#once it's over I may need to write something a little longer form

[thelastofhyde]

i. the likeability paradox.

pairing. joel miller x fem!reader

synopsis. joel miller is not a man who strives to be liked, with a chip on his shoulder and a scowl on his face, until his world is flipped on its axis when the pretty young thing living under bill and frank's roof, with an irritatingly unwavering smile and the literal sun shinning out her ass, says those five damned words: i don't like you, joel.

warnings. no use of y/n, enemies to lovers, slow burn ( i have several oneshots planned for this couple ), unrequited love ( except you will never catch joel miller admitting he feels anything beyond grief, hunger and exhaustion ), pining, poor communication no communication, no seriously joel is down bad it's actually disgusting and highkey 🚩toxic🚩 but luckily red is your favourite colour, sunshine!reader, grumpy!joel aka canon joel, kinda perv!joel ( if you squint ), implied queer!tess, undefined age gap ( reader implied late-20s ), descriptions of canon-typical violence, smut ( oral- f receiving, fingering, degradation, panty stealing, hair pulling, dirty talk, dubcon due to intoxication, joel kinda gives her a wedgie at some point and honestly i don’t know what i was hoping to achieve with that, discussions of a lacklustre sex-life pre-apocalypse ). reader is a) hinted at being shorter than joel but it’s not central to the plot and b) described as lithe but the meaning intended is graceful, not thin!

word count. 12.9k

hyde’s input. half-way through, the regret of choosing to write this from joel's pov started to settle in but lmao i was too far in to not commit to the bit. don't come at me for the fact the timeline or events may not seem plausible with canon, i just wanna write this silly little depraved fic about joel in peace :( anyway, enjoy my first attempt at writing for tlou, forming a prayer circle rn in hopes that this doesn't flop because i will cry and you will hear about it

taglist. @kayleezra​​ @newavenger + add yourself to the taglist here !​

read on ao3 ! ( capitalization available )

distaste is not new in the life of joel miller.

in particular, one that is loaded, aimed and fired directly at him. he is not a likeable guy, often by choice and rarely by accident. the years of pain from a bleeding wound have now scarred over into nothing but an empty shell of the man that once was, from a world that no longer is, and he’s tried little to fill himself back up.

if anything, he’s made himself more empty.

rid himself of feelings, that which saves him the weakness of appearing sympathetic. discarded the need for luxuries, for which he’d scarcely cared for prior to his world ending. lay to rest what was left of the optimist inside him, leaving behind the danger of hope for it to rot with the rest of the infected.

an apocalyptic world brings out all sides of man that one would never dare to engage with in normal civilisation. joel learned swiftly that he was built to endure, quick to evolve and adapt to the new world order. the man who once worked his hardest to keep the peace among his neighbours, smiling that little bit wider on days he’d catch them scowling to themselves in hopes of brightening one part of their day for even a simple moment, would be at odds with the man who wears a heavy layer of enjoyment when met with the scowling glances and the hushed voices, all the watch out for that miller guys passed between cowardly members of fedra and the keep away from mr. miller's lawns spoken harshly from mother to child becoming music to his failing ears.

this plague of fear-driven dislike keeps him alone, how he likes to be, no one to lose and nothing to be taken. somewhere along the years the idea of safety in numbers has morphed into an illusion, something people say and never truly mean, to distract themselves from a reality more bitter than a snowstorm: in times of survival, people become dead-weight.

“so that’s all i am to ya, huh? dead-fucking-weight?” his brother’s voice still echoes in that damned space he calls a home, weeks or months or years since the day he’d departed for something else, somewhere else, leaving joel to do what joel does best: endure.

somehow, silence was easier than telling the man he’d taught to tie a shoelace, to shave his beard, to tune a guitar that he was the dead-weight, doomed to drag all those who remained too close down into his pit of despair.

she was an exception, his tess, buried 5-feet-under in her own swell of darkness, nothing but the tips of her fingers stretched out above her head to feel the sun upon her skin and keep her from going that last foot deeper. they’d made a home for themselves in one another, one where he keeps them fed, and she keeps them safe, and neither of them keeps the place clean.

she never asks for more, and he never offers it, both content to survive without the weight of affection smothering them. contrary to the belief of any misfortunate soul who’s encountered the pair within the quarantine zone, she is the one who holds the leash, tugging joel along close by her heel and keeping him from wandering off into the wild to surrender himself to a feral lifestyle.

which lands him here, sat at a table playing happy family, each time he dares to snark out a few words being met with the sharp kick of tess’ foot against his shin.

“... and then,” frank struggles over a cough, so excited in his story-telling that he fails to separate taking a breath from taking a sip of his wine. with a roll of eyes and a disapproving grunt, bill’s no more than two seconds away from clapping down on his back, urging the other man’s wind-pipes to unblock and welcome back airflow. “otis dragged his muddied self over the whole house. we were finding paw-prints for days!”

joel’s unamused, too keen to think of what a nuisance that would be. as if incapable of feeling the buzzing energy of disinterest, the german shepherd drops its head further up his lap, begging for a morsel of anything that sits atop the table.

“which means i was cleaning paw-prints for days.” bill, the only one at the table besides himself who wears the looks of a cynic, grumbles out before shovelling what remains on his plate into his mouth.

frank is quick to shush him.

“i’m sorry, again, bill,” he doesn’t mean to break eye-contact from the mutt at his thigh, but the voice calls to him like a siren calls to a ship in the night, like a flame dances and seduces a moth into its brightly burning touch of death, a spotlight in the dark which promises- or threatens- more light to come. “i’d no clue there was a storm coming till we were already a good few miles away, and there was nowhere to take cover to wait it out.”

there you sit, parallel to him.

the sun rests lower in the sky as time carries you all into the late noon, its rays a beacon of light bursting out just behind your head, painting you in the glow of the golden hour and staining a mockery of a halo above you. it hurts his eyes, this brightness that you so easily bask in, forcing him to squint and deepen the frown on his face.

you catch him with his sights on you, at some point, and the smile you meet his scowl with has him cursing at the sun, and the moon, and every star that sits between.

the threat of a great war looms in the air as you rush to rise up and help clear the table of the remnants left behind- none of which joel can account for, mouth to keen and body too starved to skip out on enjoying the mundane luxury of a fresh, home-cooked meal. the battle ends swiftly as you surrender to bill’s hardened stare, and frank’s disapproving head-shakes, and tess’ own plan of action to simply force you down back into the seat you’d been sat in- the one you always sit in.

“you, sit. no one should have to clean up the food they made.”

they get no fight out of him when they insist he’d done enough catching the so-called food.

silence casts its shadow over the table, dampening the light and painting you both in a mockery of greyed tones- truthfully, it is the disappearance of the sun hind a large cloud that causes such a thing.

being alone, with you, is something joel’s never mastered. the affliction of your presence is so much greater when there’s no one else to balance out your natural shine- the kind that has his head spinning and his cock aching-, no one but him.

were he not a sick bastard, he’d try harder to not make you sad.

something bumps his hands, ripping him out of his moral self-condemnation. the dog meets his gaze, eyes a widened mess of puppy-dog pleading that punctuates its existence with an impatient whine.

just like your owner, he finds himself thinking and not saying- never saying-, yet to find your bark.

the ball’s a sticky mess of slobber and dirt, and joel touches it all the same, throwing it up in the air once, then twice, before tossing it across the yard. he’s slumped back in his chair by the time he registers the dog’s departure, a ball of dark fluff bouncing its way across the garden, and all the man can think is fuck, he’ll be feeling the effect of that throw on his shoulder come the morning.

the pain is not enough to stop him from tossing the ball again, and once more, and then yet again, sending the dog in a never ending loop of chase, grab, retrieve- a parallel to his life of wake, survive, sleep.

“he likes you,” you never leave things the way he wishes them to be, bursting his bubble with the vocal reminder of your presence.

as if on queue, prompted by your addressing of it, the dog drops its interest in joel, and the ball, and the chasing, tail wagging uncontrollably by the time it reaches your side. standing on its hind legs, it collapses the front of itself into your waiting lap, and joel watches how you wrap your arms so easily around something that could cause you harm.

to envy a creature that licks it own shit off its ass is a new low for joel.

“thinkin’ he might like ya more, sol.” the nickname rolls off his tongue with ease, the safer option than uttering your name, a vice and virtue he’s only permitted himself in idealistic fantasies that play out in his own troubled thoughts.

“most people do,” whether you mean to make it seem like you’re degrading his very existence or not, he’s unsure, but it rouses a chuckle out of him.

he takes note of how you don’t protest the name he’s branded you with, not like how you’d fought tooth and nail against it every other visit he and tess have made.

“you’ve got a whole load in common, you know? i think that’s got something to do with his fascination-”

“how the hell’s a man like me got somethin’ in common with a four-legged mutt?” there he goes again, making that smile slip down your cheeks with a simple use of his voice. it helps as much as it hurts, frown loosening up and eyes no longer strained beneath the bright shine of your visceral optimism.

“well, you’re both... hairy,” he restrains himself from reacting, washing down a laugh with the help of the dregs of wine that lay collecting at the bottom of his glass. he’s let his appearance grow more rugged over the past few months and your noticing of this brings an unwanted warmth to his aching bones. “and have the most kickass women in your lives to stop you from dying.”

he’s interested to know what life would be like under your protection.

discovering the answer brings the threat of pain, and loss, and an openness to vulnerability he can not afford himself, so he takes the safer option: “‘s easy stayin’ safe when you live in this fantasy land. doubt your mutt’d last any longer than a day out in reality.”

with you as its protector.

he doesn’t say it and, still, it somehow hovers in the space between you both, a heavy, syrupy implication that slips down your throats and threatens to suffocate you. he watches you choke on it, coughing on his cruelty and feigning it to be a simple clearing of your throat. your eyes glue themselves on the dog, delicate fingers smoothing over the well-groomed hairs down its back.

survival has turned him into a man who knows when to seize an opportunity, and this is one he takes with both hands, basking in the simplicity of staring, watching, observing you without the crime of being caught.

but i could keep you safe.

he toys with the danger of uttering such a thing aloud. it’s not the first time he’s thought it. truthfully, he’s unsure when it first nestled its way into his mind.

his memory, which ails him more than it aids him these past years, would have him believe it was way before the dog had even appeared, back when it was just bill, frank and you. a few whiskeys in and a campfire lit for you all to gather for warmth around- why you’d all chosen to sit out in the gardens on a winter’s night joel remains unsure of to this day-, it was frank who’d prompted the question. “where were you all when... this started?” tess went first, braver than most people he knows, sharing stories of a version of herself he’ll never meet. 

he never imagined her working in a bank.

bill, with reluctance, took the next step, keeping his account factual and to the point. “was shit-faced drunk and getting my stomach pumped.” he’d been quick to skim over the story of the young nurse who’d guided him to safety out the hospital, losing her own life in exchange for his survival. she was barely out of school. “i knew her dad, bit of an asshole, but boy, was he proud of his baby for graduating.” frank couldn’t let him swim too deep in his thoughts, afraid a current of guilt would trap him and drown him in the depths of it, and so he raised his own voice and began his tale.

joel had always been a good listener. being a single parent to a teenage girl required him to be, or so... she would have had him believe, nights at the table set for two spent listening to the playground he-said-she-said gossip. years later and he at last prefers things this way, a rare gem of safety found in the act of saying nothing and hearing everything- that his hearing will allow. all this to say, he’d tried his best to pay attention to frank’s impassioned retelling of his heroic misadventures that had lead him to the unintentional arms of bill.

but you weren’t smiling.

he watched you, you watched the dancing flames, face stoic and drained of that natural shine his eyes had only just started to be able to gaze upon without the threat of being blinded by such light.

the desire crept up on him like a tiger to it’s prey, hiding in the far off bushes until the opportunity to strike presented itself and the feeling lunged for joel’s back, gripping him in its claws and piercing his ribcage with its gnashing teeth. with each bite, it plagued him with the delusions of a wandering mind, imagination left free to run laps around his head with visions of you from another life, another time, another set of people gathered round a dining table. he’d wanted to hear about the ones you’d lost, and comfort you with all the things he hated hearing (“you’ll keep ‘em alive, in spirit and memory!” “those we remember never truly die!”). he’d needed to bend a knee and swear a vow to be the one to stand between you and death, to fight for your survival on your behalf. ‘could keep you safe. there, then, the thought did cross his mind.

he’d washed it down with a swig of lukewarm, flat beer.

