#like there's a lot of story threads from the first game that have been being woven | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

davosmymaster · 2 years ago

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No Time To Die

TAGS AND WARNINGS - +18, Minors DNI, no explicit smut but sexual themes, whump, a lot of angst, blood, graphic wounds and procedures (?) probably not medically accurate, could be almost gore if you squint, hurt/comfort, two dorks in love, canon-typical violence, near-death experiences. Not based on the game, I don’t know anything about the game and I don’t want spoilers please.

PAIRINGS - Joel Miller x fem!reader

WORD COUNT - 9.6k.

SUMMARY - The main difficulty of being Joel’s closest friend is not falling in love with him, but you still do. Those feelings are buried until you join him on a mission to trade supplies with Bill and Frank. With your life now hanging by a thread, Joel is determined to get you to safety, but the clock is ticking faster than he can run.

A/N - I honestly don’t know what this is. I tried to look for angsty and whumpy fics and couldn’t find any that hit the spot just right; so I wrote my own. This story is set in some time between 2010 and 2020, or so. Bill and Frank are still very much alive. The only warning apart the amount of blood in this, it’s my own knowledge of the English language.

'Breathe'

With a shiver, you try to comply with your own command. The action itself confuses you, and you don't know where exactly in your mind that thought came from; or why. All you know is that a moment ago you were nothing, absolutely nothing, not even human. You forgot your own existence in a still ocean made of black thick ink. The ink is now backtracking, though, but the remnants of it stay in your foggy mind, clouding it as your consciousness comes back in waves.

Waking up from a dream is easy, you just come back into yourself from a nice trip to your own imagination. Regaining consciousness, however, is a little more difficult. Instead of going somewhere, you go inwards into yourself. Your overworked mind, already tired and busy with keeping you alive, doesn't care much about bringing you to any other place so you can die peacefully. No. And the awakening is not as it should be either.

Coming back into yourself is your body crawling its way to the land of the living, with your flesh drenched in tears, blood and sweat; and nails digging firmly into the dirt. At least that's how it feels as you go back and forth between the two worlds, rocked violently by the waves threatening to drown you in its heavy never-ending dream.

You wake up tired, and cold. The first sense that returns is touch; and with it, a pulsing pain radiates from under the right side of your collarbone and all the way down to your chest and back. The —obvious— wound is warmer than the rest of your body. It's like you've grown a second heart right at the borders of the wound; it throbs relentlessly. The second is taste. Your mouth tastes like salt and melted butter; despite not having eaten either in at least three days. Around the dryness of your tongue you feel a sticky liquid swirling around in your mouth, plastered to your gums.

Whatever it is, you cough it out of your mouth. The old blackened blood splatters on the wooden planks below your mouth. Then, a second later, you feel a sprawled hand on your back; and the rest of your consciousness returns with it.

He calls your name. And he, whose presence you'd have recognized even blindfolded, even miles away from there, doesn't appear in your mind for a few seconds. But even half-conscious and at death's gates, his name leaves your mouth with a sigh of relief.

Joel.

"I'm here," he says, his palm now pressing a bit harder into your back, trying to comfort you somehow. If you had been fully aware, you'd have been embarrassed at the relieved groan that had escaped your lips while saying his name. "How are you feeling?"

His voice sounds less muffled now, but the pulsing pain intensifies the closer you are to the surface. A second groan escapes your mouth as the warmth under your collarbone becomes impossible to ignore.

"I know, I know" he says.

Your eyes flutter open. From your point of view there's not much to see except torn wallpaper, your blood stains, and the shadow of a window. You're on the floor, your cheek pressed against the dusty carpet, your body very still laying on them, and Joel rubbing your back.

The room is dark. His fingers enter your field of vision, they dip on the wet blood stains and turn around so Joel can see the sticky fluid staining his fingers. He takes a breath, a gasp, really.

"Goddamnit," he mutters under his breath. His hand stops rubbing your back, and as black stains crawl from the corners of your vision, trying to take you under the waves again, he talks to you:

"I need to turn you around..." he says with a gentle voice. It's like the icing on top of a sour and burnt cake; he's trying to sound caring, but that doesn't change the fact that it's going to hurt like a bitch. "You hear me?" he says, and his voice breaks for a second. Your ears ring, the next thing he says your brain doesn't process it, your vision has been clouded by darkness again...

A scream tores your throat as a shooting pain lights your body on fire. It feels like lightning going through your backbone. Suddenly, the waves are very far away and you're feeling way too conscious for your liking. Despite your pain, Joel is still as careful as he can as he lays you on the floor, now facing the ceiling instead.

The throbbing pain continues, and you blink to get rid of the tears that distort Joel's face. His hand wipes the tears from your face.

"I know," he says. He has a crease between his seemingly angry eyebrows that you had never seen before.

Both hands are roaming your ribs now, before you can even say anything. His warm hands give you shivers as he touches your naked skin. The pain is so unbearable that all you can do to mitigate it is hold your breath. If you could move, you'd be right now curled on the floor like a pretzel. You are not crying anymore, but you'd be lying if you said you weren't close.

"Can you breathe?" he asks then, when he doesn't find any cracks in your ribs by touch alone. You don't respond because you can't find your own voice, and he sounds desperate at this point. "You coughed blood, I need to know if any of your lungs are collapsing."

"It-it hurts..." you wheeze, your eyes tightly shut. For a split second, you wish you were back to being nothing. Being nothing sounds way better than having a gunshot wound in your chest. The bandages, tight over your bones and shoulder, don't mitigate the pain either. If anything, they worsen it. It feels like a tight sock over a painful pustule on your heel.

Worst part is you know all this pain is for nothing; you know you won't make it. If you go back to the QZ, you will be executed. If not, there's nobody to help you except Joel. But even if there were doctors or hospitals, you highly doubted you could find the necessary tools to extract a bullet and stitch the wound. That is, if you manage not to die of blood loss.

"Where?" Joel asks. Even beyond all this concern and well-hidden panic, he seems to cling to an ounce of hope. "Tell me where it hurts."

Your fingers gently trace your skin until they reach the area under your collarbone, and you sign to your back too. There's a bandage there, but nothing else, and that's when you notice you don't have a shirt on, just your blood-soaked bra.

"Is it bad?"

"Not that bad. The bullet went through," he said. That explains the pain on both sides of your body; you have a literal hole in your chest. "And it clotted soon enough to stop the bleeding, but you lost too much blood anyway... Anywhere else?"

Your whole body hurts and this abandoned house suddenly feels like penance, but you don't want to scare him further, so you shake your head no very slowly.

"Alright," he mumbles. Joel nods once, and it looks like he is reassuring himself. His eyes betray him, he looks like he is very far away from here, very buried under all the scenes playing on his mind; but despite his stillness, his lower lip quivers.

You can't move your right arm at all, but with the other hand, your fingers lightly touch his knuckles still resting on your stomach. He winces, and your fingers are wet with his blood too. He must have beaten to death whoever shot you, that you are certain about.

Your voice, little more than a weak breath, whispers:

"I-I want you to do it."

The crease between his eyebrows deepens. He seems confused rather than angry; the reaction you were hoping for. You take a breath to repeat your own words, but he squeezes your hand.

"Don't," he says.

"Joel..."

"Don't even think about it," he snarls. "You are perfectly fine, don't be dramatic."

You don't know what hurts more; his pain or yours, but his denial makes your eyes wet with tears again. This is already hard, but he is making it even harder. All he will achieve by trying to keep you alive is either prolonging his pain or getting himself killed. You both know this is no world for the injured and the sick, not out of the QZ, at least. And in most cases, not inside either.

All you ask of him is to not leave you for the infected to find. Is that too much to ask?

You want to insist, but you know he won't have it. Joel has lost so much already that the thought of losing what little left he has is not even going to cross his mind. Not until it's too late, at least. Also, you don't want your last moments with him to be a fight. You are tired of fighting, of swimming against the current. You just want to let go for once, give in to the external forces, close your eyes and peacefully breathe.

What's more, you should have already known that he wouldn't do you that favor. He is too selfish for that.

He pats your cheeks gently with his large hands, and your eyes, already rolling back into your skull, get focused on him again with a few blinks. You breathe slowly, trying to focus on him, on the world around you slowly twisting and turning.

"...that's it," he says, it doesn't sound like his first sentence, so you guess he's been talking to you before. When you look back at him, his breathing is shallow, and you know he is trying to take a hold of himself too, trying not to give in to panic. "Good girl, that's it. Keep your eyes on me."

Exhausted and hurting as you are, keeping your eyes open it's like asking you not to drop a weight that you cannot, in fact, handle; but you try nonetheless. It's your fault, really, for letting yourself go, for trying to give up on your fight earlier than you should. Joel is here trying to keep you alive, mending all your broken ends and stitching them together —he has always been good at that— while you're just trying to give up on him —you are really good at that too—.

Giving up on Joel has been one of the hardest things you've ever had to do; and now you're letting him go for the last time. Part of you is glad you don't have to keep watching how he chooses Theresa over and over again. You are even relieved that fate —or whatever there is out there— is forcing you out of the equation. After all, you would never have given up fully on him.

He refuses to kill you, what he doesn't know is that you've been dead for a long while now. Him being your executioner would be the kindest act he could have with you, the most intimate thing you'd ever share; your last moments. You want it to be him, you want him to free you from this torment.

He refuses, though; and it feels like a punch to the pit of your stomach. You shiver.

He gets up from his place on the floor, where you are lying just over the carpet. You follow him with your eyes and see a fire cracking up in a fucked-up chimney. He stokes the fire, throws some more wood on it and then comes back to you, covering you with his jacket, the very same jacket you had on before he turned you around. It's warm, his, and you have to stop yourself from sinking your nose into the collar.

"I had to take off your shirt to patch you up," he says, but he doesn't say sorry. Ever. So you guess it's his way of apologizing.

You simply nod, aware that you had wished for this very moment to happen many times before. You had dreamt of his rough hands over your naked flesh, caressing the sides of your body. You had dreamt of him watching you with those chocolate eyes as you took your shirt off, deep black pupils spreading over the brown as he watched the lace fall like a helpless witness.

But now the bra was covered in blood and he was watching you anywhere but the lace. He had a frightened and concerned look on his face, rather than aroused. A look that would have made you feel guilty and ashamed if it had happened in the other scenario. And instead of undressing you, he was covering your body with his jacket as if you were his child.

"What's wrong?" he is asking now, instead of whispering 'I want you' and it hurts all the same to know he's not ever going to say it, and that Tess now will have all those words for however long their lives are.

You guess they were made for each other. And it makes all the sense, really, no one like Joel would ever look at you twice. You were grateful that he even allowed you to be his friend.

"Nothing," you respond.

It's always 'nothing' when it comes to Joel. It's always that nothing whenever he notices you are under the weather. It's always nothing when you are hurt, when someone tries to rob you and they leave an angry black eye on your face. It's always nothing; and he never believes you.

"I don't make promises, you know that," he says, taking your left hand in his. "but you will be fine, I swear."

You don't know what to say, how to explain that you are not scared of death, that you are just scared of not seeing him again. But you can't, so you say nothing and just nod.

Does he want to hurt himself? Okay. You can't do much while lying on the floor anyway.

After that, both of you stay silent. Joel seems to be avoiding looking at you. His eyes are stuck in the fire creaking in the chimney, but they are too restless to be present and conscious of the yellow and orange haze.

Your palm lands on his thigh, your fingers gently brushing the denim. You want to comfort him somehow, but, at the same time, you are scared he will reject your touch and reassurance. That's all you can do for him: no words, no further touching, just a featherlight touch that indicates you are still present. There, with him.

"I thought we couldn't make a fire."

"Don't be dumb. The windows are all broken, it's winter and you are in shock. How else would you heat up?"

"Got it. You're not in a talking mood," you huff. "Alright."

Silence settles between both of you. However, one of his big, rough hands travels to where your fingertips are gently brushing his thigh. At the touch, even if you don't want to let go, your fingers begin to back off. He's not in a good mood, and you seem to be pushing his boundaries a little too much. Except that, instead of letting you go, he catches your hand in his and puts it back over his jean. This time, it's him who brushes his thumb over your knuckles.

For a minute, the only sound in the living room are both your breathing patterns, the flames licking the air and the wind rushing through the broken windows.

"I'm sorry..." you start. And immediately, his brown eyes are all over you again. Your voice sounds exhausted, more than you'd have liked. "...I fucked up the mission. I know-"

"You haven't fucked up anything," he interrupts. That's Joel, all stoic, swallowing his feelings and denying everything that it is not up to his standards. "Would you mind to just rest-"

Your eyes well with tears.

"Joel, for once... Just for once, don't lecture me, don't ignore what I'm trying to say just because you don't want to hear it," you tell him. Then, he thankfully presses his lips together in a pained grimace, but stays silent nonetheless. "I fucked up the mission getting injured. I know it isn't my fault, but it doesn't matter whose fault it is. If you wanna go on without me, I won't blame you."

His fingers are now squeezing yours, but you know he is not even conscious of that. He leans in a little, his cheeks now reddened in anger. He looks like he is about to spit on your face.

"I'm not leaving you anywhere," he says. He looks offended that you even thought he was capable of that. "You and I are gonna get to Lincoln, either if you like it or not. There, Bill and Frank will help you. We have traded all kinds of things with them, and I know they are very well supplied."

"Why would they help me?"

"They are not just people we trade with," he says. His fingertips brush a strand of hair out of your face. "I know they will."

"What if they changed their minds?"

His pupils lock into your own, his jawline swells as he grits his teeth.

"I'm persistent."

The mission was supposed to be an easy one. Walk out of the QZ undetected, walk fifteen miles to the town of Lincoln, just outside Boston, get our things and come back. Our cargo were the two last spools of aluminum that Joel had promised to trade with them and two packets of seeds. Theirs? Two pounds of rolling tobacco and a gun. Tess couldn't make it, she had appointments with other smugglers, probably the ones who snuck the drugs in; which was more than half of their business. If it wasn't that important, she wouldn't have stayed in the QZ for anything in the world. But Bill and Frank were also important, and Joel couldn't go alone.

The two of you should be home by now, and you wondered if Tess was regretting her decision of asking you to go with him. Last night you had both snuck out of the Boston QZ; and it usually didn't take more than six hours to get to Lincoln. But just outside the city you had bumped into raiders; and a stray bullet had hit you. Now you were stranded in a small cabin lost in the woods, about seven miles away from Lincoln; and unable to walk a single step.

