no problem, honey, let’s make a baby and live the cottagecore dream!” That’s some BS if I’ve ever heard it, and I’m convinced the writers subconsciously knew it; there’s a reason that is revealed in a throwaway line rather than shown onscreen, because then nobody would’ve bought it.

Fridging. Magda and Nina exist in the movie for one reason and one reason only: To get brutally killed and give Erik even more grief and trauma so that he’ll seek revenge on the entire world, aka do what the plot demands of him, aka have the same journey as he did in First Class (more on that in a sec). That’s all. Neither of them are any more than one-dimensional plot devices. They are not characters at all. Magda isn’t even named in the actual movie (he doesn’t even say her name when she dies) - it’s so obvious they didn’t even know what her name would be when they made the movie. This is textbook fridging, and one of the worst examples of it of all time. It’s all the worse considering that Erik never met Magda in the original pre-DOFP timeline, meaning Magda originally most likely lived a long happy life and died old in bed. But now, she gets fridged just because the writers didn’t know what more to do with Erik. It’s misogyny of the highest level.

A parenthood story for Erik was already set up. DOFP already hinted at Erik being a father, with Peter’s comment about his mom. So if the writers wanted to show Erik as a father, and to include Magda, they already had a solution that would seamlessly flow from the previous film - make Erik and Peter’s relationship one of the centerpieces of the story, and let Magda be Peter’s mom! (You know, like she is in the comics!)

It doesn’t contribute anything new to Erik’s character development. From a screenwriting POV, this is unforgivable. May I remind you that Erik’s entire storyline in First Class revolved around grief and trauma for the loss of his family and people, especially his mom, and seeking revenge for it. Giving him a wife and daughter just so they can get killed too adds absolutely NOTHING to his character development. It’s merely retreading everything that already happened in his arc: he loses his family and goes on a roaring rampage of revenge. Completely superfluous, right down to Charles insisting that there’s good in him beyond the pain. The redundancy becomes apparent even in the dialogue, where Charles literally says “I told you since I first met you there’s good in you too.” The script itself can’t help but point out that all of this has happened before and literally nothing new has been added to Erik’s character arc.

See? It’s not just because of Cherik. Erik’s story in X-Men: Apocalypse is an atrocity in basic screenwriting and character development, on every level. And I will always despise it.

(Please tell me I’m not the only one who feels this way…)

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discofama · 11 months ago

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I love how comfortable Adam and Lute are around each other.

I mean, look at this

So they're casually together during the extermination, much like how friends gravitate towards each other when in an event even if they're not talking or doing anything, just because it feels easier than being alone. Or perhaps Lute flew closer because she saw the huge war machine approaching Adam and got a little worried.

Charlie and Vaggie are going to attack them, and look at what they do:

Despite being Adam the one closer to Vaggie, he doesn't move an inch. They don't say anything (besides the shit talk) and Adam doesn't even look at her, he expects Lute will take care of Vaggie with no order from him, even if he's closer.

Obviously Adam is confident and doesn't think Vaggie can hurt him at all, but he clearly trusts Lute to get her out of the way. He probably knows how bloodthirsty Lute is for Vaggie and lets her have her without a word, and Lute complies, again, without a word, leaving him to handle the strongest of the enemies at that moment (Charlie).

So in this second, Adam and Lute communicated in silence. Adam didn't move and trusted her to cut in even if it was him the one under attack, and finally Lute trusted him to handle Charlie so she could fight Vaggie, as she didn't seem worried at all of the possibility of Charlie coming to protect her girlfriend.

They're in harmony. They're just natural together.

He lets her grab him like this and is willing to listen to her. It's clear he respects her and deep down appreciates that she'll keep him from doing something stupid, even if he whines.

She also climbs him? Lol. (Look at how she holds onto his arm 🥹 she's super comfortable with touching him!)

They're always hyping each other up, like in their songs:

(Look at Lute's smug face here 👇, she's sooo satisfied with what Adam's saying)

I honestly believe that they kinda make each other worse, that neither of them would be SO mean all the time if they didn't have the other: a companion who is always backing them up, who agrees on any crap that comes out of their mouth (Lute lets him talk shit about random women and nods, Adam goes along with Lute's homophobia despite seeming to not care that much about homosexuals).

Many portray Lute being a lot smarter than Adam, but I think they're both dumbasses. I mean, we laugh at Adam for saying he never made a mistake in his fucking life, but it was Lute who first stated angels don't make mistakes, somehow keeping a serious face. I think Lute seems smart because she's more quiet and cares about the rules, but she doesn't do logic very well either and can be impulsive too, as shown in the end of ep. 1.

They're probably each other's best/only friend, because they're just so unlikeable. And it makes sense they'd deeply care for one another. They care about that person that stands them and agrees with them and actually enjoys being with them. They're always seen together, hanging out even off duty. They clearly have a lot of fun.

I'll be honest. I ship GuitarSpear, I love it, but I don't know if I want it to be canon for 2 reasons:

1. Lute might be a lesbian.

She is so repulsed by homosexuals that it feels personal. Talking about how disgusting and blasphemous Charlie and Vaggie's love is, or how many cocks were in Angel's mouth and calling him a whore. She cares too much about it for it to not be personal, and I think it makes sense that she'd be a closet lesbian with a shit ton of internalized homophobia. She probably knew about Vaggie's sexuality and held a lot of resentment towards her before tearing off her wings. Maybe she was even attracted to her and was so repulsed about it that she redirected her self-hatred to Vaggie.

