#listening and reading is both shite.

[krockat]

false dichotomy. i need both

i can basically not hear what videos or shows n etc are saying w/out subtitles. i got bad hearing in my ears (esp one of em) and also bad audio processing.

and also. i got bad dyslexia and eyesight. so if i can only rely on reading.... then that is difficult or sometimes even impossible.

it also reallyyy doesn't help if it's something i find difficult to understand, or boring. and if it's both then i often don't even bother - as it just won't work, or take a tremendous amount of effort and energy.

my brain and body both get hella exhausted.

also i am often too tired and/or distracted to Only read for long, or Only listen for long.

so like..... school was very hard for me as they often didn't help me at all w my disabilities :D

[thegnomelord]

yk how they cover fighting dog's eyes in order to calm them down? would that work on Hound or just rile him up more? if it'd calm him down I can imagine when/if he's "better" enough he'd start shoving his face into price or any of the other 141 to feel safer/calm, like nuzzling in between their shoulder blades/neck or if they're lying down together just pushing his head into their arms 😶‍🌫️

hmmm Price holding Hound against his chest to calm him while he claws and begs into his captain's skin for forgiveness because he acted out again, even if Price had already forgiven him🤔

if the loss of sight just makes things worse then I can see all of them always making sure Hound can know where they are, making noise when they can and maybe even dragging their feet a bit so he doesn't swivel his head around constantly to look for them😚 ignore this if u want tho reading it back is making me cringe a bit-

No, no, anon this is great! Y'all are giving me so many ideas♥️

I definitely think Price would have done that to Hound before he got captured, putting his beanie or just his hand over Hound's eyes and talking about Hound like he wasn't even there to basically calm him down. Like you know how you're a kid sitting between your parents and they're talking about you but you're snoozing or something like that. It would have just been comforting for Hound.

But Makarov soured it by using sensory deprivation as a punishment. And a pretty severe one at that, so Hound gets extremely violent when his sight is deprived.

But also like, when Hound's better, letting them cover his eyes as just this huge show of trust just melts my heart. Like:

CW:SFW just a bunch of fluff, cuddle piles

This feels. . . strange.

You're laying on top of Price, practically crushing him beneath your weight, your head and shoulders pushed beneath his loose shirt so you can lay your head on his naked chest. It's dark, and warm, the scent of musk and sweat curls in your nose as his thick chest hair tickles your face with every even breath, his heart beating so calmly beneath your ears.

It's strange. It's the best way you can describe it; a part of you is disgusted with the proximity, panic occasionally jolting through your system and lining your muscles with lead as your body expects for the hit to come any moment. Only for a calloused hand to run down your spine gently, turning your tense muscles into mush.

"You're alright lad." His voice rumbles in his chest, a type of tone that is both calming and commanding. "Just listen to my voice yeah? Good boy," A pleasant shiver runs up your spine as the praise, a low whimper escaping you as you nuzzle your head further into his pecs. Your head feels stuffed with cotton yet his low praises still reach your brain, and it feels strange to get them without any work, to be praised just for simply existing, but it's also. . . nice.

"Oi Price-" You tense immediately as the door suddenly opens, loud voices shooting lightning into your muscles. Price scruffs you through the shirt before you can react any more, calming you down to the point you don't even notice what they're talking about.

"Wh- Soap!" Price shouts.

You feel the bed dip, a disgruntled sound leaving your chest as a body shuffles under Price's shirt next to you. Soap's scent hits your nose before his head bumps into yours, "Yer like a pig in shite pup." His hair scratches your face as he makes himself comfortable on Price's other pec, and you don't need sight to know he's grinning like a fool. "Cozy in 'ere."

"How comfortable are his tits?" Ghost's voice reaches your ears, and it must be his body that lays down next to yours, supporting some of your weight that you're not crushing Price by wrapping a loose hand around your waist. His body is solid against yours, both of them are, Johnny's arm wrapping around you just bellow Simon's hand, unapologetically groping your ass.

"Boys!" Price sputters, and without sight you can only imagine how flushed his face must be, he always got red as a lobster when you'd tease him. "Can't you be decent for one day?"

"We're wearing pants aren't we?" Gaz's laugh sounds somewhere behind you, and you're pretty sure it's Gaz that lays down between your legs, using your ass as a pillow. "Oh, wow," You hear him mumble as if astonished, heat burning across your skin as you feel him nuzzle into your ass.

A low whine escapes your throat without notice, and you're not sure why, just something about the way they handle you, like you're made of glass, makes lightning crackle down your spine.

"Do you want to stop?" Price's voice is non-judgmental, his hand brushing your hair that peeked through the stretched taught neckline of his shirt.

You shut your eyes, breathing in deeply. "No." You say, your arms gripping Price's pudgy stomach even tighter.

You feel Johnny shift closer to you, his lips blindly brushing against yours. "Aye, yer fine bonnie." He grins, and pushes his head to meet your lips in a proper kiss. You can taste the aftertaste of tobacco from his cigarettes and the mints on his tongue.

This is nice. You could get used to this.

[heavenbarnes]

More weirdo older bf Simon 🙏

this is from the alternate universe!simon where he’s still older bf!simon but a weird old perv 🫶���� (implied ghoap at the end)

it’s cold, cold enough that older bf!simon can see his breath.

he can also hear johnny’s teeth rattling, mostly cold but there’s a hint of-

“fuckin’ boring- shite end of the stick”

boredom.

hold up in fuck knows where in the freezing cold with a rifle laid across his thighs listening to johnny whinge his fucking ear off.

“course gaz didnae have t’do this- pretty boy never has t’freeze his bollocks off”

simon gets how shit this is, believe him.

it’s shit that he and johnny have to sit frozen (figuratively and literally) and just wait for the target to appear.

it’s been three days, the fucker isn’t showing.

but what’s worse (because simon argues he has the worse end of that shitty stick) is that he had to up and leave you.

got the call while you were in the shower, he’d barged through the door you could’ve sworn you’d locked and once he got you to stop screaming he’d had to break the news.

“m’off”

“oh, ok- for how long?”

“not sure, a bit”

only hint of a silver lining was the “good luck, be safe” reach around you gave him when he peeled his kit off and joined you in the water.

he really felt like he was beginning to make progress with you.

yes, you still were a little uneasy with his staring problem and yes, he still needed to learn to ask “please” and not just put your hand in his pants.

but you hadn’t left yet.

and to simon? shit, that’s as good as a hand in marriage.

he didn’t even have the pleasure of sitting in silence and missing you- not with that little bastard in his ear.

“can’ye check again, L.t?”

fuck sakes.

reluctantly, simon takes his phone out one of the pockets on his vest because, as much as johnny was doing his nut it-

he just had to know.

he chooses the app that brings up the livestream of cameras around your shared home. does his obligatory check of the outside perimeter, makes sure nobody is taking liberties.

then he begins the hunt.

you’ll be around here somewhere.

room by room, he looks for the shape of you.

“here pretty, pretty”

johnny’s eyes flicker from the horizon to the device in simon’s hands, almost buzzing in excitement.

“come out, come out”

might’ve been the trip down memory lane but it’s more than likely the anticipation, simon was chubbing up in his trousers.

“found you”

johnny all but leapt from his post until he was at simon’s side, eyes drawn to the way you moved around the living room.

as you moved into the view of the other camera, simon’s heart nearly stopped.

you were in his shirt.

“the sight a’that, L.t.”

you were a sight, that’s for sure. perching yourself in the corner of the couch, the two men watched as you scrolled your phone absentmindedly.

one leg outstretched, the other pulled up at the knee.

a rustle of leaves had both men snapping their attention back to their surroundings, keeping a keen ear and eye out before they hurried back to you.

pretty old you.

doing nothing more than reading an article or watching a tiktok or doing- anything.

but you might as well have been stroking yourself right there.

they could’ve claimed it was your bare legs, the way they could imagine you might’ve had no underwear, the curve of your chest under simon’s shirt-

it was no use.

they both knew exactly what it was.

they liked to stare.

liked watching you while you were none the wiser, that at any moment you could start touching yourself and have no idea you had an audience.

the thrill of the chase or whatever they called it.

“cannae believe you’ve got tha’ waiting at home”

“neither can i, mate”

simon watched you sink lower into the couch, silently praying you were reading one of those dirty little stories you liked.

probably weren’t, obedient thing probably saving it all up till he got home to wring it out of you.

he’d have to make do with imagination.

“here, ‘old this”

johnny grumbled but took the phone nonetheless. his eyes stayed fixed on you as he heard the sounds of simon’s belt, rustle of trousers, spitting on hands.

“if i have t’hold this ye’ave to help me oot”

[blackjackkent]

@astreamofstars suggested my next dive into the parsed dialogue files should be looking at the various Vicious Mockery lines available for player characters, and the ways the different companion character VAs speak them. This turned out to be quite challenging, as there are a LOT of them!

There are a total of 97 unique Vicious Mockery lines, each of which was recorded by all ten companion character VAs PLUS all twelve custom character VAs, for a total of 2,134 recorded lines, which is wild. (This is not including Ethel's 60 unique Vicious Mockery lines as well, which brings the total to 2,194.)

In this video, I've collected all 97 VM lines across all ten companion VAs, along with notes (where applicable) on things like

references to Shakespeare (or other pieces of media)

places where BG3 continues a time-honored tradition of the series by butchering archaic English grammar

interesting inconsistencies between the VAs or with the written dialogue

(If you notice any references I missed, please let me know and I might edit the video! :D )

In making this video, I ended up listening to all these lines a LOT, and I do love that some definite patterns emerge which are very on-brand for the characters in question.

Astarion often sounds deeply disdainful and at times almost bored. He barrels through some of the lines as if he doesn't think the recipient of his insult is even worth his time. (Also him calling someone a "parchment-pallored villain" is a bit rich, don't you think? :P )

Gale is deeply pleased with his own cleverness and laughs at his own jokes.

In my opinion, Dave Jones by far most Understood The Assignment; Halsin bellows out the lines like a Shakespearean actor playing to the back row and really relishes the language.

Jaheira is in full mother-tiger voice and clearly ready to kick ass and take names; she's not messing around. (With one exception - I have been laughing over Tracy Wiles's reading of "Mouthier than an arse, twice as full o' shite" for the entire duration of this project, because solely for that line she sounds like she's been possessed by some unknown force and is utterly baffled by the words coming out of her own mouth.)

Karlach reads most of these lines as either battle-cry or schoolyard taunt and seems utterly delighted in both cases. I enjoy that she adds a fun roll on her r's to sound all mockingly fancy.

Lae'zel generally sounds like she's about to rip someone's throat out and often seems completely oblivious to the humor involved, even on lines like the delightful pun, "As the leg, you'll end in defeat."

Minsc definitely doesn't know what most of these words mean but he makes up for it in enthusiasm. I enjoy that "Mouthier than an arse" becomes "mouthier than a butt" only for him. XD

Minthara, like Lae'zel, is mostly not coming at this from a place of amusement; she's MAD. She sounds like a judge handing down sentence in the most disdainful manner possible. (That said, she has my favorite deliveries on some of the lines with timing-related humor: "Thou art saucy... as gruel," "Thine eyes! Pools of tepid piss," "Like a summer's day... thou art sweaty," etc.)

Shadowheart just sounds deeply offended that her target is existing anywhere near her. She's practically spitting on all her plosive consonants and it's delightful.

Wyll sounds remarkably fierce given how nice a dude he is, but a lot of his lines have some righteous indignation (appropriate for a former noble and the Blade of Frontiers) - or he just sounds like he pities his opponent. His reading of "It vexes me to know of you" is my favorite of the whole cast; he just sounds so disbelieving of his target's stupidity.

Overall I think my favorite of these lines is towards the end: "Your body's a temple - to an idiot god!" All ten companions really stick the landing on that one. :D

Thanks for watching! Hope you enjoy.

(Got requests for other investigations into BG3 dialogue? Drop me an ask and let me know! )

[strlingsav]

Ride

– Simon "Ghost" Riley x F!Reader

— Western AU: You have a run-in with notorious outlaw, Ghost.

Explicit sexual content under the cut. Read at your own risk.

Boisterous laughter and loud conversation made it difficult to hear John beside you, though you were hardly listening. You were too preoccupied with surveillance; scanning the crowd for a familiar face- or mask, more appropriately. It seemed most folks had let loose for the evening, but your eyes and ears remained sharp as you peered around the room.

Nightfall had come, cooling the hot sand of the desert and bringing with it the expectation of drunken patrons. Candelabras, oil lamps and a roaring fire tinged the saloon red and camouflaged the smell of cigar smoke. It was the usual for the small town, the only source of entertainment and drinks within a hundred-mile radius.

It'd been a while since you had the privilege of relaxing, even if you were still hyper-vigilant. Your exhaustion came from sleepless nights while on your travels. Unable to let your guard down under the stars, you'd hardly slept in the last few days. Sleeping on buffalo pelts and red dirt; your eyes were weary and tired, though there must've been a look of contemplation in your eyes.

"What's got you quiet?" John asked, leaning in closer. "Worried?"

You looked over at him; in all his drunken relaxation and exhaustion from the day's ride, he still read your expression with ease.

"Not worried," You shook your head once- unconvincingly. "Watching."

"Think you're waitin' for somethin' bad," He joked, elbowing you a bit harshly for your liking.

"Think you're a bit too drunk," You tossed back, watching him grin.

"Loosen up, kid," He scolded. "Only here for the night."

You were about to respond, when the saloon went dead-silent; the clinking of lost coins falling as patrons froze in their footsteps, the low shuffle of chairs while they searched for their pistols- likely dropped carelessly in a drunken stupor. The tune from the piano abruptly stopped, and all heads turned to the swinging parlour doors.

You lifted your gaze and there he was. Ghost.

Your jaw clenched, sitting up straight as you watched him slide in effortlessly, like he was unaware he'd stopped the world for a second. His boots hit the floorboards with heavy thuds, his spurs clanking and spinning with each step. You watched him tip his cowboy hat to the barkeep, who appeared no less than terrified.

"No trouble, alright? Hardly finished cleanin' up from last time," The barkeep said, stern yet wavering.

"No trouble," He nodded, taking a seat at the bar.

Most of the activity had resumed, though more than half of the townsfolk had escaped the moment he stepped inside. You didn't blame them; he was an intimidating man, and his stoic nature left questions and whispers at his back. You perched up further on your seat, eyes locked on the mass of muscle that made himself comfortable on the foolishly small stool.

"Ghost," John hardly whispered- disbelief, fear, a combination of both. It ran a shiver down your spine. "Never thought I'd see him here again."

You remained silent, studying the cowboy as he hunched over the bar and nursed his drink. He peered over his shoulder, finding your prying eyes and staring right back. You swallowed harshly, wondering if he recognized you. If he knew it was you, sitting mere feet from him.

Of course he knew it was you.

"Let's get out o' here before the shite hits," John swallowed the last of his beer, throwing his coat over his shoulders.

"I'll catch up," You nodded.

John was hesitant; he knew well you'd handle your own, stand your ground, but stray bullets have no name and he worried for your life. Ghost's reputation was not one of gentleness and kind deeds- he was an outlaw.

"C'mon," He ushered.

"I'm finishing my drink. I'll catch up, John," You insisted.

He finally conceded, pulling his arm through his sleeve before nodding curtly.

"I'll pay the barkeep and stablehand. I'll come lookin' if I don't see you in the mornin'."

You nodded in response, watching him stride past the masked man, head turned as he investigated. Finally, he disappeared from the saloon, leaving you to your own devices as you sipped your whisky. It wasn't without your appreciation- but unbeknownst to John, you knew Ghost better than anyone.

Your eyes drifted around the room, not noticing him stand from his stool and approach your table until you heard the spurs hit the floor. You lifted your head then, and watched as he pulled the chair out across from you to sit down.

His scent immediately washed over you- gunpowder and rolled cigarettes. The fresh smell of whisky emanated from his lips as he spoke through the black mask over his face. The deep, inviting accent made your body shiver- already planting arousal in your womb without any effort.

"You here on business?" He asked.

"Pleasure," You replied, finishing a gulp.

You feigned relaxation, letting your shoulders fall and your back hit the chair as you leaned further away. This was your game, your routine- you enjoyed the part you played, even if it took an astounding amount of willpower not to climb onto his lap.

"Seems you're in the right place," He said back, raising his head to look at you.

"Thought so," You added. "Wasn't sure when I didn't see your face plastered around town."

You watched the fabric of his mask move- a grin. You smiled softly, smugly.

"Reason for the mask," He responded. "Lucky few get to know my face."

You raised a brow.

"Colour me flattered."

"You interested in a ride, sweetheart?" He asked, thighs spread as he leaned back in his chair.

You swallowed again, this time finishing your drink. Your hand held your chin up as your eyes met his with a glimmer of sadistic enjoyment. He watched your hat tip, and you brushed a stray lock of hair from your face as he stood to his feet.