And to top it all off, Joel was enraged and neurotic.

Still with the same expression, he takes your wrist and squeezes two fingers into it. Even if you had preferred him not to, knowing that your heartbeat got wild whenever he was around. You let him check on you, hoping that if your symptoms got better he would let you have a quick nap. Your nervousness, however, doesn't improve despite your efforts of trying to calm yourself down.

"Since when are you a doctor?"

He lets your wrist go, then gets back on his feet and gets his rifle.

"You should rest. You'lll need it," he says, now heading to the entrance. He's gonna be standing on guard all night, you are sure of that. "We're leaving tomorrow morning."

That is when you lose it. You can't believe he is that blind, that caught up in his own world.

"I know in your perfect fantasy this is just a scratch, but I truly can't move, Joel. Even laying here awake is hard. How am I supposed to follow...? Joel!"

But he's out of the house before you even finish the sentence.

[***]

Joel doesn't keep his word.

A few hours later, not even near dawn yet, you get pulled back from a dream. Your eyes take a few minutes to register your surroundings; again. And the memories gallop back to your mind in a rush; accompanied by the burning and piercing pain on the upper right side of your chest. Your eyes shut tight, and you inhale a shallow breath. Even breathing hurts.

"We need to go," Joel whispers. His voice sounds muffled, especially over the sound of your beating heart. "C'mon, wake up."

He is once again rocking you rather than shaking you awake. Just to be able to fall asleep you had rolled back into your chest, cheek once again firmly pressed against that twenty-year-old dusty carpet. When he came back from checking the perimeter, not even five minutes after your argument, he placed his backpack right under your stomach so your right side was elevated. You wouldn't have been able to fall asleep if it wasn't for that. The pain was maddening, atrociously painful. Joel had found you gritting your teeth even in your sleep.

He had said you'd leave the next day, but you felt like not even minutes had passed.

"Morning," you complained, half a grunt accompanying your words. Joel shook you gently again when he saw you relax a second time, and your voice came back. "Y-you said...mor-"

"I know what I said but we can't wait any longer," he answered. "I'm gonna sit you up."

Fear pumped enough adrenaline into your system to wake you up. The ache from before rushed back into your mind, and your 'please' and 'wait' left your mouth like a prayer.

"I can do it," you said, but it sounded more like begging than an affirmation.

"I know you can," he lied. As your eyes opened and you saw his expression —eyes focused on you, trembling hands, half of his face hidden in the shadows, the other half gently licked by the orange-like haze of the dying fire— you understood that you had to be in a really bad condition for him to look at you that way, and feel the need to lie to make you feel better. But then, a second right after that, his shoulders relaxed, his eyes fluttered between your face and the surface of his jacket over your shoulders. His stoic mask was back on. "I'm just gonna help you, okay? But you do it."

He did not, in fact, let you do it.

You had managed to lift yourself barely an inch over the carpet, using all the strength left in your healthy arm, when both his hands curled around your side and pulled you up to his chest. Clenching your jaw, you allowed him to drag you a few feet back and into a seating position against the wall; your whole weight over the left side of your body.

"Don't lean on the other side, your shoulder blade is broken."

"Oh..." you almost chuckled. "Great."

For a second, Joel looks at you as if you were completely insane. He reaches for his backpack, crouching on the place where you were lying just seconds prior. Then takes his flask and doubts when passing it on.

"I'm not that desperate for water," you respond, reaching for the flask and drinking a gulp of the liquid. You swallow despite the soreness in your throat. "Next thing you'll do is spit food into my mouth."

"Not even getting shot shuts your fucking mouth, does it?" he says, grossed out at your comment. However, a smile tugs at the corners of his lips. Relaxing him has a calming effect on you too.

You try to pass him the flask again, but he refuses.

"No," he says. "Drink it all. You'll need it."

You look at him with narrowed eyes, confused. It's hard to keep a single thought in your head other than the throbbing pain in your chest and back, but you still try. Rather than asking him how you are supposed to walk seven miles, with the aluminum and his pack, you try to approach the matter another way.

"What's the plan?"

He takes a deep breath.

"You're not gonna like it," he says, his deep voice almost slurring the words. It's barely a whisper. He looks into your eyes, then. "I'm gonna carry you."

"What?"

"You heard me."

There's not an ounce of doubt in his eyes. Joel has that look of determination, the one you only really see when he has his eyes set on something really fucking important for him; most times that includes his own brother or not talking about the times before the outbreak. And with that look on his face, you know there's nothing you could possibly say or do to make him reconsider his own words. He's stubborn like that.

You still try.

"It's seven miles, Joel..." you tell him on a thready voice, a whisper. And Joel sighs through his nose —as if he had forgotten. "And we have to carry..."

"We leave everything here," he says. "Come back for it later."

"They won't let us in empty-handed."

"You don't know them."

For Joel to be so certain about it, certain enough as to put both your life and his on the hands of strangers; you understand that their relationship goes beyond trading. Joel had told you about them, about their situation and the first time Tess and him had shared dinner with Bill and Frank. Still, you were suspicious of them, and you thought that he was too; up until now, at least.

"It's still seven miles," you tell him, and you know him, you know he's about to stop talking to you and leave the room if you don't, at least, partly give in to his reasoning. "...are you sure you wanna do it?"

His pleading brown eyes engulf you, then, with an emotion he had never showed before. His gaze diverts for a second to your wound, to the bandages that, as you look at them, you find they are once again covered in blood. They are soaked in it, the skin surrounding it has a large black bruise —internal bleeding, you guess. And when you try to take a full deep breath, you find yourself unable to, at least not at full capacity.

The understanding hits you, then. You don't have much time left.

"I don't have any other choice," Joel says, but what he means is 'I don't want to lose you'.

"Okay."

Not even a full second has passed from your reluctant acceptance, but he is already on his feet. Joel walks to the only table in the room, takes your gun and puts it in his hip, right inside the jean. The only other thing he takes apart from ammo is another set of bandages —and he silently thanks whatever it is out there that he put those there a month ago—. He doesn't have anything to clean the wound, though; and one of his biggest fears is that it might already be infected. Even bandaged it looks bad.

He approaches you, crouches down so he is facing the wound.

"I'm going to tighten the bandage, and I have to keep the pressure," he says, loosening the knot. His fingers are once again stained with you blood, and he has to fight the images of him pressing on your wound from a few hours ago, when he had found you and, with trembling hands, had tried to stop the bleeding coming out in waves. He looks at you, trying to forget the awful picture of your eyes closed, your body limp on the ground. "Bite something."

You reach for the sleeve of his jacket, the one hanging from your shoulders; and put the padded cuff of his jacket into your mouth.

Joel doesn't give you a warning; and you're not sure if that's a good or bad thing, either. He presses the heel of his hand right over the covered hole in your chest, with such strength that you wonder if he will end up breaking your clavicle in half. As he presses your body against the wall, you can almost feel the cracked bones in your back smashing against each other.

Needless to say, the pain is blinding. The view of the room, the feeling of his heat around you, the scent of him under your nose... all gone in a matter of seconds. Your vision turns white, all your senses stop functioning. Over the scream that falls from your lips, muffled by the jacket, you hear him say:

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry."

He lets go, and your vision immediately darkens, the shadows flowing from the corners of the room quick to reach you. With your last grip on reality you feel yourself melting against the wall, slowly slipping to the side. Joel catches you before you hit the floor.

Cold water is what brings you back. Your breathing quickens at the coldness of it, and the next thing you feel are his wet hands palming your cheeks, throwing water from his flask all over your face.

"C'mon," he mumbles. "I need you awake."

Your eyes flutter open, your whole body relaxed now that he's not applying pressure; but alert enough that your unfocused eyes make a single shape out of him.

While coming back into yourself, Joel does not have any time to lose. He takes his jacket over your shoulders and slips your left arm inside the sleeve, the other, where the wound is, he decides to leave it as it is; and buttons it over your chest so you're not exposed.

"You good?"

In any other situation you'd have said some joke, or just something to piss him off. But as of right now, nothing comes to your clouded mind; and even if something did come, you're too exhausted to even do the mental effort to say it. So you just nod.

"Okay," he nods too, talking to himself inside his head, then takes your face in his hands and looks into your eyes. "You're fine, you hear me? I'm gonna carry you and you're gonna be on my back; so I need you talking all the damn time, alright?

You nod again.

"Starting now."

"Y-yes... okay."

"Good," he says. His hand crawls to the back of your neck, and he joins both your foreheads. He takes quick breaths. He's terrified when he whispers. "You're doing so good. I'm so proud of you."

"Y-you... are?"

"Mm-hmm," he says. And as his words settle into your brain, you feel your chest warm. When you open your eyes and he separates, there's a tear on his cheek, but he's quick to wipe it off. "I'm gonna open the front door."

It's just an excuse, you both know it, but neither dares to say anything. None of you wants to talk about the elephant in the room, the fact that your chances are slim even if this works.

Joel returns quickly, with his lashes wet and reddened eyes. It makes you speechless, to know that all this effort and tears are for you. You'd have never, in a million years, thought you'd ever see Joel Miller cry; let alone for you. He had always been so quiet, so detached from everyone, even from Tess.

Without a word, his hands get hooked on the underside of your thighs. He lifts you up, seemingly effortlessly, and your inner thighs surround his hips. You take a deep breath, again —or at least try to— as you try not to blush and show those feelings you buried long ago. This is not the time, nor the place; so you allow your head to follow his range of motion; forwards. Soon, your nose is pressed against the lapels of his denim shirt. With your good arm, you grab one of his broad shoulders. The other falls limp, and even that little movement hurts like hell.

He freezes, his shoulders now stiff under your hand. His beard grazes your jaw as he tries to look at you, so still in his arms.

"You okay?"

"Yeah..."

Better than okay, you want to respond. Better than I've been in a long time. But you don't.

He leaves you on the table, on the edge, with your legs dangling. His eyes waver for a second as he leaves you there, his hands squeeze your knees in such a brief movement that you wonder if he was even conscious of that. He looks like he wants to say something, but he can't think of what, so he turns around and bends his knees a little to get you to a good height.

"I need you to push yourself up with your good arm," he instructs. "and keep the other still, okay?"

"Okay," you respond, fighting the urge to just nod instead.

Not even following his instructions to a t saves you from the pain. The effort, even with your arm limp in the air, makes your body shudder and an agonizing stab runs through your whole spine. The scream that tores from the depths of your throat is so intense that Joel hesitates to put you back on the table, his back trembles for a second as his body shivers in distress. But, in the end, he has you in the air with a good hold.

He waits, but doesn't hear anything except shallow breaths, doesn't feel anything but the weight of your head over his shoulder.

"You with me?" he asks. He is seconds away from aborting the mission.

"Y-yeah..."

Your arm surrounds his neck loosely. Your fist is closed tightly, grabbing the other shoulder, and he wishes he could touch you, give you some kind of comfort, but he can't let go from his grip under your knees.

Joel does not have the privilege of time, every second is precious, so not even giving it a try, he starts walking as if you weighted nothing. He crosses the front door and the freezing cold wind of the East Coast cuts your cheeks. If he notices —and you know that he has, wearing just his shirt in the middle of the night— he doesn't react.

"Remember what I told you?" he asks.

In less than a minute he has crossed the space from the cabin to the highway, where you were surprised by raiders. You look around, see the bodies of five men sprawled on the floor; lifeless, drowning in a pool of their own blood. One of them has his face mauled to nothing. The sight is so sickening —or maybe you are getting so ill— that a sudden dizziness takes hold of your shivering body.

"Hey..."

"I'm sorry..." you start, teeth chattering from the cold. "I'm sorry I screamed into your ear earlier."

A sound, half a relieved sigh and half a chuckle, leaves his mouth.

"I'm half deaf from that ear anyway."

A light chuckle falls from your lips too. Joel keeps walking west through the highway, and you keep yourself desperately clinging to him for dear life. The moon is your only other companion; without her, you both would be completely blind in the darkness of the night.

[***]

Joel probably hadn't thought about the possibility of taking breaks along the way. That's why, fourty-five minutes later, and under a beautiful sunrise of orange tones, he's struggling to keep going. His knees are screaming for him to stop, his biceps and hands tired of walking with a person's weight over his shoulders. And for the first time in years he remembers the times before the outbreak, when he was capable of lifting and moving huge pieces of furniture; often times on his own, other times with just Tommy.

He might have overestimated his own strength, assuming he was as strong as before. But it seems that not only his mental health has deteriorated after Sarah's death, no. All of him has become older and darker and more broken since then. He hardly recognizes himself in the mirror anymore.

"Joel?"

"Yeah..." he gasps, out of air. "Sorry, I got distracted. You were saying...?"

It is in moments like this that he hates not to be that same person he was before. He wonders if he is, finally, paying for his past sins, for all the people, infected or not, that he has killed.

It is unfair, the fact that you're paying for his piper.

"You should stop for a while," you tell him, your voice low like a whisper. The warm air from your mouth slithers across his skin, up his neck, over his ear, and almost sends a shiver down his spine.

"No."

"Joel..." you huff. Before speaking again, you take a big gulp of air. "We are not getting anywhere if you don't take breaks. You'll just wear yourself off before we reach the halfway mark."

His mind refuses to agree, but it's as if his body takes a relieved breath when he hears the words. Little by little, his body starts to listen to you before his mind does. His thighs are screaming, sore from the pain of exertion; and before he acknowledges, even, his body has stopped moving.

"Okay," he gasps, quick tired breaths quickly entering and leaving his lungs. "...but just a minute, we don't have time for this bullshit."

"Okay," you say, in the same tone he used earlier with you; when he lied and said he knew you could sit up on your own. "Just a minute."

He pulls to the side of the road, and with the last of his strength he kneels down and tries to lay you on the ground as carefully as possible. You fall on your ass on the wet ground, but at least you don't hurt yourself on the spot. He asks you for the millionth time in the last twenty-four hours if you are okay.

"I think I'm doing better than you," you respond, but your voice is so exhausted that Joel would love to just lay next to you and lull you to sleep.

He turns around, his whole weight sitting on the grass as he takes gulps of oxygen. His eyes shut tightly, he wipes off a tear of sweat from his temple and looks at you.