2. I think it could be better for Adam's character.

Let's just think about it. This character has a very distorted view of women, he has a fixation on them and hypersexualizes them. So the idea of this horny man, who always sees women with sex colored glasses, being good friends with a hot female below him in the hierarchy with no sexual or romantic interest whatsoever is nice to me. It'd work as sort of a redeeming quality in regards of his relationship with women, and I personally think this man is very redeemable. Let's hope he gets a second chance!

Still! All of this trust and comfort and team feelings can be read as romantic and I certainly wouldn't mind if it becomes canon! They could be the best villain couple!

Summarizing, these two are soulmates, end of the story. They're worse together, but also probably provide the other of a very needed company.

I have no clue if Adam will actually come back, but if he doesn't, I'll feel very bad for Lute. Yeah, yeah, she's an evil bitch, I don't care.

#sorry if the way i write isn't very sophisticated #english is my second language 👉👈#hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel lute #hazbin hotel adam #analysis #guitarspear

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agender-alien · 11 months ago

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Blitzø’s self hatred has literally destroyed/ is in the process of destroying every good thing in his life. It destroyed his friendship with Fizzarolli (more in that later), it likely contributed to his fear of intimacy which is what destroyed his relationship with Verosika, and his fear of intimacy, which is fueled by his self hatred and fears of intimacy often are is drives him to talk to M&M and all his other friends like shit.

Blitzø’s deep and utter hatred of himself is actively preventing him from reciprocating Stolas’s genuine affection and letting him enjoy his relationships in general. And it seems like Blitzø has always been this way.

This man’s hatred runs deep, and it’s so intense he literally scribbles his face out of every photo of himself. He obviously cares about the people around him, he keeps constant reminders of the people close to him. The photo wall at home, the bobble heads of M&M in his office.

I think most people assume that this hatred of himself started with the fire. That his guilt over the accident is what led to his belief that he didn’t deserve to be happy, that ultimately destroyed his relationships. But i don’t think this is the case. I think his guilt over the accident definitely fueled his self hatred for a long time but i don’t think that’s the root cause of it.

In this scene it’s a teenage Fizzarolli’s birthday, and a teenage Blitzø appears to be going to hand him what appears to be a love letter, but upon seeing Fizzarolli surrounded by family and friends celebrating he becomes self conscious and throws the letter in the ground and walked away. I believe his internal thought process was that Fizzarolli already has all these people that care for him, why would he want Blitzø around?

I don’t believe this was cause of jealousy, that was fizzarolli’s interpretation of events from his perspective. I think this is one of the first example of Blitzø wrecking his life over his own self hatred.

And i think the most tragic part of this is that he has people in his life that definitely love him. Millie and Moxxie are his employees but they are obviously his friends and do care about his general well-being, Loona is a shit-heel most of the time but she also cares about how Blitzø’s well-being on some level. He has just re-kindled his friendship with Fizzarolli, and Stolas is so head over heals in love with him it’s insane.

Look at this man, so absolutely fucked. And Blitzø is going to be utterly incapable of reciprocating these feelings or even acknowledging that someone is capable of loving him until he actually starts accepting himself.

#This is all kinda obvious but the amount of people jumping to weird conclusions about stolas and blitzø is insane #stolas #helluva boss #helluva stolas #helluva blitzo #helluva fizzarolli #helluva loona #helluva moxxie #helluva millie #millie #moxxie #blitzo #fizzarolli #loona #character analysis #stolitz

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hughes86-43 · 9 months ago

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tough love | M. Barzal

request - can you write for Mat and do enemies to lovers as coworkers. maybe she’s on the social team and she gets hurt getting content and he’s the one to help her get to the trainers for medical attention? (thanks for requesting :)

warnings - mentions of blood, not sure what else but please let me know if there is more! some grammar mistakes present.

To say working on the social media team for a NHL team being your live long dream would be an understatement. Ever since you watched your first NHL game with your dad, you somehow someway wanted to work for one of the teams. You went to school, and you worked hard to get to where you are now.

The lead social media member for the New York Islanders.

You honestly cried when they first offered the job to you. You couldn’t believe it. All your hard work was starting to pay off.

Upon your first year there, you met all of the Islanders team, and also, made some great friendships with them. You did your best to be friendly with everyone as you were going to constantly be working around them. Mostly everyone was very welcoming and friendly towards you, however there is always that one person that begins to get on your last nerves every time you see him.

That person for you was Mat Barzal.

The truth was you never did like him especially since you heard what he had said about you. Within the first month that you were there, you had been walking to your office when you overheard your name down the hall. Thinking someone was wanting you, you walked down the hall, but you stopped at the doorway when you heard what actually was being said.

“I don’t know man, just something about her is nerve wracking. Maybe it’s the over-the-top excitement about everything, I don’t know, or maybe it’s just the way she is constantly annoying in those meetings.” Even though you had only met him twice in that first month, you could tell that the voice was Mat. Once you heard him say that, you made your way back down the hallway to your office. Shutting the door, you did your best to not let it get to your head.

However, no matter what he thought of you, you still wouldn’t let that keep you down. You were just excited that you finally got your dream job, and you were not about to let someone you barely knew get you down about it.

Now over a year later, that hatred you felt for Mat was still there. You didn’t know if he ever noticed it, but you didn’t exactly hide that you didn’t like him either.

The Islanders were playing the Panthers at home tonight. You arrived to the arena for morning practice in your black dress pants with a blue sweater paired with black heeled boots. Multiple of your coworkers complimented you on your outfit that it was perfectly matched with the Islanders blue.