He lead you upstairs- a room he'd rented for the evening while in search of you. You'd met a handful of times, always finding each other in the chaos of the saloon and ending the evening in whatever bed was available.

Since then, he'd come to terms with the fact that he'd ride to the ends of the earth to find you. The laws he had to break hardly mattered, neither did the "wanted" posters or the townsfolk cowering in fear at his very appearance. None of it mattered as much as finding you. You left him chasing the very hint of you, the smallest pieces he could get his hands on just for the chance of relief.

He risked his freedom every time he strolled into town. It was common knowledge everywhere he went; his previous crimes still kept him labeled as a wanted man. He could've ridden off, started a new life under his true name, but you brought him back every damn time.

"Y'were hard to find," He muttered, his lips haphazardly pressed against your neck.

He'd corralled you against the wall while his fingers worked open the buttons on your breeches. He'd ditched his hat and mask, thrown recklessly on the floor as you danced around each other in an attempt to disrobe.

"Maybe I didn't want you to find me," You answered, your arm wrapping around his head as you pulled him closer.

"Doubt that," He answered as his calloused hand dove beneath your pants, and was welcomed with warmth and wetness. "You like knowin' I'll find you wherever you go, sweetheart."

You grinned, your ego slowly shattering as his fingers teased between your thighs. Warm, calloused fingers slid through your folds, eliciting a jolt when he purposely evaded your clit. You huffed softly, humming amusedly in his ear.

"Nowhere to hide from Ghost," You whispered in his ear, making him groan. "I think you like the chase."

"I do," He grinned against your neck. "But now that I've got you- there ain't nowhere left for you to run."

You shivered as he circled your clit, the softness in his touch a stark contrast to his other hand; an iron-like grip on your waist, keeping you pinned against the wall.

The room itself was quiet and dark, lit by only a few candles and the smell reminiscent of the fire roaring beneath you. You could hardly make out his face in the orange light, but your head turned to meet his gaze, and his lips upturned subtly.

He missed you; most everything about you. Truthfully, you weren't very hard to find. You left every possible clue and trace, in hopes he'd track you down. You never stood a chance against a man like Ghost, anyway. He could practically smell you from the town over.

His cock was pressed against your thigh, a sense of anticipation creeping up your spine. You grasped at his vest and work shirt as he slid two fingers inside you, lips against your neck again as he hid his soft grunts from you.

Long fingers stroked firmly inside you, his thumb caressing the bundle of nerves above. Your knees had weakened, pushing your hips against him in an effort to get closer- to get more.

"Ghost," You muttered softly, hands planted against his chest. He was still nipping and kissing at your neck, still driving his fingers into your pussy. "Get on the bed, cowboy," You said- firmer this time, and it caught his attention.

He pulled away slowly, withdrawing his fingers before placing them in his mouth and sucking softly.

"Beautiful," His lip twitched, removing his holster from his hips while he backed up.

You followed, shrugging off your blouse and stepping out of your breeches while he unbuttoned his work shirt.

Usually, Ghost wasn't one to allow a woman control, but the way you looked riding his cock was enough of an incentive to listen.

He collapsed on the bed, taking hold of your waist as you climbed on top of him, straddling his wide hips and setting your palms on his chest. His eyes were drawn to your chest, then your stomach, then your pussy, where he felt his cock rest between your folds and shifted your hips to feel the slick wetness seeping from your pussy.

"C'mon, then," He grunted, jerking his hips up to earn your attention. "Ride it, love."

You smirked- abiding his pestering by gently coaxing his cock inside you, a slow descent to fullness, earning an airy exhale as you found yourself seated on his hips.

He groaned, aggressive hands guiding your hips back and forth, up and down. He watched as your head fell back, toes curled beneath you while your hips strode forward.

"Ghost," You exhaled again, fingernails digging into the muscle and taught meat of his chest.

He sat up, his hand finding the small of your back, matching your rhythm with short thrusts. His other hand used heavy pressure against your clit, head tilted up while he watched your eyes squeeze shut with pleasure.

Your stomach twisted, pace increasing while you fell deeper and deeper, closing in on your orgasm with ambition. Your hips retreated, desperate to ease the over-stimulation and try to bring yourself back to present, before he tugged you closer and rammed his hips up into you.

"Don't run from me," He chided, eyes face-level with your bouncing tits, he brought one of your erect nipples to his mouth and sucked hard. "Take it, love."

You gasped, your body pushed over the boundary of stubbornness and finally allowing your orgasm to pass through your insides. Your entire body filled with heat, flushing red-hot blood through your womb as your pussy clenched around his cock.

"So good," You managed a whisper, jaw clenching before you sucked in a sharp breath to regain clarity.

"No cunt as good as yours," He grumbled, his hot tongue running across your breasts and circling your nipples. His fingers dug into your soft flesh, your body nearly crumbling in his hands. "Keep goin' sweetheart."

Your laboured breaths spurred him on, leaning against the wall as he sat up to finally kiss you, harsh lips enveloping yours. He sneaked his tongue inside your mouth, teeth nipping at your bottom lip.

"Y'want it in you?" He asked, nearly breathless.

You nodded, eyes glazed over and too exhausted to answer. He released inside you, muscles tensing and cock twitching as warm spurts of cum coated your walls.

You took a moment to catch your breath, before dismounting and collapsing next to him with a huff.

"You onto the next after this?" He asked.

"Gotta be," You tilted your head to smile softly at him. "Can't stick around for long- people get suspicious."

"Come with me," He said, less of a question and more of a suggestion.

"You wanna run away together?" You asked, grinning.

"I'd turn myself in 'for I let you get away again."

You let out a short chuckle, "Alright, outlaw. Get your rest- we're gone at dawn."

[theonceandfuturequeenoftarts]

Harry wants it known that he’s at the ministry’s Yule gala under duress. It was all he could do to force himself into his dress robes and make himself presentable; he can’t fathom where he’ll find the energy he needs to get through the rest of the evening.

People he barely knows keep coming up to him – as they always do – to shake his hand, chat with him about this and that, thank him for his role in defeating the dark lord. (Still. He really wishes they’d stop doing that. It’s been more than six years now.)

And then there are pockets of people, staring at him and whispering behind their hands. Another constant in his public appearances, though he imagines the content of their conversations is at least a little different from usual, if not the tone. 

He’s just escaped another fan and is looking to make a beeline for the bar when it happens. Harry sees his doom approaching from several metres away but, since they saw him first and he (stupidly) refuses to run away, he stands there like an idiot, wishing he were anywhere else.

“Hi Harry,” Ginny says. It looks like she wants to hug him or get close, and his shoulders stiffen involuntarily. Thankfully, she stays where she is.

“Hullo Ginny,” he replies and, without looking at the man, utters a terse, “Malfoy.”

The smug arse smirks at him. “Potter.”

“How’ve you been?” Ginny asks, which. Rude. If she actually cared about that, she wouldn’t have cheated on him with the git on her arm, but whatever. 

“Oh, fine. Y’know, keeping busy.” God, he hates small talk.

Before he can respond with the requisite, ‘And you?’, Malfoy jumps in. “Yes, I suppose you have been, from what I’ve heard.”

Ugh. Fucking Malfoy. Harry wishes he had a drink or seven. He can’t believe he’d rather be caught in another conversation with that weirdo from earlier about his wand-care habits, of all things.

Ginny gently elbows Malfoy in the side with a chiding, “Draco.”

He’s considering the merits of letting himself be ripped apart by the anti-apparition wards to get away from this conversation – splinching himself can’t be much more painful than this – when a hand bearing a very welcome drink appears in front of him. That’ll do for now, though splinching is still on the table. Especially when he follows the hand to the arm up to the face and of course it’s Ri– Tom.

Harry gives him the side-eye, but accepts the drink. “Thanks.”

Tom leans in slightly, just enough so the two in front of them can’t read his lips. “You looked like you might be in need of a rescue.”

And as he pulls back out of Harry’s personal space, he rests a hand low on Harry’s back. Harry tenses for a moment before just accepting that tonight is all about him being as uncomfortable as possible. He takes a gulp of his drink – something dark and spicy. It burns pleasantly.

When he starts paying attention again, he finds Ginny looking at Tom with surprise; Malfoy is looking at the other man with – is that a hint of fear? And Tom is staring them both down, but somehow managing to do it with a veneer of politeness. 

“Good evening, Draco,” he says pleasantly. “Ginevra.”

“Riddle.” Malfoy’s greeting is stiff, as is the awkward, aborted bow he gives. Hmm.

“And Harry,” Tom says, turning to look at him fondly. “So good to see you again.”

Hoo boy.

“You,” Harry murmurs from behind the rim of his drink. “Are not subtle.”

Tom takes the opportunity to slide his hand further around Harry’s back, lightly gripping his hip and pulling him closer up against Tom’s side. He returns Harry’s withering look with an undaunted smile. “I wasn’t trying to be.”

“Yeah, I’m getting that.”

“When did you two get so cosy?” Ginny cuts in. Her tone is playful, but there’s more than offhand curiosity lurking beneath.

“Uh.” Shite, he doesn’t ever want Ginny to find out how this started, but especially not in public. Who knows who’s listening in or watching. “We ran into each other by chance a month and a half ago” –actually, he’s how I found out you were fucking Malfoy behind my back– “and we’ve met up a few times since then. It’s nice to have someone… uninvolved to talk to.”

Tom looks amused at that. He’s definitely involved in the demise of Harry’s relationship, and if there’s one thing they haven’t been doing (but probably should), it’s talking.

“I’ve been helping him expand his horizons,” Tom says without apparent innuendo, yet somehow the layered meaning is still obvious. Prat. “Getting him to try new things, keeping him busy.”

“You and half the town,” Malfoy mutters under his breath.

“I see…” Ginny says over him. “Funny how that escaped the rumour mill.” 

Harry laughs awkwardly, wishing for a stray lightning bolt to strike and put him out of his misery. “Must not’ve been exciting enough.”

The conversation dies for long enough to become uncomfortable - well, even more so. Malfoy touches Ginny’s elbow and leans down to speak into her ear. Harry seizes their distraction to turn on Tom.

“Are you sure you don’t want to piss on me to mark your territory while you’re at it?” he asks dryly.

Tom wrinkles his nose delicately in disgust. “No need to be crude. Though…” He gives Harry a considering once-over. “I’m not at all opposed to the idea of you carrying my mark. How do you feel about tattoos?”

Harry snorts. “Not a chance.”

The other man tucks his face in close to Harry’s, breath hot against the skin beneath his ear. “What about bruises?”

As though he doesn’t regularly leave an abundance of those on Harry anyway, what with his penchant for treating Harry like a chew toy. Harry shivers all the same, just a little bit. He can feel the barest brush of Tom’s grin against his neck.

Ginny clears her throat pointedly.

“Good to know,” Tom breathes as he pulls back.

Ginny continues trying to talk to him while Malfoy makes the odd snide comment, Tom attempts to meld into Harry’s side while replying for him and being subtly insulting, and Harry tries to become one with the floor. He realises he’s missed a question when he breaks out of his daze to find both Tom and Ginny are watching him expectantly.

“Huh?”

Ginny starts to say something when Tom cuts her off. "Care to dance?"

If looks could kill, Tom would be in a bad way with how Ginny’s glaring at him. "Harry doesn't dance," she says tetchily. Tom doesn't bother with her, waiting for Harry's wary nod.

He looks back at Ginny smugly. "Perhaps yet another new thing to which I can introduce him.”

“Okay, that’s enough,” Harry says, grabbing Tom’s wrist and dragging him towards the dance floor. Best to get this over with, and all the better if it means he doesn’t have to speak with anyone else in the meantime.

"She's not wrong," he mutters once they don't have to fear being overheard. "I don't dance.”

"Just follow my lead," Tom replies easily. “Would it be correct to say you don’t particularly care about stepping on my toes?”

Harry stares at him blankly for a moment before he feels a reluctant smile appear on his face. “It might be the one redeeming part of this.”

“The only one?” Tom says archly, pulling him into the correct hold. And, without giving Harry a chance to breathe or think, they’re off in what Harry thinks might be a waltz. 

"That was quite the risk you took," Harry says, trying not to stare at his feet and hoping for the best as Tom spins him around the room. He is, oddly enough, a much better dancer when he’s not constantly concerned about crushing someone's foot.

"Was it?"

"Yes. What made you think I wouldn't refuse and let you look foolish?"

He catches sight of a pleased grin on Tom's face from the corner of his eye. "The same thing that made me ask you to dance when I've seen your previous forays. You rise to the occasion when I push you.” He looks at Harry, for a moment, proudly. “I also knew you’d be more than amenable to anything that got you away from those two.”

Harry can’t deny that.

“Now look sharp, and do try to keep up,” Tom says, the hand at Harry’s lower back gripping him a little tighter.

“Wha–?” 

And it’s all he can do not to trip over his feet and take them both down in a painful sprawl, but the rush, the heady triumph of making it through the successive, intricate turns, goes straight to his head. Before he can stop himself, Harry lets out a loud peal of laughter, further disrupting the couples around them and drawing sneers and disapproving glances. And he just doesn’t care. Not that he thinks he normally would’ve, but it feels like it’s been ages since he’s felt so light and happy. So, he doesn’t think about the people around him. He doesn’t think about how it’s Tom who’s making him feel this way. He just basks in the sun-warm feeling of contentment – of being okay for the first time in a while.

(One night)

[yandere-kokeshi]

Yandere MW2 + König with male darling who's like corpse husband

Warnings: yandere behavior, slight sexual hints, and talks about suicidal thoughts.

A/N: for anyone confused by the title, this headcanon bases y/n having a deep voice, always wears a mask and is pretty dark; humor and clothing wise.

Hope you enjoy :]

Johnny “Soap” MacTavish:

Loves to hear you talk. Whatever you wanna talk about, even if it’s something he doesn’t know or understand, he’ll stare at you with his hands under his chin while nodding along.

Is completely baffled when he hears it in the mornings. Whenever you suddenly appear, scaring the crap out of him, Soap stares at you before smiling: “Shite. How can you just hit puberty twice? is that even possible?”

Will offer to make you hot drinks that help with your voice. He read a bunch of articles, which, makes him learn that your voice gets irritated towards the end of the day. If you want, he'd love for massage your throat for you ;]

Loves your style, especially with your rings and necklaces; he may or may not pull at your necklace to kiss you sweetly.

With you wearing a mask, he respects your decision - going as far as to rub into people’s faces that he got to see yours. Definitely pulls it down to kiss you when you two are alone.

Asks you to impersonate Ghost. And if you do, he brags to Simon and the team about you.

The jokes are horrible but laughable with him. While he does have Ghost by his side, hearing him tell those awful jokes, he can't help but think yours is a bit better; his

—

Captain “Price” John:

A sucker for it. Whenever he hears you talk, especially in the mornings, his eyes bulge out of his head, getting the weird sensation that you get when listening to asmr; a smirk slithers itself onto his face as he asks what you want for breakfast.

“Good grief. I've never realized how deep ya’ voice gets.”

Will call you grumpy pants whenever you get up with a deeper voice than normal and tend to snap at him. At this point, it's a name both of you smile at whenever he calls you.

Loves your alternative style. Not only is it the opposite of him. But he finds it unique to see the chains or pins you've collected over the years to wear. Price may pull you into him with your belt loops, using them to tease you whenever you're acting a brat.

Your humor is fine with him — but he doesn’t appreciate down bad or messed up ones; while he’s used to Simon’s ones, yours is sometimes on a different level. He won’t tell you or ask you to stop, Price may suspect something is up which leads to the two of you having talks about dark topics and some trauma-related issues.

—

Kyle “Gaz” Garrick:

He’s fascinated by your voice and finds it incredibly hot; always surprised whenever he hears it. Never knew it could get deeper in the mornings, but he isn’t complaining.

“Why - how is your voice so deep? You're gonna scare the hell outta me someday.”

At first, when he heard your voice, he thought you had a condition that causes your voice to be deep. But depending on your position, he just realizes it's a part of you and Gaz loves you for you.

With your jokes, Gaz looks out for you; seeing that, if any sign of suicidal thoughts come foward, he'll know. But often laughs or seemingly looks at you weirdly before chuckling.

Is pretty nice about reminding you to sip on hot drinks so your throat isn’t as irritated; he sometimes sees it as a sore throat.

Your outfits are really neat to him. Not only does he enjoy seeing you dress up, but he loves seeing your rings and spikey clothing. While it's not his type of wardrobe, he feels pretty confident around you.

—

Simon “Ghost” Riley:

A definite sucker for your voice. Whenever you walk in and start talking, a sly smirk crawls onto his face before turning towards you for his full attention.

“Fuckin’ hell. Did not expect your voice to be that deep. Nice tone to it.”