Wide-open eyes stare back at you, but just for a split second. He gets closer, his thumb brushing the shoulder of the brown jacket, his brown jacket. His eyes pierce yours.

"Are you sure?"

"That bad do I look?"

Joel doesn't look at you, not at your face getting paler by the second or the dark circles under your eyes, or your hair now dishevelled. He sees you on his memories and can barely recognize you; your skin and eyes always glowing under the sun, your hair always perfectly done. Your job was often to act as an HR for their clients, and very rarely took actual FEDRA jobs that stained your hands; you weren't like Joel, you didn't care about rations or money or whatever.

Expert fingers gently tug at the buttons, unbuttoning them so he could take a look to the wound. He had barely a glimpse of it when your fingers stopped his hands. Joel looks at you with those puppy eyes, as if you were about to faint in the next second.

"If you wanted to see me naked you didn't have to wait until I got shot, you know?"

You had said it in a playful manner, kidding, as a joke; but he saw beyond that. Part of you had only expected him to laugh, the other was dying —not pun intended— for him to kiss you. You'd have never said it if you weren't in this position, you'd have never gotten in between Joel and Tess.

However, he didn't laugh, didn't make any funny remark. The way he looked at you, from under his eyebrows, lit a spark of hope somewhere inside you. Deep, deeper than your conscious mind would have ever reached. Joel didn't say anything, not even chuckled. His eyes came back to the wound, and uncovered the full sight of it.

He had to fight a shocked gasp. His eyes fluttered, while holding his breath, between your own face and the wound. The bandage was still soaked in blood, that he had expected, but not the large bruise growing into your neck; or your right hand slightly paler than the other. He lifted, with trembling fingers, a corner of the bandage, and his action caused a trickle of dark blood to gush out, as if he had crushed a piece of watermelon between his fingers and it was now running down his arm. He looked below, inside his jacket, and saw a trail of blood that landed right into your navel.

This time, it was impossible for him not to react. Not only his face, but also his body. He tried to get back on his two feet again, but before he finished the action, your fist closed around his wrist.

"Joel..." he heard you call.

"We need to go, now."

Pressing your lips in a sad smile, you pulled him to the ground and he sat, mesmerised on that face he had only yet seen once; that time when he got too drunk on a Friday night and told you about Sarah at three in the morning. He felt his pulse quicken, his heart beating at the ends of his fingertips.

"It's okay," you told him. Your gentle touch brushed his palm, danced around over his tan skin. "You can rest."

Joel felt like he was in a fever dream. The setting certainly felt like it. You hadn't left the Boston QZ in a long while, and he had never pictured you out of those big silver walls either. He had not agreed to Tess' idea either, the dangers beyond the walls were almost impossible to escape. Still, Tess and him knew the city, they could get out fairly easily, had done that for a couple years to share stories over dinner with Bill and Frank. And Joel had loved the idea of seeing you sitting at that dinner table next to him, surrounded by a garden full of flowers, going through the dresses in the boutique that Tess had sworn you'd love.

He had not signed up for this.

"We need to go, please..." he tried a second time, but you just shook your head. He understood, somehow, what you meant.

"A minute won't make a difference," you told him. In reality, you wanted to tell him that you'd be dead when he got the both of you to Lincoln, anyway. "If you are tired we will never get there."

Useless and powerless as he felt, his only option was waiting. He took your hand, intertwined his fingers with yours and took a deep breath. You had never seen him so upset.

"What are you so scared of?"

At your words, his lower lip quivered slightly; it would almost have gone unnoticed if it wasn't because you had been watching him attentively for so many years. He looked at you, eyes barely half open, from under his eyelashes.

"You're very important to me," he said. His tongue felt heavy in his mouth, he seemed to be even more breathless than he was before. Joel had a hard time admitting his feelings, even to himself. "I don't know if you understand to what extent you're important to me."

"I know..." you answered, nodding, your hand squeezed his for a second, trying to give him strength. "But you have Tess home, and your brother loves you... It will hurt for a while..."

"Shut. Up."

His eyes were tightly shut when he said it. It was a metaphor, almost, the way his eyes were closed not just to the physical world, but to the whole situation too that he couldn't escape from.

The tip of your tongue wetted your lips.

"What I'm trying to say is... it will pass..."

His chest heaved, his gaps the only sound that filled the space between the two of you. And you continued:

"People die all the time, Joel; and most times we can't do anything about it."

His body rushed at you, his hands locked perfectly on both your cheeks, like two pieces of a jigsaw puzzle finally in place.

"Not you, you hear me? Not you," he almost growled, his face a mixture of anger, determination, and grief. "Never you. You're not allowed to leave me. I will never forgive you."

There was something hidden between the lines, something Joel wasn't saying. It was something you had denied yourself for a long time, for years, something you had insisted on not seeing because you didn't want to see it. Because, deep down, you were afraid that Joel would never love you back, that he would break your heart, that the only good man you'd ever known inside the walls of the Boston QZ would also be the one to abandon you to your luck.

Joel had been your family for so long, and you had unconsciously protected yourself from seeing him as something else. But now there it was, clearly, latent in his confession. Your punishment for years of silence was now time, or rather, the lack of it.

"I'm not giving up," he said. "and I need you not to give up either."

He's close. His hot breath smells sweet -so instinctively Joel- and it's all around your face. His flesh is warm over the freezing skin of your cheeks. His body around you is shelter, is home.

Joel is soon leaning in. He's all erratic breathing, rapid heartbeat and trembling hands; and as you close your eyes to allow his presence to swallow you like a black hole, he closes his eyes too.

He doesn't let go, not just yet. He breathes in into your quick breaths the same way you revel in his.

"I need an answer," he whispers over your mouth.

"I won't, either."

At first it's like a collision. He kisses you angrily for a split second, demanding and impatient; then, once he knows this is really happening, once he does understand that this is —finally— not a dream, he relaxes into your touch, your fingers delineating his jawline, caressing the beard there.

He's quick, quicker than you'd have expected him to be; definitely quicker then he would have liked. He separates, then; and looks down at his jacket and the drops of blood staining the insides of it. It's not enough blood to send you into shock again, but it means part of the wound is ripping. You need stitches, not just a couple of bandages.

"Enough resting then," he says.

[***]

Seven miles is usually nothing for Joel. In the first few months trading with Bill and Frank, Tess and him usually walked the fifteen miles that separated the city and the town at least twice a month. But this is all the more difficult, not just carrying you there, but knowing that he is running out of time.

And you seem hellbent on making the journey even more difficult.

"So...Tess?"

"Pass."

You huff, and the warm air sends a shiver down his spine; but he says nothing.

"Okay."

Your voice sounds so disappointed that he feels a pang of guilt. You know him better than to insist, and he knows that too. The guilt increases, though; and now he's inhaling a big gulp of air while still walking as fast as he possibly can without hurting his own knees.

"We fucked a few times, before," he says. "but that doesn't mean anything. She's my colleague. That's all."

If he was better with words, and feelings, he could say that he didn't feel anything for her. He could say that their hookups were nothing, just a fun thing they used to do before, before he realized that the one who he really wanted was you. A few months back he had realized that it never actually satisfied him, that those moments with Tess weren't as fun and innocent as they seemed to be before. They had talked about it, of course. He didn't want to play with her feelings, and that had been the end of it. She was just as fine without him, anyway.

"I thought you two were dating."

"If selling drugs for a living is what you call dating, then yes."

Without even looking at you, he knew you were smiling, he could almost feel your lips stretching over his shirt.

"I..." you said, then he heard you take another deep breath before talking again. "I'm sorry I asked you," another breath. "I... ran out of things to say."

His brow furrowed in confusion.

"You can say anything," he says. "Anything you really like, even a story."

Anything just to know you're there...

"Well..." you started. Then, a wheezing noise filled the air, followed by a gasp. "I... liked rock music-" silence. "...back in the day."

"You okay?"

Your fist tightened around his shoulder, your forehead pressing against his trapezius. He heard that wheezing sound again, followed by a pant. His hands squeezed harder the tender flesh under her knees.

Joel tried to look at her, but all he could see from his peripheral vision was the top of her head and one eye tightly closed. His throat turned into knots.

"Baby..." that was the most gentle tone you had ever heard coming from his mouth. "C'mon baby. Hold on, we're almost there."

His whole body felt paralyzed, and he had to force himself to keep walking.

What he didn't know was that your lungs were burning. They felt like a pair of balloons squeezing against your ribs, trying to expand beyond its cage. And it made all the pain in your back, from the shot, double as painful. The air you tried to swallow so bad, sounded like a whistle, like the breeze through an almost closed window. You were suffocating.

"Talk to me, c'mon."

With a painful drag of air, you complied.

"I can't..." your fist tightened around the fabric of his shirt. "I can't."

"Goddamnit..." he was panicking now. "Okay, that's okay baby. Just hold on to me, don't let go."

Unable to do anything else, you just nodded as best you could and kept on holding on to him. His eyes desperately looked for signs of the town, and far away, in the distance, the row of trees ended; and he walked faster, hoping that Bill had already seen the both of you through the cameras.

"J-Joel"

You struggled to find air, and, therefore, the words.

"Easy, easy" he said. "Just a bit more. You can do it, I know you can."

His words lingered in the air, unanswered, not even him fully believed them. Joel was starting to feel his own shirt wet with blood from your wound. The feeling made him sick, his own imagination as he pictured what Bill was watching through the cameras, made it all a hundred times worse.

He kept hearing the panting, the wheezing, becoming more desperate by the second. He realized, with horror, that you were suffocating righ there, on his back; from a collapsing lung, he guessed.

He shouted Bill's name as he saw the fence that separated them from the town. Joel wasn't sure if he could hear him, but tried anyway.

He felt your grip on his shirt hesitate, and he had to fight the instinct to squeeze your hand; if he had done it, you'd have fallen from his own grip. He heard you try and say his name.

"Save it," he responded, even if it came out not as reassuring as he would have liked. "Don't try to talk."

Before he reached the fence, it was already opening. Bill came out running, yelling something that he was too distracted to distinguish, Frank came behind him. Joel felt his knees wobble once through the gate. And now kneeling on the floor, he called your name, tried to turn his head to take a glimpse of you.

"You did it. We're here."

He noticed, then, that everything seemed all too silent. Everything that happened after that, happened very quickly. The hand that had been gripping his shirt slipped, limp over his shoulder.

His mind disconnected, completely unaware of the other two people approaching. He released you with all the care that a person could have had, and his arms immediately caught you in an embrace. The sight of your closed eyes made him panic, and not having even checked your pulse, he buried his face into your neck and sobbed.

Trails of blood ran through his forearms, and he threw up all the words that passed through his mind; a string of 'please stay' and 'I'm sorry'.

"Joel," Frank struggled with him, fingers digging into his shoulder. "Joel you have to let go. Let us help her."

He was too far gone, so much so that once your body hit the floor, Frank didn't allow him to touch you again. He sobbed, and, for a second, Bill saw himself in him. He would have never thought he would see Joel in this state, but yet there he was. He kept pressure on the wound, and saw himself in Joel, and Frank in you; and promised he would never let this happen to the two of them.

Never.

[***]

The sun comes out the next morning. As it always does, as it always has. Orange light and blue skies illuminate the room, the clouds shine a different color; and Joel blinks; absolutely exhausted, devastated.

His body is heavy, even if he's not holding any of his weight. He's sitting on the cold tiles, on the floor, his sore knees and thighs in the space under the bed, his head lying on the mattress, his whole body is bent over and it feels like jelly. His eyes are the only thing moving, they look at the window and see the night sky turn into daylight.

Joel couldn't possibly say that he slept in that position; because he didn't actually sleep. He hasn't had a second of sleep since you got shot two days ago. Lying on the bed, is you, dormant; and his thumb draws circles on the back of you hand even if he's not paying attention to it. It comforts him to a degree, at least.

Suddenly, pretty much everything has lost its meaning. Frank opens the door an hour later, almost tripping with the tray of food and water that he left the night before for Joel. He hasn't touched any of it. In fact, he forgot about it, but if it bothers him, Frank doesn't say anything. He takes it in his hands so he can take it to the kitchen downstairs.

"We played 'I will survive' in the radio" he whispers before leaving. "It's a 70s song, but Tess will get the meaning."

"Thank you," he mutters, his mouth pasty from barely speaking in the last twenty-four hours. Funnily enough, the only word he's said to them is 'thank you'.

"You're welcome, Joel," he says. After a few seconds, waiting, he makes a dissatisfied sound. Frank approaches Joel, his palm squeezing his shoulder. "You should eat something, at least. Is there anything you want?"

Joel looks at him, lifting his cheek from the mattress for the first time. His eyes are blood-shot and black circles adorn his eyes.

"Coffee."

"Not coffee, you need sleep."

He huffs, his eyes lost in the window again. Frank, knowing he won't get anything from him again, vanishes behind the door and into the kitchen. He will bring him warm food later, hoping the smell will make him eat something despite his unwillingness to listen to any signal of hunger from his own body.

A few moments later, your hand slips from his. As he loses your touch, a pang hits the pit of his stomach. But then, as he lifts from the mattress again, your fingertips lightly touch his chin, your thumb lovingly brushing his beard.

"Baby?"

Maybe he lost his sense of time, because he didn't expect you to wake up yet. In any case, when he sees your eyes open he practically pounces on the bed. He sits on the edge, and swallows the image of you looking at him.

"Morning."

He smiles at your words, feels his strength coming back into his body.

"You're here," he says.

Even beaten up as you look, he thinks you are gorgeous. Your face has regained its usual color, the bruising is coming down, changing colors little by little, the wound is stitched and bandaged, and the blood flow seems to reach your fingertips normally once again. Joel has no idea how Bill fixed the collapsing lung, he had said something about medical knowledge being necessary in the field too, but he hadn't paid attention. He doesn't care about the details, though. He just cares that you're safe and sound, and despite the close call, that has seemed to be the end result to this whole dilemma.

There's no blood in sight, not even in the bandages. Frank had washed the blood from your hair the day before, and Joel had helped with the rest. He wished he could have you like this everyday: happy, clean, safe...

In the last few hours Joel had discovered he was jealous. He wished he had a town like Lincoln all to himself, just so he could see you picking flowers in the front garden.