You walked down the long hallway to your office to get your notes for the media coverage today. You were unfortunately going to be interviewing Mat after practice, but fortunately you also would be interviewing other, nicer players after him.

During practice, you advised the intern photographer of what types of shots they should be getting, practicing for the game later tonight. Soon after, all the players were off the ice and down the hall to the locker room to change. Leaving you to mentally prepare for interviewing Mat.

Mat was always professional during the interviews he did with you, however you could tell that he was just trying to get it over with, which he doesn’t do with any of the other media people. That action itself makes you even more annoyed at him.

As you were waiting to get the all clear to make your way to the locker room, you got held up by your office door not opening. You tried the key card and everything but it just wouldn’t open for some reason. Deciding to just figure it out later, even though your notes were in there, you went to the locker room. The whole fiasco had made you late by ten minutes, so you knew that Mat would be annoyed at you.

That assumption was true as you walked into the locker room and saw him on his phone. When he heard you walked in, he spoke to you with an annoying tone. “Other important things to take care of, huh?” You took a deep breathe, trying not to let your emotions get the best of you.

“Yes, sorry, my key card wouldn’t let me into my office,” you say as you get your mic ready for him while trying to rummage through your bag for your water.

“Here, give me the mic.” He grabs it out of your hand after you didn’t respond for five seconds. “Are you sure you weren’t fired?” Although you could tell he was just trying to get a reaction out of you, you couldn’t help but to give a sarcastic answer.

“Seeing as no one has came and dragged me out of here yet, I think I’m still good. You couldn’t make a goal during practice, are you sure you’re still going to be starting tonight?” You turn your head away from your bag and stare dead into his eyes. He gives you a blank stare.

“Is that part of the interview? Trying to take shots at me now, huh?”

You grab back the mic from him and take your seat in-front of him. “No, that wasn’t part of the interview, and I’ll take as many shots at you that I want, since you seemingly want to do the same.” You get comfortable in your chair, leaning back and crossing one leg over the other, which then causes your water bottle to fall to the floor. Water goes everywhere, because of course the lid wasn’t on good.

You reach out to grab your water bottle, the same time that Mat reaches down with a towel in his hand to clean it up. You try to take it out of his hand, but he keeps pulling it from you. “Here, I can do it!” You say reaching out for it again. “No, I got it, I can do it, just put your lid back on your bottle before it gets worse!” You end up just letting him clean up the water as you put the lid back on, because truly you could’ve went back and forth with him for a lot longer.

He stands up and walks to take the towel to the hamper by the door. Once he sits back down, you ask, “Are we ready to start now?”

“Yes, unless you’re going to spill your water again?” You roll your eyes at that and begin asking the questions.

Twenty minutes later, you finish with the last question. You turn the mic off and throw it back into your bag until the next one. You’re rummaging around your bag again when you find the key card that was actually the right one for your office. “Ugh!” You say out loud, not noticing that Mat was still in the room.

From his stall, he whips his head around so fast and makes his way towards you. “What? Are you okay?” You jump when you turn around, not realizing he was closer than he seemed. “Sorry for scaring you, what’s wrong?” He says eyeing you up and down, practically seeing if you broke anything.

“Oh, nothing. I just found the right key card to my office.” You wave the key card in front of you. Mat nervously runs his hand through his hair, backing up to give you your space back.

“Oh, that’s good, great, guess that means we’re stuck with you, eh?” At that, you throw your key back into your back, along with your water bottle, and throw your bag onto your shoulder.

“Yep, guess so! Now if you don’t mind, I’m going to go back to my office, which means I’m not fired, and prepare for the next interview, so thanks!” You just want nothing more than to get into your office and let out the emotions you’ve been trying to hold in.

Mat seems to notice the change in your demeanor, he reaches out to touch your shoulder. “Hey, are you okay? I was only joking,” he says softly but you move out of his reach.

“Yep, all good! I know you’re joking, it’s all good!” You rush out the door before he can saying anything else.

You make it through all the interviews, make you’re way home to take a nap, and now your back for the game tonight. You changed your outfit to blue pants and a black long sleeve paired with the same boots from earlier.

You managed to get into your office with the right key this time. You take some last minute notes before heading to your spot in the arena.

You spend the first and second period in your spot with the other media people behind the glass. You send out tweets, take videos, send instructions on what the intern photographer should take photos of, and take notes to ask the players after the game. During the third period, you’re doing the same until the worst thing imaginable happens to you.

It’s 5 minutes left in the final period, the opposing team ends up with the puck on the opposite side of the ice from you. You weren’t paying attention much to what was happening on the ice, which you should’ve been, since the puck somehow ended up flying over the glass and hitting you under the eye. It has you stumbling to find your balance, you hold your cheek, and you can feel the blood flowing down it.

Mat sees it all happen. The puck flying through the air, over the glass and hitting you. He can see the blood gushing down your cheek. He rushes to the bench to get a trainer. He’s practically trying to climb over the glass to see if you’re okay, because the amount of blood doesn’t seem that good. The trainers are around the glass within seconds to get you up and down the tunnel to the medical room.

You faintly hear someone say “I’ll check on you after” but you’re not sure if the force of the hit left you hallucinating things. You’re also not sure if that was Mat or not who was rushing towards you behind the glass.

You finish the rest of the period laying on a medical table in the medical room. They ruled out anything major; they just had to stitch you up. Now you just have to lay there for thirty minutes with an ice pack on your face until they rule that you’re good to go home.