“-could fix it, you know. i’m good with my hands.”

he almost chokes on his own breath.

i'm good with my hands, it swims in circles round his mind, replaying and echoing off the walls of his skull. and he knows- oh, how he knows- that he’ll be replaying it in those moments of solitude for the next few nights, weeks, months- however long it may take till he forgets the way such thought-provoking words sound on your lips.

“what?” the question leaves him harsher than he intends, drawing an enemy line between you both with the foul sound of it. in the corner of his eye, he swears he sees you flinch backwards, physically recoiling from the disdain-filled bullet he fires in your direction.

the mutt in your lap retreats, hackles rising as it turns to face joel once more.

he sees it, in the dog’s brutal protectiveness over you, this similarity you claim exists.

“your watch, it’s broken.”

“hadn’t noticed,” he’s retreating into his own space now, mentally and physically, scraping the legs of his chair against the ground as his mind works to strengthen those walls that threaten to crumble so often in your presence. “don’t need ya to fix it.”

you pull a face, brows furrowing and lips pouting. confusion.

“don’t you want to know the time?” you ask, as if time could ever be relevant in a rotten world where down is up, and up is down, and joel miller is not the overprotective father to the most delicate creature the god he’d stopped believing in had gifted him, just to force him to watch as life snatched her away.

“i don’t keep it for the time.”

you smile, and this one’s a killer, piercing straight through the cages of his ribs to carve itself into his withered heart.

the german shepherd relaxes with the rebrightening of your aura, shaking out the tension from its body before sauntering its way back over to joel, ball in mouth and tail wagging excitedly, as if it hadn’t just contemplated having its first taste of human flesh.

he’s throwing the toy in a matter of minutes, enjoying the repeated run and retrieve game, and the renewed silence that comes along with it. nature sings its tune with rustling leaves, cawing crows, and pounding paws. it’s almost so easy to leave your offer, your words, his broken watch in the rearview mirror of this otherwise pleasant afterno-

“ooh, so there’s a story to tell!” you’re blinding him with your excitement, lithe limbs leaning forward in your own chair in an attempt to reach closer, table between you be damned. “i’ve never heard any of the joel miller backstory, this should be-”

“i get that likin’ everyone is your thing, but would’ya give it a rest?”

nature falls silent.

skies grow dull.

you juggle sadness.

there’s a crash that comes from within the house, followed by the unmistakable sound of tess’ sailor mouth, cursing whichever delicate dish she’s broken into smithereens with the help of her accident prone hands. the dog’s lain itself down upon the grass, ball between it’s paws as it begins to bite, and chew, and break it under the pressure of its canines.

joel wonders what the mutt’s practicing for.

“sure,” then, with the return of your voice, all sounds resume, harmony upon planet earth once more. only, the gates have been shut in his face and joel finds himself forced to watch as everything unfolds from the outside, an unwelcome visitor forced out into exile with the fungal freaks and the inhumane. “but you’re wrong. i don’t like everyone.”

“‘s that so.” his eyes roll. the hole he’s dug for himself sinks deeper, casting you higher up on the pedestal joel will always be wiling to place you on.

“yeah,” you’ve risen out your chair, gifting him the view of how the fabric of your dress dances above your knee, a final twist of the knife in his heart that he lets you pierce his flesh with each time he surrenders himself to your existence. “i don’t like you, joel.”

the hours come and go, but your words linger like a bad tattoo, shamefully engraved into his skin and banning him to a life of noticing the horrendous thing each time he passes by his own reflection.

we’re staying, for tonight. tess had called the shots, and he’s been learning not to argue when she gives him one of her stern looks, biting down on the comments he’d wanted to make of the dangers of being out of the qz for too long, which would likely earn him nothing but a shrug and the reminder that they both were off duty the following day

the nights are beginning to grow darker as winter grows nearer, leading bill and frank- mostly frank- to excuse themselves to bed, bidding the two visitors with a final reminder to make themselves comfortable in whichever room they can find. if only joel could remember which door leads to yours.

the two women in his life remain awakened, passing a bottle of wine between each other as you both converse back and forth, catching each other up on one another’s life, satiating that craving for mundane gossip.

tess recounts the scandal of the poor boy who’d been caught sleeping with a fedra agent’s wife, you whisper that frank and bill had been fighting again recently. the memory of being ambushed by raiders- now dead raiders- comes to life once more with the help of tess’ voice, while the promise to uncover what exactly bill and frank were hiding from you as of late is sealed in your words.

at some point, he lays himself to rest atop the couch, legs stretched out and arms crossed over his chest, ignoring the squeeze of the fabric over his forearms as the too-small flannel struggles to contain the muscles forged by the need to survive. at another point, he’s lulled to sleep by the lullaby of your mingling voices, a safety blanket draping itself over his tired body and enveloping him in the comforts of having that which he struggles to care so little for, so near him once more.

-n’t tell me you’re a virgin.

the words are muffled as the man slips back into consciousness, a frown coming to rest on his forehead as he battles against the demons urging him awake, the nightmarish memories of car crashes, and soldiers, and so much red chasing him away from the sleep he longs for so badly.

a protest rings true in his head and his ears.

was gonna say. knew you were young, but not that young.

it’s the sound of your laughter that awakens him fully, saving him from the tortures of his own mind.

“god, no! me and my ex, we... a few times. it was alright, i guess. i just, yeah, there’s not much to miss.”

he’s unwilling, unable to reopen his eyes, curling in on himself as he rolls over onto his side. a groan slips past his lips, one he’s hoping tess and you will dismiss as nothing more than the sleep-filled rambles of a dreaming man.

neither of you make any acknowledgement of him.

“not much to miss?! sweet christ, you’re breaking my fuckin’ heart.” he’s learnt over time the common traits of a drunken tess. each word becoming an exclamation, curses becoming more frequent, and that irritating habit she’s picked up of imitating his own accent. there’s no need to bother opening his eyes, joel’s already sure he’ll find his companion with flushed cheeks and glassy eyes. “i’d give up a hand for some head!”

you must do something, pull a face or shake your head, for the sound of tess’ renewed shock fills the room. he wonders, as the sound bounces off the walls, how late into the night it’s grown.

late enough that the cicadas singing outside the window are now accompanied by the hoots of an owl.

“you’ve got to be shittin’ me.”

“it bores me!”

“it bores you!?”

the couch beneath joel creaks as he shifts once more, turning his back on you both as the ability to contain his laughter grows harder with each word you exchange and each gasp tess gives. the last thing he needs is to be caught eavesdropping on your sex life like some dirty old pervert.

the crueler part of his mind replays your voice, i don’t like you, and the knife twists in his guts this time.

you like tess. love her, even. it’s been that way since the first time you’d met the duo, eyes giving one look over the woman before the smile on your face grew even wider, voice as sweet as honey sighing out finally someone with a pair of boobs, i’m bored of the sight of my own. joel’d gotten caught up in the thought of how he’d never tire of such a sight that he’d failed to acknowledge your greeting towards him, catching just the moment you drew your outstretched hand back to your side and offered him an understanding smile.

maybe that was the moment you decided you didn’t like him.

“must not have been doin’ ya right,” the bottle of southern comfort is working its wonders on the older woman, accent growing further and further from its true nature with each glass she nurses. joel hears the faint sound of ice smacking against glass and knows it must be yours. you’ve always struggled with liquors, slipping as many ice cubes as you can manage into a glass in hopes that they’ll eventually melt and water the alcohol down. it’s oddly endearing, you think no one has noticed. “this fella of yours.”

joel has no right to despise the idea of you and some fella.

he does so, regardless.

“well,” he imagines the shape of your meek smile and the way you shrug your shoulders. “we were each others firsts.”

“that’s no excuse! trust i left mine cryin’ into her pillow the first time i went down.” tess and he have a silent agreement to never speak of the nights joel would take refuge on their beaten-up couch while tess indulges herself between someone’s thighs in the bedroom. no discussing the sounds she pulls from her concubines, no addressing the wet patches left behind to stain their shared sheets, and definitely no speaking on how his hand winds up stained in his own cum.

you scoff and follow it up with a saccharine laced giggle, so sweet its bound to rot your teeth if you even attempt to hold it in. “what, are you offering your services?”

this he likes less than the image of you with some fella, the thought of having to lay upon a mattress on which tess had raised you to heaven while he once again remained locked out in the dark leaving his skin crawling with unwarranted rage.

“‘as sure as i am that you’re sweet all over, ‘fraid to tell you i like my women a little older than you.”

he knows he should do the same, should lust after those women his own age who shoot him carnal looks in the streets of the qz. it should be skin his own age that he longs to taste, and eyes who’ve seen as much as his own he wants to stare into, and lips as cruel as the ones he owns that he fights off the urges to kiss. but he can’t, and he won’t.

and you’re the one to blame.

you, with the glow of a thousand suns. you, with the hands that tend to flowers instead of corpses. you, with the gentle nature he’d have to spend the rest of his days fighting off every other living thing just to protect.

his own self being the first he’d need fight.

joel wonders what he’d missed in his hours- if it had even been so long- of rest, how the playground gossiping dissipated into reminiscing the pleasures of supple flesh and the sins of unfulfilling lovers. sleep steals him away once more before he can find the answers.

the next time he awakens, he’s drowning in a plight of cruel memories, a cold and brutal ocean of faces, places, and traces of the ephemeral sentiment of happiness he’d possessed once upon a time, back when the price of letting one’s guard down was not so high.

he’s learnt, with time, that losing her comes in waves. some small, meaningless little things, that ripple joel’s surface and coast gently over his dirt ridden skin. others, tsunamis. big, angry, all imposing. they’re born in ground-shaking explosions of grief, building speed, and height, and weight the closer they grow to crashing over him.

amidst the passing of time, he’s tried to keep himself busy in his awakened hours, to keep his mind occupied and avoid thinking about her too much. but the waves always come back, no matter how hard he tries to fight them or swim away from them. they catch him off guard, crashing over him when he least expects it. in the middle of a raid, lost in thought and standing ten inches deep in grime, blood, infected, and suddenly the weight of her absence will hit him like a ton of bricks.