"I'm here," you told him. The words felt like strawberries in his mouth. "and I'm not giving up on you."

He released a breath he didn't know he was holding, leaned in for both your foreheads to meet, and kissed you.

#joel miller x reader #joel miller x female reader #joel miller x f!reader #tlou fanfic #tlou spoilers #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal x female reader #the last of us fanfic #pedro pascal x oc

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carlyraejepsans · 5 months ago

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UTY!Flowey, "lore" and how to criticize a fan prequel without being an insufferable pedantic, a guide by Biscia.

(for my muskless fellows, here's a transcript of my thread on Undertale Yellow that I posted on Twitter. enjoy!)

There's this really frustrating attitude in fan spaces i like to call "lorepilling" where people are substantially more concerned with encyclopedic knowledge of details & minutiae (so called "lore") in place of full-text thematic/narrative analysis as if the two are mutually interchangeable.

It's especially common in large franchises and story heavy videogames, and it's like... Are You Treating This Piece Of Art Like A Trivia Battle Or Are You Treating It Like A Story

This is coming from a person who is also deeply autistic about UTDR trivia btw, I'm just saying that when it comes to transformative *stories*, depending on the impact it has on character, themes, and narrative structure... lore is expendable.

Ultimately this is why most of the UTY criticism i see (on twitter specifically) falls flat. What does it matter if "lore" means Flowey couldn't chronologically be there when the justice human fell, as long as the game narratively justified his presence in the story in a compelling way?

The real criticism, in the end, is that it didn't.

He's a plot central, main cast character from the canon returning in a cast of mostly OCs and what does he have to show for it? An admittedly sick boss battle in 1/3 endings, sure but... not much else. He has no significant "presence" in the story, no tie, interaction, or even just... an opinion on the rest of the cast. Which is a huge miss when Flowey's meta role is to be Thee completionist player mirror. He's the OG lorepilled UT fan! He's an opinionated little shit!

This isn't to say that UTY *didn't* engage w/ his metanarrative. When me and @a-town-called-hometown first started playing the game (we were both skeptical of Flowey's inclusion), he immediately said "It would be really cool if they made it so this has been going on for a while and Clover has no idea". Which is precisely what the game did in the neutral ending, and what I will openly say was the most well written & well executed part of this game's story...

...a part we almost didn't see, because the pacifist ending disappointed us so much we lost all will to replay.

To put it in the words of my friend Mel @clowwwnbytes, there's a deafening hollowness to UTY Flowey's motivations & core principles where his guilt towards Chara—and resulting black and white thinking—should be. You're telling me Mr Kill-or-be-killed, "sacrificing yourself to do the right thing is stupid", would stand there after 1000s of failed attempts to make Clover survive, look on as they make the same mistake Asriel he did, and fondly call them friend? Cue the guitar, roll the credits?

He would lose it. Oh my god he would lose his goddamn mind, he would throw the nastiest temper tantrum in the world. Are you serious? How dare you. How DARE you. All this effort, all my patience, and you just let yourself DIE for a few worthless idiots? I should've let you ROT!

*clears throat* sorry got a bit too into character. as i was saying.

I can understand a UT prequel wanting to distance itself from the canon Chara storyline in order to form its own identity, but then turning around and choosing Insane About Chara The Character™ for a sidekick is... far from optimal. In the end, Flowey comes across as underutilized and inconsistent, with a whole lot of wasted potential.

This is an issue I have with UTY's character writing (original AND returning) and story structure as a whole. Lots of inconsistent character arcs, tonal dissonance, overuse of situational sadness... it's an amateurish work, after all, and you can feel it. There's no shame in that.

(Though, there ARE some issues that i take more seriously with its writing, especially when it comes to its two main female characters—Ceroba's lack of narrative agency and depth borders on misogynistic writing imo. But that's a topic for another day)

Over all, UTY was an incredible piece of collaborative transformative work, with gorgeous art and a genuinely incredible OST, which... would have benefited from more experienced writers. But hey, you can only ever learn by trying!

For all it could've been a better story, it certainly did not fail to entertain: both when my friend was playing it, and after in our many discussions of its writing, its faults and how it could've been improved (royal scientist!ceroba character fix you will always be famous. to ME!)

I'm sure this project served as an incredible source of experience for the developers: as individual creators AND as a team. I look forward to their future projects!

but also if i have to see another person say UTY is better than Undertale i might turn into The Jonker.

end of the essay! really couldn't stand any of the pedantic ""criticism"" I'd seen of this fangame so far, so i had to say my piece as someone more versed in analysis. happy to elaborate on anything in the replies or in my inbox!

#undertale #undertale yellow #uty #flowey #mywriting #metanalysis

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disregardcanon · 6 months ago

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this probably seems like a weird question from your end,but why do fanfic writers care so much about comments? aos already tracks hits and likes, sorry ""kudos"", so why are comments such a big deal to the point that people will stop writing?

okay, so i'm going to take this question very seriously and i promise it's not to make you feel bad. this is a comprehensive explanation of reasons that comments are important for me, both as a writer and as a reader

engagement vs numbers game

seeing trends

buy-in

community building

engagement vs numbers game

let's look quickly at two different fics of mine. this is the kudos count for a fic called Of First Kisses and Burnt Lips

it's old. it's been up on ao3 for almost 11 years now. 258 people liked it enough to leave a kudos, 12 people liked it enough for a bookmark, and it's been clicked on 3,859 times.

i have no clue what almost any of these people on ao3 THINK about it. beyond "huh. sure. i'll kudos that". compare this to its crosspost on ffn, where i got 5 reviews

3/5 mention it being cute. 3/5 give appreciation to me for taking the time to write it. 2/5 praise the writing itself from the attention to detail with grammar to the craft. 1/5 is an "um..." which is hard to decipher but appreciate and 1/5 is a silly reaction, but it's a reaction! look, someone felt a felling reading my thing! that made me giggle!

looking at the stats here from a purely numbers perspective, my fic DID better on ao3. it got a lot more kudos than it ever got faves or reviews on ffn. but those ffn comments are still what i think about when i remember this fic.

sure, a shear number like hits or kudos can be comforting and motivating. i'm definitely not telling you to NOT leave kudos! but the fics that i've come back to, recently, are the ones where i don't have a lot of kudos but i do have a few people who are invested in the stories and leaving comments to tell me

2. seeing trends

lets look at a few of the comments on my fic The Maid of Honor Made Them Do It

so just in these two comments, we see both commenters hone in on the same detail: my choice to include a special christian music playlist that this characters' friends made for her. a few other people in this thread mentioned that same detail, so i know this bit really worked well! it's great feedback that lets me know that a good chunk of readers agree with my characterization here.

these readers zoom in on specific details that they really liked! things that made them laugh, the absurdity of the concept, enjoying reading it, and that they could see it staged, which is a HUGE compliment for a work in a fandom for theater.

i've always had trouble with imaging where characters are in a space, how they're occupying it and moving, and how to use that for characterization purposes. however, i got more than one comment on this fic about how people could see it staged! that means that i'm improving in an area that i've always struggled with. that's huge. it makes me want to keep working on this thing! it makes me feel like what i'm doing here matters, because lots of people are picking up on similar things! they're invested enough to give me a comment! and it makes me want to keep writing for the hatchetfield fandom because some people are invested in my work here. that is BIG! seeing trends in the way that readers experience your story helps a lot with writer buy-in for a project and also for writers self-analysis.

as a commenter: this helps me JUST as much. when i really dig into what i enjoyed about a fic to tell the writer about it, that helps me analyze and articulate the strengths and things i might want to take away from the storytelling, and that makes my writing better too!

3. buy-in

this is a comment on a series that has less than 100 kudos across three fics, but has thoughtful, appreciative comments on each work. it's called Melting Pot

the commenter deleted their ao3 account. they may be one of the people who commented on the next fic, which i posted recently. they might NOT have been! honestly, it doesn't matter that much to me. this person gave me a gentle and nudge about a fic that matters to me and mattered to them at the time, and they were part of the push i needed to get back to it.

from a commenter perspective, i know that hearing a kind word can help someone keep up their motivation to write, even when i can't write in depth comments the way that i like to!

just recently i only had the time to comment "nice update" on a favorite fic of mine called Teeth That Turn. but they know that i come and i read and they know and talk to me by (user)name. because they know i care about this thing they care about! and it's way more fun to do something like this when i know i can chat with the author about theories and thoughts and ideas. and this isn't a "wow aren't i so cool other writers like me! tehehe" bragging thing, it's just evidence for the case of why comments matter?

if i didn't want this to be a two way buy-in, i'd ONLY read published fiction, you know? we're all playing in the sandbox on the playground and i like what they made. they like that i like what they made :) we're scheduling a play date to fight with sticks after school my mom said it's okay!

4. community building

now i know that i just mentioned above here why i like being a commenter and how it helps authors, as well as why i like HAVING commenters as an author. i'm still arguing those things as a lead up to this section, where i have two other points to make about community building here too.

1. you can comment on OTHER comments! if you go through and read to see what other people are saying, you can agree with them. you can add some commentary! sometimes you can make a joke! and i've only ever had fun responses from something like that. authors tend to love that their fics are getting such a response that people are talking to each other about it! like look!!!!!! my thing got you to talk to someone else about it holy shit?!??!

2. commenting on fics in your fandom builds you a good reputation and makes other authors you comment on more likely to read YOUR fic. i'm not going to post any screenshots on this one because it would be embarrassing for everyone involved, but there have been authors that i really admired who gave my stuff a try after i commented on theirs. and they've told me that's why they tried it! like obviously it's not just networking or whatever, but it's really nice to have someone give your stuff a try because you've been enthusiastic and thoughtful about theirs.

and you make friends this way! fandom friends! who want to talk about your blorbos! you get to go on little play dates in cyberspace with cool people who like what you like. you don't ever HAVE to be a writer, of course. if you don't want to throw your hat into the ring or make art or edits or gif sets or anything, that's cool. no one ever has to participate in fandom outside of their comfort zone! but if you want to, you know that you'll feel more welcomed if you have some people in your corner for it, and making friends in a space, screaming about how much you love the characters you love, and remembering that fic authors especially are just fans too will help you feel like you "deserve" to exist in the space. maybe you don't write, but you go here too. you've got a space in the fandom and your comments don't have to be, like, perfect literary essays for authors to appreciate them and get a motivation boost from them still existing and us being able to go back to them and go!!! look!!! i don't suck!!! this person liked what i did so i'm okay! :)

#anons #writing things #ao3 things #the case for commenting

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sicksadgames · 20 days ago

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As the Sun Forever Sets - Terror in the time of the Telegraph

It’s nuts I’ve been working on this game for over 4 years at this point. As the Sun Forever Sets is for sure my biggest and most capital G Game. It even has a publisher and everything. It’s also my first game! Wow! It's been tough, though. We'll get into it!

Britain, 1899

As the Sun Forever Sets is a survival horror sandbox based on the War of the Worlds, utilises the Forged in the Dark ruleset, and is about ordinary people surviving a Martian invasion of Victorian era Britain. We play to find out how they rise to meet the storm of destruction, the ways in which it shapes them, and if they survive to see a new world emerge, or die amidst the rubble of the old.

In the last years of Queen Victoria’s reign, the British Empire stretches across a quarter of the globe, and under the guise of genteel progress and civilisation, it commits theft and murder on a global scale. Britain itself is on the verge of the modern era, the Second Industrial Revolution pushing people into the cities to drive the factories and forges owned by the greedy industrialist class. But beyond the common causes of humanity and unbeknownst to the men who impose their rule over it, vast wheels have begun their inexorable turning. Across 40 million miles of void, the Martian invasion hurtles Earthward. Screaming across the stars, instruments of annihilation unlike anything believed possible lie ready for assembly, alongside the Martians themselves. They are truly inscrutable beings, but their intent is as clear as it is terrible – they will suck the literal and figurative blood from the Earth, and nothing less than the complete and utter subjugation of humanity will be enough.

If this sounds cool to you... well, you gotta wait, it’s not done yet. Sorry! But you can come and hang out in the Sick Sad Games discord, where I post excerpts and occasionally organise playtests.

The Hard Times of (Old) England

Be warned, this is a long one - over 4000 words (if you don't have a Tumblr account, you won't get to the end before it starts bugging you to register one, so go read this on Medium instead.) It turns out when you work on a game for a long time, you have a lot to say about it. Strap in, grab your gin and laudanum, and let’s destroy an evil empire just by existing.

Thanks to the wonderful @hendrik-ten-napel for taking a look over my disorganised thoughts.

(Potential) Spoilers for: The Bear, The War of the Worlds, The Last of Us, Children of Men, Threads, When the Wind Blows, Amnesia: A Machine for Pigs, The Thing.

Roleplay in the Pre-Post-Apocalypse

TTRPGs love a good post apocalypse. It's understandable - gas up and ride glorious on the legally distinct fury road, run a commune of like minded weirdos in the ashes of the old world, go digging through retro-futuristic ruins to find retro-futuristic treasures. Who wouldn't want to do any of these? But As the Sun Forever Sets is about an apocalypse as it begins, not after it’s over.

There's a lot of crossover, of course. There’s a focus on similar things - disaster and spectacle, relationships and trust, scavenging and survival. But the bonus of the world not yet being over, is that we get to roleplay out dealing with that terrible, inexorable reality.

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HG Wells wrote a book about blowing up all the places he used to live, and it's a banger. I was surprised to find there wasn't a TTRPG based on the War of the Worlds, being the tantalisingly public domain ur-alien invasion story it is. As the Sun Forever Sets is very explicitly an adaption of it, to the point that before I came up with the name it almost got released as The War of the Worlds: The Roleplaying Game (lol). I'm glad I didn't, doing my own thing has meant both me and the people playing are way more free to fuck around without the expectation that it must adhere to a canon.

The book is good, strikingly modern feeling in parts, and obviously massively influential - so much science fiction can be traced back to our nameless Narrators tormentuous trek across the south of England. But Wells’ prose is typical Victorian - overly wordy and florid (any book that contains the word “ejaculating” meaning “to shout” might be difficult for readers who aren’t used to the style), so when it comes to recommending an actual adaptation, there’s only one true king. Whenever I bring up Jeff Wayne’s The War of the Worlds, the usual reaction from anyone outside of the UK is to say "... they made a what?"