Ten minutes or so after, you hear someone ask one of the medical staff about you. They must’ve said that you’re still here, because you see Mat coming through the door looking frantic. He changed out of his gear, mostly now just in shorts and a hoodie.

He spots you laying on the table in the corner, he rushes over to you. “Oh, gosh, are you okay? I came as fast a could to check on you.” He pulls up a chair to sit next to you. He’s not sure whether he should reach out to touch you or not, but he decides not to, not yet anyway.

“Yeah, I think so, pretty much. They stitched me up and gave me some Tylenol for the pain,” You reply back, trying to look anywhere but at him.

He nods his head at your answer. “That’s good, that’s good,” he says nervously.

With his nervous tone, you turn your head to look at him. For someone that finds you annoying, he sure seems to be worked up about something, you think to yourself. Heck, he probably came to make sure you died but got disappointed.

Deciding to speak up after a couple minutes of awkward silence. You ask him, “Why did you help me out there? I would’ve though you would have left me lying there.”

Mat looks down at you with a shocked look on his face. “Why would I do that? Just leave you there? As you’re bleeding down your face?”

“Well yeah, you’re not really my biggest fan, ya know,” you reply as a matter of fact, like he should know that.

“What? Where’d you get that from?” He’s now trying to decide if he should go get one of the medical staff as he is now worried that the hit as made you go crazy.

“Oh, I don’t know, since you said that my excitement about working was over the top or the fact you said that I was annoying.”

“When did I ever say that?” He pauses. “Oh.”

“Yeah,” you wave your hand around, “Plus, you’ve never not been annoyed with me during interviews, when you’ve been nothing but nice to anyone else so.”

Mat sits there trying to process everything you’ve been saying. “Oh.”

Honestly, you’re pretty sure your just spilling all the thoughts on your mind right now. “It’s not like you’ve been my favorite person or anything. I’ve been trying to annoy you since you said that.”

“Oh-” Mat starts, but you continue talking.

“And then I was annoyed this morning because you really want me fired for some reason since you joked about it all morning.”

Mat tries to get another sentence out. “I don’t want you fired-”

You’re still rambling on and on. “I mean, I get it, I really do. My excitement can be over the top sometimes about things, but I don’t think that warrants being fired over-”

“Y/N-”

“I mean what’s wrong with being excited? I’ve worked hard and nobody else seems to think I should be fired, well except you and this lady down the hall, but that was probably because I spilt my drink on her by accident, but still-”

“Y/N!” That shuts you right up. “Did the puck rattle you so much that you’re going crazy now? Take a deep breath with me, you’ve been talking nonstop without taking a moment to breathe.”

You follow his breathing and calm down a bit. You lay your head back down on the table with the washcloth back on your cut. However, you shoot your head back up at what Mat says.

“You know, I never wanted you to be fired. Heck, you’re so good at your job that I don’t think anyone else would be as good as you, so they wouldn’t want to fire you.”

You’re the confused one right now, “Huh?”

“Shhh, it’s my turn to talk now. Honestly, I don’t even know why I said those things about you. I know I was wrong for saying those things about you, and I’m sorry,” He looks into your eyes. “I love how you’re so excited about what you do and it’s understandable because you worked so hard to get to where you are. Overtime, I’ve started to admire how hard you work and how excited you are to do the work that you do. It has always made me so happy to see you do the thing you love to do. I guess my way to showcase that was by annoying you, though.”

You stare at him with your mouth wide open, completely shocked by what he is saying. You take a second to process what he just said, you reply, “Are you serious right now? Because Mat, I swear, if you’re messing with me right now to get a reaction, now is not the time and it would not be good for you.”

Mat frantically shakes his head. “No, no. I promise I’m being serious,” he runs his hand through his hair. “I guess what I was trying to say is that I like you a lot.”

You lay your head back down to think over what just happened in the last hour or so. “I’m dying, aren’t I? I’m hallucinating this. I’m losing my mind. You get hit by a puck in the face one time, and now, you’re losing your mind.”

Mat laughs at your dramatics, but quickly gathers himself to comfort you. “Hey, Y/N, I promise you’re not dying. You’re just fine, everything is fine, you just had to get stitches, and you’re going to be good to go home soon.”

Finally, after debating it a lot, he reaches out to run his hand over your hair, and surprisingly, you let him. After taking some deep breaths and calming down a bit, you say, “Okay, I’m okay. Sorry, I don’t know what happened there.” You shakily let out a laugh.

Mat still has a hand in your hair, and he smiles down at you. “It’s okay, all is good. Guess I probably could’ve waited to tell you all that, but I couldn’t after seeing you almost dying out there.”

“No, I’m glad you did. Honestly, I like you a lot, too. I think I’ve just been too annoyed at you to realize that. Maybe we both have just been flirting back at each other without realizing it,” you jokingly say.

“Maybe so, but truly, I’m glad you’re okay.” He runs a thumb over your cheek under the stitched up cut.

You both relish in that moment until the medical staff comes in. “Okay, you’re good to go, do you think you can drive back or do we need to call someone?”

“No, I think I’m okay to drive, and if not, I have someone to help me.” You thank them before hopping off the table to grab your bag.

Mat walks up beside you and places his hand on your lower back to steady you after seeing you trying to regain your balance. “Do you really think you can drive home by yourself?”

You turn your head to look at him and give him a grin. “Oh, I’m still a bit dizzy so no, but I know someone who can drive me though.” You give him a wink and hand him your keys.

“Me? You want me to drive you home?”