the currents grow more violent whenever he closes his eyes.

this evening, it had been a minuscule wave, yet it’s damage still leaves him with sweat slicked skin. he reenters the land of the living choking on his own fear and shooting up-right, hardly registering his surroundings till his feet hit solid ground. the gentle, barely-there croon of a sinatra record punctuates the room alongside the dim glow of a lightbulb which flickers with the threat of expiring and leaving naught but the moonlight to wash over the dark of the night. across from him is tess, nursing a half-emptied cup against her chest and wearing tired eyes. snoring comes from below him, where joel finds he’s a mere foot away from having stepped upon the sleeping dog, curled in on itself and laying soundly by his side.

you take up no space of this room.

neither the dog nor the drunk pay him any mind as he pushes up onto his creaking knees, stretching out his limbs in a fight to undo the tension in his aching bod. languid steps carry him out into the hall, where he freezes under the self-questioning of where he’s going.

there are three answer to this: where he should, where he could, and where he would.

he should find himself a bedroom, perhaps be ostentatious enough to rid himself of those stale clothes and let the warmth of running water wash away the sins he’d committed throughout the day. a good night’s sleep, atop a mattress where springs do not dig into his back and the sheets are clean as could be, it would do him good.

he could head towards the kitchen, quench that thirst that he’s awoken with, cottonmouth and a headache to go with it too. perhaps he’ll find himself something to eat, indulge in the luxury of readily available food just this once, he’s sure frank wouldn’t mind. bill definitely would, but that’s not something he’ll need care about when he’s miles out and heading back to the qz.

he would try find you, open whichever door it is that leads into the haven that must be your bedroom. he imagines its clean, and organised, and smells of some syrupy lavender that is bound to nauseate him as he smothers his face into your bedsheets, eyes shut, and mind relaxed, the threat of those violent waves no concern to him as he anchors himself with an arm around your warm skin. skin he’s never felt, yet he stands firm in his belief it must be the most soothing thing to touch, as gentle and inviting as the heart it keeps safe within it.

i don’t like you, joel.

those words stop him from trying.

he tells himself it’s for the best.

with a mind of their own, his legs have made the choice for him and deliver him outside the opening to the kitchen. he swallows down a gulp of his own saliva at the prospect of a glass of water. the door’s already half-opened, and joel nearly thanks christ for it as the fear of waking anyone with the squeaking of the handle is eliminated. the darkness of the night encompasses the room, even with the moon’s shine reflecting off every surface it touches: the counters, the knife stand, the metal drawer handles, the refrigerator.

the refrigerator.

it’s open, a blue light shining out of it and illuminating anything it its proximity. a subtle beeping noise rings from it, and suddenly joel’s back in his thirties, dead-beat yet well-intentioned brother stealing the food off his own plate as he beckons his pre-teen daughter back into the kitchen.

keep leavin’ this open and it’s a job you’ll be gettin’ this summer, not a dog.

she never lived long enough to get either.

he catches something move beneath the artificial light. cautious at first, it’s all the more startling to find the object of his ire and the embodiment of his desire stood leaning back against the countertop, a glass full of orange liquid pressed to a mouth that parts and welcomes in the sugary sweet delight.

“why aren’t ya sleepin’?” the words rasp out his throat, catching and scratching on the parts of him that still yearn for something to wet his tongue with.

beneath the light, you shrug, “could ask you the same thing, texas.”

he curses tess for teaching you such a nickname.

he curses himself more for the way you saying it twists up his insides.

you’re teasing him, smile a little looser and eyes less focused than he’s used to seeing. whether you’re tipsy or simply delirious with exhaustion, joel remains unaware.

he grunts, daring to take a few steps further into the kitchen. the door behind him closes over and give the illusion of the space becoming smaller, tighter, more compact.

“i asked first.” you laugh, at him. full on chest-rumbling, hand over your belly, head thrown back- so abruptly it nearly crashes against the corner of the opened cabinet door. the corner of his mouth is curling upwards before he can catch himself. he hopes the refrigerator light shows less of him than it shows of you, bare legs, and messed hair, and pointed nipples all on display for his undeserving eyes. “‘s so funny, huh?”

“nothing, nothing,” he successfully fights off the urge to follow the drop of orange juice that spills down the side of your mouth, over your chin, down your neck, disappearing beneath the collar of your dress. perhaps he is not as successful as he believes. “just never heard the joel miller say something so childish. you’ve usually got your panties all in a bunch if someone so much as looks at you for too long.”

you make way as he inches closer, sliding yourself over to rest against the island counter. a fragrance of things he can’t quite pinpoint, but enjoys nonetheless, wafts in his face as he travels down the path to the sink. uncouth and unbothered, joel opens the tap and cups his hands beneath the stream of water.

“you know there’s a cupboard full of glasses right next to you, right?” you call out behind him as the man brings water to his dry lips, splashing and just about guiding his head beneath the stream. the thirst does not budge. he hums an acknowledgement of you, yet continues with his method.

by the time he switches the water off, you’ve made yourself busy, back facing him while you work at something atop the counter, a consistent chop-chop-chop filling the silence that settles between you both.

“i’m making soup,” you state, like there’s nothing quite more logical you could be doing at whatever-o’clock in the morning it is. “make sure you take some with you when you leave. tess said she’s been fighting off a cold the past few days, need you to keep her warm and fed for me.”

would you do the same for him, if you knew he’d been the one to catch that damned cold in the first place? four days of just about coughing up his lungs, and not a single soul- not even his tess- had offered soup, nor warmth, nor sympathy. he’d not needed it, until now, when he hears you gifting it to someone else.

i don’t like you, joel.

of course you would do the same. not because you care, nor because doing otherwise would way heavy on your conscious, but because you’re nice. nice in a way he’ll never be, has never been. patient, welcoming, comforting, warm. all words that spring to mind when one thinks of you. they violently oppose the closed-off, angry, dark cloud that had rolled in years ago and casted it’s shadow over joel’s entire persona.

he straightens his back, weight shifting from one foot to another as he contemplates you from behind. the sway of your dress as you move has him in a trance, beckoning him closer before he can even realise he’s taken a step. his hands drip water onto the floor in a rhythm, and the record player sings in the distance as a reminder of tess, and your sweet out-of-tune humming fills the empty kitchen with a brightness greater than the moon, but that’s not what joel hears.

i don’t like you, joel.

i don’t like you, joel.

i don’t like you, joel.

i don’t like you, joel.

over and over, you taunt him without even trying, nailing the words into his head and heart, impaling him with your sweet condemnation. you’re not the first to say it, to his face or otherwise, yet you’re the first to evoke such a reaction out of him, to leave a lasting impression hours after you’d declared such a thing.

and, suddenly, joel’s angry. at you, at himself, at the sound of that damned knife in your hand slicing down onto the chopping board. the fog of his ire blurs his vision, rendering him to move blindly through the night.

only when he finds himself looming over you from behind does his vision clear.

a hand meets the curve of your hip and you gasp, leaving joel to wonder if it’s because the shock of his cold, damp touch or, simply, because it’s his touch. without a thought spared, he firms his grip, fingers squeezing tight enough he feels your flesh bulge between each one, a bruising promise joel gifts you.

you may leave your marks emotionally, but joel’s will always be physical.

“why,” he pulls in a breath, loading up the will to keep his voice a low rumble, a quiet disturbance in the night for no ears but your own to hear. “don’t ya like me?”

if not for the pause in your practiced movements, knife stilling midway through slicing a carrot, he’d believe you’re unaffected by his proximity. “why do you care?” 

he scoffs, “i don’t.”

“hmm,” this hum is far less delightful than the way you’d been following along to whatever melody tess was playing in the living room. “sure sounds like you do.”

“yeah, well, i don’t,” he insists, and he swears he almost feels the way it only digs deeper the hole he’s created for himself.

joel knows he cares. it’s been burning at his skin and itching on his mind since the moment you’d welcomed yourself to a little bit of unfiltered honesty, dropping the perfectly poised and eternally polite mask you’d worn since the moment he’d first met you, an attitude he loathes as much as he anticipates surrounding himself with it each time he’s tugged along for the trek to bill and frank’s. 

what joel doesn’t know is why he cares. there’s nothing to be desired about him, no traits to respect and certainly no looks to admire. he’s near crafted his entire being in a way that makes sure of this, the more undesirable his presence is, the less likely he is to be approached, be it by other people or fate itself.

maybe there was a part of him that had wrongfully imagined you being the exception.

instead, you’re stood barefoot in the latest of hours, knife working away the vegetables in front of you, dress sticking to skin beneath his damp hand, and you don’t like him.

not one bit.

joel grabs at your hips harder, his free hand curling round the shape of your left forearm. his feet shuffle forwards, until there comes a point where one would struggle to make out where you end and he begins. his chest pressed to your back, his muscular legs trapping your soft thighs, his forehead digging into the side of your head so intensely it threatens to shatter both your craniums and leave nothing but dust made by bones blown into smithereens.

he inhales, and finds you don’t smell of lavender.

“for the record,” he watches your movements over your shoulder, entranced with the back and forth sawing of the knife through unidentified vegetables. ‘s like how i sliced that raider’s throat, he thinks, and instantly regrets it. no part of him should ever be compared to you. “i don’t like ya either.”

he’s lying through his teeth, hoping you don’t notice.

the knife never ceases its movement. back and forth, back and forth. chop, chop, chop. blurs of greens, and oranges, and more greens cover the counter before you. it’s oddly soothing, this repeated and unbroken pattern, reminding joel of times he’d found comfort in the mundaneness of cooking a meal after an emotionally exhausting day. perhaps, this has the same affect on you, a momentary lifejacket to keep yourself afloat amongst the waves that haunt you awake.

the hand on your forearm travels, mind of its own, drawing up the shape of your shoulder with featherlight touches that contradict the way his nails dig deeper into the the skin you hide beneath the waistline of your dress.

“that’s not news,” you must think he’s blind to the hitch in your breath when his fingers slip over your pulse-point. 

it’s his turn to respond with a hum.

“you only like yourself,” words more untrue have never been spoken before the man who’s every moment is spent drowning in his loses. his wandering touch halts. “a little selfish, if you ask me. but, that’s just what i think.”

this strikes a nerve. fury commands his hand into a fist and fingers find themselves tangled in the tresses of your hair. the realisation of how surprisingly soft it feels barely finishes registering when he’s pulling on it, dragging your head along with, till it lays flat on his puffing chest and your eyes stare up at him. “d’ya know what i think?”

even upside down, your beauty is striking.

“no, unlike you i don’t care what you think about-” joel tugs on your hair once more.

“i think you’re a brat. a silly little girl who thinks she can smile and get away with murder.” you could. he’d forgive you as you soak your hands in the blood you draw from him. knife in the heart, bullet through the brain, bat to the face, he’d slip away easily from this life if only to have you smile as he goes.

 “you’re hurting me,” you whine, joel growls.

animalistic, beastly, a rabid animal sinking its claws into its defenceless prey. his gaze dances over your features, catching himself before he can sink deep into your captivating eyes, tracing the shape of your mouth, slipping down the peaks of your collarbones.

your dress- red, a colour joel miller will no longer associate with bleeding wounds and stained weapons- sits tight on your chest, squeezing the swell of your chest beneath the fabric, and gives away all your secrets.