My mom was very keen to get me into musicals, but nothing really stuck until she tried this, the secret best War of the Worlds adaption (sorry Steven Spielberg, but you were doomed from the start.) It's the bombast and drama you'd expect from a disaster film, the horror and pathos of Wells’ classic, all expressed through vivid narration and sick nasty prog rock - wailing guitar and crunchy 70's synths operating at full effect. It's not completely faithful to the book, it doesn't matter. It’s the best.

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Ah yes, the film bro's favourite mid 2000's film. Did you see that sick oner? That’s six minutes without a cut, that means the film’s good right? Children of Men is a slow burn apocalypse, dressed up like a world that’s already ended. Plenty has been written about all the little ways the film is prescient about the state of the UK - the slow belly-crawl into facism and nationalist fervour, the particularly British decay and class divide exacerbated by the desperate times, even the willful ignorance and the explicit sense that everyone’s just given up, it’s all here.

All that thematic stuff seems like it’d be really relevant to As the Sun Forever Sets, right?

Unfortunately, we are in fact here to talk about the long takes. The unbroken moment-to-moment action scenes evoke The War of the Worlds to a tee. Theo navigates danger with the same fraught tactical tension as War of the World's Narrator - dashing between doorways, groping for an axe handle in the darkness, desperately trying to start a car as assailants sprint towards him. What’s the best way out of this situation? How do I get from here to where I need to be? He lives his life in rolling, fleeting 5 second intervals, because he’s forgotten what it means to think in the long term - about the future, and what it might hold.

I was always fascinated and terrified by the idea of nuclear war. I guess it comes from watching a lot of 90’s disaster movies, but those are often ultimately fun romps where the day gets saved at the end, or at least the main characters find themselves alive and well at the end of the saga of destruction. Instead, As the Sun Forever Sets asks you to reflect on the horror and sadness present at the end of the world. Things are going to change forever, and change is always hard.

There’s not many clips of Threads and When the Wind Blows online, so it’s a little hard to demonstrate their particular nuclear inflected pitch black darkness. They’re grim - Grave of the Fireflies grim - differing in focus but united in their horrible impact.

When the Wind Blows is a story of an elderly couple living in rural England when the bombs drop, based on the comic by Raymond Briggs. Yes, The Snowman’s Raymond Briggs made a film about 2 lovely grandparents dying of acute radiation poisoning. Jim and Hilda are completely unprepared for what’s to come, their only reference is the Blitz - terrible in its own way, but not a patch on the scale of death they’re about to experience.

They survive the blast and wait for the good old British Government to arrive to save them, as it did in the 40’s. Slowly liquifying in the nuclear fallout, they hold onto each other and keep their spirits up, eventually making the decision to clamber into the paper sacks they mistakenly believed might protect them from the blast. Clutching their medical cards and birth certificates (for the ambulance, sure to be along any minute now), Jim mumbles painfully through a final prayer that morphs into a misremembered Charge of the Light Brigade, and they slip into a perpetual slumber together.

The most tragic part is Jim and Hilda’s unshakeable faith that their government is there for them - ready to catch them when they fall - borne out of Britain’s post WW2 renewal but absent in the 1980’s of the film’s plot, and the Britain of today. It’s a masterful film, shockingly sad, but the shock is the point.

Instead of aiming for your heart, Threads aims for the head. It’s a drama that aims to be as accurate as possible to government research into what a nuclear war might look like, plainly and forensically setting it out without any thought of softening these hard facts for its audience. Rather than focusing on a personal story, Threads flits around several groups of characters - minor government figures and ordinary families. Like Jim and Hilda, they too are woefully unprepared for the end of the world, and those in charge know there’s no way the UK could ever be ready for such a thing.

As mundane life is quietly intruded upon by news updates detailing far off geopolitics and the subsequent escalation that leads to war, the tension rises subtly then suddenly, like a spacecraft on the launchpad. People we’ve seen pottering about their normal lives are maimed and evaporated in the subsequent shocking nuclear exchange, whilst stark statistics flash on the screen - the hundreds of thousands instantly killed, how long the millions more fatally irradiated have left to live, the woefully inadequate tonnage of stockpiled food to feed those who survive. Each zero hits like a gutpunch.

And when you think the film must nearly be over, it keeps going. 1 week later. 1 year later. Threads grinds to an excruciating halt 13 years after the bombs fall, after year upon year of failed harvests from a destroyed earth barely able to support a population level equivalent to medieval Britain. At one point, mute children watch a warped and scratchy VHS of classic kids educational programme Words and Pictures on a TV powered by a steam generator.

The friendly presenter spells out the word “cat” through the thick veil of static, accompanied by a picture of one - an animal the children watching will likely never see. As they watch with blank, emotionless faces, the image of the cat fades to one of its skeletal form. “A cat’s skeleton” the presenter enthusiastically intones. The unrelenting bleakness might feel like a punishment, but Threads doesn’t mean it to be. This is just what would happen, after all.

Love in the time of the Heat-ray

In fact, someone in a Reddit thread said As the Sun Forever Sets “wasn’t just endless misery” and I’m glad that comes across. I wanted there to be moments of tenderness, quiet joy, anger, frustration, love and loss to punctuate the action and the horror.

People are messy and complicated even at the best of times. Under pressure, this is amplified a thousandfold - a little crush becomes a whirlwind romance, small disagreements become full blown fights, and not fully understanding someone might transform them into an enemy in your head.

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The little town Bill conspires to be left alone in ends up comparatively untouched by the horrors going on elsewhere, as untouched as anywhere can be in The Last of Us. He hated the world anyways - so he isolates himself as he prepares for it to end, and it makes sense that his life only really begins as the show does. When Frank arrives, Bill is forced not to just engage with the broader world outside of his little enclave, but in the act of truly living in it.

There’s no prepper’s guide to romance. A human heart can’t be field stripped for maintenance. By choosing to exist as a vulnerable, emotional being, Bill opens himself up to a different kind of apocalypse. Frank becomes the flowering vines that slowly crack the flat concrete wall of a world that Bill created, and when those vines die, the wall can only crumble. It’s so fraught and lovely, delicately yet absolutely gut wrenching. At least their apocalypse was one they decided to have together.

“I’m old. I’m satisfied. And you… were my purpose.” - "Long Long Time”, The Last of Us

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While several of my TTRPG writing friends were gushing about how great The Bear is, Em Acosta, author of the wonderfully inspirational Exile pointed out something super interesting - a lot of the show is about how you deal with people you’ve found yourself stuck with. No matter how much they piss you off, or whatever they do wrong, there’s something that means you can’t ever let them truly exit your life. They’re there, like it or not, until the bitter end.

Turns out this is very similar to how As the Sun Forever Sets handles Player Character relationships. In both it and The Bear, nothing’s ever truly resolved between characters - every relationship is like a cooking pot perpetually simmering. You might’ve apologised, made a truce, or just ignored your issues for so long that they seem to disappear, but no matter what, you’ve got to keep your eye on that pot.

Because suddenly a crisis will hit, and someone says something, or a diceroll comes up bad and all of a sudden the pot boils over and things are once again fucked. You storm out, start screaming, throw a fork. Even in the worst case scenario where a Character leaves because they’re absolutely sick of the rest of the group, they might show up at the end of the game for one last scene. Who knows how you’ll all feel at the end - nothing is ever truly fixed, and only the dead are truly broken.

“I quit, chef, is what’s going on. You are an excellent chef. You are also a piece of shit. This isn’t on me. Goodbye." - “The Review”, The Bear

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I’ve talked about The Thing a little before, John Carpenters sweaty, paranoid antarctic masterpiece. Along with the incredible effects and the (mostly) restrained use of action and bombast, the thing that makes... The Thing work is that the staff of the stricken research base lack any and all emotional intelligence.

It’s sort of the ultimate reverse Dudes Rock movie. Nobody knows anything about each other, so when their bodies and minds are colonised by the titular chameleon from outer space, they’re just another stranger to the rest of the crew. I’d ask you a question only you would know the answer to, but uh.. I don’t know anything about you. Whoops!

Over the course of the film, the whole operation falls apart as they try their best to work together to deal with the alien interloper, but their complete lack of ability to trust or relate to each other - present even before the crisis they find themselves in - is their ultimate downfall.

That final excellent shot of MacReady and Childs sat in the snow at the end of the film as their compound burns around them is the subject of a lot of unnecessary theorycrafting youtube videos, which kind of misses the point. Each suspects the other, but ultimately it doesn’t matter if one of them’s a Thing. One stranger is the same as another. Why bother getting to know each other now?

“Well...What do we do?” “Why don't we just... wait here for a little while? See what happens.” - Childs and Macready, The Thing

Science Fiction Revenge Fantasy

I’m not a historian, but the parallels between 1899 and now are pretty plain to see. Increasing class disparity, a lack of political will to help those in need, rampant cronyism and profiteering. As long as you’re in the place for it, roleplaying in a fictionalised version of the past to air out the issues of the present can be super fun and cathartic. You’re not expected to get a degree in British history to make it work, either.

The title is a play on the phrase “The Sun Never Set on the British Empire”, and it’s plainly stated in the book that Britains Empire acted as a mechanism of genocidal oppression, and that the Martians are here to end it - intentionally or not. It’s appealing as a premise on the face of it, but it goes a little deeper. Memories of Empire echo across time in Britain like the ringing of a malevolent bell, a cause celebre for braying Tories and fascistic right wing cunts (two very close circles in the venn diagram.)

We used to be a great country before this woke nonsense. Things were better back in the old days. The DEI contingent is trying to destroy our noble past. Yada yada yada, fuck offff. I’m sure someone somewhere will accuse me of “wokewashing” the past for including explicitly trans and queer characters as part of the book, along with the historical facts around how we fit into the oppressive Victorian conception of sex and gender. Unfortunately for them, we’ve always been here.

To be a little pretentious about it, every game of As the Sun Forever Sets reaches back into the past and cuts the myth of a glorious and benevolent Empire, and the good old days enjoyed within it off at the neck, purely in the act of beginning one. That sparks a little joy for me. Destroying a racists dream is fun, even if it’s only in the abstract.

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A horror game about the most literalist Victorian industrialist imaginable hearing the phrase “Eat the rich” and getting right on that. I’ve not played Amnesia: A Machine for Pigs despite fond (??) memories of playing The Dark Descent in a room full of jumpy friends, and seeing Dear Esther played live on stage, with a live orchestra and narrator - an exquisite way to experience that game.

The mechanical chops of Frictional Games mixed with the narrative verve of The Chinese Room, how could this game be anything less than incredible?

After The Dark Descent I fell off’ve the “scary guy chases you around” genre of game until Alien: Isolation revitalised it, and the reviews of A Machine for Pigs were mixed - kind of boring, middling gameplay, too dark - so I never went back. I was planning on writing a little about its vibe - dark, gothic Victoriana that rhymes nicely with As the Sun Forever Sets - but after a bit of research, Mandus’ quest for his missing sons strikes an unexpectedly resonant and terrible chord.

The writing and voice acting is phenomenal, Mandus’ split consciousness - the self you play and the other half of him that’s seen the horrors of the forthcoming 20th Century and is compelled to act, imbued into the myopic machine he built - is extremely compelling. He feels compassion for the poor and wants to save them, but they fill him with fear and disgust. He knows the industrialist class is killing the world, but feels a deep shame in the fact that he counts himself amongst them. So his machine grinds the rich into meat for the poor, who it distorts into grotesque pig homunculi and forces them to operate the machine’s inscrutable workings.

It’s Mandus’ twisted way of saving the world - kill the rich for their crimes, enslave the poor for their own good, all hail the new machine/god/manager of the 20th century. It’s a neat reflection of the way modern politicians contort themselves to the whims of big business and AI snake oil salesmen to avoid doing the simple and obvious things that’d better the world. It’s a nightmarish refutation of Victorian Liberalism, that only the upper class know how to fix the problems of the lower class. It’s brilliant, and we should play it.

"Do you hear me Mandus? This is what you planned! This world is a machine! A Machine for Pigs! Fit only for the slaughtering of pigs! Whores, beggars, orphans, filthy degenerates. Pigs all. But I will purify the streets, cleanse this city, set the great industry free. I will clean the world, make it pure." - The Machine, A Machine for Pigs

Song of the Year, of the Century

Not long after I came out as trans, I was asked what (in an ideal world) would make transition easier. I replied - never having to leave the house. One day I'd shut the front door as a man and another day, months or years later, I'd open it again as a woman, neatly sidestepping the terror of being perceived in a notoriously transphobic Britain.

In 2020 I shut that door and didn't open it for 4 months. At work, I remember calling the nearby shelter to donate our excess hand sanitizer and toilet roll, figuring out at the last second how support workers could take calls from their already isolated clients via their mobile phones, and fixating on the steady stream of scared coworkers leaving early. Tearfully, I felt the urge to hug those that remained as we locked up, before we remembered we probably shouldn't.

I've never been more aware of the minutia of moving through a space on the way home - How many people had their hands on this handrail? Have I touched my mouth or eyes without realising? Is anyone in the office already sick? Or on this train? How many more people are going to die? - My heart was in my chest, I heard the blood whoosh through my head to the beat of my steps on the pavement. At home, I realised my boyfriend had to go into work the next day. After he went to sleep, terrified he might die, I cried.

"I remember I felt an extraordinary persuasion that I was being played with, that presently, when I was upon the very verge of safety, this mysterious death—as swift as the passage of light—would leap after me from the pit about the cylinder, and strike me down." - "The Heat Ray", The War of the Worlds

Writing As the Sun Forever Sets was my way of coping with the disconnect with the world I felt, the fear of both Covid and the rising transphobia kept me inside even as the lockdowns eased. That feeling of throbbing death creeping at the window took a long time to wrestle under control, and getting deeply obsessed with a big project became part of that process. It seems incredibly maudlin to make a TTRPG dealing with darkness and death during a pandemic that killed (and continues to kill) millions of people, but I suppose I’m kind of a maudlin person.

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“I haven't written a song in a month, So I'm playing the same chords again. I know I need to get lost in the moment, But I get lost before it begins. Fingers stretching out into space. Reaching as a thought slips away.”