He’s not sure if he has died and went to Heaven. You laugh, “Yes, you! Now c’mon, I’m tired and I need someone to take care of me, so show me how caring you are, and take me home. We can go from there.” Mat didn’t have to think for a second longer as he followed right beside you to your car. Certainly not the night you thought would happen, but you can be glad something good came from it.

#mat barzal fic #mat barzal blurb #mat barzal imagines #mat barzal imagine #mat barzal #hockey imagines #hockey fics #nhlhockey fic #nhl imagines

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jjkamochoso · 4 months ago

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Hashing Out the Hatred for Hoshina

Enemies to Lovers, fluff

Soshiro Hoshina x gn!reader

Request from Wattpad: Reader absolutely despises Soshiro and his smug attitude; what will happen when they accidentally get locked in a room together?

Warnings: small mentions of bugs, cussing

“Another celebration? We’ve been doing a lot of those recently,” you said at the end of your meeting with your superiors in which they announced yet another night of drinks and dinner for everyone in the Third Division. You weren’t complaining in the least bit—you just remembered the days when times like these were few and far between.

“Yes, but we’ve had much to be proud of lately,” replied Captain Ashiro.

“Or do you disagree with our most esteemed Captain, Platoon Leader L/n?” mused Soshiro Hoshina, your vice captain and source of extreme irritation and headaches each day of work. You hated that man with every fiber of your being. His laid back attitude paired with his propensity to tease people to their wits end bothered you immensely. You couldn’t stand the sound of his ferocious laughter, nor the way he would double over with tears in his eyes at anything he deemed remotely funny.

You especially hated when he spoke to you.

You faked a smile, ignoring the anger pooling in your chest at the wicked grin he was sending you. “Not at all, Vice Captain. I look forward to seeing you all later this evening.”

You bowed your head respectfully, signaling your departure. You raced out of the room before you could punch the smirk from Hoshina’s face.

You looked in the mirror and sighed as you put the finishing touches on your appearance. You always liked to look your best at these celebrations since it was the only time you had the chance to dress a little bit out of protocol. You slid your jacket over your well fitted casual outfit and walked down to where the food and drinks were being distributed. To your dismay, the caterers hadn’t begun preparing food yet; they had just shown up! You frowned, glancing at your watch. You looked around to ask one of your peers what was going on, but the only person there was—

Ugh. Hoshina.

You’d rather break all the glasses and walk on them barefoot before engaging in a conversation with that fox eyed, bowl cut idiot. However, the worst case scenario was unfolding before your eyes as he slinked over to you, hands in his pockets and fangs peeking out of his lips in a wide smile.

“You here to help set up?” he wondered.

You didn’t know how to answer. If you said yes, you’d be forced to stay with him and spend too much time next to that thorn in your side. If you said no, you’d look like a total jerk in front of the caterers.

“Of course. I thought it might be a show of good will since my enthusiasm for tonight was questioned earlier,” you told him, referring back to your previous conversation that day. Cue his boisterous laughter and you were already regretting not telling the truth so you could get out of there.

“Here I was, thinking you just hadn’t read the email with the change of time,” he howled, wiping tears from his eyes. You groaned internally.

That’s what I get for leaving my office early to shower before everyone else.

“Maybe you just wanted to spend some time with me,” he wondered aloud. This time it was you who burst out laughing.

“Me? Want to spend time with you? In your dreams, Hoshina,” you said, picking up a box of cutlery to put out on the table. The catering company workers gave you a grateful nod as they dashed around you and Soshiro, preparing the banquet.

“You’re much more pleasant in my dreams, L/n. Do you dream about me, too?” he asked, wiggling his eyebrows. You picked up a knife and set it down with extra force.

“Those kinds of dreams are called nightmares.”

This time, there was no laugh from Soshiro.

The rest of the setup went by quickly as you and Soshiro worked in a surprising state of silence. When the rest of your peers showed up, you gladly left to sit next to your unit, not wanting to entertain your vice captain any longer. You didn’t notice the questioning stares of your underlings as they spied you and Soshiro working suspiciously well together by yourselves; your disdain for the man was well known among the Third Division. Kafka and Kikoru giggled and theorized what that could mean while Reno just shook his head, not wanting to get involved. You, on the other hand, were completely unbothered as you ate and drank to your heart’s content, happy to have such a fulfilling meal after working hard all day and helping with the set up. As the night went on, you felt the temperature of the room go up so you slid your jacket off and placed it under the table.

“What were you and L/n doing here before everyone else?” asked Okonogi curiously, making Soshiro almost choke on his food.

“We both wanted to help set up so we came early,” he replied curtly.

“I see. And how was that?”

He narrowed his eyes. “Whaddya mean by that?”

“I think what Okonogi was getting at was the fact that you two don’t like each other,” explained Mina in her typical no nonsense fashion.

“Which I don’t get anyway,” Okonogi piped in.

“Eh? They’re just… too serious. Not my style,” he shrugged. “Besides, someone whose skin is that easy to get under should toughen up. So really, I’m being a good vice captain and helping them.”

Mina and Okonogi shared a glance and quietly agreed to move the conversation to a different topic.

Soshiro quickly regained his excitable spirit, entering into an easy conversation with his two close comrades when he stopped talking for a moment, seemingly distracted by something. The women looked over to where he was staring and they had to keep from gasping in shock.

He was completely enamored by you.

You had taken off your jacket which showed off your phenomenal outfit, garnering a strong response from both your teammates and your vice captain. Everyone was complimenting you and you thanked them, a kind smile resting on your face. Soshiro’s face went from surprised to visibly bothered, but Mina and Okonogi couldn’t figure out why. All of a sudden, he jumped right back into the conversation as if there was no pause in the first place, leaving his friends bewildered by the emotional whiplash.