Simon has a good smile whenever he sees people staring at you, especially if you are introducing yourself. Though, if anyone dares to say anything negative, they'll get a stare-down with him.

A good reminder of who will carry cough drops for you. He’s incredibly helpful whenever your voice gets irritated, especially during the day. Simon is more than willing to make you a cup of tea to help you relax.

Your outfits are incredibly hot to him. He looks holding your hands, occasionally messing with your rings, and uses the advantage for intimate events in bed.

With Simon having a whole patch of dark humor, he enjoys hearing yours, especially if it’s horrible. However, he will watch out and pay attention if he hears self-deprecating jokes that are too far or something he doesn’t agree with, Ghost will ask if you’re alright; making sure you are okay mentally, casually reminding you that he’s here to talk to.

Is pretty sweet when he wants attention which means that when it’s ready for bed, he’ll lay on your stomach, letting you play with his hair while he makes you talk to him; something about your voice is pretty captivating, and he loves falling asleep to it.

—

König:

Much like Gaz, whenever he hears it, he feels warm and starts to stutter. An obvious blush formed on his face. Sometimes, he can’t help but get all blushy whenever he hears you.

“Alter Schwede! You scared me. Did you sleep well? Does your throat hurt?”

He worries a lot. Especially with the complications of your voice going raspy and your throat hurting after a long day (or night). This said, he'll often make you warm drinks and always carry cough drops in his pockets when he leaves with you.

May be stupid but König calls you his Raven/or Crow. He thinks it fits you well and with your deep voice.

Your outfits intrigue him. Whenever he sees you getting ready, putting on your Gothic clothes and thick mask, he smiles in astonishment; how are you so handsome?

Being in public, a tall man and another having a deep ass voice, it's expected to get attention. Whenever people pay attention to you, König may feel a bit jealous but he doesn't like when people reference you to certain things.

A huge man who becomes a puppy the minute you start talking to him, especially at night. He loves hearing you talk about anything, whether that's about work, your childhood, or how you bonged your head leaving the home twice; he'll listen to you and laugh.

—

Masterlist || Please reblog or comment instead of liking, it helps me a bunch!

© yandere-kokeshi 2023 — Do not copy, modify, edit, repost, or use my works for ASMR readings, tiktoks, or other content.

[b0g-b0y]

A Moth to a Flame

Ghost x M reader Requested @imcoughing

( Im sorry yall but I really didn't feel like writing the mission, I could do something like in DMZ but idk)

—---------------------------------------------------

Y/n and Ghost never really knew each other, besides the rare time they passed each other in the halls on base. They never did say a word to each other.

But like a moth to a flame, Y/n and Ghost ended up on the same mission. Ghost didn't think anything about it, why would he? And for Y/n he heard much about Ghost some good some bad, but at the end of the day, Ghost was just another guy to him.

—————-

The window is open crickets are like music to his ears, it's something Ghost could almost fall asleep to. Ghost lies down in his bed. He stares at the ceiling thinking about what happened today. About what happened during the mission, he nearly got shot but Y/n saved him from it. Ghost couldn't get Y/n's eyes out of his mind the look of general concern and worry that he saw in Y/ns eyes, made him feel a type of why. The way Y/n scanned the room before Y/n moved towards Ghost and checked to see if he was wounded, Y/ns touch was so gentle and caring. It almost reminded him of his mom. “ Bloody hell,” Ghost said to himself, before turning on his side to try and get some sleep.

Ghost craved more of that feeling, he wanted Y/n.

Ghost tried to talk to y/n whenever he saw the other man, but that never got far. Y/n made small conversation with Ghost to be polite, but Ghost could tell something was different it wasn't like before it was more distant. A feeling that Ghost knew too well.

-----------

Y/n stood outside early in the morning watching the sunrise. A friendly slap to his back got Y/n to look at who would do that, to no surprise it was Soap. “ Scared the shit out of Soap,” Y/n said. Soap let out a small chuckle.” Didn't think I would scare ye, lad. After all, you've been hanging around the Ghost a lot recently’ Soap said. Y/n couldn't help but let out a sigh.” Not really, don't know why he's been talking to me, it might be a stupid joke I don't know” Both Soap and Y/n looked at each other for a moment. It was silent.

“ I mean Soap he only really likes you and Price, he tolerates Gaz. He calls you Johnny which only Ghost can get away with. The both of you are almost like glue, so how could this not be a cruel joke? Do me a favor and tell Ghost to knock it off.” Y/n said. And at that moment soap looked at Y/n like he said the stupidest shit in the world. “ You're a fuckin idiot,” Soap said before giving a small slap to the back of Y/N's head. “ What the hell Soap?” Y/n said clearly annoyed at Soap's actions.

“ You think Ghost would talk to ye if he didn't like you mate? If Ghost didn't like you he would let you know. Ever cross your mind that Ghost might like you, lad? He almost looks like a puppy when he looks at you for Christ's sake!” Soap said the volume of his voice getting louder as he talked.” Ghost is pursuing you, mate! He Has a silly little crush on you. Ye know how long I had to sit there and listen to Ghost talk about you and how caring you are and you make him feel loved or some shite. Don't get me started on how long the man talked about how pretty yer eyes are, his driving me mad. And you think he doesn't like you? You’ve been dropped on the head as a child Y/n” Soap said his accent was somewhat thick as he talked. Y/n had a small blush on his face as he thought of what Soap said to him. “ Should I ask him out then or…” Y/n said shyly. Soap just gave Y/n a glare and Y/n got the message.

----------

The next time Y/n saw Ghost he stopped him. Y/n looked into Ghost's beautiful brown eyes.”Ghost you ummm, do you like me or. I don't know anymore you're hard to read.” Y/n said softly. Ghosts eyes searched Y/N's eyes for a moment. “ Like you a lot,” Ghost said with his gruff voice. “ How much is a lot Ghost,” Y/n said well gently holding Ghost's face in his hands making the brit look at him. “ Bloody hell… I like you so much that I go back to being Simon Reily for a moment don't feel like the Ghost I swore I am now.” Ghost said almost in a whisper. His hand now touching Y/ns hand that was holding his face so gently.

Y/n gave Ghost the warmest smile that matched the soft and loving look in Y/n eyes. “ Might have to stick by your side more often, I seem to like Simon Reily quite a lot,” Y/n said as he watched Ghost's dark brown eyes light up at his words. “Don't think people will believe that a Ghost can love,” Ghost said with a small chuckle. “ Well I'm not loving a ghost, I'm loving a man,” Y/n said softly.

[luvfy0dor]

Hello! I was wondering if you could maybe write bsd x gn or m reader who’s proficient enough in Japanese to.. well, manage, but still isn’t great at it? Not sure who you write for but maybe Atsushi or Dazai or Ranpo?

(Totally didn’t just request this because I’m learning Japanese and some of this grammar and kanji are killing me lmaooo)

Thanks :DDD

"A Little Help!! ♡⁠˖" Atsushi Nakajima x M!Reader

Warnings; I have very minimal knowledge on Japanese, so please do bare with me lol, probably bad translations, but other than that pure fluff!!

Description; Atsushi and Ranpo helping their partner with their Japanese skills

A/N; IM SO SORRY I ONLY DID ONE CHARACTER BC I HAVE VERY LIMITED KNOWLEDGE ON THE LANGUAGE AND DIDNT WANNA REPEAT SCENARIOS SO I USED GOOGLE TRANSLATE BUT I PUT WHAT ITS SUPPOSED TO SAY AT THE BOTTOM BUT PLS DO TELL IF YOU WANT ME TO RE-WRITE IT THO I ABSOLUTELY WILL ♡ GOOD LUCK IN YOUR LEARNING 💓

Atsushi is gonna teach you everything you need to know if you're struggling with the language. He'll teach you how to memorize and recognize the kanji since he is well acquainted with the symbols.

Scenario !! ˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥

Recently, you've really been taking the initiative to better your Japanese skills, but identifying all the different kanji was quite the hurdle to jump without landing flat on your face. When speaking the language, you had no problem with basic stuff, but when it came to actually reading the language, it got a little more difficult. Luckily for you, you happened to have a boyfriend who was fluent in the language.

Occasionally you would hang around the Ada, using it as an opportunity to utilize the words and phrases you knew. Ofcourse there was some anxiety regarding conversation going further than you pleased and crossing into topics you couldn't fluently speak on. You figured it could be a good learning experience though, so you powered through the long days at the agency, acting as a secretary.

Your ears perked up at the quiet sound of the door opening, a woman walking in, your boyfriend Atsushi following behind her. You give them both a small smile, not quite sure if she was going to speak with you or not yet. Then, she opened her mouth.

"Kon'nichiwa, Kunikida-san to hanashite mo īdesu ka?" ¹ She asks, her head tilted ever so slightly. Her short brown hair sways to one side while she speaks. You think for a moment before replying

"Mōshiwakearimasenga, kare wa ima koko ni imasen." ² You tell her, remembering that Kunikida and Ranpo had gone somewhere on investigation earlier that morning and have yet to return. You give her that one look of faux sympathy or apology as you talk. Atsushi listens to you speak, smiling and giving you a thumbs up from behind the woman, essentially cheering you on. He walks around the woman and stands at your side.

"Ā, daijōbudesu. Ashita no yoyaku o shite mo īdesu ka?" ³ You swallowed a small lump on your throat before looking over at Atsushi for help. "She wants to make an appointment for tomorrow to speak with Kunikida. Do you know how to reply?" He asks, a reassuring smile on his face. "Kare wa mada gengo o benkyō-chūdesuga, wa i, dekimasu." ⁴ You hear him say to the woman, to which she replies with an understanding nod. You wrack your brain quickly for a response, and you find one.

"Nanji?" You reply, praying that you remembered the correct phrase for your question, but when you aren't met with a small giggle or sigh of annoyance, you feel a lot better. She tells you the time and asks to have it written down on a small piece of paper because of her poor memory. You grabbed a sticky note from the desk with a pen, scribbling down the time and handing it to her. Atsushi watches you write, his gaze soft as he takes a seat next to you. The woman thanks you and leaves, the door clicking again just as it had done when she entered.

"See, you did pretty good." He says with a smile, resting his head in his hand. You sigh, doubtful of your accuracy in the conversation. "Yeah, I probably did, but I couldn't have the conversation fully on my own. You had to translate one of her sentences." You say, putting your head down and resting it on your folded forearms. He rubs your back gently, patting it after a couple seconds.

"Hey, that's not a bad thing. Me telling you what that means is only gonna help you recognize it later." He says, trying his best to reassure you. "If you really want to be able to strive without..in the moment help, you can always ask me to teach you stuff." He smiles warmly. You give him a smile and sit upwards again, his hand sliding down to the small of your back now.

"That would actually be really nice." You stare into his pretty eyes, taking in his facial features, seemingly studying them harder than you studied Japanese. He blushed under your stare and averted his eyes to look at his lap instead. "What specifically do you have a hard time with?" He says, his voice relatively quiet as you both sat in the otherwise silent room. "Kanji." You reply instantly, knowing that if a part of a language could oppose you, it would be kanji.

Your boyfriend nods in understanding, having figured that kanji would be your toughest subject, given how similar a lot of them look. "Okay. You can come back to my apartment tonight if you want and I can teach you. We can scrape together some money and buy take out, too." He says with a smile. You nod in agreement before you both go about the rest of your day, eagerly looking forward to that evening.

When you both arrive back to his apartment, Atsushi grabs some paper and pens, handing you one of them. He guides you to sit at the kitchen table. He writes down some kanji symbols in his neatest handwriting.

"Alright, here, tell me the difference between these two." On the paper, the symbols "緑" and "縁" are written. "Well..the bottom right corners are different from the other." You say. He nods in confirmation. "Yeah! See? You have to really observe each symbol." He says with a smile. This goes on for a while, Atsushi teaching you how to differentiate the symbols as well as telling you their meanings before you've both tired yourselves out enough to nearly fall asleep as soon as your body hit the couch. Atsushi hugged your torso as he layed on your chest, his head in the crook of your neck.

"But yeah, that's basically as simple as it is." He says with a yawn, seemingly dismissing the topic of your second language for the moment. You brush some of his hair out of his face while he cuddles into your chest some more. "Yeah, I mean, it really doesn't seem that hard, but it's easier to say something like that then to act like it." You murmur back, pressing a gentle kiss to his head. "But I've got such a great boyfriend to help me, huh?" You say happily, to which he nods. "And I've got such a great boyfriend to teach."

A/N #2; here's the guide as promised 😞💔 this sat in my drafts for like the past two weeks but im so glad i finally fulfilled it. Sometimes

1~ Hello, may I speak with Kunikida?

2~ I'm sorry, he's not here right now.

3~ Oh, its alright. Can I make an appointment for tomorrow?

4~ hes still learning the language, but yes, you can

5~ What time?

[thebibutterflyao3]

Day Twenty-Eight - Prompt: Touches @rosekiller-microfic

March Daily Series - 774 words

<<<Previous Part OR Start Here

Barty drummed his fingers against the steering wheel as he waited. He didn’t know why he was so fidgety. It wasn’t as though he’d never picked up a bird before.

When he was with Evan, he felt like a taxi service half the time since he didn’t drive. Not that he minded when it was Evan. Most of those drives ended with Evan’s head in his lap or his hand down Evan’s pants. Only giving him gentle touches to drive him mad.

He shook his head clear and reprimanded himself to focus. This wasn’t the time for his fantasies. Barty stayed up late on the phone to plan this out. Everything was prepared, he just needed to wait and keep his wits about him.

The clock on his dashboard read 10:40, ten minutes late. She’d said to wait at the kerb, exactly like a taxi service attendant. This was beginning to feel like deja vu.

Don’t you dare.

Suddenly, the passenger door flew open and her pale blonde ponytail nearly slapped him in the face as she climbed in. Barty immediately straightened up in his seat and gripped the steering wheel. His heart pounded against his chest as he waited for her to settle in.

“Alright?” he asked, shifting clumsily.

Pandora arched an eyebrow sceptically, then nodded. “You have twenty minutes to explain yourself, Crouch.”

He cleared his throat as he eased Heather into traffic. Twenty minutes to convince the one person who held the key to his happiness in her hands that he wasn’t the horrible person that he had been with Regulus. This was fine.

“Right, so Lily explained the whole—”

“Keep my future wife’s name out of your mouth, if you value your life.”

Barty swallowed hard and tried again. He and Lily had practised this speech three times, he knew it by heart.

“I meant to say…I-I apologise for how awful I was to Regulus, and to you. I let my insecurities overrule my common sense. It was absolute shite and this is not an attempt to excuse it, I swear. I…fucked up, then kept fucking up to cover up the first fuck up.”

So much for memorising the speech.

He snuck a glance at Pandora. She stared out the window and avoided looking at him. Barty wondered if she was even listening, or if she’d only agreed to this because her girlfriend coerced her into it.

“I should have been honest with Regulus. He deserved to hear the truth, instead of my shite attempt to weasel out of it.”

“What is the truth, Barty? Do you even know?” she snapped. “Why did you cheat on Reg?”

“I knew he was breaking up with me, so I gave him a reason.”

Her head snapped to the right as a deep scowl marred her pretty features. “What does that mean?”

“I heard him talking to you on the phone, Pandora. He told you that I wasn’t his type and that he should have known better than to date below his standards.”

Pandora’s eyes widened, then she looked away. “Well, he had a point.”

“He did,” Barty agreed. He forced back the bile rising in his throat and continued. “And you were both complete snobs about it. Which is why I proved him right. It hurt to hear you two ragging on me. I decided that I’d rather be dumped for fucking up than be discarded like a piece of rubbish.”

“Oh, so it’s our fault then?”

“No. I could have walked away, but I didn’t. I thought I was evening the odds and…I was wrong.”

Pandora eyed him narrowly. “You admit that you were in the wrong?”

“Yes,” Barty said, nodding calmly. “I knew that Regulus was struggling with his self-esteem and I used it to my advantage. It was manipulative and self-serving.”

“But you’re all better now?” she retorted.

Barty sighed, pulling off the road to park behind the building. “I’m better when I’m with Evan because we take care of each other. We’re even. I want to be the best version of myself for him, so I try.”

“You try? That’s it?”

“You don’t understand.” Barty turned off the car and turned to face her. He remembered Lily’s advice and breathed deeply to calm himself first.

“I think…I think I might be in love with him, Pandora. He is the most important person in my life and I would do anything for him. Do you understand how terrifying and amazing that is? I’ve never felt like that before and I’m still figuring it out, but I’m trying.”

Pandora’s jaw worked from side to side as she stared him down. He didn’t flinch, or look away this time. Barty held his ground.

“Fine. I’ll talk to Regulus…and Evan.”