It also burnt me the fuck out. After years of constant work and testing (beginning long before Evil Hat picked up the game), I ran out of steam. I spent the months after Evil Hat’s public playtest ended not really able to write anything ATSFS related at all. The game kind of froze - I knew what I wanted to change or fix or add, but the moment the google doc opened I couldn’t make myself start typing. It was incredibly frustrating to have the switch flip from endless obsessive writing to constant nothing, and I don’t think I truly recognised the burnout I was feeling until recently. It turns out spending years staying up past midnight writing is bad, who know!

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A lot of Forged in the Dark games don’t get finished (or more accurately, get stuck in perpetual development), something that the excellent and dearly missed +1 Forward podcast recognised in their episode collecting their thoughts on the FITD games they looked at back in 2021. I think that’s because, at least to me, writing a Forged in the Dark game is like trying to hold a plate of spaghetti without the plate. It’s deceptively simple at its heart, but the system squirms when you poke at it - write one thing and it affects 3 other things. Tug one piece of pasta out and you lose a meatball without realising it.

When I listened to that episode, I took it as a challenge. Part of me now wonders if it was a curse. I'm being hyperbolic, of course. But a little part of me did think it might be better to give the game up.

That’s not going to be As the Sun Forever Sets' fate, thankfully. Evil Hat has been there to support me when I’ve felt guilty about shifting another deadline or replying to a check-in email with another late “Not much progress this month, sorry!” The frozen writers block is thawing, and I’m so tantalisingly close to finishing the final text. This blog is part of that process, another chip in the icy dam.

The wheels of dread Martian terror turn once again, and it feels good. Part of that is down to not beating myself up about a lack of progress. The more important part came when I realised I felt able to return to the world again - living in it, not hiding from it. Staying connected to it, even when there's times I'm not able to inhabit it physically. Covid, Britains particular brand of transphobic brainworms, and the shadow of Empire all continue to exist, and so do I - a weird maudlin transsexual woman - in spite of them all.

“The day seemed, by contrast with my recent confinement, dazzlingly bright, the sky a glowing blue. A gentle breeze kept the red weed that covered every scrap of unoccupied ground gently swaying. And oh! the sweetness of the air!” - “The Stillness”, The War of the Worlds

You made it!

Thanks for sticking with my messy thoughts. If what I talked about here sounds cool to you, please stop by the Discord, we'd love to have you. Look forward to seeing As the Sun Forever Sets come to a crowdfunding platform of Evil Hat's choice (I assume backerkit) at some point in the future ♥.

#ttrpg #indie ttrpg #forged in the dark #horror #war of the worlds #ttrpg design #science fiction #incredible self indulgence #as the sun forever sets

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kxlitz · 1 year ago

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Hi, i'm loving your work, you're so talented. I was wondering if you could do an arguing with the Kaulitz twins (separate) HC please? ❤

I sure can!! Tysm for the request ִ ࣪𖤐

✶ Arguing with the Kaulitz Twins ✶

♥︎ ♥︎ ♥︎ ♥︎ ♥︎ ♥︎ ♥︎ ♥︎ ♥︎ ♥︎ ♥︎ ♥︎ ♥︎ ♥︎ ♥︎ ♥︎ ♥︎ ♥︎ ♥︎

★ Bill Kaulitz ★

Let’s start softly

This may have been said many, many, many times but it’s true. You guys rarely fight, but! When it comes to little arguments over some petty topics I’m afraid it’s the opposite.

It never lasts long.

You accidentally pulled a loose thread on his silk shirt? He’s going to pout about it for the next thirty minutes

You stepped on him? He will dramatically say you’re plotting against him

Missed a chord on stage? Oh he will be genuinely annoyed for a little while

When it comes to serious arguments though, you need something big to anger him so badly.

It would start just like your usual bickering. Making petty remarks at each other and someetimes avoiding the main issue.

Once his face drops and he goes completely serious you know it's about to go down.

Bill can be very pigheaded so he will stick to his point no matter what. He likes being right just as he likes being in control.

He's the type to speak really fast and cut your word because he feels the need to explain himself.

Is very consious of what he says though, he will never say something hurtful that he doesn't mean.

It's a different story if he actually means it. He's brutally honest and if you did something bad he will tell you without sugarcoating it, even if it can come across as rude.

Bill can take a lot in but there's always a point where he breaks, it's normal.

Look he's not a rude person at all, but he's not one to let things slide either.

A flaw of his is that he may say a hundred things at once and expect you to listen through but there's times when one of your first replies will make him cry or freak out right away. Ofc not always but it's one of the things Bill would need to work on.

He is not that aggressive but is VERY defensive.

Bill doesn't like conflict though, this is really a worst case scenario where something comes up and you guys need to argue it out.

Friendly reminder that it is necessary in relationships to argue from time to time as long as it stays healthy.

If the argument gets too heated Bill prefers that you both part ways for a couple hours to cool down. Then you discuss again after re-arranging your thoughts.

At the end of the day he never meant wrong, he just wants to fix whatever came up.

Bill would feel terrible after you fight. He genuinely fears you’ll leave him or start hating him.

Would not apologize instantly because his pride plays a big game, but give it some minutes or an hour; worst case a day and he will come back sobbing and asking for your forgiveness, expressing how much he loves you and how he never meant to fight.

You’re the type to be angry at each other but still cuddle at night.

Hug him and tell him he's valid please.

☆ Tom Kaulitz ☆

Tom, Tom, Tom

Believe it or not, Tom becomes quite submissive when he's very emphatuated with someone.

He really is at your mercy.

Yet it doesn't change the fact that he's a bit of a hot-head and just like Bill, he likes when he's right.

Let's not forget Tom was a bit of a punk activist growing up. You get what I mean when I say that be likes to get his point across. (Y'all need to read Bill's book if you speak/understand german it's a GEM. There's also a girl narrating some of it in spanish on YT :)

Unfortunately, arguments do happen often. Sometimes it’s really nothing but other times it can get pretty ugly.

When you guys are mad at each other everyone knows that it's better to leave you be because it will get loud.

Your fights range from small discussions that you have often to actual screaming matches when it gets bad.

It's inevitable for the both of you to raise your voices as each other in these cases.

The reasons may vary. It can be miscommunication, ESPECIALLY in 2006-8 when you were still young teens experiencing the world of fame.

Jealousy, for sure. I can see Tom being skilled enough at hiding it but he’s very possessive still.

And well, it’s still Tom. Again if you focus on his earlier years of fame the amount of girls throwing themselves at him can definitely be a cause of conflict.

Unless you’re very chill about it.

There’s definitely still possessiveness on Tom’s side.

I feel like neither of you would really know how to process the frustration.

A little thing to take into consideration is that you’d be the couple that argues, yell that you hate each other and then 10 minutes later you’ll be back to normal and never speak of it again.

Which you need to work on.

It’s because of this very reason that some of your fighting topics can be repetitive.

From what the twins have confessed, they could get pretty aggressive with their surroundings.

Tom would never, NEVER, raise a hand at you. No need to worry.

But the items around him can’t say the same.

He’s the kind of person that feels the anger in him build up physically and needs some release. When he’s fuming, in the worst of scenarios some tables would be kicked or some object would fly around. Just never at you.

This habit does get worked on throughout time though, he matures and grows.

The only physical fight that would ever go down is a pillow fight. Or play fights. Or in bed. But that’s another story.

A bit similar to Bill, Tom needs some time to cool off, just does it more impulsively.

He would walk out sometimes because it’s far too overwhelming.

Makeup sex is a big thing in your relationship.

Tom would love to express himself better and talk things through he simply needs help doing it.

Maybe you’re the help he needs.

#bill kaulitz #bill kaulitz x reader #tokio hotel #tokio hotel imagine #tom kaulitz x reader #tom kaulitz #gustav schäfer #georg listing #tokio hotel x reader #georg listing x reader #gustav schafer x reader #gustav schaefer #x reader

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helly-watermelonsmellinfellon · 5 months ago

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Recently, through Twitter, I have become aware of the fact that modern American parents have been very ignorant of their parental duties when it comes to their children. Parents are banding together to complain about the schools their children attend because their kids are getting bad grades in class, or they're getting detentions for doing bad consistently, or they're being held back because they're just not at the same level as their peers.

There was an entire thread of some woman whining about how the school was failing her kid, because his English class grade was so bad. There were thousands of comments agreeing and various reposts with anecdotes from other parents with similar experiences.

"My 26 y/o son can't even write a check for God's sake!"

And one single person finally replied with, "Do you guys not teach your kids anything at home before they start going to school?" Which then spawned people with actual common sense questioning the level of involvement these people had in the lives of their kids.

This is what led to a large surge of people complaining about how it's the school's job to teach them everything and they did their job just keeping them alive.

Now, I don't want to be mean, but it's gonna come across that way.

Parents are lazy these days.

When I was a child, my Nana and mom had me learning with Hooked on Phonics before I entered pre-K. I was 3 years old and already sounding out words that rhymed. I was practicing how quickly I could say them in under 30 seconds so I could progress to the next lesson.

mat hat sat that cat vat pat bat fat lat rat brat

etc...

When I was in pre-K(4 years old), they had a single, really old computer that had a bunch of Winnie the Pooh CD-ROM games. Because I always got my work done faster than everybody else, they let me use the computer because I could actually read and follow Pooh's instructions, and it kept me busy.

And when I entered kindergarten for the first time, I was really surprised to see that Hooked on Phonics was actually part of my curriculum and I was already very well ahead of everyone else. My mom and Nana took traching me very seriously. They not only read to me, but they would also get me Madeline books and cassette tapes from the children's library downtown. And then I would listen to the cassettes telling the story while reading the book at the same time to get used to the words.

At three years old, I was helping out in the kitchen, learning all of the different kitchen utensils and types of measurement. My mom often went between English, French and American Sign Language at random times so I picked up a lot of stuff that way. We never had a computer in the house for the first 12 years of my life, but I did have an old keyboard to learn how to type. Nana gave me basic piano lessons for a couple years. Mom taught me how to hem my clothes because she would buy me bigger clothes, hem them to size, and then let them out as I grew. Hell, Sperm Donor taught me how to write a check when I was 8. He was also a Financial Adviser, so I got a lot of lessons on money management, investments, and 401Ks and shit.

All these incredibly simple things ended up benefiting me later on, because I was so far ahead of all of the other students that it consistently put me at odds with them. I was better at reading, cooking, sewing, music, languages, etc... I was allowed time to do whatever I wanted while the rest of them had to catch up.

There is a lot more to being a parent than just making sure your kid eats three meals a day and doesn't die in a stupid way. And it seems like a lot of parents these days have completely forgotten that they have a duty to their kids beyond the feeding and clothing thing.

Certain things SHOULD be taught in schools, like how to balance a checkbook. But if it's clear that the school won't cover it, why aren't YOU doing something about that? And why do so many parents have no clue what the hell their kids are even getting up to in school? Why don't y'all get involved in your kid's lives?

#parenting #bad parenting

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riddles-n-games · 3 months ago

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Sunburn

Pairing: Lyra and Grayson Summary: It's summertime in Texas and Lyra is at the Hawthorne House spending time with her new beau, Grayson Hawthorne. He loves to swim and she loves being outside by the pool with a book in hand but often disregards one important rule: applying sunscreen. Lucky for her, she has one very concerned boyfriend to remind her of this. Length: Moderate Story Type: One Shot

"Didn't I tell you to put sunscreen on?"

Lyra snapped out of her thoughts. Grayson was getting out of the pool and approaching her, sopping wet as she blinked against the glare of the sun. Sunglasses only could do so much.

“And didn’t I tell you to dye your hair so you don’t reflect the sun onto me every time you look my way, Goldilocks?”

He narrowed his eyes at the nickname but let a half smile slip. “Even more reason for you to apply it then.” She rolled her eyes. After retrieving his towel, he sat on the lounge chair across from her and started to towel dry his hair.

They were by the pool at the Hawthorne House, his home. Lyra had only been a handful of times and she still wasn’t sure what to make of it. The manor was stunning but it was unsettlingly huge; she dared not ever going through the maze of endless halls without Gray or any of his family to lead her.

Jameson was usually the best guide but Xander knew of the unconventional interesting spots. According to him, he got lost in the passageways during his grandfather’s Saturday games and sometimes gave up to explore the uncharted territory. It made her wary of him at first but soon after he became one of her most loyal and trusted friends. Interesting where life got her after the Grandest Game when Grayson Hawthorne turned it upside down.

Xander called it the Hawthorne Effect and the theory wasn’t exactly far fetched. Who better to testify than the Hawthorne heiress herself? Alongside her sister and best friend, they secured relationships with three of the Hawthorne brothers in a short interval. And now, the last single brother was Lyra's. Or stolen, as the internet put it; those fangirls were no joke. Lucky her. But Grayson was a dedicated boyfriend and he put those worries to rest with a fierceness that made her confident he was the one.

"What are you thinking about?" She blinked. She'd done it again; her thoughts got carried away and the Hawthornes were in the center of it all and- and it was just overthinking again, wasn't it? Lyra looked down and closed her book, sighing in exasperation before she sliding to the edge of her chair and taking his hand in hers. Grayson's eyebrows were furrowed with concern but he stayed quiet as he watched her trace his hand when she spoke up.

"I'm just... Just overthinking, I guess. Your family, your house, everything about you guys; it's a lot, ok? I know you know that and I'm not trying to put you down. Please don't take it to heart. It's just overwhelming to take in and sometimes I can't deal with my thoughts. But you don’t need to worry, I’m working on it and I believe I’m getting better.”

He smiled gently at her. “That’s fine. I know what it’s like, too. Not in the same way, of course, but there are times when being part of this family also overwhelm me. I just coped by hiding it and now I am unlearning that behaviour or trying at least. You could call it-”

“-Failing miserably?”

“Yes. But I’m only admitting that to you and even that’s risky because the walls here have ears.” He gave her a look that said you know who. She smiled knowingly and nodded. Xander. “So just know that if you ever bring it up, I will deny it in public.”

“Of course.” Lyra winked conspiratorially. He smiled back and brought up the hand entangled with hers to his lips, pressing a kiss to her wrist. Then he lowered their hands and brought his free one into her thick locks, threading through them slowly to get the tangles. She closed her eyes in contentment.

It was one of the challenges for her to deal with during the summer but her and Xander often did haircare together and Gray was all too happy to help brush through her hair with his fingers after. And he was also pretty darn good at giving scalp massages; she was truly gifted with a man of all professions.