“Aww man! I spilled all over me,” complained Iharu as he furiously wiped himself with a flimsy napkin. The contents of his drink had landed all over the table and the floor, creating a slipping hazard for anyone in the room.

“Don’t worry, I’ll go grab some extra napkins from the storage closet,” you told him.

“Really? You’re the best, Platoon Leader!” he yelled. You smiled, happy to help.

“I’ll be right back, okay?”

You stood up and made a beeline for the storage closet, trying to hurry so Iharu’s drink wouldn’t leave anything too stained. You left the door to the closet open for extra light as you reached up for the flimsy lightbulb, bathing the small space in a yellow glow.

You scowled as you looked around for the fifth time, still not able to find any napkins.

“Having trouble?”

You yelped, not expecting to have someone sneak up behind you. You turned around to see Hoshina doubled over in giggles and you were tempted to kick him in his stupid face.

“I’m fine, thank you,” you said between gritted teeth. “Now leave me alone.”

“Doesn’t look like you’re fine. One of Japan’s finest can’t even find napkins.”

“I know where they’re supposed to be, but it looks like some air headed idiot put them all the way on the top shelf,” you snarked.

“That is one thing we can agree on. Those things are always in use, who puts them away so high?” asked Soshiro. You didn’t answer him, instead climbing on the shelves to try and reach the much needed paper products.

“If you fall, I won’t catch you,” Soshiro added.

“If I fall and you put your hands on me, I’ll make sure you don’t leave this closet alive,” you snarled back. Your hands found a good grip on the napkins and you pulled, climbing down with a handful.

“If you’ll excuse me,” you told him, trying to push past him.

Soshiro tapped your shoulder. “Uh, L/n?”

“What?” you growled, turning around. “I thought I told you not to touch me.”

“I thought you might wanna know there’s a big bug in those napkins.”

You gulped, bringing your eyes downward. Lo and behold, there was a large, black bug staring back at you from in between the napkins.

“Get the fuck away from me!” you screamed at the poor insect, throwing the napkins out the door of the closet. Soshiro, in his own panicked state, quickly closed the door so the bug didn’t make its way back inside to enact revenge. You put your hand to your chest in an attempt to calm your racing heart.

“That was… that was good thinking. With the door closing,” you told him.

“Oh? Yeah. Uh, thanks.”

Trying to escape the awkward silence, you reached for the door handle, only to find it not budging. You tried again and again, but still, the handle wouldn’t move.

“Can’t figure out how to open a door either?” teased Soshiro.

“It’s stuck, dumbass.”

“No way. Let me try.”

You reluctantly stepped out of the way. “Because you’re so much stronger than me, is that it?”

Soshiro grunted as he tried to shake the handle loose. “Is everything with you some sort of personal attack? Why can’t you just relax?”

“Do you think I got this job by relaxing, hm? By laughing it up with my superiors until I got promoted?” you seethed. The door handle, obviously stuck, was ignored by the vice captain who was now dangerously close to your face.

“Do you think that’s how I got my job? That I didn’t work hard every day to prove my worth? I trained just as hard, maybe even harder than you, to get where I am now.”

“Hoshina, from the respectable Hoshina family, worked harder than me to get to where we are today. You really are a funny guy.”

He leaned in even closer. “You don’t know anything about me.”

Your voice leaked venom. “And you don’t know the first thing about me either.”

You were locked in a stare off, neither of you backing down.

“Why do you hate me so much?” he asked.

“Because you’re simple minded, overbearing, and much too smug for your own good. Why do you hate me?”

“Because you’re somber, bookish, and you don’t know how to enjoy a good joke.”

You stood there, your breaths mingling in the small confines of the storage closet, and you wondered what in the world was happening to you as you noticed how handsome Hoshina was for the first time.

“God, you annoy me,” you whispered.

“And you mildly irritate me,” he replied. Without thinking, you closed the small gap between you, placing your lips on his. He eagerly reciprocated, kissing you back. You backed off after a second, embarrassed at your actions.

“Shit, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have done that-”

“See? You play by the rules too much,” Soshiro interrupted with a smile; this time, though, it was a sincere one. He leaned back in to connect your lips once more and you completely melted into each other. Your hands gripped at his hair as his made their way to your waist, holding you steady. You were totally lost in each other, nothing but Soshiro filling all of your senses. The passionate kiss lasted a long time, both of you continually going back for more. The only thing that made you pull apart was the sudden squeak of the door and light flooding in to highlight his tousled hair and your swollen lips.

“Oh! Platoon Leader! Vice Captain! I’m sorry, I’ll just take these napkins from the ground! I swear, I didn’t see anything!” Kafka stuttered, slapping a hand over his eyes.

“Kafka, wait! Check the napkins for a big bug!” you yelled, but it was too late. The bug had made its appearance and Kafka screamed, running into the storage closet and slamming the door behind him.

“Kafka,” Soshiro said lowly, “the door handle is jammed from the inside.”

“No way, I’ve got this,” said Kafka confidently.

“I don’t got this,” he said dejectedly after a few minutes, sliding to the floor. He looked up, pointing between you and Soshiro. “So… are you two a thing now?”

Waiting for Reno to find all of you in the storage closet was the longest ten minutes of your life.