[psychedelic-ink]

𝑬𝑿𝑰𝑳𝑬 || 𝑭𝑼𝑳𝑳 𝑺𝑻𝑶𝑹𝒀

pairing: joel miller x ofc!june | written in reader format, no body descriptions but does have a personality

genre: dark cottagecore, horror, angst, explicit smut, hybrid au, minors dni

word count: 13.8k

summary: Runners. Stalkers. Clickers. Shamblers. Bloaters.

Domestics.

All infected. One unlike the other.

You expect the infection to eat you from the inside out, turning you into something horrid. But instead, you find yourself with leaf-shaped ears and antlers that belong to a deer. While you live out the rest of your days trying to adjust to your new features and survive, you meet Joel, a survivor just like you but with a more grim approach to life.

Both of you adopt the forest as your home. One wants the other gone, meanwhile the other will do anything to not be left alone.

warnings: canon typical violence, horror elements, horror imagery, a non-descripted attempt at suicide, blood, intense feelings of grief (joel), joel having anger issues, joel threatening to shoot you, intense feelings/descriptions of loneliness (reader), female masturbation, you get shot, mentions of reader having body hair, piv, oral (receiving and giving), emotional sex, possessive kink, praise kink, mild dirty talking, soft!joel, vaginal fingering, kitchen sex, mild choking, rough sex

a/n: Hello everyone! this is the whole story of Exile, if you want to read this chapter by chapter you can by clicking on the masterlist below. Enjoy!

I would like to thank @pedrorascal for reading this over and giving me insight about the story. And also thank you to @honestly-shite for answering my camera-related questions 💜💜💜

And lastly, once again thank you to @pedrito-friskito who listened to me bitch and moan about this fic for months and edited this entire thing. I love you so much brainwave twin ❤️

SERIES MLIST

PROLOGUE 

(SEPTEMBER, 2013)

Runners. Stalkers. Clickers. Shamblers. Bloaters. 

Domestics. 

All infected. One unlike the other. 

After getting infected, what happened to one’s body could be described as no less than horrid. The change could happen to anyone; your neighbors, your friends, your family. After the virus seeped into your skin and flooded your veins, your body morphed into something inhuman. The stench would be unbearable— Acidic and rotten. Regular faces now looked as if they’d been through a meat grinder, or exploded from the inside out. 

And those were your exact thoughts as fear crept up your spine. Your breath came in short, ragged gasps as the feeling took hold of your spine, a cold hand clutched at your heart. The taste of bile was thick on your tongue, your nostrils filled with the cloying odor of decay. You could hear the clicking sound of the Infected drawing closer, a relentless, maddening sound that seemed to echo within your skull.

Click Click Click

The Clicker moved closer, its grotesque form illuminated by the flickering light of a nearby fire. Its eyes were blank, soulless orbs that seemed to stare into your very soul. Its twisted, mangled body was covered in pus and blood, the stench overpowering.

You managed to make your escape with an empty gun in your hand and your black boots caked with mud. The rain fell heavily from the sky, as if it were determined to wash away all traces of your existence. Despite the downpour, you had managed to evade the Infected and make it deep into the woods.

You collapsed under a tree with thick, leafy branches and you cried— Warm, salty tears mixed with cold, sweet rain. You felt your stomach, soft, warm, and incredibly wet. 

Blood, you realized.

With shaky hands, you peeled the wet fabric off of your skin and mused to yourself that it actually did feel just like that—warm. Your tears dried out when you saw the violently red bite mark. It was deep. A chunk of your flesh gone. 

You checked yourself for ammo, your hands trembling. You didn’t want to turn. You didn’t want to become a mindless creature hunting for untainted flesh. 

You let your head slump against the trunk, the weight of your circumstances pressing down on you as you grasped the finality of your empty ammunition. Your body trembled. Blood continued to pour heavy and thick over your skin. 

Life was so cruel that it didn’t even allow you to die. You would live the rest of your days as a mindless shell of what you once were—a disfigured monster— until someone shot you. And that was only if you were lucky. 

The thought of living long enough to morph into a Bloater struck you to your core. You closed your eyes. 

While raindrops slid down the leaves and dropped onto your shivering body, you were blessed with unplanned sleep. You hoped that you wouldn’t wake in the morning. If you were lucky, a hunter would come by and shoot you before you had the chance to turn, robbing you of all your belongings.

A new type of Infected was born that day— Domestics, they would be called. A type of infected that didn’t behave like the rest. Domestics could continue their lives as regular people (whatever regular meant in this bitter world) however, they still carried the signs of nature’s rebuttal across their bodies. 

Some Domestics had claws, some had fur, some had eyes that could see through the pitch-black night. 

Some could breathe underwater, some had scaly skin. 

In your case, you had antlers and soft, leaf-shaped ears allowing you to detect even the faintest of sounds from miles away. But with these gifts also came the curse of being forever marked as one of the Infected, an outcast from an already broken society.

This infection was different. Some called it adaptation. 

But to most, it was still the Infected, there was no difference.

EIGHT MONTHS LATER 

(MAY, 2014)

The wet soil sinks as you bend on one knee. The squelch of earth prompts you to wrinkle your nose. Your ears fall flat over your head, and you point the lens of the polaroid camera to a fallen tree trunk. It’s covered in rich green moss, with a handful of small mushrooms grown within it. You press your eyes against the viewfinder. The rest of the forest is blurred, the mushroom being the focus of the shot. You click the shutter release, the sound of it louder than you expect. A picture soon follows.

You flinch at the sound of wings fluttering. You press your chin against your chest, only moving your eyes as you look up. Your ears are raised with alert, your muscles tense, and your body unbelievably still. You see a flock of white doves swarming in the air. 

You slowly get up with an exhale of a breath. You feel more and more on edge every day. You know for a fact that the forest is empty except for the animals that already inhabited it and well…you. 

After you were infected and before you decided to make the green your eternal home, you had scoured the area endlessly. There wasn’t much; a couple of abandoned cabins, and safehouses made from stone and metal. As far as you could tell, there weren’t many Infected living here. However, that didn’t mean there were none. 

Getting used to your new body hadn’t been easy. At first glance, not much didn’t appear to be different. Your ears were now one of a deer, your antlers small and not really good for anything. 

The latter surprised you because from what you’ve known, does did not have antlers. 

Funnily enough, getting used to your new physical appearance had been easy. The hard part was the newly developed senses; you could hear better, see better, could pick up scents miles away from where you stood. The first day after being turned you were frozen with fear, hearing and smelling too much all at the same time. It paralyzed you, making you think that the threats loomed much closer than they actually were. 

But days passed and the pack of wolves you heard days before never came. The hunters seeking out tourists never found you. Then you realized that no one had been after you this entire time. You got up, ready to find a home. 

In one of the abandoned cabins, you found a dusty old polaroid camera. You fixed it, cleaned it, and now it was your only tool to remind yourself of what life used to be. 

The camera loosely hangs from your neck, swaying from side to side as you walk back home. You tend to limit your time in the forest, not wanting to attract attention from anything—be it humans, infected or regular animals. 

A gust of wind blows and you notice a tree stump. Without a second thought, you gather a couple of the rocks that lay idly nearby. Four, you count, and stack them on top of the stump. This had become a habit after the first week. You enjoy seeing them months later, still laying on top of one another, untouched. The ones that are knocked by the wind or something else, you don’t pick up again. 

Joel doesn’t think much of the scenery. There’s no one to bother him, no one to look out for, and that’s enough for him. His rifle hangs warm on his back, a newly shot buck limp and thrown over his shoulder. A good hunt, is all he can think. 

His pain is still fresh. The hole in his heart still pouring crimson blood— it causes his skin to itch constantly, and he does so hard enough to leave red marks dragged across his skin. 

Joel doesn't think anymore, his mind consumed by the need to survive. It’s out of habit. He shoots first and never asks questions. But even as he fights for his own survival, it feels meaningless, a hollow victory in the face of the horror that surrounds him. He moves through the world like a ghost, haunted by the memories of those he has lost and the darkness that seems to follow him. The constant fear and desperation have turned him into a shell of his former self, a shadow of the man he once was.

The part of him that used to feel is long gone, the watch on his wrist telling him the exact time of death every single day. 

His chest heaves and his knees buckle under the added weight of the animal. With a grunt, Joel catches himself before falling and looks ahead. He’s close, a break seemingly not needed. 

Then he sees a soft shimmer of light, his eyes following it like a moth to a flame. Rocks, he sees, four of them stacked on top of a tree stump, shining under the afternoon sun. His mind draws blank as he thinks who might’ve stacked them. At first, he worries that it might be hunters, but then he realizes that nobody would come out this far without a good reason. 

As the realization sinks in, his heart slows down, his breathing evening out. The tension eases out of his body.

Joel rolls his shoulders and pushes the dead animal further up. 

He only stops when he sees another set of rocks stacked on another stump. 

TWO MONTHS LATER

(JULY, 2014)

It happens when you’re trying to take a picture of dew on a big leaf. 

You hear the click of a gun, silent steps, and an agitated grunt. A man, you guess, a man much stronger than you. The feeling of him lurking behind you makes a shudder trail up from your tailbone to your nape, a needle-like sensation that induces the need to run. He’s closer now, his breathing heavy. You know it’s too late to run when you hear the loud crunch of leaves. 

“Hands in the air,” he says, voice gruff. “I swear, you make a sudden move and I’ll shoot.” 

You tremble. Your hands slowly raise, the camera falls and the strap stings your neck when it does. 

“Don’t shoot.” 

You sound meek and afraid. A million thoughts swirl in your mind, the most prominent one being that you didn’t want to die. An irony considering how you felt when you first breached the border of the forest. When he speaks again he doesn’t address your plea for your life, which scares you more.

“Turn around then, let’s see what you are.” 

You turn and his eyebrows rise with shock, mouth parting. His hands falter lightly, the barrel of the gun dropping to your neck. When he swallows, his tongue darts out to wet his lips. 

“Well, I’ll be… a Domestic.” 

His shock gives you a brief moment to observe him as well. His hair sticks out from all directions, messy and unkempt. His patchy beard is peppered with a healthy amount of grays; so is his hair, you realize. You’re impressed by the broad width of his shoulders and strong jaw. He’s wearing a tattered brown jacket and a gray button-up underneath. His finger still rests on the trigger, the crease between his brows deep. 

The watch on his wrist reflects the light into your eyes. 

“I didn’t think your kind actually existed. A fairy tale, I always thought.” he huffs. “An Infected that can speak, think, and eat like one of us,” 

“I am one of you,” you answer defensively. 

“You have antlers growing out of your head, girl.” 

“That doesn’t mean I’m any less of a human,” 

“Maybe, but it sure does mean you ain't all human now, does it?"

The drawl of his words strikes a nerve. Blood pools underneath your fingernails and you think about the many others that think like him. 

Rarely do you leave the protective bubble of the forest, but those scarce moments when you do have shown you what the masses thought of this new type of “Infected”. Most treated Domestics the same: shooting on sight. Some believed they could be the source of a cure—Whichever one they believed, it always ended in violence. 

You have no reason to believe this man is any different from the rest. Hell, you can’t even rule out the possibility that he might be a hunter. 

He takes a step closer. You inhale sharply, lips only slightly parted. The man doesn’t stop until you’re staring directly into the barrel of the gun, he cocks the weapon, his eyes glued to your ears and antlers. Saliva gathers in your mouth and you swallow thickly. 

“What makes you different from the rest of’em— The rest of the Infected,” his voice drops, his tone threatening. “Give me a good reason not to blow your brains out right this second,” 

Your ears straighten when he pushes the cool metal against your forehead. It’s cold yet it also burns. You’re hesitant to say anything, let alone convince him to let you live. Your lips are numb like a corpse, your throat seizes, the air caught in your throat. 

Your gaze falls to his throat, and with a subtle snarl, he notches the gun under your chin, lifting your gaze back up. 

“Speak,” he commands. 

“I—I don’t crave to attack the uninfected,” you blurt out. He raises one eyebrow and looks you over, clearly not convinced. “I’m also scared of them. They attack me like they would any other survivor,” 

“Is that so? Maybe we should try that theory out.” 

You must’ve given him a look of utter horror— or one of a kicked puppy— because his eyes soften, brows relaxing along with the rest of his muscles. He finally lowers the gun and shakes his head. 

“I won’t, don’t worry,” he holds the rifle with one hand and reaches out to touch your ear. It flinches at his touch. You take a tentative step back. 

“Don’t do that,” you say with a frown. You feel incredibly warm and your ear continues to twitch. A sense of both comfort and fear rolls in your stomach. “I’m not a dog you know,” 

“I guess not.” he also takes a step back and waves his hand. “Go along then—Scram,” 

You scoff at his words, half smiling half surprised. “Scram?” 

“I don’t want any sort of infected around me,” he answers, you notice his fingers curling tighter around the handle of the rifle. “I don’t care whether you can talk or shit gold, I want none of it.” 

“I live here too, you know. You don’t own the forest—” 

Suddenly, you find yourself staring into the muzzle again, you jump and goosebumps trace your skin. His hardened expression is back, he looks angry—furious almost, which surprises you. You didn’t expect him to offer you tea but you surely didn’t expect him to threaten you once more. 

“We managed not to come across each other this far. Which tells me you must’ve been snooping outside of your regular path, am I right? Don’t come near here again.” 

You’re wrong, is what you want to say since this actually was your regular path but seeing that he has no intention of backing down you decide to keep your thoughts to yourself. 

“If I do find you snooping around again, I won’t be as kind. Now, go.” 

Joel watches as the Domestic runs away, jumping above the branches and fallen trees. She didn’t say a word. She merely stared at his rifle one last time before fleeing. 

Rightfully so, he would’ve shot her if she hadn’t. 

For the longest time, he thought of the Domestics to be nothing more than a lie. He assumed it to be a weak attempt to spark hope within the people. A new type of Infected that didn’t behave like infected regularly did. 

He remembers Tommy speaking of them, once, before Joel shut him down.

Supposedly they came in different forms, all of them having animal-like features. Joel never thought this of being the next step of human evolution —or an adaptation as many had told him— there was no use in having tiny antlers or other minuscule differences. They still would die just as easily as regular folk, so what was the point? 

He turns and leaves. Joel would’ve shot her— hell, he probably should have. He doesn’t know nothing about this new type of infected, who was to say that the next day she wouldn’t come crawling back as a damn Clicker? 

But, he still had some fraction of a conscience, and when she looked up at him, so afraid—the mere thought of him offering her up to the Infected making her tremble— he just couldn’t. 

Joel is positive that this decision of his will cause him trouble. Hopefully, she’ll actually listen and never come near him again. But in this day and age, people rarely heed the warnings. 

A fly lands on his shoulder and he swats it away. The thing you were doing had piqued his curiosity; you were taking pictures. He doesn’t remember the last time he’d taken a picture—

No. That’s a lie. He does. 

It was when Sarah had won an award for playing on her youth soccer team. He remembers the picture well; Sarah holding her trophy with one hand and making a peace sign with the other with his arm thrown over her shoulder. 

Joel stops, looks at the ground, and lets out a shaky breath. His eyes are wet, and his throat is so tight that it hurts. 

Back when it all happened, he couldn’t even manage to go back to their home and bring a single picture with him. All he remembers of Sarah is from his memory—Not that he could ever forget what she looked like. 

His chest stutters, anger boiling in the pits of his stomach. It’s unfair that he is still breathing and walking, it should’ve been him— Or he should’ve at least died along with her. 

“Fuck,” he hisses, his voice loud within the silence of nature. 

His anger festers in him like a disease. It never leaves. Whenever he thinks about his last moments with Sarah, his arms coiling around her as she stopped breathing, her blood warm against his skin. He feels a sharp pain in his chest and collapses. Most days, he wished that the pain would stop his heart, clog his veins, and leave him dead under the trees.

He jolts at the familiar pain growing in his chest. The sounds he makes come from his throat, an unattractive gurgling sound that reminds him of Runners. Joel stumbles forward and trips. Looking down he sees thick roots making their way out of the soil, his gaze follows the rotting limb, he sees a tree stump. 

Again, he sees rocks. 

The tightening of his chest subsides for a brief moment, his shock numbing the rest of his nerves. Joel looks back to where he came from. He observes the path the Domestic had escaped to, then he turns back to the rocks. 

Joel isn’t sure what prompts him to do it— He’s angry, bitter, and the peaceful image of the Domestic happily taking pictures doesn’t leave his mind. Raising his foot from the ground, he kicks the stack violently with the sole of his boot. 

He doesn’t care to look in which direction the rocks flew to. He walks away. 

ONE WEEK LATER

(JULY, 2014)

Summer rain isn’t common, but very much appreciated. 

You hear the soft pitter-patters of rain first. The light that filters through the clouds casts the room in a hazy, dreamlike quality. You slowly open your eyes. There it is again, that feeling of restlessness, accompanied by an itch that you just can’t scratch. You stretch your arms first, then your legs and your back—twisting and turning until you hear a satisfying crack. 