"You still haven't put on sunscreen." She opened her eyes and gave him an exasperated look.

“I don’t burn that easy.”

“Maybe not but your nose does and skin cancer is a thing, so humor me.” Rolling her eyes, she settled herself closer to him and leaned forward on her hands as he took the sunblock and took a dollop of cream, smearing it across her cheeks and forehead. He took his sweet time massaging it into her skin and she was pretty sure he was just doing that on purpose to prove his point.

"You know I'm pretty sure you wiped it off with how thorough you're being."

"I'm doing it this way to make sure I feel the barrier form evenly on your face."

"Now you just sound like I do when I'm talking to my little brother."

"Well, now you know how I feel. And I'm pretty sure you also explained the importance of sunscreen to him when you're at the pool but he kept running away. Am I right?"

She rolled her eyes again. "Just for that, I'm going to add triple the amount on your arms. But I still haven't done your nose so I must take care of that before I move on."

"You know, I used to think you were intimidating and very closed off but the fact you're now being this cliché, I'm not sure I recognize Grayson Hawthorne anymore."

"Well, I'm a man who wears many hats."

"That sounded like a very Jameson thing to say." He raised a brow at that and she laughed.

"I'm going to ignore what you just said and let that insult be the one off. I was also going to say that it's all due to my therapist suggesting I put the mushy feelings-yes, that's how she put it-out on display."

"So you're implying I can totally make fun of you for it."

"When did I say that? Nobody gets away with such a thing. Not even Xander."

"Hmm, then what was that thing that him and Jameson were trying to tell me about an atonement night? Something about leather pants."

"Those two are going to die tonight, that's all you have to know."

"Aww, don't be like that. Now I have to know."

"Nope, not a word. That's been redacted from recorded history so it technically doesn't exist and never happened. You are most certainly not allowed to know anything more or less than that. I forbid it."

Her arched brows, wide eyes, and amused grin were very telling of her growing curiosity but Grayson wouldn't budge. He was tightlipped and refused to say anything more on the matter. "Stop trying. You're just making yourself look stupid and I don't want that for you. Now stay still so I can get your nose."

"Maybe that's exactly what I've been doing this whole time; distracting you so you can let go of the sunscreen obsession. Think it's now permanently in my skin." Her nose scrunched in disgust at the thought.

"Good, that way you'll be protected year round and I won't have to worry when I take you skiing at the lodge." In response, she stuck her tongue out but he didn't let that slide. He retaliated with a bigger dollop that he plopped on the bridge of her nose and with a light finger, started making lines all around as if he was going to do her makeup. Then, he started making horizontal stripes. "Are you making a grid? Is this tic tac toe on my nose but you have the advantage because I can't see?"

"Shh. I'm making art." She snorted but Grayson didn't lose focus. Instead, he just patted her cheek in consolation before fixing his grip on her jaw to make her stop fidgeting. With careful precision that made no sense to her, he rubbed in the sunscreen on her nose. "There we go."

Lyra shook her head and sighed. Her boyfriend was a piece of work, not that she minded all the time. Even he could be a dork sometimes and it was cute. Not that he needed to know.

"Oh wait, I forgot one more thing."

"What could you have forg-" Before she could finish, Grayson cupped her cheeks, leaning in and kissing the tip of her nose. She gasped in surprise and went still. He pulled away with a smug smirk. "Now it's all good."

Lyra gave him a long incredulous stare before looking away, finding the plants in the neighboring garden suddenly more interesting. "You're lucky I like you."

"I know you do, that's why you let me do this." He placed a finger on the side of her jaw and redirected her to face him before pulling her in for a kiss. Lyra's eyes widened but she quickly closed her eyes and cupped the back of his head, running her fingers through the semi dry locks. Grayson proceeded to deepen the kiss and slid his hands around her back and under her knees, lifting her from her spot on the chair and placed her on his lap.

She held tight to him and relaxed when he repositioned his arms around her lower back, his hand sliding up and down reassuringly. But soon after that, she had to break away for air and she placed her hands on his bare chest, breathing in hard. He wasn't much better and for a moment, only their shallow pants were the only noise aside from the distant roar of a lawnmower.

When their breathing slowed, Lyra smiled mischievously at Gray.

"So about those leather pants." He scowled. She laughed. His heart soared; maybe those mushy feelings weren't so bad after all.

#lyra catalina kane #lyra kane #grayson davenport hawthorne #grayson hawthorne #lyra x grayson #lyrason #the inheritance games fanfics #tig fanfiction #the inheritance games #the grandest game #tig #tgg

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bharv · 15 days ago

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On defined vs customisable protagonists

Taking a break from DATV for some musings on this. This isn't really an essay, just a ramble, and I'm trying to steer clear of spoilers and heavy critical stuff.

I'll discuss the Dragon Age franchise, the Mass Effect franchise, and Baldur's Gate 3, Pillars of Eternity and Cyberpunk 2077.

Basically, I want to talk a little about ways in which a game's set up can help and hinder us in understanding our protagonist, the pros and cons of voiced protags, and what works in my eyes and what doesn't. I hope this also helps people to think about how they draw characters as well!

Firstly I want to say that people will have different reasons to prefer a more defined protagonist or a more open one. Ultimately it comes down to expectations from roleplay in my eyes. There's not a right or wrong answer in which is "better" but I think there are things that help us to engage with both types.

Establishing what we know (and being consistent with it)

Essential to both types in my eyes is establishing what is known. I'm going to use Commander Shepard as my first example here. We are told instantly that Shepard is an experienced officer, has an expertise in one area, and is being considered for a significant promotion. This allows us to infer that they get the job done, and that they have to have a degree of competency (whether or not they are by the book or more loose with the rules) and that they take their job seriously. The game then gives us some good flavour choices around family values, historical trauma, what they look like and what kind of expert they are, but make no mistake; this is a veteran soldier and you are on that road with them. It's a masterpiece in creating just enough freedom for ownership of a character while telling a very distinct story; if you are paying attention at the start, you know exactly what kind of person Shep has to have been to be considered for this role, which makes for a really clear path through.

Hawke in DA2, which was almost certainly designed to mirror the success of Shepard, follows a similar path. We know that Hawke is a refugee, and has a family, and fought in a recent battle. I would argue where Hawke is weaker to people who enjoy customisation is in setting them against their family; your Shepard could be a wunderkind or be eighty years old, have any number of emotional resonances in their personal life. Hawke is much more definite in age range, relationships and social status, which gives less freedom in making them truly your own. However, DA2 is highly consistent with Hawke. Perhaps you can only really customise the face and the attitude, but that attitude ripples through all of your interactions and creates a very distinct character that is easy to become attached to.

Dragon Age Origins does a very different thing by threading through the origins into inferences throughout the story. The knowns are that you will be the Warden and you will have to save the world. How you get there offers enormous choice. You can be a self-serving politician trying to weasel your way back into power, or you can be a devout Andrastrian on a path to martyrdom. A lot of this choice comes from the choice that is allowed with a non-voiced protagonist in sheer range of responses, a pathway that games like BG3 and Pillars of Eternity have continued.

It is essential you are clear with your player early in what is known about the character, both to help them establish them in a world and avoid disappointing their expectations. If your character is a rookie, say it! If they are an expert, make it clear. You can do this through action too - it doesn't have to all be written out.

To voice or not to voice

To me, personally, Shepard is one of the only truly successful voiced customisable protagonists. I have others I like very much (V in Cyberpunk 2077 and Hawke in DA2) but they are much more a slightly editable character on a defined narrative journey. The moment you put a voice on a character you are deciding tone, meaning and intention, and if your written choice doesn't accurately reflect your tone, it breaks immersion. Shepard walks a careful line that is aided by them being "on the job" for much of the time. Formality helps! It creates boundaries that we instinctively understand from our world.

If you have a voiced protagonist, then you have to either record a ton of lines allowing for anger, diplomacy, fun, inquisition and dismissal, and if you don't do that? You probably should have just set up a more defined character and told their story, and been clear in that expectation from your establishing moments.

Oh, Lore

One thing I really liked in BG3 is the way you could toggle on and off lore friendly options during character creation. It gave you the chance to say actually no, I don't care, or make sure you were creating within that world if you did. But regardless, if you have established lore, you have to carry it through. If you have a ton of backgrounds for characters, you have to make sure that's meaningful. A Grey Warden should be able to sense Darkspawn in their first encounter; it's a huge part of their deal. A Qunari character, if you have not specified that they are Tal-Vashoth and strictly from one background, should be able to reflect positively on their religion and cultural upbringing or see things through a non-Andrastrian lens. This is where it can be easier, even if it is disappointing, to set stronger boundaries in the creation of characters. For the most part, people are okay with limitations if it gives them something to work with. In Inquisition there were complaints about how much or little the backgrounds really added to the experience of being the Herald of Andraste, but they did choose backgrounds where there might be a rough knowledge of what was occuring at the conclave. It's okay to leave some things for people to fill in the gaps, but consistency is key.

Learning as the character learns

One clever way to establish connection but allow for discovery is for the characters to learn as we do. The Dark Urge in BG3 is an obvious example of this, but I'd also add in The Watcher in Pillars of Eternity too, and even V from CP77. Whatever they thought they are, they are something more, and it allows us to keep all of what we thought we knew about our characters and find out more along the way. It allows the game to take us down a path of the present, not the past (even though all of them ARE discovering events of the past!) by making it about what a person sees themself as, what they want to be, and what they have been. It sidesteps invalidation of ideas by creating narratives that are inherently biased as they are memory, allowing us to take or question the information we are given as we are given it. It trusts an audience and the player to invest their own opinions in the burgeoning narrative.

To do this, you need to make sure that the player has a good grasp, again, of what they do know. Good grounding is essential here. Think of the prologue of Pillars of Eternity, where we can establish a character's whole value system, or the pre-heist time with V which allows us to establish an enormous amount of relationship building and relationship to the world around them. Take that time, or it will fall apart.

#okay that's it for now I've run out of time #I may come back to this

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asterias-record-shop · 2 years ago

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—𓆩[in our next life || IV]𓆪—

𓆩[masterlist]𓆪 𓆩[next part]𓆪 𓆩[request/ask me something!]𓆪 𓆩[join the taglist!]𓆪

𓆩♡𓆪 CHARACTER - Finnick Odair x Fem! District 4 Victor! Reader

𓆩♡𓆪 TYPE - fluff, smut, slight angst

𓆩♡𓆪 WORD COUNT - 3.8K

𓆩♡𓆪 SUMMARY - Peeta and Katniss weren’t the first to fall in love after the games. That title went to you and Finnick, your mentor after you were Reaped at the age of fifteen two years after Finnick. After being dragged back into the Games with the Quarter Quell, you both are determined to stop it, no matter what- especially if one of you would gladly sacrifice themselves for the other.

𓆩♡𓆪 STORY WARNINGS - cursing || getting married || wedding night || lots and lots of smut || slight mentions of previous forced prostitution || Finnick loves you so much ong || wedding rituals to add some extra spice || garters || lingerie || kinda interrupted smut || multiple rounds || creampie || (All of the warnings I can think of, lemme know if you think i should add anything else! warnings for full fic in the masterlist)

When you looked at yourself in the mirror, you couldn’t have been happier. Today, the day you were going to marry the love of your life, was going to be your last day of peace.

And by hell's name were you going to enjoy it.

It was a large, elaborate dress like you wanted it to be, form fitting at the top and showing off cleavage down to your torso, your back and sides exposed as well through thin satin material. Pearls adorned every inch of the outer layer, hanging on thin gold string and designed to make it look almost like you had stepped out of the ocean.

Cinna threads pearls into your hair, humming in concentration as he puts that last one in the perfect place before looking in the mirror. “You like?”

“I love Cinna. As always.”

He smiled before walking to the dresser, leaving you to admire yourself on the podium. You always dreamed of a giant wedding, and this was it. As different as it was, especially because you could die in the next week, you didn’t care. You were marrying the love of your life and tonight would be a night that made other wedding nights pale in comparison.

As much as you were going to fuck Finnick, and him fuck you, you were also going to make love, memorize every inch of each other going into the games. You both had never gone a day without at least some relief since you had gotten addicted to each other, and of course you would fuck tonight as much as you could to make up for it.

You loved Finnick and he loved you, but you knew your biggest weakness was the other’s body, how bad you have come to lust after one another. Yes, it was an unhealthy coping mechanism, but why wouldn’t you fuck like the world was going to end when it probably would soon?

“Y/N,” Cinna gets your attention, opening a large box to watch a gasp fall from your lip. The collar was gold, covered in diamonds and chains with cascading pearls falling down, the large diamond in the middle the star of the show. “The one thing Finnick ever asked me for was this. I know he doesn’t like me very much,” he comes behind you, slowly clasping it around your neck before smiling at you through the mirror. “But he asked for this especially.”

“It’s beautiful, Cinna. Thank-”

“Don’t thank me, sweetheart,” he grinned. “Your future husband designed it years ago. It just took me a while to get it done, and I based your entire wedding off of it.”

You looked toward the large window of the bridal room, staring at the flood of black swarmed into the gardens behind the estate, your eyes quickly finding the only other person wearing white - your future husband. He was looking around, waiting, but almost on cue, his eyes quickly found yours. He quickly closed his eyes, but grins at you before looking away. Peeta stood close to him, and Katniss was across, but the person that surprised you the most was Mags. She stood wearing gray, right in the place for the person who would officiate the wedding was supposed to stand.

“Cinna.”

“Yes, Y/N?”

“Walk me down the aisle.” You turned, his jaw slack as you ran over to him, four inch heels clicking. “Please.”

“Y/N, I-I…” he paused as you took his hands, squeezing. “I’d be honored.”

You throw your arms around him, giggling as the drums start to play. You pull away, hands still in his as you giggled. “Lead the way, Cinna.”

And he does, taking you down the grand staircase and out the doors to the elevated staircase that led down to the gardens. All cameras were on you, the second one that was with every news station on Finnick’s slack jawed face. Mags stood on an elevated platform, mainly because she was so short compared to everyone else, her hand raising to start the drums again. They go once, then they go twice, and just like that, the beat starts.