“you like it,” he speaks in awe, unable to pull his eyes off the two stiff buds that poke against the red fabric.

“no, i don’-” dampness follows wherever his hand goes, fleeting as he makes the journey around your waist and up your side, crawling higher and higher to where he can feel your heart beating from within your chest. “joel.”

he retightens his grip on your hair, aiding you with the way your curve your spine and force yourself deeper into his uncaring, ungentle, enamoured touch. whoever joel had been in a past life must have moved mountains or performed miracles to grant him the luck to be holding you this way, the fingers he’d gifted with nothing but the cocking of guns and the feel of his own pulsating lust now expertly tweaking at one of your stiff nipples, all thoughts of the fabric scratching at your sensitive skin dissipating into the abyss as he realises you’re enjoying the pain.

“heard ya, earlier, in the living room,” at the time, he’d been mortified to be overhearing such intimate words between you and tess. the blood that insists on rushing to his crotch now wants you to know, to hear the admission of guilt be spoken from his own mouth. “ talkin’ bout your past.”

he doesn’t specify.

he doesn’t need to.

you give away your shock with parted lips, widened eyes, frozen eyelashes, pupils staring up at him like a wounded fawn he’s about to take his first bite out of and, hopefully, it won’t be the last one.

“tess turned you down,” the hand on your chest switches sides, donning your other breast with some much needed attention. his hand must still carry residue of the water, for you gasp and shut your eyes in the shock of his touch, your own fingers shooting up to scratch at his wrist. near convinced you mean to push him away, the pressure against his hand that pushes deeper into his unholy affection has him realising otherwise. “i wouldn’t.”

you say nothing. joel pulls harder.

“too bad i’m-” you cut yourself off as he presses himself closer to you, your poor hips bound to awaken with bruises from the counter he’s got you pressed against. with a distance so small he can hear your teeth grind, joel watches you like a hawk. the twitch in your brow, the flutter of your eyelids, the bobbing of your throat as you silence what he imagines would be an otherworldly kind of moan, a whine he’d let kiss his ears and wind up poisoning himself with the torture of it replaying in his head each waking moment till he kicks the bucket, once and for all. the want to see you fall apart evolves into a need. “too bad i’m not offering you the chance.”

joel miller is a hot blooded man, at his core, weak to emotions and vulnerable to the warmths of flesh. with notches on his bedpost and a tally of lives beneath his belt, he sees little wrong with taking what he needs.

“who said anything about an offer?”

the descent to the floor is far from graceful, with bitten back groans of pain as clicking noises resound throughout the room while his joints bend and break in an effort to get him where he needs to be, where he’s needed to be for far longer than merely this exchange on kitchen grounds: on his knees for you.

a part of him would prefer it if you weren’t wielding a butchers knife.

the other part wishes you were facing him, eyes full of that repressed anger, hatred and discontent you likely harbour for him as you point the blade down at him and threaten to paint the floors with his blood. you’ve yet to do that, and so he takes it as his queue to progress.

smoothing his hands up your legs, he admires the landscapes of your body from this angle, with legs longer than any tree in the amazonian jungle and curves with peaks that resemble the mountains of the himalayas. arriving at the top of your knees, the hem of your dress both welcomes and conceals his touch, inviting him into the wonderful world it hides beneath it yet denying him the privilege of feasting his eyes on your paradise, an island of safety amongst the open ocean of his mind.

your breathing is measured, precise, too rhythmical to be natural, the subconscious action now turned into a practiced routine you mean to maintain nonchalance with. perhaps you’re yet to realise that, while he may remain indifferent to those that surround him, joel knows how to read people. and, right now, you’re a whole novel of lust, awaiting for someone to open up your pages and drink in every lyrical prose you promise to tell.

joel finds purchase mid-way up your thighs, hands sliding around to the front of them to grip the buttery smooth skin and ground himself in the reality he kneels before.

you breathe in, you breathe out.

one knee buckles, ever so slightly, the weight of you collapsing into his welcoming hold. he revels in the feeling of supporting you, in every meaning of the word, thumbs not even waiting on a command from his consciousness to begin soothing your tingling skin with a gentle back and forth movement to match the knife in your hand.

inhale, exhale.

your legs straighten once more, a hand of his winds its way back out from under your skirt and shoots up to grab your free one, dragging it down his pits of desire.

“hold,” he’s parched all over again, mouth drier than the texan wastelands on a hot summer’s day. all he can do to survive is peel up that infuriatingly soft, red fabric of your dress, skin unveiling itself to his hunger struck eyes. with the skirt bunched up, he shoves it into your awaiting palms, pinning your hand against your own waist. “don’t move.”

where he expects protest, he receives more breathing.

lace covers your skin, a delicate shade of a colour his eyes can’t quite distinguish in the dark of the night. one flicker of his sight to the very core of your body and he notices it, that tell-tale sign that you’re enjoying this little display of attention, despite what your measured breaths may have him believe. a wet patch, your wetness. the stickiest, sweetest of honeys that only a woman like you can possess, and a man like him should never bare himself witness to.

curiosity gets the better of him- one day, joel hopes, this will get him killed- and his touch is reaching for the lacy fabric, fingers curling themselves in the waistband of your panties and the fabric that covers your right asscheek before curling his hand into a fist, tugging upwards.

in and out, shaky breathing comes from above.

the lace pulls tight on your delicate skin, no choice but to nestle itself in the slit of your cunt as two pretty soaked lips peak out from each side. a heady smell he can only begin to describe as stiflingly sweet, tongue-tingling tanginess hits his nose. he makes sure to take a deep breath, letting the blood rush straight to his head- the one that sits packed uncomfortably in his tightened trousers.

delectable as sin, you keen back into his fist, back curving ever so slightly. there’s a tremor in the hold you have on the fabric of your dress. joel basks in the visual affect he’s beginning to have on you, no need to doubt if the fabric of your underwear rubs at your likely aching clit. he wonders if the sting of the lace digging into your skin hurts. he thinks it must hurt.

his fist curls tighter, pulls higher.

“ah,” at last, a ripple in your surface. though you still wield a knife, the carrot you’d been failing to chop rolls off the counter and onto the floor, lost somewhere in joel’s peripheral vision.

“shut up,” he grunts, like it doesn’t make his balls throb to hear you whine. “people are tryin’ to sleep.”

you scoff, and for a moment you seem to have rediscovered your composure. “tess is drunk as a sailor, and the old men could sleep through nuclear warfare.”

“‘s that an invitation to see how loud i can get ya,” he’s still caught in the way you mold against the lace, slickened skin carrying a reflection of the moonlight. this, he thinks, is what all them poets were writing about in their prose of love and beauty. “or a challenge?”

“it’s an invitation to stop lecturing me on volume control,-” you catch yourself, he realises, right before you can gift him some nickname a sweet girl like you would never use. asshole, dickhead, bastard, he’s heard them all and, still, he wants them on your tongue, in his mouth, condemning him for all the brutish, oafish ways he masks his obsession for you.

as coquettish as it may be, painting a picture worthy of a front-page on some playboy magazine, the sight of lace becomes a nuisance he no longer holds the patience for. so he strips you of it, hand moving to pull the garment down, down, down the length of you, till it hits your ankles. he awaits no movement of your own, taking it upon himself to lift each of your feet individually out the leg-holes.

it’s merely impulse that has him shoving the soiled lace into his back pocket, though he’s sure he’ll make use of them on lonely nights.

“you’re drippin’” his proclamation is ego-driven, pride swelling in his chest as he takes in the full sight of your bare heat. the view is a little obscured from behind you, but with the right amount of tilting of your hips at a certain angle and the widening of your legs, he’s bound to sit front row and centre for your private show. “‘s actually a little pathetic, sweetheart. is it cause ya like it when men get mean wit’ ya?”

he can imagine the way you’d roll your eyes at his words, and it has him thinking about how you’d look with your eyes rolling back for different reasons, reasons he’s about to gift you.

but first, he curls one hand around your ankle and tugs the limb along as far as he wants it. much better, he now faces no blockage in the path up to your slit, freely letting his wandering hands ascend to his newfound heaven. perhaps he’ll revisit the life of gospel, if you promise to be the altar he prays before.

cool fingers to warm skin, you swallow a gasp a little too late for joel to not notice as he drags the tips of his middle finger up the length of your slit. soft, puffy lips part for him, until he presses against that special button that’s bound to turn on your engines.

rolling his finger over your clit a few times, he refamiliarises himself with the female anatomy, with your anatomy, memorising each soft bump and meaty lump he finds along the way.

it happens so sudden, and unwillingly, the way his mind switches to thinking of tess. he wonders what exactly it is she does to those poor things she sends home on shaky legs, where she even begins to touch them. joel imagines she makes use of what she has and starts with her fingers.

so he does the same.

working over your slippery wetness, he coats the tip of his middle finger with it, till he finds what he’s been searching for: the gateways to your heaven, your entrance. he breaches your walls with that single digit and somehow that’s enough to have you squeezing around him so tightly he wonders if blood still manages to flow to his digit.

two, three, four pumps of his hand and he’s introducing his pointer finger too, pressing them both into you to witness the ways you mould around this wider stretch, the lips of your cunt a pair of cushions his knuckles collide against each time he fucks his fingers in.

“so now you shut up. ‘s the matter, huh?” he’s contradicting himself and he doesn’t even care, too busy focusing on curling his fingers inside you, delighting in the feel of that spongy tissue they press against. “am i too borin’ for ya?”

“you’re the most infuriating man i’ve ever- oh!”

a tongue meets skin.

the knife clatters onto the counter.

you lurch forward.

his hand pulls you back.

“tess was right, ya know?” he can still taste you on his tongue, nothing more than a simple lick over your slit and your salty pleasure already seeps deep into his veins, staining his very being with the memory of his new favourite flavour. he pulls his fingers out, slipping them up to your clit. three little taps to the pulsing bud- tap, tap, tap- and he’s slipping them into his mouth, tongue working overtime to clean up every last drop of you that coats him. “that boy of yours wasn’t doin’ ya right.”

the common sense that screams at him to not feel envy over some ex-lover, someone who was likely barely even an adult at the time and no longer appears to be around, is no match for the green eyed beast that commands him to tell you, without using words, that he can do better- touch you better, protect you better, fuck you better, if you’d just let him.

‘could keep ya satisfied.

that’s a new thought, one he’s never needed before yet never wanted more, a burning ache to be worthy of your trust, affection, lust. he’ll never forget the first time he thinks it, mouth salivating at the sight of you.

“is this the part you say some cheesy line straight out a porno? what ya need is a man, a man like me!” the softness of your giggle is still sharp enough to cut through the tension, god it’s never sounded sweet, and joel finds himself freely smiling into the darkness, yet still too stubborn to laugh at the deep voice you attempt to imitate him with.