Staring at the ceiling, you think of what to do. You’re low on supplies. Especially food. You have a handful of dried berries in the cupboard and freshly gathered rosemary to make tea. Not the most nutritious breakfast. Soon you will either have to travel to the city (which is never fun) or you will need to scavenge the woods, in hopes that maybe there is an empty cabin you haven’t sacked yet. 

Thunder bellows and you close your eyes, your ears flat. Your heart races not only at the sound, but the memory of a rifle being pointed at you and the man who held the trigger. You remember the smell of gunpowder and fear, the taste of terror and sorrow. You think back to the man and the moment when it all could have gone wrong. But the thunder falls silent, and you’re still here. You’re still alive. 

You’ve seen him once more since that encounter. For obvious reasons, you hadn’t come out to say hi. He seemed to be wearing a perpetual scowl on his face, which makes you uneasy near him. 

The rain speeds up, the cold crawling through the gaps. Yet, you feel incredibly warm. 

Human contact is something hard to come by and for some reason, the man behind the trigger awakened something inside you. Despite the imminent threat of death at the time, you realized he had a handsome face, a strong body. He’s clearly competent if he managed to survive this long. 

You remember his hands, how large they had looked holding the grip of the rifle. 

With a stuttering exhale, your hands move across your body, squeezing and touching parts of yourself you found that still enjoyed being squeezed and touched. Your breasts feel heavy and warm beneath your palms. One hand slides up as the other slides underneath your loose shirt; slowly you curl your own fingers around your throat, with the other you draw slow circles around your nipple. 

The sensations are enough to make your eyes flutter closed as your mind drifts back to the man who had held you at gunpoint. His strong frame, his deep voice, and his intense gaze. You let out a soft sigh as you imagine what it would be like to feel his hands on your body. To feel his breath on your neck, the warmth of his body pressed against yours. It's a wonderful fantasy, but one you know will remain just that.

But then again, there is no harm in fantasizing. Especially in a world so bleak.

You imagine that it’s him. His thick fingers roughly squeezing your tit as he chokes you. Your breathing hitches. You spread your legs at the ghost of his cock. You can almost feel his breath on your skin—his growl deep and low in your ear. You imagine the stranger fucking you out of spite, bending you over until your body gives in, he’ll make your muscles twitch and ache, your name falling from his lips again and again as he fucks you senseless. 

Another gasp drops from your lips, your jaw slack and eyes half-lidded, the hand that plays with your tit cheats under your shorts. You’re so wet. You shudder when you touch yourself, slow and sensual. You imagine that it’s his tongue, you imagine him praising you on how wet you are for him, and you keen at the whisper of his words. Your back arches off the bed, two of your fingers moving in unison as you draw quick, short circles around your clit. 

Your moans fall freely from your lips. His mouth presses against that tender spot right below your jawline that you tend to touch when you want to feel good—the spot tingles at the thought and you hum with delight, your pussy fluttering and dripping around your fingers. 

He'll bring you to the brink of pleasure, but won’t let you reach it—not until you surrender to him. You imagine his voice commanding you, his hands punishing you. 

You feel yourself grow wetter and wetter, desperate for his touch. You imagine yourself screaming his name as he finally pushes you over the edge, your orgasm crashing over you as he slams into you with one last thrust. You’re left trembling and exhausted, your body aching and your mind reeling from the intensity of you imagination. 

You come violently, shaking and trembling. You breathe heavily through your nose and your chin drops forward, slack with the need to say his name. Deep down, you wish you had asked when you met. He would’ve probably shot you if you did. You want to cry when you push your fingers inside of you, the feeling is pleasant and warm but not at all fulfilling. You thrust them a couple of times, warmth blossoms within your stomach, tears flow and your second orgasm shatters through you 

Still crying, you wipe your fingers and rub your eyes. You do it in a childish way, the back of your hands going up and down your eyes again and again. You think of how he would console you.

You’re doing so well for me.

So beautiful.

Just you and me, nothing else matters.

You’re not alone.

You hug yourself when the last phrase passes through your mind. Within yourself, you accuse him of lying, you say that he’s far away and doesn’t even know who you are. The ghost of him shushes you and strokes your hair. You cry harder then. 

A man that threatened you with your life becomes a source of comfort. It makes you sick, deep down, but you carry on by imagining him whispering sweet sayings into your ear, his hands stroking your body, his cock deep inside. You shudder at the thought. You know that you’re lonely but you never had quite known how lonely you truly were. 

The rain sounds louder now, the thunder more menacing. 

Your room now seems darker. 

The rain lasts all day. You pour some hot water into a cracked mug with a bundle of rosemary inside. Steam flows out of the mug like a waterfall. You take a small bite out of one of the berries you dried yourself and chew it slowly. Your movements feel mechanic. You swallow and raise the mug to your lips, it’s hot, and a bit of tea slips through the cracks and burns your knuckles. You only wince a little bit, not really taking any immediate action to subside the pain. 

Drops slide down the window. The inside is warm thanks to the old wood-burning stove you managed to salvage, most of the parts not matching one another. Soft crackles of fire accompany the sound of rain. 

You take another sip of your tea. You don’t dare to think about the man that is probably staring at the same rain as you. You feel close to him, yet miles and miles apart. 

The salty and earthy taste of rosemary mixes with the warm and comforting smell of the fire, providing a bit of solace in the midst of the storm.

It’s probably better not to think at all. 

THREE MONTHS LATER 

(OCTOBER, 2014)

Joel makes his way through the abandoned cabin, his eyes scanning the cluttered room for any supplies that might still be of use. The air is heavy and still, the only sound being the soft dripping of water from the leaky roof. The shadows seem to dance and shift around him, and he can't shake the sensation of being observed. 

He still has food, luckily, but there was no harm in searching for more. Once a week, he scanned the forest from dawn to dusk, looking over every inch of the crowded forest. Most often than not, he came back empty-handed. 

Joel ventures further into the cabin, his heart racing as he searches through the abandoned rooms. In the bedroom, he finds a torn and moldy mattress that he can use as a makeshift bed. In the bathroom, he discovers a sink and bathtub that are caked with grime and rust, but still functional.

As he gathers the supplies he needs from the kitchen, Joel thinks about the Domestic he’d met months ago. He saw her once more after that, camera dangling from her neck, a gun strapped to her back. He has an inkling that maybe it was her clearing out the abandoned cabins before he could. 

Just as he’s emptying the cupboards, his blood freezes. He hears the creaking of the old steps and the familiar sound of staccato clicks. Beads of sweat flare across his dusty forehead and his lips tighten into a grim line. He slowly unwraps his fingers from around the can, crouching down slowly. His hand moves to his gun, which he pulls up to his chest.

He takes a deep breath and edges backward. He tries to stay hidden as he figures out the exact location the noise is coming from. Joel watches as the twisted, fungal body stalks down the stairs; it trips but is unbothered by it. 

It moves around with a silent, deadly grace.

Its face is completely engulfed in the thick, black fungus that covered its entire being, its eyes long since rotted away. Swallowing, Joel crawls forward, wanting to reach the door before the Clicker finds him lurking about in the kitchen. He breathes out from his nose, as silently as he can. The Clicker turns to the living room, leaving the exit wide open. Joel’s skin tingles when he moves, like little needles poking into his skin. 

Joel’s eyes frantically dart around, taking in every tiny detail just in case something goes wrong. He spots the wide windows, the coat rack, the couch— 

His body shuts down entirely when he sees it. He stops breathing, moving, even the twitching of his right eye subsides within the minute. 

Joel sees her. Antlers and all, crouched behind the couch, teeth deep into her bottom lip while breathing heavily from her nose. 

And in that brief moment, their gazes meet. 

Joel’s mouth is dry as sandpaper. He holds his gaze, eyebrows raise with shock, her confusion is quickly replaced with hope— A look he despises, yet can’t help but be drawn to. 

The Clicker moves around the sofa, its head tilting from side to side as the horrid clicking sounds spurt from its open mouth. Without even thinking Joel motions with his head for her to sprint forward. He sees the still in her steps, strained and fearful but despite it all, she manages to reach him. 

“Thank you,” she whispers, her gaze glued to the floor. 

“It’s too early to give me thanks. We’ll talk when we’re out.” 

He feels the way she breathes, hears the way her heart hammers in her chest. It reminds him of a caged baby bird. She inches closer to him. A movement driven by pure instinct. Joel thinks she trusts too quickly. 

The Clicker stands by the door, head turned in their direction, taunting them. 

It must have heard the two of them whispering. Joel feels his entire body tensing, his breathing nonexistent—

Without thought, Joel senses her nearly jumping with fear and his hand reaches for her. His fingers curl tightly around her neck, pushing her head down without his eyes ever leaving the creatures’ gruesome silhouette. It doesn't have eyes, but it sure looks like it's staring them down, its head tilting to the side as it listens for any sign of movement. 

The Clicker turns its head, cracking its neck before heading deeper into the house.

He grinds his molars together and feels the sting of it in his gums. She lets out a breath of relief, it feels loud— Too loud. He squeezes her nape once more before letting go, and without a word, he heads for the door, not bothering to close it as he finally leaves the cursed cabin.

Her footsteps follow. 

FIVE MINUTES LATER 

(OCTOBER, 2014)

You follow the man deeper in to the woods as the two of you rush to put a reasonable distance between you and the cabin. He keeps looking over his shoulder. Every time he does, he looks more and more rageful. You’re sure that he wants you to leave. 

Honestly, that is probably the more sensible thing to do. 

But the skin of the back of your neck still stings from his grip and you can’t bring yourself to leave without at least learning his name. This forest is your home, and it’s his home as well. In a twisted way, you two are neighbors. 

You hadn’t expected to come across an Infected when you went inside. The heavy rain made you walk inside with little care. It was terrifying, waiting for the threat to pass by yourself. But then there he was, a rugged angel, offering a way to salvation, and bringing you to safety. 

You’ve seen him around; you even took a picture of him. To you, he was a perfect specimen to document someone who was both free and trapped. It was also nice to actually photograph a living, moving thing. 

“When are you gonna quit chasing me around?” he suddenly snarls, turning on his heel with force. “How many times do I have to tell you— Scram.” 

“You’re really rude,” you answer, crossing your arms in defiance. “And you said we would talk after we got out. Well…we got out, now it’s time to talk,” 

“Fine. Thank me and leave,” 

The wind blows warm. The sound of leaves rustling scratches your ears. You try to make yourself seem bigger by straightening your back. It’s been so long since you wanted to talk to him—To get to know the other person who was in the same situation as you. Afraid, confused, hurt, lonely. 

You just want to know his name. That’s all. 

“My name is June,” you say with the exhale of your breath. “And thank you.” 

He considers your not-so-subtle peace offering. His eyes are narrowed, lips tight. Briefly you fear he’s just going to turn and leave. But the fire crackling in his eyes dies down, his shoulders drop and the wind ruffles his hair. 

“Joel.” he answers, “and you’re welcome.” 

TWO WEEKS LATER

(OCTOBER,2014)

You never thought you would have another person in your house. Ever, really. 

But here Joel is, walking up the steps of your humble cabin, taking in the details, assessing what he could take just in case. At the time, inviting him over seemed like a good idea. You wanted him to know where you lived, if something were to happen to where he lived, you wanted him to know where to come. 

However, your good intentions were not reciprocated. 

“I’m not telling an Infected where I live,” he had said. “Feel free to show me if you feel that’s the right thing to do, but don’t expect me to do the same. We are not the same.” 

The words still echo in your head as you finally reach the top of the stairs. You don’t think it was wrong of him to think like that. Technically, you two aren’t the same, not even the same species. But it frustrates you a little bit to see that he’s still so reluctant about your intentions. All you want to do is make your life less miserable. 

“This is the bathroom,” you point out. “However, there’s no real plumbing. I pull in water from the nearby river and wash directly there.” 

He hums, eyes uncaringly looking inside. “What else?” he grunts, walking ahead. 

You dart ahead, grinning as you make an effort of bowing and opening the door. It’s stupid maybe, being so excited about wanting to show him the photos you had taken—But you couldn’t help it. It feels like having a friend over after years, it’s…it’s nice. 

“And here’s my bedroom slash office,” 

“Office?” he scoffs. “What work are you doing?” 

“I like taking pictures,” 

You don’t miss the way his face falls, hands tightening into fists and loosening up again. Confusion crosses your face but you manage to erase it by shaking your head. 

“Uh…anyway, do you want to see?” 

“Do I have a choice?” 

His voice is emotionless, so you have no way of telling if he’s annoyed or not. You only understand his intentions when you turn and see him smiling, the expression sprinkling relief over your heart. It’s a very small smile, something that wouldn’t be considered smiling before 2013, but now it’s the broadest smile in the world. 

It’s odd, feeling this light when doing something. You feel your fingertips tingling as you pick up a medium sized box from your desk and place it on the bed. Before he moves closer, you snatch Joel’s picture from on top of the pile and place it facing down on the sheets. 

“You really have been busy,” he remarks, picking up one of the photographs. It’s one of dandelions. “Not bad,” 

“Thanks. It is hard to find polaroid films and the one’s I find are quite old, or expired, hence the reason why all the pictures look faint or discolored. But it’s better than doing nothing,” 

Joel gives you a faint smile that makes your heart flutter, his eyes grow soft. “Guess so.” 

You show him your favorite photographs, one by one, with insightful commentary on each. He nods, a man of few words, but you appreciate having someone to talk to, other than your own echoing voice.

As the sun begins to dip below the horizon, casting a golden light through the windows, warming your skin, you realize with a startle that hours have passed. You find yourself sitting on the bed, shoulder to shoulder with Joel, and it feels like the most natural thing in the world. The light dances on your skin, and the colors come alive, and for a moment, all is right in the world. No virus, no loss, no grief. Just the two of you, smiling and talking. 

It feels like a glimpse of another life, an alternate universe. The sudden urge to cry overwhelmes you. It’s so strong that you press your nails into your palm, the sting of pain forcing a hiss to stumble from your lips. 

“You alright?” 

The deep baritone of his voice makes you jump. Joel doesn't seem to notice, as he carefully places the photographs back into their box and slowly stands up. While you nod and open your mouth to say that you are, his eyes lingers on the backwards photograph sitting on the bed. 

He reaches out before you can stop him, “It seems like we missed one,” he says, picking it up. Your fingertips touch the photograph as he pulls it away, slipping from your grasp before you can prevent what’s about to happen. 

“Joel, wait—” 

You watch him, transfixed as he studies the photograph, his eyes scanning every inch, his mind working furiously. First, his eyes go wide, then they narrow, brows scrunched angrily. His eyes snap up, his gaze hardened like the first time you met him. 

“What the fuck is this?” 

“I can explain.” 

Joel doesn't pay attention to her explanations, his gaze glued on the photograph. It's like looking into one of those distorted mirrors at a theme park. In the picture, he's standing, gun strapped to his back, fingers curled around the straps of his backpack. He doesn't remember this moment, every day blending into one. It's hard to tell which day it is just from a single photograph.

He looks tired, cheeks hallowed and eyes sunken. His hair and beard has more grays than he remembers, and there's a scar above his right eyebrow that he hadn't noticed before. How could he? He doesn’t like to look at himself. 

But what really sets him on edge is the sight of his own gaze. In retrospect, it's a beautiful picture, the setting sun casting a golden glow on his skin and eyes alight. But he knows what he used to look like, how he used to be tired but happy, content with the life he had built for Sarah and him. Now, he looks tortured, eyes lacking life and love.

This physical copy of his grief and pain is a stark reminder of all that he has lost. He turns the photograph over in his hands, tracing the edges with his fingers as the weight of his past presses down on him. He can't bring himself to look at it any longer and feels a heavy ache in his chest.

He rips the photograph into two pieces, then four—He tears it until the pieces slip from his fingers, fluttering to the wooden floors. 

When he looks back at her, he feels anger. Nothing more nothing less. He never should have came here. 

Her lips are pressed tight, eyes glimmering with unshed tears. She looks so small right now, ears pointed down, and her body curling in a way that makes him think she wants to disappear. 

Maybe she should. 

Or better yet, he should. Only if he wasn’t a damned coward.

“Why the fuck would you take my picture without asking?” he spits, venom behind ever word. 

“We weren’t really on speaking terms at the time…” 

He senses her need to lighten the mood, but it’s too late. The lid is popped wide open, and he’s not strong enough to close it back. The sickening part is that he doesn’t want to close it. Joel wants to lash out, he wants to scream and throw a glass at the wall, watch it shatter into a billion pieces. He wants it so bad in fact, it feels if he doesn’t his chest might explode, his breathing hitches, eyes darting around. 

Joel spots the box of pictures, for a brief moment he imagines himself ripping it all to shreds. Pouring gasoline over them, watching it burn. 