You slowly step down the stairs, Cinna leading you as Finnick wipes at his eyes, tears threatening to fall with every best of the drum. He looked beautiful, ethereal, dressed in the finest of white silks. It wasn’t a suit because that wasn’t Finnick, but something breathable, a blazer with no shirt underneath and long white pants. He had chains with pearls like the ones in your hair on his hip, a bracelet designed the same way, and a choker like yours around his neck.

His was thick but simple, studded with diamonds and the cascading pearls to accentuate your elaborate one, another large diamond stuffing the center. When you finally get to the white carpet, all eyes turn to you, or the ones that weren’t already.

Mags raised her other hand, the drums getting louder, faster as you walked down the aisle, Cinna raising your hands to stay level at your torso. You look over at him, smiling as he wipes at his eyes. “You both look perfect.”

“Are you just saying that so I think you’re not crying out of sentiment?”

He laughs as he looks over. “I’m crying out of happiness, sweetheart,” he says as he finally gets you to the platform. Mags’ hands fly out, the drums stopping immediately as he raises his hand to help you step onto the platform without stepping on himself. “Thank you, for honoring me with the chance to do that for you.”

“No one else I’d rather have do it.”

He steps onto the platform, pressing a kiss to your head before turning to Finnick. “I know you won’t do anything to hurt her, and I know you’ll do everything to protect her. All I ask is that you do the same for yourself.”

Finnick doesn’t respond, just nods as he wipes at his eyes. He watched Cinna step down, quickly catching his bicep to pull him back. “Thank you, Cinna. For everything.”

He smiled. “Nothing else I would rather do.”

Cinna doesn’t leave, though, standing on your side next to Katniss as Mags smiles at the two of you. Her hands outstretched slowly, the drums soft as they played the same beat as earlier. Finnick takes your hands, sniffling as he pulls them to his lips. “You look so, so beautiful.”

You don’t have the chance to compliment him back before Mags waved a stick in front of your faces, raising a brow as she looked down between you both. Quickly, you let go of him and take a small step back for the ceremony to begin.

You hear the giggling of children as they run over with a white fishing rope adorned with golden thread, the thick rope having to be held by about four as they run over. You recognized them from District 4, and you smiled as they finally made their way over to you.

The oldest looking one made you inhale shakily, reminding you of the young boy from District 3 from your games that was murdered right in front of you. His name was Code, and he has the same dark hair and tanned skin as the boy in front of you.

The young boy hands you one end, smiling. “Can you put this over your shoulder?” He whispers, patting your fingers. “I can’t reach.”

You giggled, nodding. You take it, but lean down to press a kiss to his hair. It was curly like Code’s, and in all honesty, they could’ve been twins. The young boy looks at you confused, but smiles as you giggle and take the end of the rope.

They make a square around you both, wrapping you together in the expensive rope and pushing you forward until you are flushed against Finnick.

They made him leave his left hand out like you did, his arm wrapping around your shoulders as yours does the same. The boys kept the rope around your upper torso because it didn’t fit around your dress and they didn’t want to ruin it. When they finish, they hand the last end to Finnick who grinned down at them making them giggle.

“You boys go get a treat, alright?”

They nodded, running off as Cinna stepped forward.

The drums got louder as he stepped up the platform, opening a long box to reveal the rings. You gasped as Finnick’s hand rubs your upper back, holding the rope with his pinkie and ring finger before grabbing the wedding ring made for you. The large pearl was wrapped with gold, studded with small diamonds around it as he took your hand, slipping it onto your ring finger.

You laughed, tears brimming your eyes. “What did you boys do, drain a whole ocean for these pearls?”

Finnick kissed the back of your hand. “For you darling, I will.”

You inhale shakily as Cinna turns to you, letting go of his hand one last time before grabbing the golden band, just like your ring, a large pearl studded with diamonds around the band in a solid line. “I love you, Finnick Odair.”

Tears fell from his cheek as you kissed his hand, slipping it onto his finger. “I love you, Y/N L/N.”

The drums stop as Mags steps down, Cinna going back to his spot next to Katniss as she takes the rope from your hands, wrapping each around your left wrist. She takes a blade from around her neck, raising it for the drums to stop before cutting at each end of the rope, leaving it bound around your wrists.

Finnick smiled as the rope stayed wrapped around your bodies, the superstition of soulmates making sobs erupt in the crowd.

Your fingers intertwined together as Mags raised her hands, Katniss coming to you and Peeta going to Finnick. You smiled at her as they both took a small torch, raising it to each of your wrists before turning them on, melting the vinyl made rope together so that it stayed stuck on your wrists. They keep the flame on until the rope starts to curl, thinning itself out before the curling turns into a beautiful swirl of a bracelet around your wrist and Mags raises her hands again.

They both turn them off as you look over at Finnick’s rope bracelet, eyes watering when you see it formed a pattern almost exactly like yours. You inhaled shakily as he nudged your nose with his, stroking your cheek with the same wrist before Mags slowly pressed a kiss to each of your temples before stepping back.

She raised her hands one last time, the drums getting faster before they stopped, Finnick pulling you in for a firm kiss as soon as the silence settled in. The crowd cheers loudly as you pull him down lower, groaning against his lips as he pulls his hand out of the binds and pulls your lips almost into his mouth, groaning loudly as both of your hands thread into his hair.

You groaned loudly as his tongue slid into your mouth, almost whimpering as he pulled away before kissing your nose softly. With a giggle, you wipe his cheeks as he softly let his thumbs run under your eyes.

“I’m all yours tonight, my darling,” he whispers, smiling as you rub against the sides of his head. “And for the rest of our lives.”

“And I’m yours, Finnick,” you responded immediately, pulling him down for a kiss. “Now let’s get this party over with so we can have some real fun, sounds good?”

He laughs, nodding. “That sounds absolutely amazing, my darling.”

You both had finally managed to escape everyone extremely late, or early depending on how you looked at it as you had finally left after meeting Plutarch Heavensbee and got to your private room. The estate was something given to you by Snow when you both had finally finished being sold, a permanent home in the Capitol you would finally take advantage of before burning it down to the ground in your dreams.

You and Finnick both stood on the balcony, staring at the people partying until loud fireworks went off. Looking up, you saw Snow raising his glass toward you both. Finnick took your hand, leading you back inside before closing the glass doors and shutting the pearly white curtains.

With a sigh, you sat on the bed. You stared down at the rope around your wrist, the entire rope that the boys wrapped around your form being kept with Cinna for safe keeping. The rope melted with the gold, pearls being hidden by both gold and the fishing rope still sparkling. Your eyes went down to your ring before Finnick took your hand, kissing your skin softly.

“Darling? Are you alright?”

You stare at him as his hands move from yours, pushing up your dress before kissing at the garter around your thigh. “I want you, Finnick. All of you. I want everything.”

He smiled as his teeth dragged along your garter, a gasp falling from your lips as his tongue trailed over your skin, the white lace studded with pearls sticking to your thigh. “I’ll give you everything, darling.”

You look up as someone knocks, a sigh falling from your mouth as he slowly stands up, taking off his blazer. “Want to start taking that off?”

It was easy to slip it off, especially because Cinna made it that way knowing how you and Finnick were, and you stood in front of the mirror. You rubbed your lace covered body, the lingerie Cinna designed still on before turning to see your exposed ass. It exposed your pussy as well, if you were able to see it in the position you were in, but you laid against the bed, waiting.

Finnick always knew how impatient you were, so after speaking with Haymitch and getting the gold bracelets you both were first given, he walked back in slowly. He knew you didn’t hear him, not over your loud moans as you fingered yourself, desperate to find release in that one special spot only Finnick knew.

He leans on the wall, watching your lace covered thighs shake and spread wide as you push both hands into your wet cunt, twisting and thrusting in and out to find that one area of pleasure. He watched you moan, groan, and whine loudly as your hips rut into your fingers, riding them to cause as much pleasure as you could.

Finnick knew you wouldn’t be able to get off though, not whenever your cunt was addicted to his fingers, his cock - your body was used to him, addicted to his body, memorized by his own just like you had memorized him. No one else knew how to make the other cum like each other, not when your bodies have learned and memorized and became addicted like a drug.

He walked over, slowly and quietly, letting his pants fall to the ground as softly as he could before climbing onto the bed. Your eyes snapped open, but you whined when you saw Finnick. “Fin. Fin, please, I can’t- I can’t.”

He laughs. “Can’t what, darling? Tell me what you want.”

You pulled your fingers from your cunt, whining when you saw them covered in your lewd juices. “I want you to love me, Finnick. I want to feel you.”

He groaned loudly as he leaned down, sucking on your fingers as he pushed his own into your mouth. He sucked on yours with a groan, it had been so long since he had tasted your pretty pussy. He was drunk on you in no time as you gagged on his nimble fingers, and when he pulled one hand away from your mouth, he pushed the other straight back into your mouth.

You groaned as he pulled away from your fingers, kissing your ring finger before kissing against your pelvis, licking a firm line down your slit. He gathered all of your slick juices with his tongue, sucking and popping against your hot cunt as you thread your fingers into his hair. You whined, gasping as his fingers pulled out of your mouth, pushing into your already stretched pussy.

His fingers were longer than your own, immediately finding that spot you were desperately trying to find. You threw your head back, gasping as his other hand pushed into you, both of his fingers thrusting in and out of you, twisting and stretching your pretty cunt. You whined, squirming before his elbow pushed into your thigh, his lips pressing to your garter.

“Be good, darling,” he says, teeth tugging it down to your knee. “Or I’ll stop here and now.”

You nodded, whining. “Y-Yes, yes Fin, I’ll be good. I promise.”

He smiled, tongue flicking against your already puffy clit, teeth grazing against the sensitive bud. “Will you, darling? You’ll be a good little slut for me?”

You nodded immediately, back arching as his fingers pushed open your cunt. Your hips buck as his tongue push into you with a loud groan, a scream leaving your lip as he thrusts his fingers in, his slimy appendage fucking you with his fingers. You attempt to close your thighs, wailing as one of his hands pull out of you, slapping your clit with basically a growl. “Behave, Y/N, or I won’t be so nice later.”

You nod. “I’m sorry, I'm sorry. I’ll be good, I promise, please don’t stop.”

He hummed, his fingers slowly, lazily thrusting into you. “I don’t know… you said you were going to be good and then you pulled something like that.”

“Fin, I need you. I need you, please. I swear, I’ll be a good girl, I’ll be your good little slut.”

He hummed, smirking up at you with a firm lick to your pussy. “Oh yeah? You’ll be good, hm? Why don’t you… why don’t you show me? Be a good bunny for me.”

Your eyes rolled back. He rarely used that nickname, and now that he did, you knew you were in for an extremely long night.

“Yes, yes Finnick, I will. I promise.”

He sits back on his heels, pulling his fingers out of you to suck them into his mouth, grinning at you. “Well then show me. Show me how much you love to fuck, bunny.”

Immediately, you nodded as he fixed himself onto the bed, laying back with a lazy grin. He’s pumping his cock, oh his beautiful fucking cock. It was so pretty, long and flushed red at the tip, waxed down like the grooming stage always did. You whined as you licked along the bottom, sucking at his full balls as you joined his hand in pumping. “Finnick, they shaved you down,” it was slightly saddening, you always did like that trail of hair that led from under his belly button down to his base. You licked where that line would’ve been, another whine falling from your lips. “I always liked it when you had hair.”

“I know, bunny, but it’s not like it’d make you any less of a slut.” He grins, winking as he ruts his hips into the air. “Be a good girl and get off on my cock already.”

You nodded, pressing a quick kiss to his tip before crawling up on his body. Swinging a leg over his waist, you hold his cock up so that his hard length doesn’t slap against his lower stomach. You whined as you sunk down on him, his hands rubbing against your thighs. His thumb settled on the mark Snow gave you, an identical one settled in the same area on his thigh. “Come on bunny, give me a show.”

You sink down on his cock, head thrown back as he hissed loudly. “Fuck, Finnick!”

“You’re so tight, darling, tighter than ever holy shit,” he curses, groaning loudly as you slowly push yourself up before sinking down again, rolling to make his cock hit a new spot you’ve never felt before. Your eyes rolled back as his large hands settled back on your hips groaning all over again. “You’re so fucking good darling, come on. Come on, use me darling, I want you to cum on my cock.”

You whined loudly as you leaned down, kissing his lips. “Don’t say those words. Please.”

He stroked your cheek with a nod, sighing as he kissed your lips. “I want you, Y/N. Please, I want all of you.”

You whimper as his hips roll into yours, but with this new angle of leaning forward and his hands forcing your hips into his own as you kiss him. His lips were always so sweet, perfect, slightly chapped but smooth and delicious against your own. You loved it, oh and you loved him.

The sex wasn’t even sex anymore, it was love in its pure physical form, his cock sheathed deep inside of you as he kissed every inch of your skin. His thumb was settled on that mark, the same mark he had, but it was different this time. The man on top of you was the love of your life, not someone who bought you.

You pulled him up for a kiss as you wrapped your legs around his waist to pull him closer. “Don’t stop, Fin,” you whisper against his lips. “Never stop.”

He groaned loudly, shaky hands stroking your cheeks as he nodded. “I promise, darling. I won’t, I’ll love you until I pass out.”

You whine loudly as he thrusts into you, eyes rolling back as you feel your stomach basically clench as you squeezed his cock, groaning loudly as you cum. He choked, collapsing onto you as his cum spurts into you, perfect and filling in all the right ways. Your eyes rolled back as his hips continue to thrust, sweat coated body rubbing against your own as you pulled his lips back onto yours.

“Don’t stop.”

“I won’t,” he grins. “I won’t, darling. I love you.”

You giggled. “I love you.”

You both finished later, bodies hot and sticky with sweat and cum as you lazily pressed kisses to each other’s lips. “We’re going into the games today,” he whispers, and this time, you weren’t scared.

“I don’t care anymore,” you whisper back, smiling. “As long as I’m with you.”

He smiled, eyes watering. “I’m going to get you out of there.”

You shake your head back. “I’m going to get you out of there.”

“We’re both getting out of there, darling,” he whispers into your hair, pressing more kisses to your head. “I swear.”

You looked up at him, smiling. This time, you really did believe him. “I love you, Finnick Odair.”

He smiles back. “I love you, Y/N Odair. Forever and always.”

You lean up, kissing his lips. “And when we meet in our next life.”

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next part will be uploaded this Sunday! (and linked in masterlist and the link for next part) (05.21.23)

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