“well, was you who said it,” his mouth finds it’s way back onto your soaked heat, taking his time to work his tongue up the length of it, his saliva mixing itself in a nasty cocktail with your wetness. he imagines the air is cold against your skin, and that you like it, memory of those hardened nipples hidden beneath the fabric of your dress. “but if ya insist.”

diving in head first had always been his style, from his first lover to his last, and to now, knees aching on the kitchen floor. the tip of his tongue dances round your clit, tantalising you to grind your hips to the rhythm of his sinful touches.

licking into you, he’s reminded how much he enjoys that swelling in the chest that only comes from bringing another pleasure. 

he’d not been a perfect lover, far from it, but he’d liked to believe at one point he’d been trained by only experience that comes with age, years of touching wrong and kissing badly to learn the right ways to make those he shared a bed- or a counter, or a backseat, or a club bathroom- with see angelic white as they writhed and squirmed under his touch. you’re lucky to have him now, matured by past lovers and broadened by age, with all the knowledge he needs to open your eyes to how a man pleasures, kisses, loves.

he’s out of practice, sure, with recent years adding notches to his belt that were merely frantic, unexpected, barely undressed run-ins with strangers, in strange places, cock barely getting a moments affection before he’d be spilling his seed and tucking it, limp, back into the confines of his trousers and locking it away beneath a zip.

what a perfect excuse you are, for joel to remaster the arts of lust.

it’s messy, wet dripping down his chin and staining itself into the stubble of his growing facial hair. it’s noisy, his mouth openly groaning depraved joy into your warmth as you sing him a song of sweet euphoria, slowly building towards that crescendo on the horizon. it’s animalistic, barely human as he revokes all earthly needs such as rest, and food, and socialising, his mind, and soul, and heart, and cock all screaming in unison to spend whatever days he shall possess on his knees before you.

and all the while you writhe and wriggle, some times running away from him touch, other times rutting so far back into him that you threaten to suffocate him somewhere between your warm thighs, and sugar sweet cunt, and the two well-rounded globes of your ass. 

his only saving grace is that he can’t see you.

hearing your pretty whines, and hand-muffled moans, and heavy intakes of breath is enough to curse him for the rest of his waking days, condemned to wander the wastelands of earth knowing the noises you make on the brinks of pleasure, with a touch-starved man satiating his hunger for flesh and blood with the sugary sins of your soaked cunt.

burrowing deeper into you, his consciousness rips through the fog of his lust to curse out his perversions as the tip of his hooked nose bumps against the puckered entrance of your ass. it does nothing to stop him tearing his tongue away from your clit, flattened as he drags it over the expanse of your cunt, and over your taint, and up the crack of your behind.

“n- ah,” you can’t deny him while sounding so eager for more, the tip of his tongue now circling your back entrance, mimicking the treatment previously given to your little pearl. “no, don’t, not there.”

next time, he thinks, we’ll try that next time.

sights returned to his previous desires, he works to rip every sigh, and every whine, and every dirty little song you’ll grace him with. the sound of whatever record tess has put on in the other room becomes a safety blanket, dousing you both in the warm protection of not being overheard.

and, then, he does it, he makes the ultimate mistake.

his eyes flicker to the left and he finds himself faced with the stove that sits within bill and frank’s- and, by an extension he does not enjoy to remember, your- kitchen. there’s little that’s remarkable about the appliance, just your standard, everyday oven that he’s sure you’ve spent countless hours cooking up those comforting meals he’s come to anticipate each time tess tells him they’re due a visit.

except, the oven door is made of glass.

glass which now paints the most pornographic masterpiece for no eyes but his own. you, with hands gripping the island’s counter like your life depends on it, and the skirt of that goddamn dress he’s envied all evening for the way it got to rest against the warmth of your thighs now bunched up in your tight grip, and your head thrown back, curving your spine in a way that has him wondering about the other ways he’d be able to bend and break you beneath his touch.

 and then there’s him, down on his knees like a devotee laying himself down to worship his goddess, face burrowed in the space between your legs, mouth devouring you from behind with the help of his hands, the same ones that had strangled a man less than a day before and reigned fire down on countless others for years, that now grip the meat of your thighs to pull you back onto him, fucking his tongue into your sopping heat.

the image will haunt him more than the face of any man he’s killed.

“d’ya touch yourself, sol?” you don’t answer him, but that’s okay. in a sweet change of pace, joel miller’s perfectly fine with talking enough for the both of you. “yeah, bet ya do. late at night, right? once you’re all alone in bed. ya seem like the kind who can make herself scream.”

you back into him, smothering him under the weigh of your body. becoming his holy grail, he drinks from you like it’s the key to eternal life, and what a way of living this would be, time disregarded as nothing but meaningless while your bodies melt together in the heat of passion.

fucking his fingers back inside, he becomes frantic beneath the need to make you cry, fall completely apart with only his hands to hold you together. “let me do the honours this time though.”

you don’t scream, can’t scream, hand over mouth muffling whatever profanities and theatrical proclamations he rips from within you with the stroke of his agile tongue, the only muscle of his that’s yet to develop aches and pains. he imagines that will no longer ring true once he awakens past sunrise.

he’s unsure how much longer he works his tongue over you, slipping and sliding through the liquid pleasure, but it ends with fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him away and tilting his head up.

you’ve never looked more holy, moon casting it’s shine around you, eyes glossed with unshed tears, lips parted and swollen from the pressure your own teeth had bitten down on them with. your expression, he can’t quite read. not sad, not happy, not mad.

your eyes catch on something, abandoning his own for something closer to the floor, to which he follows and finds exactly what you’re staring at: the evidently dark patch that now stains the front of his jeans.

the discomfort of trekking back to the qz will now be tenfolds worse in the stains of his own pleasure.

“joel...” his name is nearly a beg, a prayer, an invitation. hand still in his hair, you tug, pulling him upwards off the ground. legs open wider and back arches deeper, a seductive sight that your body pleas for him with.

he swallows a groan, knees alleviated at last from the floor, and presses himself against you once more. strong arms crush you in an embrace, pulling you back into him as his head slips to rest against your shoulder. he’s capricious with the way he lets himself litter a few wet kisses over your neck, breathing in the smell of you.

“that,” you grind back into him, a torturer who takes his aged body as her victim and toys with his barely recovered cock, the cum in his trousers sticking uncomfortably to his skin. he pulls tighter on your body, grounding himself in the weight of it against his own to find the sanity to finish his sentence. “shouldn’t have happened.”

joel hopes no one awakens as he slams the door on the way out of the kitchen.

people once spoke of how the only certainties in life were death and taxes but, nowadays, the words don’t ring as true and the guarantee of life with taxes has morphed into something else entirely; a reality where death and time go hand in hand. as sure as tomorrow will arrive, death will come too, eventually. not today, however, and joel miller finds himself stood throwing a ball back and forth for a dog.

it chases and retrieves, trailing it’s happy self all the way back to him only to spit the ball down at his feet, siting and waiting to repeat the process once more. there’d been a time where this is all he’d wanted: white picket fence, dog in the yard, home-cooked meals filling a house with warmth.

that dream seems so far away now, even as he stands within it.

he cracks his back, huffing out a groan. “no, not again. my back’s fucked as it is, buddy,” with no one around to witness, joel lets himself crouch down onto his knees- both popping obnoxiously as he does so- and rakes his hand over the german shepherd’s head. it whines and makes an attempt to nudge the ball against him, protesting in the only way it can. a scratch to the ear does the trick to distract the animal, to which it tilts its head and forces itself deeper into his blunt nails. “not so bad, are ya? huh?” never in a million years did joel think he’d be talking to a dog when him and tess had set out for their routinely visit to the bill and frank’s. never would he have thought that would be the least shocking event to unfold on this trip.

he hears you before he sees you.

“you planning to make your knees familiar with every surface of this place, texas?”

he tries to rise, he truly does, but the four-legged foe he’d been petting mere seconds ago betrays him the instant it catches sight of you, charging past him and knocking him over in the process, ass to floor and head to sky.

the world above is a storm of greys, clouds swallowing one another with a looming threat of danger on the horizon and not a lick of the sun’s warmth seems to make its way through.

so instead, it sends you.

peering over him from above, hair a tangled mess, eyes a wreck of under-bags and sleepless tears, the collar of your jumper lowered just enough at this angle that he can see a tease of cleavage, you radiate a brightness like no other, more dangerous to his naked eyes than uv ray could ever be. he’s squinting again, frown etching itself on his forehead with the threat of becoming permanent soon. a few more years and his face will be nothing but frown lines and crows feet. at the very least, he considers, i’ve survived long enough to wrinkle.

the smile above him is worth a million laugh lines, a kindness laced within it that matches perfectly with the hand you hold out. when he does nothing but stare at it, you wriggle your fingers, enticing him to take a hold. he does most of the work, truthfully, but you play a part in pulling him back to his feet. upright once more, he can’t help but bask in the way he’s able to physically look down on you.

“thanks for tiring him out,” you’re the first to talk. you’re always the first to talk, and he curses you for it. “won’t need to walk him as far tonight.”

a queasy feeling overtakes him at the thought of you walking the dog alone at night, nothing but the moon to light your way. he’ll need to remember to tire the dog out next time he visits. “no problem, thanks... for feeding tess and i.”

“no worries!” you’re so kind, so good, smiling at him with a cheerful chirp in your voice. he can’t wrap his head around how you can bring yourself to treat him this way. “oh, actually, that’s why i came out here, i was looking for tess-” of course you were, when would you ever be looking for him? “hold on!”

you shoot off back inside so quickly that otis just reaches the doorway by the time you return. with an idle pet to his head as you pass by, joel once again sees, in the way such little affection can have the dog so elated, that resemblance between them you’d spoke of. in your hands, you carry an array of containers full of food- soup- each filled to the brim.

“i wanted to give you these, before you guys leave,” you’re explaining yourself, and joel wonders if it’s nerves that bring you to need constant babbling to fill any gaps of silence. he can’t imagine how he could make you nervous and therefore that thought is quick to be discarded. “i know the journey up here and back can be long, consider them a token of my appreciation towards you both for-”

“why don’t ya like me?” he cuts you off.

pathetic, he knows, but he can not stop himself, a deer caught in the headlights of your brightly burning, too-good-to-be-true, too-pure-to-be-fake personality.

you show no signs of hearing him, smile unwavering as you continue to hold out the boxes to him, “there should be enough to last you a few days, if you watch your proportions.”

it’s too much for him to handle- the food, the smiles, the sweetly glistening eyes-, and joel just has to know, needs an answer before the heat of his confusion consumes him entirely in its flames and leaves nothing but his smoking remains.

so he tries again, louder.

“why don’t ya like me?”

“and i’d probably say you’re best to heat it up, especially for tess,” you ignore him, again, lips stretching what can only be described as uncomfortably wider. “winter is sure coming in faster than last year, isn’t it?”

he grabs at your arm, fingers curling round the swell of your bicep as he speaks through gritted teeth, "answer me." like a frightened dog backed into a corner, he bares his teeth and yells his bark.

"for someone who doesn't care,” you try his patience, knowingly or not, and his grip tightens. you don’t flinch, welcoming the sting of his blunt and bitten nails against your flesh. “you sure do talk about my opinion a lot."

"answer the damn question, girl.”

“or, what?” you’ve got him there, he’ll admit, holding no real plan as to how to punish your silence. “you gonna give me the same treatment as last night?”

had he known you’d be so unabashed to mention the events on the kitchen floor so flippantly, as casually as one would speak about the weather, he’d never have dared to get on his knees. truthfully, he’d not given things a second thought, disregarding the later for the now, living in the moment with caution thrown to the wind over what the morning would bring. perhaps he’d hoped you’d been intoxicated enough to dismiss the memory as a nightmare, maybe he’d wished you’d keep away from him to free him of the volatile grip you have on his soul.

instead, you stand tall, proud, eyes fiercely staring back at his own as you challenge him to retaliate, mock you with none of those saccharine smiles you hide harsh tones behind.

joel says nothing.