“You shouldn’t have taken it anyway,” 

His gaze then falls upon the camera, sitting idly on the desk. She follows his gaze, noticing the way the air around him becomes tense when he picks it up. It’s hard to breathe. She starts begging him, her voice trembling, as his fingers tighten around the device.

"Look, calm down, please. I'm...I'm sorry, okay?" she says quickly adding. "I understand how you feel—"

"No, you don't," he snaps, the weight of his grief and pain pressing down on him. "You know nothing of my pain. You don't know what loss is."

With a snarl of anger and frustration, Joel throws the camera to the ground. It crashes with a loud sound of shattering glass and plastic. He watches as the pieces of the camera litter the floor, its once precious film now spilled out like entrails. His chest heaving with each breath, his anger slowly dissipating, leaving only the bitter aftertaste of regret. He stares at the broken camera, with a feeling of emptiness and a heavy weight on his chest, the feeling hadn’t gone away. 

As a response, her anger starts to rise as well, competing with his own. Her gaze traces along the broken camera pieces, her hands balling into fists. 

“You’re not the only one who lost people, Joel.” you say, eerily calm. He doesn’t like the way a chill has settled over the bottom of his spine. “I’ve lost people too. You don’t get to say who’s pain is bigger.” 

Joel steps forward, then another, crowding her space. He expects her to cower in fear, but instead she glares at him, staring at him with an unwavering gaze he’s never seen before. 

He’s so close that he can see the small flecks in her eyes. 

“Yes, I do.” his voice drops. “You talk mighty big for someone who prances around and takes pictures all day. You can fool yourself and think that you’re in pain but you ain’t fooling me. You’re happy.” 

She blinks away her tears quickly, her lips parting with shock. It’s too late for him to feel guilty now; he’s sure he’s run out of guilt. 

Anger briefly flares in her eyes, and much to his surprise she attempts to push him away. Joel grabs her wrist, holding them tight as she thrashes around. She refuses to look at him, his words cutting too deep and into something that she fears might be true.

“That’s not fair,” she cries out managing to pull one hand away and slam the side of her fist into his chest. “Fuck you Joel. Fuck. You.” 

“Good,” he replies cruelly. “That’s how you should be feeling.” 

TWO MONTHS LATER 

(DECEMBER, 2014)

Snow crunches under your boots and the wind chills your skin. Except for the pines, most trees are left bare, thick snow covering their branches. Ever since the infection you don’t feel that cold anymore. A simple jacket is all you need, unlike Joel, who seems as if he’s wearing a dozen sweaters underneath his coat. 

He walks ahead, rifle hanging on his back. 

After knowing one another, it was hard to truly part ways. The first week after he shattered the only joy you had left in your life, you two steered away from each other; both of you angry, both of you bitter. 

But you two danced around each other like butterflies. One day, you met his gaze and he nodded. The next day you told him about the extra fish you managed to catch, and that you wouldn’t mind sharing. He seemed hesitant at first, but accepted your offer when his stomach ratted him out with a loud growl. 

Neither of you talked about the incident. You swept the camera away, tucked the box of photographs under your bed. You didn’t enjoy looking at them anymore.

You watch his back, the way his coat seems tight around his shoulders, the dip from the rifle pronouncing his shoulder blades. He always walks in front. No matter what the situation might be, you find yourself staring at his broad back and beautiful neck. He doesn’t talk much anymore, and when he does, it’s in the form of short sentences. 

You on the other hand, do whatever you can to fill the silence. 

You don’t dive much into your past, but you tell him about your hobbies, what it’s been like being alone, and how you adapted to your new antlers and ears. 

Then one day, as you were telling him the things you were afraid of most, he turned to you slowly, his one eyebrow raised and slack-jawed. 

“Don’t you think you tell me too much about yourself?” he had asked and you were caught by surprise. 

“Uh… no? Am I annoying you?” 

“Not annoying—Well, maybe a bit, but I can live with that— you’re too… trusting. Aren’t you afraid?” 

You shrugged, “I feel like if you wanted to kill me, I’d be dead already. No use in dwelling on something I can never be sure of.” 

“That’s not what I meant.” 

“Fine then, what do you mean? Do you want me to be afraid of you?” 

He didn’t answer and you were grateful for it. The thought of reopening the wounds he caused you wasn’t something you particularly wanted to do. 

You’re abruptly drawn away from the whispers of the past with a sting spreading from your nose to your forehead, you groan and stumble back, your hand immediately going up to touch your nose. 

Your vision is blurry, but you see Joel standing as still as a tree in front of you. His one hand is raised to his side, fingers forming a fist. The command is silent but it reaches you loud and clear. You pull out your pistol, finger nestled against the trigger as your ears raise. You hear steps that you missed before, too entranced by your thoughts to hear them. A faint murmuring reaches your ears. 

You take a slow breath to steady yourself and take a step closer to Joel. 

“Three people,” you whisper. “They sound obnoxious and dangerous,” 

He scoffs, “How can you tell they’re obnoxious all the way from here?” 

“I just can. We should go,” 

“No,” he says, fingers curling around your wrist just as you attempt to turn. “We should check who— or what— they are,” 

“And after that?” 

“We take care of it.” 

There’s a stillness in the air and for the first time, you feel the sting of cold. You don’t share Joel’s coldness towards killing. Even killing the Infected is hard for you ever since you also became one by extension. You much rather let the threat simmer until it boiled and threatened to burn you. 

Joel ignores your hesitation and releases his hold. “They’re close aren’t they? If I was able to hear them even a little they must be. Lead the way,” 

“Joel…” 

“Waiting around will get you killed,” he answers, his tone calm and collected. “You’re either with me or with them,” 

“That’s cruel.” 

“Is that your answer?” 

Leaning slightly forward, he forcefully meets your gaze. He doesn’t blink and it feels as if he’s staring into your soul, which is ironic considering Joel probably doesn’t believe in such things. Closing your eyes you face the sky, the tips of your ears burn and your heart skips a beat. You already know what your answer is, and he knows it too. 

“I’m with you.” 

“Then lead the way, Bambi.” 

It’s not a long walk. You’re surprised that they’re so close, so surprised in fact you shudder with each step. You’re not a fan of confrontation. Every nerve in your body screams at you to run. But you feel Joel’s presence near you, his ghost chokes out the screams, only litter whimpers left that are easier to ignore. 

You and Joel take cover behind the thick trunk of a pine tree. Your guess is that the small group are hunters. They carry guns and they look the part. Your eyes move to Joel, his own gaze slowly turning to you. He pushes a finger to his lips, signaling you to be quiet. The three men talk about the tourists and the Domestics they managed to get a hold of, you bite back a whimper. 

Joel leans in, the curve of his lips barely touching your ear. He doesn’t have to do that, you could’ve heard him just fine, but some habits are hard to break. 

“I’ll take them out,” he whispers, the warmth of his breath prompting you to close your eyes. “You stay on lookout, shoot the ones that try to kill me.” 

You nod. There isn’t much you can add to his plan anyway. 

Joel moves out. As he slowly approaches the first one, you move, your steps feather-light. You find the best position to spot all three of them and crouch down, the snow melts under your knee and wets the fabric. 

With one eye closed and finger on the trigger, you realize you’ve never actually seen Joel attacking another. You’ve seen him hunt, but that was as far as the violence went. Briefly, you admire his contrast to the white snow. His coat a dark green, stained, and his hair mussed. 

His every move is calculated. He walks around the first target, wraps his arm around the man’s neck and pulls him away from the others until he faints. You expect him to fixate his gaze on the others, but instead, he raises his foot and slams it down with no shred of hesitation. Blood sprays against the snow, melting and hissing at the warmth of blood. A drop of red lands on Joel’s cuffs. 

You let out a scream, clapping both hands over your mouth before you can stop yourself.

But it’s too late, the other two are already running toward Joel.

“Shit,” Joel hisses, eyes finding yours amidst the chaos. “Get out!” 

You’re a deer in headlights, both literally and figuratively. The two men crowd Joel, one pressing a knife to the neck you admired many times while the other sets his gaze on you. 

You hear the bullet first, and your body moves before you can process it. Joel manages to kick the man heading towards you in the back of the knee. He falls face first with a grunt. You hear the knife against Joel’s neck cutting skin. 

You don’t blink when you raise the pistol and shoot your shot, the bullet sinks right between his eyebrows. He falls promptly. The other one still groans on top of the snow. Joel takes the knife that was still stained with his own blood and stabs the last of them in the heart. You collapse to the ground, pistol falling to the side as you cover your mouth. 

Warm tears roll down your cheeks, eyes squeezing shut as your fingers tremble. You see black dots hovering across your vision. You feel incredibly sick. Your mind replays the scene over and over again until you feel his touch on your cheek. 

You were aware of the violence growing in the world. Seen bits of it whenever you left the comfort of the forest. But you haven’t been aware of how bad it had gotten. How desperate everyone became to hurt others for the means of survival. 

Bile rises up your throat and burns your tongue.

“Calm down— Calm down,” Joel cradles your face, thumbs moving over your cheekbones. “You’re good. We’re safe. You did it,” 

“Did what exactly?” you snap, pushing him away and falling back. “Joel you—you kicked in his skull! You—You—” your voice breaks and you finally open your eyes accompanied by a deep breath. He looks broken and for the first time you truly understand what that means. “What the fuck, Joel?” 

His eyes flit around your face. He slowly takes in every detail —the way you shudder, the way your ears are flat against your head, the way your breathing is uneven— but he doesn’t know what to make of it. Your words have underlined fear, uncertainty. You look at him as if it’s the first time you’re seeing him. 

Joel’s gaze moves from your face to your shoulder, he reaches his hand out.

You jerk away without meaning to, his look softens, the tips of his fingers only an inch away from your shoulder. 

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he drawls, voice dropping, barely a whisper. “You’re bleeding.” 

You look to the side, too tired to actually panic about it. Now that you were seeing the blood, you start to feel the sting of the bullet still being inside. You wince and Joel catches it. 

“Your cabin is close by right? Let me patch you up.” 

You’re strikingly aware that you won’t be saying no to him, not now and probably not ever, “Sure.” 

Joel is surprisingly gentle. 

He helps you out of your blood-soaked shirt, leaving you only in your bra. The chair creaks under your weight. You ignore the vulnerability of the situation. It’s been months since another person saw you bare, you didn’t have the means to groom yourself properly. The hairs on your arms and legs growing with time— Even though you’re blatantly aware of how stupid it is, you still wonder if he notices, or what he might think. 

Joel returns with the first-aid kit and you refuse to look at him, turning your cheek when he kneels to your side. He dabs the cotton in alcohol, cleaning it first before taking the tweezers out of the box. You hear him sigh. 

“I know you want nothin’ to do with me right now but you might want to bite down on something. It’s gonna hurt, Bambi.” 

Hearing the nickname makes you feel lightheaded. Turning around, your gaze drops to Joel but he’s not looking up at you, instead, he’s staring at the wound caked with blood. 

“Give me my shirt, I’ll bite into that.” 

Joel nods and hands you your shirt. You take it begrudgingly, balling it up in your hands and biting down on the fabric. The pain is excruciating, sweat beads on your forehead. You close your eyes, trying to focus on anything but the searing agony in your shoulder.

Joel's gaze is fixed on you as he works, pulling out the bullet with steady hands. You try to focus on anything but the pain, your gaze drifting to the window. You see that it's started to snow, the flakes swirling in the air. You wince, the pain making it hard to think.

Joel's gentle touch brings you back to the present. His fingers are light and careful as he works, pulling out the bullet and cleaning the wound. You can hear the soft sound of his breathing, the occasional sigh or murmur as he focuses on the task at hand.

“You’re bleeding too,” you state, pointing to his neck. “We should get it cleaned,” 

His fingers brush above the shallow wound, not even a small wince crossing his face. 

“I’ll be fine. I’ve had worse.” 

“I’m assuming you won’t tell me about those memories even if I asked,” you whisper, and his hands go still, fingertips feeling like hot iron against your skin. “I’m not even sure I want to know.” 

“Believe me, you don’t.” 

And that’s the most you get out of him. A tiny crumb of his past. His one hand slides down to your upper arm, fingers pressing into the muscle as if you’re a ghost that has just materialized in front of him. Briefly, you see scenes much more violent compared to the one you witnessed flashing before your eyes; a desperate Joel trying to survive, losing himself to the darkened world. His grief still consumes him, you can see it clearly now. 

With a soft sigh, you cover his hand with your own. The moment is still, neither of you knowing what to say. He seems surprised by the fact you’re touching him, his eyes slowly lifting and meeting yours. You swallow, the sound of blood loud in your ears. 

When you look into his eyes, his soft gaze is briefly replaced by the memory of rage-filled ones you saw outside. You don’t think you will ever be able to forget that look. You won’t be able to forget the way violence clutches at his heart. His need to protect himself and those around him clouds his better judgment— Or rather, he doesn’t care about what happens to others for the sake of his own people. 

You know that this should most likely scare you, or that you should perceive him as something ugly and tainted. 

But it doesn’t. In fact, you think it does the opposite. It’s like a moth to a flame. You’re drawn to him and his tainted light. You see him as nothing short of beautiful. 

His breath hitches while yours stops completely. It warms the fresh wound, then you feel his lips, scarred yet soft, a soft kiss as an answer to your pain. The touch of his tongue forces a shiver up your spine, a soft sting blossoming across your shoulder. 

Joel continues, mouth moving over the slope of your shoulder and to your neck. His patchy beard is a harsh contrast against your skin but you enjoy it all the same. He closes his mouth and presses his lips into the column of your neck. Your lips part with a soft moan. He kisses your neck again and again as if it’s a means to survive. With every press of his mouth, he becomes more sure of himself, the softness is accompanied with the sharpness of his teeth, goosebumps coat your skin. 

Your hand hovers an inch away from his head, too afraid to dive your fingers in just in case he’ll turn into another ghost that your cruel imagination often creates. 

Joel moves back, only an inch between your faces. There’s a new emotion you see that crosses his face but you can’t place what it is. He feels your hand at the back of his head, his eyes flutter closed and he lets out a deep, long breath. Joel’s fingers gingerly curl around your wrist, pushing your hand flush against his head. 

“Touch me,” he says, his southern drawl deep. “I want to feel you.” 

It’s like an experiment almost. Your fingers are touching new soil, getting used to the feeling of soft locks and the bumps of his scalp. You allow your fingers to explore, nails raking his skin. A soft hum rattles his throat and you look back down. You spot the vein meandering down his neck and with wide eyes your hand moves down his head, feels the warmth of his neck, and traces the thick vein. His jaw is locked tight, nostrils flaring with every touch. 

“Joel, I—” 

“Don’t.” his voice breaks, eyes falling away from your own. “Don’t. I don’t wanna hear anything of the sort, not now, not ever.” 

“Tell me what you want to hear then,” 

“The sound of your breathing is enough.” 

Your body reacts before you do, forcing out the breath that was caught in your throat. An eternity later his lips move against yours. His tongue brushes the seam of your lips, your heart flares, your lips parting with the silent command. 

How many times have you thought of Joel touching you like this? Kissing you like this? 

He’ll never know what his mere presence means to you. How the sole image of him brought you back from the brink of not wanting to wake to such a daunting world again and again. Even before he knew what your name was, before you knew his, he was the only one keeping you company—Accompanying you during your every move. A phantom man, following you around and wrapping its arms around you whenever you needed. 

Your body reawakens, his lips and tongue pulling you from somewhere dark. His large hands cup your cheeks, tilting your head as he slips his tongue into your mouth. You moan openly, your hands coming up to hold his wrists. 

Words you want to whisper burn the tip of your tongue. His words echoing loud in your mind whenever they bubble to the surface. 

The sound of your breathing is enough. 

You have trouble swallowing them down, tears gathering in your lashlines, but Joel makes quick work of them, licking into your mouth forcefully as if he’s trying to erase the entire English vocabulary from your mind. 

Your hands drop down from his wrist and awkwardly try to reach his belt. Joel smiles into your lips, calloused fingertips stilling your hands. 

“Easy there, sweetheart. Show me to your bedroom,” 

You give him a confused look, “You already know where my bedroom is,” 

“I prefer this being the first time you lead me to your room.” 

It’s been long since you moved the box of photographs and cleaned the broken pieces of your camera. The ache of your heart is hard to ignore but you do. You nod, also preferring for this to be the first time he’s seeing your room. 

Neither of you touch the other until you’re confined into the smaller area. It’s much colder compared to the kitchen. Joel shivers, a puff of steam dancing from his lips. 

Not wanting this moment to end, you close the distance. Your fingers find their way into his hair, tugging as his hands find your waist. He squeezes and pulls your hips close, forcing a grinding motion. The pleasure you feel is real. It’s overwhelming. Your whines are needy, made with short breaths and the sudden lack of air. 