TAGLIST: @kana-daydreams

#soshiro hoshina x reader #hoshina soshiro x reader #soshiro hoshina fluff #soshiro hoshina #kn8 x reader #kaiju no. 8 #kaiju no 8 x reader #enemies to lovers #soshiro hoshina enemies to lovers

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stemms · 3 months ago

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While I enjoy The Owl House for its captivating plot, fascinating characters, accurate and respectful representation of the LGBTQIA+ community, and strong character development, I find that the ending leaves something to be desired. Specifically, I would like to address Belos’ death. His character is fascinating, complex, and significant to the narrative, so I feel that, although he obviously deserved to face the consequences of his actions, his death should have been treated with more gravity and significance rather than mockery.

To me, Belos has always been an example of a well-crafted, complex villain, marked by internal conflicts, fears masked by a stern façade, regrets, and a flawed worldview. His delusional belief that his monstrous actions serve a noble purpose sets him apart from the typical villain, whose sole motivation is an insatiable desire for power and chaos.

Even the smallest glimpses into Belos' backstory reveal his complexity, making him… painfully human despite his desperate attempts to project an image of divinity and power. While his actions are undeniably inhumane — marked by obsession and unwarranted hatred toward witches — his backstory exposes a vulnerable, sobbing child, and a young man consumed by envy and fear of abandonment by his brother. This perspective shifts him from a mere cruel Emperor driven by a thirst for power, to a mere human full of insecurities.

While Belos’ past doesn't excuse his horrific actions, it sheds light on his motivations and twisted worldview, which would remain opaque without this context. Exploring more of his backstory would allow us to uncover vital details about the way his past influenced his future life, his mission to spread the “Titan’s Will” across the Boiling Isles, and so much more.

If only Belos’ vulnerable, human side had been explored more deeply, we could have seen the stark contrast between his imposing exterior and his inner loneliness and misery in more detail. This exploration would suggest that his public persona wasn’t just manipulation to gain the witches’ trust, but also the act of self-deception in an attempt to convince himself that his actions were for the greater good, while also trying to fill the void within him.

This being said, the scene of Belos’ death was quite the opposite, as it was treated as nothing more than a comic relief, completely undermining his character journey. After his entire body melted, he was casually stepped on by Luz and her friends, which felt jarring given the weight of his character, and was simply unnecessary. I believe that even if Belos’ death stayed the exact same, but the last part was removed, it would’ve been so much more tolerable.

#my toh thoughts #the owl house #toh #the owl house spoilers #emperor belos #belos wittebane #philip wittebane #toh philip #toh critical #toh criticism #tw death

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f1crecs · 6 months ago

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Fic Rec List - Carlos/Oscar

if your fic is on this list and you don’t want it to be, please let me know and we will remove it immediately, no questions asked. we have contacted most of the authors on this list, but sometimes people fall through the gaps - just pop us a message🤍

have a pairing you want us to do next? please read the faqs and then head to the inbox.

don’t forget to give the authors featured on this list some love in the form of kudos, bookmarks, and comments!

the carlos/oscar ship (affectionately known as carcar) has taken off in recent weeks. we wanted to share some of our favourite fics with you!

new to the fun? you can find a carcar primer here, written by @blueballsracing 🧡❤

enjoy!

nsfw: reckless attention by @janinaduszejko | E | 4.2k Carlos and Oscar have a casual hookup arrangement. Both have very different ideas about how significant it is. I really like unreliable POV in fic like this. Oscar thinks he's having casual, convenient hookups with Carlos, and is determined not to examine his feelings too closely. Carlos, meanwhile, is having a crisis over it, experiencing wants and urges he has no clue how to even begin handling. Being into a guy is confusing enough, but apparently to be submissive as well? No wonder he can't do it sober.

A quick-fire flash of something mawkish blitzes up Oscar’s spine and he sets his jaw against it. He keeps Carlos’s head in place and sets a new rhythm, fucking up in quick, even strokes. Carlos groans and Oscar can feel it around the head of his cock, the taut vibration of it, the hot clench of Carlos’s throat. Oscar’s skin feels like it’s got a current running through it, prickling sharp. His brain feels fuzzy, thoughts unable to get purchase and linger.

nsfw: the better half of a good time by @antimonyandthyme | E | 4.4k Canon divergence, future fic, sex work. Oscar, a few years into his Formula 1 career now, is locked in a bitter WDC fight with Lando. Their relationship has completely soured. He cruises the streets one night and finds a sex worker. The man, a few years older than Oscar, is vaguely familiar. Fics which explore how tenuous and elusive motorsports careers can be, how a few small changes of circumstance can result in a career failing to launch at all, are fascinating to me, and this one is no exception. The author paints a picture of a world just ever so slightly skewed from our own, one where a few unlucky moments resulted in a very different life path for Carlos.

'He’s not angry, not really. His thoughts can’t help but stray to Lando. Those last few times were mean. And being mean takes effort, more effort than Oscar sees fit to expend. Then the last few times had dried up to nothing, and Oscar had taken to searching for other ways he could keep winning outside the track, because nothing on track actually felt like winning anymore.'

nsfw: Open mouth, on my knees (for you) by @lovelylotusf1 | E | 4.9k Oscar has a bad gag reflex and asks Carlos to help him train it away so he’d be good for Lando. What ensues is desire and power dynamics and taking what you need from the other person. I really enjoyed how the author depicted Oscar’s internal thought process and the journey of hatred to desire. The way Lando’s existence was used as almost a pawn was also written really well!

nsfw: hatred cradles you by @foggieststars | E | 6.8k Carlos comes to Oscar’s hotel room in search of Lando. What ensues is bickering, rising tension, and passionate hate sex. I love the palpable tension woven throughout this fic, Oscar and Carlos’ characterisations are so fun and fit so well together. The dialogue and the bickering is fun and fast paced and makes you want to read more! Amazing work by this author as always.

when both our cars collide by @oscarpiastriwdc | M | 8.4k Carlos finds himself stuck in a time loop, experiencing the same qualifying crash with Oscar over and over. I love time loop fic. There is something about being given the chance to fix something or change something, being able to examine a situation over and over in granular detail, that works especially well in F1 RPF where milliseconds can make a difference. As per the best Groundhog Day fics, it's not so much about what Carlos does as how he feels, and he finds himself drawing ever closer to Oscar as the loops stack. Oh, and there's a really cute dog.