“how about this, let’s make a deal, like the ones you and bill make.” inching closer, crowding in on his space and forcing him to take note of the smell of freshly cleaned clothes mixed in with your own fragrance. clean, warm, inviting, scents he’d never given meaning to before now. “you get me something, i’ll tell you what you want to know.”

he grunts out a response, hands meeting his hips as he juts out one knee, the shifting of weight between feet a perfect distraction to the rising tension in his worn-out jeans. “what d’ya want? ‘cause if it’s somethin’ like a gun, think again. i ain’t messing with none of bill’s strange politics on you havin’-”

“a dress.”

“a dress?” the statement has him quirking his brow, burning questions swimming in the depths of his eyes as he stares back at you.

“yes, and don’t look at me like that!” it’s hypocritical, he believes, for you to berate him for the looks he sends you when all you do is cast stones his way with your gaze yet shake him to his very core each time you smile. “i need a new one, my favourite one got ruined whilst making soup.”

unaware he’d even began to lean closer, joel’s quick to recoil, as if your words are bullets and his skin the target you hit on the bullseye every time. 

“joel!” his name resonates from somewhere in the house.

neither of you dare to break eye contact. again, his name is yelled. this time, he manages to identify tess as the owner of the voice. habits have him used to running to her whenever she calls, but habits have never been caught between the choice of tess or you. 

his feet remain glued to the ground.

tess yells once more and, though you speak up, you don’t dare look away. “think you might be needed inside, macho man. your missus is calling.”

“she ain’t my-”

“you two just gonna stand and stare at each other all day, or will you help a woman out already?” tess enters the scene somewhere behind you, a blur of her familiar shape standing out the front door.

only when your head spins and he no longer finds himself lost in the black of your eyes does joel take her in completely, hair clearly damp and complexion a little paled by her hungover body. in her arms, she struggles with the weight of a folded table. you approach first, he follows, his two hands aiding in carrying it out into the front yard as you retighten your grip on the boxes of soup in your arms. 

“i should probably,” laying the containers down on the now unfolded table, you fidget with the sleeves in your hands, eyes downcast with something he can only read as guilt. he decides he much prefers the fire they hold when you berate him. “go check on the food, before it burns.”

you’re in the door and out his sight before he can so much as ask you to stay.

tess and him hit the road by noon. earlier than predicted, later than he’d wished for. the bite of cold already marks the air, despite the sun heating the world with its rays. he walks a little ahead, feigning ignorance to the repeated coughing coming from tess and racking his brain for answers.

answers to why he’d never noticed how hoarse she’d been sounding till you pointed it out. answers to what awaited them both upon returning to the qz. answers to when will be their next chance to visit the safe haven bill’s created. answers to why you don’t like him.

i don’t like you, joel.

it motivates him to walk quicker, faster, racing to put as much distance between himself and that damn kitchen floor, miles upon miles not enough to rid him of the dull ache in his knees that goes hand in hand with the throb within his too-tight-jeans. if he were alone, he’d break out in a sprint. but tess is here, he’s not alone, and home will simply have to wait on the passing of time to drag him back to it.

till then, he needs to find a dress.​

[dragonsfictavern]

Brighter Than The Sun

Astarion x gn!Reader

a/n: I have no idea if this was a prompt I saw somewhere or if this was completely out of my brain, the idea was from months ago and I finally got around to writing it.

summary: With the parasite no longer in your brains, Astarion can no longer go into the sun. You try everything you can think of to help him experience the same heat but with no luck. Until you think to use yourself as a means for Astarion to feel the suns warmth once more.

word count: 1.7k

From the shadows he watches you, his red eyes almost gleaming and noticeable through the darkness. He stands behind the door, watching you, waiting for you… He needs you and yet he knows you need to stay away, if only for a little while longer. Long enough to get what he wants.

Astarion stands behind the door of the home you two share together in Baldur's Gate. With the parasite long gone and his ascension a trickle of a memory, Astarion has long since been unable to walk in the sun. It spurns him once more as if his mask had been unveiled and even the sun could see what he truly was. While on the other hand, darkness has greeted him back like an old friend and he remains cursing it.

More than anything he yearns to once more see the color in the world, to feel its warmth on his cold skin. But even after years of searching, he feels as though you two aren’t any closer to finding a cure, from ridding him of the curse forced upon him so long ago. Even so, his mind stays focused on the task and it touches him deeply that it remains in yours as well.

Which is what has brought along today’s events. When reality had first set in, Astarion couldn’t ever explain the despair he felt toward never being able to feel the sun’s warmth again. But he didn’t have to explain. He knew you understood, he knew you saw him for all he was. You have for probably much longer than he gave you credit for. Always the one to try and fix things, Astarion wasn’t surprised when you tried thinking of clever ways he’d be able to feel the sunlight again. You had tried creating the hottest of fires and yet it didn’t feel the same. Nothing ever felt the same. Astarion had given up and urged you to do the same. He should’ve known you well enough by now to know that wasn’t something you were capable of.

So this morning when you began guiding him toward the door, Astarion briefly questioned if he was being led to his demise. If you had finally gotten tired of him and decided to end it all. Of course you hadn’t. Wouldn’t. Who’d ever get tired of him, after all… He only resisted briefly until you ended up explaining your entire plan to him. To have you stand in the sun and then shut the door and hug him. So that way, he may once again feel the heat of the sun against warm flesh.

Astarion’s heart swelled, lips parted as he struggled to react and while he still couldn’t quite express his gratitude and affections out loud, he knew he could show you them through his actions and it would always mean just as much. He may have thought the plan ridiculous, silly even, but it was your attempt that moved him. The way you never gave up on him. Now here you two are, you out in the sun as he lurks in the depths of the shadows. Astarion’s lips part as he watches you bask in the sunlight's rays, your eyes closed and a soft smile on your face.

Whilst always beautiful, Astarion remains even more assured that you are most beautiful in the sun. His feelings toward you both similar in the weight you hold in his heart. His eyes trial over your form, looking on as the sunlight highlights your complexion, the sun shimmering across your skin. The way it flickers off of you, making you appear even more brighter and full of life. Astarion watches it all, his attentions never having been more focused. He couldn’t dare look away from you and miss a moment of this.

You were so close and yet so far and as Astarion looked upon your beauty, memories from before starts flooding through his mind of him out there with you. Astarion couldn’t help but step forward, reaching out to you. He didn’t think, too caught up in how much he wanted you near. Not because of the sun but simply because you were you.

As his hand falls into a faint sliver of sun, instead of the comforting warmth he has shamefully become accustomed to, the familiar burning radiates across his skin. The sound of his skin sizzling rang in the quiet air and instead of peace the sun now brings panic, causing Astarion to release a high-pitched hiss. You jump, opening your eyes and looking over at him as Astarion quickly draws his hand back. You take a step to him but he uses that same hand to motion for you to stop.

“No! Don’t come closer. Just stay out there… for a little while longer,” Astarion pleads, brows furrowing deeply. It wasn’t until this moment, this instant where he’s reminded of the pain the sun has the power to inflict upon him, that he thinks your once silly idea may actually be important.

“Astarion-“ You try, tilting your head, eyes on his crackling hand that already starts to heal itself. But it’s one shake from his head that has you quieting. The softness in his gaze that has you stopping from stepping into his darkness. You look over him before giving a tentative nod. Your body turns back toward the sun within the space of the open door, but your eyes occasionally flicker over to him.

His fingers press into the flesh as it returns to its original smooth texture, the only trace of it being the faint throbbing that was already starting to fade too. As Astarion stares at you as you stand in the one place he could not reach you, despair flowers in his chest like a plague. You two are so different. While dealing with the parasite, while able to walk into the sun, Astarion could simply ignore it, not think about it because there were so many other important things to think about. Could push their differences aside in order to use you, then eventually love you.

But all that was gone now. You could walk in the day while he was stuck in the shadows. Even while only inches away, to Asatrion, it was like he could see an invisible barrier set between you both. A force that stops him from being with you, touching you. Something he could never cross so long as he was like this— a vampire spawn.

He was not good for you, he knew. All this time, Astarion allowed himself to be greedy, convinced himself that you need him as much as he needs you. But his love was doing exactly what the dark was doing to him. Trapping you. He was sure that if your heart wasn’t so big, you’d be out in the sun more often. Like you deserved.

Then you did the most peculiar thing. In a flash, you were closing the door, objecting yourself to the dark, and you reach for him. One hand wrapping around his waist as the other grips the nape of his neck. Both use their strength to pull him into you. Before Astarion can process what’s happening, you’re hugging him.

Warmth radiates off your skin and spreads over his. You guide Astarion’s head into your neck, letting him feel all the heat the sun left on you. Now, after this time being with him, Astarion doesn’t hesitate to hug you back. His arms wrap around you firmly as he exhales a shaky breath.

“I could feel you thinking from all the way over there,” your smooth voice washes over him, making warmth spread within him as well as across his body. He burrows closer to you, soaking up everything your skin was offering. He could imagine the fierce sun and how it must have felt upon first contact. But somehow, when it was you providing it instead of the sun, it was better. So much better.

He finally had you in his arms and the fog that moments prior were tormenting him now clear away. As you imply, he was thinking too much. He was spiraling and second guessing himself and even worse, you. He knows that you would never truly do something you didn’t want. You wouldn’t be with him unless it’s what you wanted. He didn’t have the power to trap you and he would never want it. While he can’t deny your differences, he also can’t say they’re a bad thing. He likes that you’re not the same person. Although, Astarion would dare say he’d make a lovely suitor for himself if the chance arose.

“What ever are you talking about, darling?” Releasing a light-hearted chuckle along with the question. Astarion’s hand brushes along your neck as well, the skin feeling even warmer here. Everything in him tells him to hide his feelings, to brush them aside and offer a short quip. While he knows he’ll end up telling you everything later, right now he can’t help but evade the vulnerability that was controlling him.

“Oh, I must be seeing things, then,” you tease right back, understanding Astarion and playing along with it. Astarion closes his eyes, gratefulness filling his body and pouring out in his physical contact with you.

“Hmm, must get that checked out,” he shoots back, not able to stop the words from slipping out of his mouth. You both end up laughing together and the peace that spreads through the atmosphere around you two reminds him why he never ends up keeping anything from you anymore. He learned his lesson once before.

The two of you fall into a peaceful silence as you remain hugging in the darkness. Your skin quickly grows colder again, losing what your time in the sun left you with. Even so, neither of you step away from the hug.

“You know, out of all the ways you’ve attempted to give me back sunlight, I have to say, this is by far my favorite,” Astarion admits, moving to rest his forehead against yours. The warmth he feels with you blazes hotter than any sun could ever supply him. He hears as your heart picks up and your neck once again becomes warmer than the rest of your body. Astarion does not hold back his grin, informing you of his awareness, yet remains still as he enjoys what he can get.

Astarion keeps you close as he realizes that any lack of sun is worth it when he gets moments like this in return.