Joel swallows them all, he sucks your tongue, unbuttons your pants. Arousal pools between your legs, heat licks the bottom of your spine. Your entire world starts spinning when he gets on his knees, pulling down your pants along with him. Your eyes follow, another shudder overtaking you as his fingers move between your legs. 

“J-Joel…” 

“So wet already. Pretty thing,” your heart leaps at the way his eyes move up from your sex to your face. “I haven’t tasted a woman for so long.” 

“Then go ahead,” you mutter, burying your anxiety deep into your heart. 

Everything moves as if it’s in slow motion. The snow outside, the fading light, the way Joel tugs down your underwear. Pupils dilated, he licks his lips at the sight of your slick sticking to the net of your underwear. His thumb moves over your mound, nestling between the soft curls that reside. You suck in a sharp breath. 

The sound is loud enough to prompt him to look up. “Most beautiful cunt I’ve ever seen.” Cupping himself over his dark jeans, a groan slips from his mouth. 

Joel's tongue glides over your skin, you let out a soft moan. His lips velvet against your sensitive flesh. You grip his hair tighter as he expertly works his way over your aching clit. The fading light filters through the dusty window, casting a warm glow over your skin and creating shadows on Joel's face as he buries himself between your legs. His palms skim the back of your thighs, sending shivers up your spine. You let out a breathy moan as Joel's tongue delves deeper. He takes his time, the sharp edges of his face soften, the perpetual crease between his brows fading.  

He must’ve looked beautiful before all was taken away from him. Joel never speaks about it, but you know. You have seen the same expression of grief in your eyes many times. You wonder if you two could’ve met if none of this had happened; the infection, the violence, the change. Another wave of pleasure washes over you with the swipe of Joel’s tongue. You moan and he mimics the sound, the reverberations making you curl over him, your arms wrapped around his head. 

Every cloud has a silver lining, you don’t know who came up with the phrase but you find it cruel, haunting—yet also to be true. 

Haunting is a perfect way to describe the moment. Hauntingly beautiful. A soft hue of light lingering in the darkness dances over your skin. 

Any second can be your last, that’s what makes this moment truly memorable. It can be your last, and you choose to spend it together. 

His gaze finds yours amidst the darkness, lips moving and tongue swirling around your clit. He sucks on it, watching you with a heavy gaze as your whine joins the sounds his tortuous tongue. Joel pulls away and your first instinct is to pull him back, chase the feeling of his skin against yours. His fingers squeezes the back of your thighs, soothing you like a scared animal. You feel his lips moving slowly over your mound, kissing the sensitive skin. 

“I want you on the bed,” he says voice honeyed in a long drawl. “I’m gonna eat this pretty pussy out until you’re drunk on me. Then I’m going to feel the way you squeeze my cock—But I need you to get all nice and wet for me first,” 

Your thighs clench together and he lays another kiss, hands roaming over your ass one more time before pulling you to the bed. He falls on top of you, his heavy presence proving not to be a figment of your imagination. Your entire body rings for him. You feel his breath fanning your face, he stares at you, you see the traces of regret and your stomach sinks. 

“I’m sorry I frightened you,” 

The apology takes you by surprise, you stare, unblinking, and swallow. His hand moves between your leg, two fingers slipping inside you with ease as his palm cups your sex. 

“You still do,” you gasp before you can think. “But I would rather have you broken and bruised than be alone. Something inside me—A heart, a soul…it’s been seeking you out, Joel.” his fingers deftly move with a sharp thrust. Your back archs, body pressing into his touch. You close your eyes but you still feel his eyes boring into you. “You terrify me Joel. But not only because of the reasons you might be thinking.” 

“What other reason is there?” he asks, curling his fingers and grinding the heel of his palm against your clit. You clench your teeth, swallowing down your moans. 

You’re a whirlwind of emotions. His sadness, his grief…all of it resonates deep inside you, it joining the pleasure that builds up, your arousal thick around his fingers. 

You feel the brush of his hand on your ear, your eyes open with surprise, remembering the first time he had attempted to touch you—The Infected part of you. He had ignored it ever since he learned your name. 

Joel leans in and presses his lips, the fur soft against his mouth. Your heart leaps as you flinch, your ear twitching uncontrollably. 

“Tell me,” he says as you moan. “Tell me the other ways I frighten you.” 

“I fear the way you make me feel alive.” 

He curls his fingers, a shout rips from your throat. “Go on,” he prompts you. 

“I’m scared that you’ll leave. That you’ll leave, and that you’ll become a ghost again.” 

“Again?” 

“Forget I said that,” 

He hums, “I can’t promise you that I won’t ever leave. But right now, I'm here. You feel me, don’t you? I ain’t no ghost,” 

To emphasize what he said, he circles your clit with his wet fingers, tongue moving down your neck. He draws your stiff nipple into his mouth, teeth sharp and pleasurable. You feel the wet streaks across your skin when he slides his other hand up your waist, he pries your mouth open by pressing his fingers into the hallows of your cheeks. He sneaks in two fingers, forcing you to taste yourself. 

“I think I need to fuck you now, think you can take me, my little doe?” 

You’re highly aware that the words are spoken without much thought. However, the endearment crackles across your skin, lighting a fire in your stomach, your body jerks, slick wetting your thighs and sheets. He holds your tongue with his fingers, feeling the way it moves with the muffled sounds you make. His mouth moves up the swell of your breast. 

“You like it when I call you mine?” he groans out, breath wet and warm. 

Joel pulls out his fingers so you can speak, his cock lays heavy between your legs. 

Your chest heaves, “Yes.” you gasp, the pressure building starting to become overwhelming. “Say it again, please,” 

“You’re mine,” he replies, sounding as if he’s just stating a fact. “Nothing will hurt you. No one will touch you…” the words sink into your skin, your hips stutter forward, searching for the stretch of his cock. Your breathing becomes heavy, shallow. “And since you’re mine, you’ll take whatever I have to give…won’t you?” 

You hear the uncertainty that follows his hardened tone. Nodding, you catch yourself murmuring back, "I'm yours, and only yours."

Joel doesn’t give you any indication that he hears you, he presses forward, notching the head of his cock against your entrance. Your cunt flutters around him, begging him to move. He’s nothing like your vivid dreams; he takes his time, making you feel every inch. Your breath is caught in your throat, your lungs convulsing. The sudden regret of not touching him beforehand resonates inside, you wanted to feel how heavy and warm he was under your palm, wanted to hear his whimpers—if he makes any, that is. 

“So damn tight,” he grunts. “So wet—fuck,” 

He moves his hips forward then back, thrusting against the dampness that coats your entrance. A moan escapes your lips as he moves faster, each thrust pushing deeper than the last. Your hands grip the sheets as your body trembles. You gasp and bite your lip, the heavy drag of his cock sending waves of pleasure through your body. You can feel him, hard and thick, and it feels incredible. 

Tears gather in your eyes when his lips find yours in the fog of pleasure. Sweat and sex clings to your skin, body on fire, he shoves his tongue into your mouth. The muffled sounds you both make seeps into the other’s lips. You’re both hungry to devour one another, both touch-starved. He parts away with a string of saliva following, he kisses the tear streaks, kisses your eyes. 

You're left chanting his name like a prayer, his hands slide down, cup your ass and lift you from the bed. 

His thrusts quicken, pushing you closer and closer to the edge. You cling to him, your hands gripping his back, your nails digging into his skin. His warm breath tickles your neck, and your head spins. Every movement sounds wetter than the last, he splits you in half, cock moving all the way out before he slams into you again and again and again—

Your body shatters around him, pleasure bursting across your very being. The feeling pours into your veins, leaving a simmer and buzz in the pits of your stomach. Joel fucks himself deeper into you until you’re begging him to stop, your body overwhelmed both physically and emotionally. 

“Where do you want me?” he asks, pulling out and fisting himself with little care. 

The fog clouding your mind briefly lifts and you manage to push yourself up the bed. You push his hand away and wrap your numb fingers around his length. He’s so wet, glistening with your slick. Joel watches you as you lean down, wrapping your lips around his cock. His hand touches the back of your head, pushing you further. 

Arousal pools between your legs once more, your tongue warm and wet as you eagerly lick down his shaft, feeling the soft curls tickling your nose, you swallow. Joel’s head falls back, exposing his tanned neck and small scars littered like a starry sky. A loud groan emits from the depths of his lungs, choked out and raspy. Your eyes roll back when he thrusts his hips, the head of his cock touching the back of your throat. 

Your insides clench painfully, begging for more. 

Your lips pop off, tender skin left wet and swollen. “Come down my throat,” you say, before swallowing him down again. Your tongue slides underneath his shaft, tracing the thick veins as you move up. 

Joel’s nails bite into your skin, a string of curse words falling from his lips. Heat flares under your skin. He pushes and pulls, guiding you as you swallow around him again and again. 

There’s something about the way his nails softly bite into your skin that makes your toes curl. It’s been a while since you sucked cock, and he’s showing you how to do it— 

“Doing so good, little doe— Can you take me deeper?” 

You moan your approval, your hand moving between your legs. Your fingers trace around your puffy clit, still sensitive, yet aching to be touched. He doesn’t seem to notice that you start to touch yourself, he holds your head between his palms, fucking your mouth until he feels his shaft begin to pulse before spilling into the warmth of your mouth. 

You swallow every drop. He tastes bitter and you reel at the way the taste of him burns your throat. He keeps his cock buried in your throat as he rides out his orgasm. You run your fingers up the span of his stomach, feeling the dents and marks painted over his skin. 

Joel is left breathless, his chest heaving and cock now soft. You tenderly pepper his skin with kisses, moving all the way up until you press one hurriedly onto his lips. Your fingers rub over the sweat-slick skin of his forehead. And as you move away he grips you by the shoulders and pulls you back, tasting himself on your tongue. 

He licks the inside of your mouth and teases your bottom lip between his teeth. 

“Why do you want me around?” he cups your jaw and rubs two thumbs down your cheeks. “I’m such a fucking mess. I’m not going to trick you into thinking that I’m something that I ain’t. I’m not a good man, June.” 

“I said it earlier,” you say with a soft smile. “I would rather have you broken and bruised than be alone.”

NEXT MORNING 

(DECEMBER, 2014)

The teapot whistles in the background, warm steam filling the kitchen. It’s still early, you’ve come downstairs to prepare a little breakfast where you would use your best supplies after a night spent in such delight. Joel was still there when you woke up, snoring with his arms wrapped around your waist. The warmth made you want to stay there forever.

Little did you know, Joel is a light sleeper. 

Joel's hand covers your mouth and his weight presses you against the table. His hot breath fans over your skin, sending shivers down your spine. His hands grip your hips, pulling you closer to him with every deep thrust. Your body runs hot when you think of how needy you must look spread open for him, so willing to take and give.

“Best thing to wake up to,” he groans, his teeth clenched.

You hiss at the way the wooden surface of the table rakes your skin, he must’ve heard your discomfort because he pulls you up, fingers that were on your mouth drop to your neck, holding you, feeling your erratic pulse. 

“Is this alright?” he grinds his hips against yours. You gasp, keening at how deep he can reach.

“Yes,” you breathe out. “More, Joel, please.” 

Every time his hips slap against your ass, you choke out a sound, and your walls spasm around him. His hand on your throat keeps you from moving far. Joel’s forehead drops between your shoulder blades, he licks a thick stripe up the middle to your nape.

You shudder, clenching around him tighter. He looks down to witness how wet you are, a slick ring coating the base of his cock. A groan that can only be described as animalistic rattles his throat, he nuzzles the mustache above his lips into the crook of your neck his teeth nipping at your skin.

His other hand moves between your legs, fingers drawing fast circles around your aching clit. You cry out as you rock your hips to meet the roll of his hips. There’s a live wire runs right under your skin, electrifying you from the inside out. Your legs clench together, your body quivering, breathing uneven as he furiously swipes two fingers over your clit again and again. Your eyes roll back, hands moving up to grab his forearm. 

“Harder.” 

You feel the mood swiftly changing, his calculated pace faltering and shifting into something more wild. His fingers around your throat tighten, his teeth sink into your skin deeper, the pain makes you smile, the pain makes you feel good. His hand cups your breast, pinching a puckered nipple between his fingers. 

You gasp, eyes falling shut as he repeats the sharp movement.

Before you come, much to your disappointment, Joel pulls out. His shaft pressed against the curve of your ass, his breathing heavy, you feel him spilling over your skin, nose buried in the back of your neck, inhaling your scent like a wolf.

“Sorry,” he grunts. “Thought I would last longer,” 

“It’s okay,” you say, albeit still unsatisfied. 

The promise of your orgasm tickles your skin, sweat chilling your skin. You’re about to straighten up and clean yourself but he stops you, hands kneading your ass. 

“Get on the table,” he orders. “Let me taste you.” 

Joel helps you flip over to your back and you find comfort in the way his hands tilt you up your hips. The table isn’t the most sturdy, but you trust him. He kisses a trail down your stomach, opening his mouth wide when he reaches your sex. Catching the backs of both knees, he pushes your legs apart and licks into you. Joel’s tongue swirls around the bundle of nerves, he closes his lips over your clit and sucks—hard. 

Pulling away, he spits, your back arches when he does. 

And he dives back in, tasting you over and over. Tongue twisting itself deep inside, moving up and down languidly, rolling around your clit as his fingers make dents in your skin. 

It doesn’t take you long. 

Your entire body convulses, both legs pressing down against the frame of his face. You’re scared the table isn’t going to hold but Joel keeps you still—for the most part. He drags his mouth slowly, tasting you, swallowing you. His movements soon grow slower, the heat of your orgasm subsiding. 

When you let out a bubble of laughter, you think that this is going to last forever. You and him against the world, living your days drowning in pleasure and each other—lifting two middle fingers at the crumbling world around them.  

The next day he’s gone. You don’t see him until three months later. 

EPILOGUE

(MARCH, 2015)

It’s excruciatingly warm. Your tank top sticks to you like second skin, it’s uncomfortable and all you want to do is go home, grab a spare pair of clothes and take a dip in the river. 

You haven’t seen Joel for a while. But to be fair, you’ve been avoiding him. You know well that if you truly wanted to see him you could, you just didn’t. 

He abandoned you without a word. Your heart threatens to shatter again when you remember the thing you admitted to him; your fear of loneliness, your fear of him leaving you to rot in your self-pity once again. 

And that’s exactly what he did. 

It was painful, too painful. You returned to entertaining yourself with ghosts, despite your best efforts, all of them looked like him. Three months had passed but you still feel his lips burning your skin, his cock dragging orgasm out of orgasm out of you. 

Joel said he wasn't a ghost at the time; he never promised you that he wouldn’t be one in the future.

Life is cruel. You know this better than most. It was stupid of you to think anything could change. But the thing you had forgotten was that life thoroughly enjoyed making a mockery of your life. 

You nearly drop to your knees when you see the state of the cabin you once called home. Infected, a multitude of them, moving around your house, a couple of them inside, lurking about. 

You almost break down. Almost. 

Joel never told you where he lived, but you know. And you have no choice. You need to go. You need a place to say. You need to survive despite the pain, the heartbreak, the loss. 

The reasoning as to why still escapes you, maybe it’s just instinct. 

You also need to warn him. 

When you knock on the door you expect him not to open it. Much to your shock, he does at the first knock. Almost as he was waiting for you—You keep your gaze locked to his face, trying very hard to ignore the fact that he’s shirtless.

“June?” 

“Joel,” you answer, your eyes fixated on his face. “I need a place to stay.” 

[lovelywingsart]

Did I make my own Shepard to throw at Saren despite not having played the game yet? Yes.

Did I make it so he was also revived by Cerberus to let them have some more common ground? Also yes.

Did I end up reading the comics for Mass Effect Evolution and the story I had for them for fun suddenly made a genuinely horrifying amount of sense? Abso-fucking-lutely.

Anyway, this is Cam. uwu I don't have a colored ref atm, mostly because of Art fight and I haven't had much time otherwise. They're transmasc and they're in a trio with Garrus and Saren. It's like an 'Enemies to lovers' thing with them and Saren but also like... also kinda a 'I hate everyone but you' thing as well...?? They bonded over the whole Cerberus thing as well as the Paragon end of ME1.

Anyway I already have alot for them, but have a bit of general stuff-

> Cambrey 'Cam' Shepard

> They/Them (eventually he/they)

> 5'5" (165.1cm)

> Earthborn War Hero; Soldier

> Transmasc, but doesn't figure it out fully until after their revival in ME2; doesn't change name, feels like it's unisex enough and goes by 'Cam' anyway- suffers through the whole she/her thing for a while because it's easier

> Tali, James, Liara and Legion are their best friends, Garrus and Saren are their partners

> Found Saren during ME2, the last 'team' member found- He was also revived by Cerberus, and despite better judgement everyone elses concerns, decided to let him join them instead of killing him again. He ends up being a valuable asset against Cerberus.