'“Is that your dog?” Caligula wiggles, instinctually sensing the conversation has shifted to her. “Yes.” “I never pictured you with a tiny dog.” Carlos snorts. “What, you thought I would have a big, mean dog?” “More like a cat who scratches your eyes out.” “She’ll do that, too.” “What’s her name?” “Caligula.” Oscar makes a strange noise, a cross between a laugh and a sneeze. “Caligula? That’s an… odd name. Can I?” Oscar extends a hand, questioning. Carlos nods, and Oscar lets Caligula sniff his fingers. She catches a taste of something appetizing and nibbles at his fingers. “Sorry–” “No, she’s sweet.” The ‘unlike you’ remains unspoken'

nsfw: moth to a flame by @blueballsracing | E | 15.5k Enemies to lovers carcar with some hate sex and plot (aka Carlos moves to Red Bull next season). This was really fun to write and I loved going into Carlos' mind and writing their dynamics!

'For a split second, his thoughts fill up with wonders about the future, but he’s stuck in the past. Blue, yellow, orange, and red line his vision–and suddenly, a montage of memories obstruct his vision. He’s 20 when he drives at the Australian Grand Prix for the first time he debuts with Toro Rosso. He’s 20 when he’s next to 17-year-old Max playing word tennis in a car. He’s 21 when he crashes in qualifying at COTA, but makes up 10 positions on the first lap and finishes in the points. He’s 21 when he out-qualifies Max for a whole season, 10-9. It’s the little wins that matter–for, life is not a sprint, but a marathon. He’s 22 when Toro Rosso is a mess in the 2017 season, but he comes out on top as the superior driver of the 4 that “half” season. He leaves to save face, to get away from the screaming toxicity that is Jos Verstappen. He’s 23 when he drives for Renault for the first time and scores points. He’s 24 when he’s replaced by another Red Bull reject driver, Daniel, when he leaves Renault for McLaren. Except–he thinks otherwise. Red Bull didn’t reject both him and Daniel. Quite the opposite. The ages muddle together, but the story stays the same. He crashes and scores points and–he leaves and leaves and leaves. He gets his first podium and thanks the Brazilian audience, he leaves, he replaces a world champion, he gets his first and second and third win, is called slurs and hate names every single time for it, he leaves, he leaves, he leaves.'

nsfw: Grill the Grid by @mercurial-vroom | E | 23.2k (wip) Oscar, a very socially anxious engineering student, agrees to join Lando's pub quiz team. His rival on the team turns out to be Carlos. This fic is light and funny while at the same time examining what it can be like to be socially awkward and anxious. Seeing Oscar settle into the group dynamic is great, and the interplay among all the characters creates some great sparks.

Then, Carlos picked up the glass and took a long pull, his eyes still not leaving Oscar’s as he did so. “Well done,” he said with a small smile. Oscar noticed after he set the drink down that his plush lips were damp and shiny from the foamy beer. “I guess I am off my game tonight. Good show, Oscar.” And although he knew he should still be basking pettily in his moment of small-but-gratifying triumph… all of the sudden, Oscar found that all he could focus on was the fact that this was the first time he’d heard Carlos actually use his name. He was deeply unnerved to realize just how much he’d liked the sound of it.

nsfw: he just turned in like i didn't exist by @drivestraight | E | 36.5k Carlos and Oscar develop a soul bond. Neither of them are thrilled about this. This fic is wonderful. The soulbond complicates their already prickly relationship, until they start to develop an understanding and find empathy for one another. Oscar keeps getting little zings of stress from Carlos which we know are about his contract. Oscar, meanwhile, is starting to work a few things out about his sexuality and finds Carlos to be a surprisingly kind and patient presence in his mind.

'Oscar swallows. You heard me? he asks, uselessly. That first day, Oscar had assumed that everything Carlos heard, he responded to. Carlos hadn’t—hadn’t responded to any of those thoughts. Oscar hadn’t known. I heard everything. It is not very pleasant to have someone tell you how unwanted you are all the time. How you would prefer it to be literally anyone else. Bringing the incident up was the only way to get you to stop thinking about how horrible it was to have me as a soulmate. You do not think as quietly as you think. Oscar’s throat feels tight, a sinking and horrible feeling settling into his gut. Carlos hadn’t—at least not in English—hadn’t thought a single thing about how horrible their bond was. Oscar’s been the asshole this whole time, hasn’t he? I didn’t mean it like that, he tries. It feels like a lie even to himself. Carlos doesn’t respond. I’m sorry, Oscar tries again, playing with the ring on his index finger. Carlos is silent for the rest of the weekend. Oscar finds out later, from Lando, that it was Carlos’ birthday.'

#pairing:carlos/oscar #driver:carlos #driver:oscar #trope:soulmates #carcar

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