[givemea-dam-break]

hello my love <3 can i request fluff with lockwood where y/n is sick and she also has injury on her hand (something like lucy's maybe?) and when lockwood wants to clean it she's not happyy about that 'cause she only wants to sleep and he's like "i'm your fully qualified doctor, remember? you have to listen to me, love", btw i absolutely adore your stories, keep writing cause you're amazingg, mwah <3

a/n: of course!!! domestic lockwood is the best in my humble opinion. and im so glad you like my stuff so much, love you my dear <3 also taking this as an opportunity to apologise for the terrible titles for most of my fics i spend ages thinking but can never think of something good lmao

warnings: minor injury detail gn reader

Perfect - Anthony Lockwood

The library is the warmest room in the house, and by far your favourite, so it's no surprise when Lockwood finds you there, curled up on your designated armchair close to dozing. He smiles at you as he steps in, carrying a tray of something or other that he places down on the little coffee table before sitting in his armchair.

There's something about him today that makes you want to laugh. Maybe it's the way he's been mothering you all day because you're ill. Maybe it's the lack of Anthony Lockwood professionalism he has today, what with his crinkled hoodie and pink fluffy socks - aren't those the ones George has been looking for? He's so unlike his usual self today, but also inadvertently just like himself. A walking anomaly.

"How are you feeling now?" he asks quietly, as if your ears may explode if he speaks too loud. "Any better?"

"No better than I did seven minutes ago," you say with a laugh. "Lockwood, you don't have to keep a constant eye on me. You've got things to do."

"One of which being to take care of you," he says. "Which reminds me, are you finally going to let me take a look at that cut on your arm? It needs cleaning."

"I trust you with my life, but I do not trust you with the first aid kit. You'll shove half a tube of Germaline on it. Besides, I want to go to sleep, and here is cosier than my room."

He gives you a look, but it's halfhearted. "You can sleep once I've cleaned it. I've brought you some of your favourite biscuits and a brew in return."

You lift your head from where it had laid on your arms. "Doesn't sound like a very fair trade for you."

"Ah, I'll cope."

"Well, it doesn't hurt anymore. I'm sure it's healed amazingly and then I'll be back to my wonderful self in no time."

"I'm not leaving until I've at least taken a look at it. Then after that, you can have your tea and go to sleep." His grin is dazzling then. It's the kind he always uses when he's trying to get his way. "I'm your fully qualified doctor, remember? You've got to listen to me."

If you could be bothered, you could push for him to leave you in peace, but your head feels like it's full of water and you want to go to sleep. So, begrudgingly, you shift so that your arm hangs over the armrest of your chair.

The gentleness of Lockwood's hands as he takes your arm and slowly, carefully peels off the plaster you haphazardly placed on shocks you. His fingers are soft, holding your arm as if it's a delicate thing that could break at any moment.

He takes a minute to just look at the gash on your forearm. It's no longer than your index finger, cutting diagonally across halfway up, and it's still oozing some blood. The plaster is covered in it, and he deftly throws it into the bin before taking his little first aid kit from the tray he brought in. Its original purpose was for you to use it on him whenever he got banged up on cases, which was more often than not, but there's something strangely special about him using it on you now. It makes you feel a little giddy.

"You got this from a glass door, right?"

You're acutely aware of his touch as he shifts his grip so as to clean the cut. "Yeah. George knocked me into it by accident. I'm surprised this is all I got out of it."

His reply comes in the form of a quiet hum. As he cautiously cleans the wound, you watch as his brows furrow a little with concentration, creasing a little line between them, and his top lip twitches a little bit. A little quirk, you've noticed, when he's particularly invested in something. Usually, it's the latest gossip rag, in which he always loses sight of the real world, but now it's you. A small flutter arises in your chest.

He wipes over a small part of the gash, and you suck in a sharp breath. The sound makes him falter, the wipe hovering an inch above your skin as he looks up at you.

For a moment, then, you forget about the pain. Through his thick lashes, his eyes are brimmed with worry and apologies, but after insistence that you're fine, he continues to clean the fresh blood away.

"Let me put the cream on the plaster," you murmur. "You'll put way too much on."

He smiles. "Who's the qualified doctor here?"

"In all honesty, Skull is probably better at this kind of thing than you are."

"I'll pretend I didn't hear that."

"Do."

But, even still, he passes you the tube of Germaline and a long plaster. A moment later, you pass it back, and with delicate hands, he places it over the gash. It stings a little, and you hiss at the sudden cold, but the feelings are gone before the minute is even over.

"Perfect," he says with a soft, private smile. "All sorted."

His hand lingers, still holding your arm, and you suddenly feel more awake than ever. It's as if the tiredness has just melted away into the cushions of the armchair and down into the floor with only his touch, and you yearn for him to not let go. To stay exactly where he is.

And, as if having read your mind, he does.

If someone were to walk in, the scene would be strange. You, curled up in your seat with your arm hanging over the armrest, head resting on your own shoulder, and Lockwood, holding your arm as if it's some valuable thing, and simply looking at you with those expressive eyes of his.

"How do you feel?" he asks. His voice is a little breathy.

You're trying not to focus on the feeling of his fingers slipping down your arm until they almost - almost - slot in between yours. You shift slightly so that your head is in a position that isn't causing a crick in your neck, and it only grants a better view of him. His dark hair glowing bronze in the firelight, the ever so faint freckles on his nose, the dip in the left corner of his lip that insinuates another smile.

"A little better." The words almost catch in your throat when his fingers curl around yours just so. They don't hold yours, but they're so, so close. You can feel his pulse - or is that yours beating wildly out of control? "Do you have any paracetamol?"

He takes a second to realise what you've just said, and his hand leaves yours as he rakes about in the first aid kit for the painkillers. Out of pure mothering ability, he pops two out of the packet and hands them to you along with your mug of tea. Not the nicest thing to swallow them down with, but it'll do.

"You need to be more careful on cases," Lockwood says.

"Tell that to George. He's the one who bumped into me." Then, you shrug. "I suppose I shouldn't have gone when I've got the worst head cold I've had in yonks."

A breathy laugh escapes his lips, and you notice how he's looking down at your hand.

It's a bold move, completely unlike you, but you reach for his hand, looping your fingers through his. His hand is warm and, yes, that's definitely your erratic pulse.

It takes a lot to catch Lockwood off guard, but that does the trick. For a moment, it's like he can't decide whether or not to look at your linked hands or at you, and you laugh at the sight of it.

"This is wholly inappropriate," he jokes. "Doctors and patients shouldn't do anything remotely like this."

You must be out of your mind entirely because you lean over and press a kiss to his knuckles. "What about that?"

The expression on his face reminds you of when the TV signal has gotten busted, and the four-person-army of Lockwood and Co, plus a glowing and crude Skull, are sitting around it angrily waiting for it to stop buffering. When the picture freezes, glitches a little bit, and buffers for even longer. You can almost see the buttons and wires in his mind, struggling to compute what you just did.

That's not to say you aren't the complete same. Truthfully, you shocked yourself with the kiss, and you sit here now, staring at the spot where your lips touched his skin.

You're ill, you remind yourself. Maybe he'll pass it off as delusion.

"Would you mind if I weren't your doctor for a little?"

Frowning a little, confused, you say, "No...?"

You've never seen a person move as fast as Lockwood does then. Before you know it, he's leaning over your entwined hands and his lips are brushing yours so softly, giving you room to move if it's something you don't want. But you do. You want it more than anything.

Everything seems to melt away at the moment you press your lips firmly onto his. The library, the fireplace filled with dancing orange flames, your horrible cold, the sting of anti-septic cream on your fresh cut. You're aware only of his lips on yours, his fingers twisted in yours, the warmth of his hand. Every nerve in your body feels as though it's about to combust. Your heart is practically beating through your chest. God, your hands are awfully sweaty.

Only a moment later, he pulls away, but his face stays so close to yours that you can feel his breath on your cheek.

You want to say something romantic, maybe something smart or snarky like you usually would, but all you can think of is, "You're going to get a cold now."

"It's just as well we have Skull, then, huh?" His laugh is soft and airy, and you could catch it between your lips if you so wished. "I'm sure I'll be fine."

His gaze flickers between your eyes and lips, and you're positive that if he weren't holding your hand right now, you'd implode in a burst of sparks and fireworks.

"Well, if you're so sure -"

Knowing where the sentence is going, he presses his lips to yours once more, and it's perfect.

[miltheperson]

Priest!Wally Darling x Fallen angel!Reader

(A small breather from all the requests! This idea happened to spring up on me during the evening so suddenly, haha!) (Also this is quite… er… different from the usual fluffy stories I write… So… warning!) (Don’t worry! These won’t be the main things I write on here! My fics will readily go back to fluffy and cute right after this!)

Inspired by an old tale!

CW/TW: Possessive Behavior, Slight-moderate manipulation?, Darker topic and story, mentions of cult-ish religion, mentions of religion-related topics.

DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT.

What Belongs To Me.

It was almost like you had fallen on purpose.

You had descended from the skies with a loud crash, right outside of Wally’s church. When Wally had found you, he had taken you in and decided to take care of you.

He believed you were a blessing from Home.

A gift sent upon his doorstep.

A blessing.

A blessing.

When you had awoken from your slumber, you were weak and agitated. You had fallen from the realm of angels, you didn’t want anything to do with earth, along with the people that ruled it.

Wally was absolutely captivated by you, your beauty and divine presence had him almost addicted. He was enamored and he felt such deep affection for you.

What a divine blessing from Home!

Rejoice! Rejoice!

You were clueless to Wally’s feelings, only seeing him as the kind person who had offered his church for you to stay and recover. You were terribly homesick and missed Eden so much, you wondered if your friends up there were looking for you, wondering what had happened and why you had disappeared.

Not need to worry though…

Wally was with you all the way.

Every step of the way he was right there for you…

You made the mistake of telling him some very interesting information one day while you sat with him on one of the pews.

“Once I go back home… I will forever remember your kindness… And I will tell them all about you.” You looked over at him with a smile, looking truly grateful.

“Oh, please. I was only doing what any good disciple of god would do.” Wally nodded, smiling right back at you. Of course, up to this point you had thought he was talking about the God that you served… Not the more… malicious… being.

“I am sure our Lord will be very pleased with you, Wally.” You chuckled softly.

“(Name)? May I perhaps… Ask you something? I’m just a little curious, is all.” Wally asked you politely, voice calm and serene as always.

“Yes, you may.” You nodded.

“About that halo of yours… What is so special about it? You seem to be taking great care of it.” He pointed at the glowing object above your head.

“You see, Wally. All angels and holy beings of God are given a halo as… Some sort of key to enter Eden… It signifies that you are a being of God and that you are able to enter Eden.” You explained to him.

“… And what happens when you… Don’t… Have your halo?” Wally looked as if he was very interested and very curious.

You thought it was because he wanted to learn more…

He did want to learn more… But for the wrong reasons.

“You are no longer able to reach Eden.” You answered his question solemnly. “Angels who have their halo taken away or broken here, are bound to stay on earth for eternity. We need to fly to be able to reach Eden, and our abilities come from our halo.” You continued to say.

“People can just take your halos away? Just like that?” Wally tilted his head, the shadow in his eyes seemingly increasing. Devious plans formed in his head.