> Fuck canon (until we see what ME5 has to say), they were found and hospitalized/put in a medically induced coma after the events of 3 before being reunited with their Turians some time later- Garrus found out first but waited to tell Saren until Cam was conscious and well enough to stand as to not distress the guy more than he already was over the whole thing

> Struggled and was genuinely torn between Garrus or Saren- absolutely adores and loves Garrus given everything they've been through and is extremely comfortable with him, but also has a somewhat unsaid 'bond' with Saren due to their connection with Cerberus and eventually being comfortable enough to relax around him and vice versa; ends up talking to Garrus and spilling everything, and chooses both. Garrus wasn't too happy about sharing but came around to the idea once he realized he didn't actually have to interact with Saren much at all (still has a small grudge but is able to work with him)

> Garrus and Saren were the first to find out about the Trans thing, Garrus having caught them attempting to bind (and then helping; he was confused but supportive) and Saren after a usual round of banter that ended with a full freakout towards him and him being genuinely concerned (As well as discovering he wasn't a fan of them being that upset; he also doesn't fully understand but respects it enough and will get aggressive with anyone else who comments on it). Thane and Samara were also able to figure it out pretty easily, and everyone else was told slowly but surely.

> Relationship with the boys <

- Definitely went hella hard with Garrus for obvious reasons, but later kicked themself and probably screamed into a pillow over it because Shep what the fuck

- Had a small draw towards Saren once they were up close the chokehold didn't help, though definitely doesn't regret punching him in the face. In fact, they wish they could have done it at least 5 more times- or so they say.

- Loves Garrus to bits, but there's a love/hate thing with Saren- thinks he's a jackass, completely and totally, and is the biggest brat with him, whereas they're more likely to be chill and calm with Garrus while also playfully challenging him just a little

- Will straight up be a dick to Saren when he starts his shite, and will absolutely call him an asshole to his face; Garrus doesn't exactly encourage it but he will sit and listen. Probably with popcorn.

- The whole thing with Saren honestly probably started a bit before Garrus, given they were similar in the fact that Cerberus brought them both back- him more immediately than them- and they helped get him tf out, but Garrus is the one who they eased up with quicker.

[seraphimcollections]

till death do us part | Soap Fluff |

warnings: light mentions of violence(active warzone) but nothing graphic, mentions of guns, that's it. Pure fluff, nothing X rated. No Y/N but reader goes by Doll.

prepared to be sick of me!

word count: 1k (short and sweet)

summary: you and Soap have been dating for a little while and decide to take things to the next level...in an active warzone.

a/n: love this goofball, had to give him a little appreciation :)

You and Soap had gotten on pretty early from meeting each other. It was clear that the two of you were made for each other, always laughing at his cheesy jokes and pick up lines. From the moment you’d joined the task force you were to be his. Johnny wouldn’t think of himself as possessive, but the message was clear to everyone around, you weren’t to be even looked at the wrong way. When the two of you decided to go steady, Johnny walked onto base with the biggest shit-eating grin on his face. 

“What, did you win the lottery or something?” Gaz looked at him with quirked brow.

“Better,” he grinned. 

The two of you weren’t trying to hide your relationship at all, finding it impossible with how forward Johnny was, even before the two of you started dating. Price had a stern talking to for the both of you, but saw there was no real reason to prohibit the relationship from existing. And so it was. Your mornings would be getting breakfast at the diner, coffee for you, tea for him. After that, the two of you would have your own separate training to report to, keeping you away from each other for a few hours of the day. But other than that, the two of you were inseparable. 

It was your dedication  to each other that landed you in this exact situation. You were on a mission, a mission that was supposed to be a cake walk but quickly dissolved into chaos. The team was separated, all dealing with their own crisis, all except you two. 

Johnny pushed you into cover behind a tipped over delivery van, quickly diving after you. You fell back against the truck, trying to catch your breath as you reloaded your magazine. You only had two left. Great. 

“You hurt, lass?” Johnny looked over you in worry. 

You shook your head, letting out a sigh of relief. You gestured to your SMG with a frown. 

“I’m almost out though,” you said. 

Johnny nodded, pushing on his radio, “Bravo 6, you read?” 

“Read, you and Doll in the clear?” Price said over the radio. 

“Not quite, lass and I pinned down,” Johnny said. 

“Shite, hang in there, clear out as many as you can until we call for evac,” Price ordered. 

“Aye,” Johnny said with a frown, looking over to you. 

You shrugged with a small smile, “eh, could be worse-” 

Not even a second later and rain of bullet fire came down on your cover, the both of you crouching lower in hopes to not be hit. 

“Shit, fuck, shit, fuck-” 

“You said that already, love” you smiled before becoming serious, “what do we do?” 

“Stay down, and if any get close, on sight,” John said. 

You nodded in agreement, keeping your head turned to listen to the gunfire. But the funniest thought came into your head causing you to giggle. 

“Can’t imagine what you find so funny from this sorry shitshow we’ve got ourselves into,” Johnny smirked. 

“It’s stupid, but…” you looked to him with a smile, “if we get out of this-” 

“When, when we get out of this,” Johnny corrected. 

“Yeah, when we get out of this,” you smiled, “I want to get married.” 

Johnny's eyes widened to the size of dinner plates. He nearly dropped his gun right then and there as he looked for any hint of a punchline. 

“You’re serious?” He said. 

“Yeah, I mean, you never know if either one of us won’t come home, and I don’t know about you, but I’d rather go out knowing I’ve spent the best of life with the one I love.” 

For a moment, Johnny was left speechless, which was a rarity, before a grin took over his shocked expression. 

“You know lass, it’s usually the man who proposes,” he laughed. 

You shrugged, “who says you can’t propose?” 

Johnny smiled, turning to you, “I don’t have a ring yet, lass.” 

“Don’t need one,” you smiled, “not when I have you.” 

“Alright, love,” Johnny fixed himself to sit on one knee, “will you make me the happiest man on earth and give me the honor of being your husband?”

You smiled wide, tears welling in your eyes before eagerly nodding, “yes, yes!” 

You wrapped your arms around Johnny’s shoulders, meeting him in a gentle kiss. Pulling away, Johnny didn’t look away from your loving gaze. 

“Why wait for a bloody ceremony, we’ll do it now,” he smiled. 

You looked at him in confusion as he pushed the radio on again. 

“Cap, you there?” Johnny said. 

“I'm a bit busy here!” Price said roughly over the intercom. 

“Me and Doll are getting married,” Johnny said, his gaze never tearing from you, “we want you to officiate the weddin’ now.” 

“What the- bloody now?!” John shouted over the radio.

“Better now than never,” Johnny said. 

“Do I look like a fucking priest to you?!” Price said before gunfire interrupted his words. 

“You’re a captain aren’t ya?” Johnny joked. 

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding,” Gaz said. “You two are crazy.” 

“Congrats to the happy couple,” Ghost said coolly as if not in the middle of a warzone. 

“Not of a bloody boat --This is fucking crazy,” John grumbled, “alright, alright! Johnny, do you take Doll to be your wedded wife?”

Johnny captured both of your hands in his, staring deeply into your eyes with longing. 

“I do.” 

“And, shit-! What I just said,  Doll!” John shouted over the radio. 

You sniffled, “yes, yes, I do.” 

“Now kiss you bloody lunatics!” John said. 

“Don’t need to tell me twice,” Johnny grinned, smashing his lips over yours. 

You wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him closer as the force cheered and congratulated you over the comms. When the two of you finally separated you couldn’t help but grin like a bunch of lovesick fools. 

“How’s it feel to be Mrs. John McTavish?” John grinned. 

“Like I’ve won the lottery,” you giggled. 

“Wonderful, can we focus on not dying now please!” John said. 

You and Johnny both rearmed yourselves with your weapons, looking over at each other with a new sense of determination. 

“You better not die on me, husband,” you smirked. 

“Wouldn’t dream of it, wife.”

[mylove4oldmen]

“𝙈𝘼𝙍𝙍𝙄𝙀𝘿 𝙒𝙄𝙏𝙃 𝘾𝙃𝙄𝙇𝘿𝙍𝙀𝙉”

fem reader x noel gallagher

•genre-fluff

•warnings- a few curse words

*requested by Lasheshavetobeblack on wattpad

summary: y/n is really annoyed at Noel's guitar playing and this is how married with children comes up

_________________________________________

THE CLOCK right beside y/n's bed marks 3:00 and she certainly should be asleep by now

why is she awake? you must be questioning yourself

Noel's guitar playing is a non stop situation in her house

he literally plays it in every opportunity possible but the only actual free time he has is at night and tonight couldn't be different

Y/n reaches for his shoulder and taps it gently as to not disturb her boyfriend too much

"Noel can you please stop playing? i need to sleep...some of us have to wake up early to work you know?" she whines fixing her hair with her left hand and getting closer to the boy who’s on the corner of the bed

"yea yea I'm almost finishing this song...lemme play it for you" looking straight to her eyes he starts strumming a nice rhythm:

*There's no need for you to say you're sorry

Goodbye, I'm going home

I don't care no more so don't you worry

Goodbye, I'm going home

I hate the way that even though you know you're wrong

You say you're right

I hate the books you read and all your friends

Your music's shite it keeps me up all night

There's no need for you to say you're sorry

Goodbye, I'm going home

I don't care no more so don't you worry

Goodbye, I'm going home

I hate the way that you are so sarcastic

And you're not very bright

You think that everything you've done's fantastic

Your music's shite it keeps me up all night*

"I know the chorus is a bit repetitive but I really can't come up with a different one" the man explains as his gaze shifts to his calloused fingers

"I can see that I am the inspiration for this song...and you're right you're music is shite" her joke lights up the mood and both of them laugh while a comfortable silence with no guitar playing becomes present

"my music is not shite c'mon"Noel answers and this time he is the one slagging your shoulder "you like Radiohead for fuck sake"

"there's nothing wrong with Radiohead"she answers with anger filling her voice "sometimes is nice to listen to sad songs...AND SONGS WITH MEANING"

"Don't go around dissing my music"he snaps "they do have meaning...but who needs to discover it is the listener,not me"

"I got you,mister rock n roll star" y/n says making a quotation marks movement with her hand

"I'm glad you know what I am" he states really proud of himself "now let's go to bed sleepy head,you're almost sleeping while I'm talking to you"

"I am exhausted don't blame me" tiredness fills the girls voice as she pulls the blanket over her delicate body "now come here,you're the big spoon today"

she pats the bed place right on her side the boy immediately puts his guitar away and lays down embracing her

"what are you going to call the song?" she asks closing her eyes

"married with children"he answers as if it was nothing

"why's that?" she asks happily

"we are going to be married with children one day...and you will thank me for writing these songs and annoying you cause they will be the reason you won't work" now he is the one closing his eyes

"oh yeah I won't be working in the future?"

he nods "good good,I deserve it after listening to this really bad songs"

"don't even start y/n"

"I won't...now let's sleep" her body is fully relaxed but interrupting the silence she confesses once again "I love you babe"

"I love you too" and she knows he means it

[neuroticbookworm]

Current Tag Game

Tagged by my dear friends/mutuals/incoherent scream sesh partners @twig-tea (here), @colourme-feral (here), @blmpff (here), @telomeke (here) and @waitmyturtles (here)

Current Time: nearly 5:00 PM

Current activity: Doomscrolling on social media (not recommended), writing this post (highly recommended, please interact on Tumblr, that's what makes this hellsite fun!)

Currently thinking about: Just watched the IFYLITA finale this morning with my bestie @lurkingshan, so my brain is currently ??????-ing all the different iterations of Yai we got to see (I like that Commander Yai looks more self-assured and confident than our widdle-20-something-lost-and-confused-baby Yai, but, DEAR LORD, The Mustache has to go. Just.. nope. Get that man a razor, STAT). Oh, and also, thinking about dinner.

Current favourite song: I recently watched Utsukushii Kare / My Beautiful Man (Season 1) a few days ago and I have the song from the opening credits stuck in my head on repeat: Caramel / カラメル by Mosawo / もさを。(Original MV with English captions)

(I'm also gonna link the Utsukushii Kare Lyric MV from MBS because I want Kiyoi's pretty face on my post)

I've also been feeling nostalgic lately and listening to some decade-old bangers from my teen years (ah time, thou art a cruel wench)

Patakha Guddi lyrics, translated from Hindi, here

Mogathirai lyrics, translated from Tamil, here

Currently reading: Nothin' but meta posts from the lovely big-brained folks of Tumblrville

Currently watching: Oooooh. I actually wrapped up a lot of live watches and caught up on some incredible shows last week, so lemme do 3 mini-lists:

Recently Watched: Only Friends, Utsukushii Kare / My Beautiful Man, If It's With You / Kimi to Nara Koi wo Shite Mite mo, I Feel You Linger In The Air

Currently Watching: Midnight Diner / Shinya Shokudo, endless reruns of Brooklyn Nine-Nine and Community

Next-Up on the Watchlist: I Cannot Reach You / Kimi ni wa Todokanai, Shadow, Dark Blue Kiss, Middleman's Love, Last Twilight, Playboyy, The Whisperer

Current favourite character: Ryuji from If It's With You.

< mild spoilers ahead for If It's With You >

This show did an incredible job portraying two people who have different levels/intensities of desire for one another and I was *floored* when Ryuji responded to Amane's confession in episode 4 with so much care, thoughtfulness and respect for both Amane's desire and his own boundaries. "Please make it one sided for a while" will live in my head rent free for the foreseeable future.

And Amane and Ryuji's conversation at the beach in the finale was another heartfelt and expertly written moment. I deeply adore how Ryuji basically went "I miss you and want to meet you whenever I feel like it, and if that means being a lover, then so be it. Let's date".

So yeah, I'm in love with this highly articulate, fictional, Japanese teenage boy

Current WIP: Ohhhhh man, SO MANY. The most pressing one is a retrospective meta on the Only Friends finale, which I must release into the wild before people move on from the show

Tags: I'm epically late to this one, so I might tag folks who have already done this, so if I do, apologies, friends!

@bengiyo, @italianpersonwithashippersheart, @sunshinechay, @syrena-del-mar, @ranchthoughts, @troubled-mind, @sorry-bonebag, @so-much-yet-to-learn and anyone else who wants to participate. No presh!

[wolfpants]

dronarry fest fic claim: trillium

trillum | E | 13.4k

It’s a typical Friday night.

They’re in their usual Diagon haunt, getting slowly tipsy on craft beer, eating artisanal crisps, talking shite. Normal.

Ron sucks cheese and onion dust from his fingers and stares at the new gold hoop in Harry’s right earlobe as Harry waxes lyrical over some Muggle record Ron’s never heard of when in barges Draco, thirty minutes late, dragging in armfuls of heavy canvas bags bulging with paperwork. 

Draco shoves them beneath the table, knocking carelessly against Ron’s ankles, and when he stands, he blows his pale fringe from his forehead, places his hands on his hips, and announces, “I just quit my job.”

He picks up Ron’s pint and downs the last half, one hand curled over Ron’s shoulder for balance, his thumb warm where it presses against the skin of Ron’s throat.

Murmurs erupt. Questions are posed.

“Good for you, mate,” Ron says, but instead of listening to Draco talk about how good it feels to finally be free from the cruel and tedious clutches of Magical Maintenance, Ron watches Harry instead, trying to read the subtle shifts in his expression. 

The ‘o’ of his mouth. The furrow of his brow. The way his fingers twitch against his glass.

And then, Harry asks it. The question that gives him away—or, rather, the question that gives him away to Ron:

“What are you going to do now?”

He sounds far too curious and incredulous for his own good. He might as well have asked, why didn’t you talk to me about this first?

Ron’s not sure anyone else knows what’s going on, but he’s no fool. It’s all in plain sight, if one looks hard enough (and Ron always does): the sneaking glances, the hand brushes that linger far longer than a hand brush ought to, the tender shoulder touches. The way they’ve both been carrying the same shagged-out glow for weeks.

They’re fucking. Ron’s certain.

🌺🍃🏰🌳

The one where Harry owns a gardening business, Draco is an aspiring National Trust property owner, and Ron is far too invested in the fit of Draco’s lovely clothes and the smell of Harry’s hair. But he doesn’t fancy them or anything like that.

-

So excited to be revealing myself! As if you ever had to guess 😅 Thank you to my wonderful betas @getawayfox @thehoneybeet, to Lilith for the amazing super sexy prompt, to my fellow @dronarryfest mods! A special thank you to @tackytigerfic too for your kind words of wisdom, thank you for being a wonderful friend who I look up to so much ❤️ And thank you to everyone who has read this fluffy, whimsical little ditty so far! Your comments are incredible and I can't wait to reply to them all! 💖

read trillium on ao3