“Only when an angel is vulnerable, can a person steal it… Instances such as an injured angel or a sleeping one, those are moments of vulnerability.”

“Hm… I see… Well it’s good that you’ve stumbled here then… It would have been such a misfortune if you had landed on… the wrong… persons doorstep…” Wally smirked a little, an almost taunting tone to his voice.

You smiled at this, believing in his “good intentions”.

“I am forever grateful… Soon, I will have regained my strength to fly… I will repay your kindness one day.” You bowed a little, truly grateful for him.

Wally’s eyes darkened as he stared at you.

You will be able to… leave…? So soon?

No.

No he can’t allow that.

That is not what Home intended for you.

Home did not want you to leave.

He. Did not want you to leave.

He can not let you leave.

Not when you mean so much to him.

His little angel.

His. Angel.

Leaving?

No.

He would not allow that.

He could not. allow. that.

And so, now the priest stood over your form as you slept so peacefully.

The halo above your head continue to glow even as you slept, casting that divine lighting over your captivating features.

He couldn’t help but smile, fixing the hair on your face.

You belonged here.

You belonged… To With him.

This is what Home wanted for you.

This is what Home intended.

Wally grabbed hold of the halo, staring at your sleeping face.

All he had to do now…

Was take it…

And break it…

Wally started to pull your halo, feeling resistance as he did. He was insistent, continuing to pull even as it stubbornly resisted his pull. The halo started to flicker, the resistance growing weaker and weaker. With one final pull, the halo ripped away from your head.

Wally stared at the halo for a moment, turning it this way and that. It was smooth to the touch and the glow was dull.

He took both ends, staring down at you with a dark glare.

You… stay… here.

CRACK.

He snapped the halo in half like it was candy, the halo dissolving into dust.

You woke up with a gasp, breathing heavily.

There was a stinging pain in your chest and you felt nauseous.

What happened?!

You started to shriek, grabbing your chest in pain. Wally quickly walked over, placing his hands over you. “(Name)?? (Name) what’s wrong!” He feigned worry, trying his best to comfort you.

You yelled out and writhed, it looked like you were burning.

“It’s okay. It’s okay. I’m here.”

You hurled yourself to the side, dry heaving and spilling out a golden shimmery liquid from your lips. You breathed heavy ragged breaths, looking at Wally with terror in your eyes.

“What… What happened to me…?” Your voice was coarse.

“… Your halo… It’s gone…” Wally looked saddened and horrified.

“No… No… No! NO, NO, NO!”

You screamed, your hands flying to your head, only to feel an empty place where your halo used to be.

You leapt to your feet, running out of the room.

Wally only walked after you, a light smirk to his face.

You can’t leave now…

You were here to stay…

With him..

He watched as you tried to fly, your wings flapping tirelessly.

You would lift into the air just barely, only to flop back down onto the ground.

You were sobbing and crying, lamenting that you would no longer be able to go home.

“(Name)… Dear… Please do calm down…”

Wally masked his smirk with a sigh, approaching your sobbing form.

When you stared at him, he knew now…

That he…

Got what he wanted…

You were truly…

His…

Little angel now…

[forsssnaken]

Aziraphale's Literary Discovery

Important note: I am no longer writing stuff like this. It was a nice way for me to be happy while in a rather precarious mental state, but I no longer enjoy it all the same way I once did. I'm keeping it up as it was a gift, and there are still people who may enjoy it, but I am unhappy with my writing how it was in this fic, and I don't enjoy writing this stuff anymore. I still write good omens fanfics now, if you want to give me a chance there.

THIS. IS. A. TICKLING. FIC. COMPLETELY. SFW.

HAPPY HOLIDAYS @practickles!!! I am your squealing santa this year :)) I hope this is everything you hoped for and more!! (and now i can follow you without being worried that i'll blow my cover lol)

@squealing-santa

screw canon(/j), they are happy together and have tickles.

switch!aziraphale, switch!crowley.

cw: light mentions of alcohol/sobering up magically, cursing (because it's Crowley), using a miracle to pin someone that could be read as invisible bondage.

Aziraphale turned a page in his book, but wasn't really reading anymore. This had been happening more and more often: he would stop reading just to think about the demon who was currently asleep on his couch.

Aziraphale and Crowley had finished off some good wine last night, and instead of sobering up, Crowley had decided to sleep it off on the bookshop's couch. The angel had sobered up, reading all through the night with the occasional glance to the demon's sleeping form.

Honestly, Aziraphale prefers Crowley awake. He loves the demon's antics and being able to spend time together (although the serenity and calmness radiating off the demon's lanky form was delightful). He didn't technically need to breathe, but he did -- soft deep breaths that were almost soft snores.

Aziraphale quickly snapped himself out of the trance he had been in, staring at his friend(?), and glancing back at the book. It was a sweet romcom, one that left Aziraphale feeling giddy and with butterflies in his stomach. The couple in his book were playful, and in the current scene, were poking each other and giggling. This was a fascinating idea that humans called "tickling", which led to supposedly uncontrollable laughter and seemed like a sweet bonding exercise.

Something clicked in his mind and he looked back at Crowley asleep on the couch, limbs splayed out haphazardly. His tight-fitting shirt had risen a little, leaving a sliver of the pale skin of his lower stomach on display. Aziraphale gasped excitedly, looking back at his book where the tickle fight was happening. Supposedly, even small touches could lead to ticklish sensations!

He stood up, beginning to creep over to the sleeping figure, before realizing that Crowley could sleep through almost anything and walking over normally. The angel stared at him with wide eyes, glancing back and forth between his calm face and the sliver of exposed stomach. He tentatively reached out a finger, poking Crowley's abdomen.

There was a faint reaction, a small breath hitching in between small snores and Crowley squirmed a bit. Was Crowley ticklish?! How silly! How human! What a delightful discovery! He giddily clapped, then began tracing the sliver of exposed skin. Crowley huffed, squirmed, and scrunched up his nose a bit, before rolling over and crossing his arms over his stomach.

Aziraphale was ecstatic at his findings, and couldn't wait to enact something rather devious (by his standards)!

|

|

A few days later, he woke a grumpy Crowley up from his nap (and if Crowley became less grumpy when he noticed that he was covered in a cozy blanket, the angel didn't need to know). Aziraphale had a mission: go on a date -- a Friend Date (he told himself, at least) -- and bring up tickling to him! The angel had an innate need to tickle Crowley now, see his presumably adorable reactions, and have the physical contact that the angel began to crave.

"Come on, Crowley!" Aziraphale grinned, pulling the demon into a seated position by his hand.

Crowley grumbled, "For what?"

Crowley seemed entirely uninterested, but in truth, he loved spending time with Aziraphale and would do anything if Aziraphale truly wanted to spend time with him.

"A picnic!" Aziraphale gestured to a wicker basket stocked full of goodies.

Crowley rolled his eyes (but was truly content with this plan), put his shoes on, and drove them to a gorgeous woodsy park. When they had found their own spot, Aziraphale spread out a blanket on the grass, sat down, and began unpacking some small sandwiches and poured them both a glass of wine.

"Not so much now, my dear boy," He handed Crowley the wine, "I'd like you awake for a little while. It's dreadfully boring being all alone and reading by myself!"

He got nothing but a grunt in return, but everything was perfect, so Aziraphale continued on with his ramblings.

In between bites of his sandwiches, he told Crowley all about the books he had been reading, but especially about the lovely rom-com he had just read.

"They had such a lovely relationship! Human love just excites me so much! They do so many sweet things together, not unlike us!"

"Ngk-" Crowley choked slightly on his wine and turned a bit pink, but Aziraphale didn't seem to notice.

"They certainly touched a lot more than we do, though, Crowley!" The angel pouted.

Crowley shrugged, "We're not having sex."

"Crowley!" Aziraphale's mouth gaped as he gasped, smacking the demon softly on his leg, "Don't say that! They touched plenty without sexual implications!"

Crowley sipped his wine, not needing to respond.

"They cuddled, and kissed, and even- well," Aziraphale cut himself off, suddenly a bit embarrassed.

This now intrigued Crowley, who sat up a bit, and looked at Aziraphale, scooting closer so they were side by side.

He teased Aziraphale, "Oh? Was it sexual then? You realized I was right and you were wrong?"

Aziraphale huffed indignantly, "No! I'm just not sure if you even know what it is!"

Oh, Crowley was so up for a challenge. "I'm sure I would! I know much more about humans than you do."

Aziraphale leaned closer, grinning and placing a hand on the blanket behind Crowley, so they were almost touching. "Oh really?"

Crowley smirked and nodded, taking his sunglasses off and stowing them safely in the picnic basket, so he could look at Aziraphale in the eyes to show him how serious he was.

"Yes, they were tickling each other!" Aziraphale grinned, hoping that Crowley wouldn't know about tickling, so he could teach him.

"Oh, that? How would I not know about that?" Crowley didn't let anything slip, so Aziraphale thought it might be possible that he just didn't know.

"Yes, I think that's quite intimate," Aziraphale reached out and placed a hand on Crowley's knee, "it seems sweet to me!"

Crowley grumbled, avoiding eye contact awkwardly. "What, is this your way of asking me to tickle you?"

Aziraphale stammered, protesting quickly, "Why would I want that?!"

Now it was Crowley's turn to look offended, "There's nothing wrong with wanting that!"

Aziraphale was now slightly grumpy; this wasn't how it was supposed to go!

Crowley had that devilish (albeit attractive) grin across his face, placing a hand on Aziraphale's side.

"This wasn't how this was supposed to goHO-" Aziraphale smacked a hand over his mouth, eyes wide.

Crowley, that evil, evil demon, had squeezed Aziraphale's side! What a terrible thing for his corperal form to feel! Aziraphale, in all his planning, could not have anticipated this!

A small smirk crept across Crowley's face as he put the other hand on Aziraphale's clothed side and squeezed a few times in a row.

Aziraphale's hands flew down from his mouth to his sides, weakly pushing at Crowley's hands as he laughed heartily. His smile was beautiful. It was, well, angelic.

Crowley was right. Aziraphale thought this was quite nice. He hadn't laughed this hard in a while, and seeing Crowley's enjoyment of his reactions was amazing!

Crowley smiled widely, skittering his nimble fingers along Aziraphale's gorgeous plush stomach, before refocusing his attention on Aziraphale's thighs. Aziraphale's magnificently scrumptious thighs, currently busy with Aziraphale's frantically kicking feet. Crowley stopped, giving Aziraphale a small break, before placing his hands on those delightful thighs.

Aziraphale was not worried in the slightest; he had never heard of someone's thighs being ticklish, just the usual suspects like the upper body, feet, neck, and hips. But thighs? That seemed silly... until Crowley started squeezing them.

Aziraphale barked out a laugh, falling gently on his back as he was unable to hold himself sitting up. He made noises that were so embarrassing: he even squealed! Crowley was unwavering in his ticklish squeezing, grinning broadly. Aziraphale was laughing harder than he ever had, his head shaking back and forth as he laughed frantically, beginning to push at Crowley's hands again. This was Crowley's cue to slow down, and he moved his hands back up to the angel's stomach to gently trace shapes as Aziraphale recovered.

"Y- you're evil!" Aziraphale gasped, still giggling.

"I'm a demon, that's kind of the whole point," Crowley deadpanned, although unable to wipe the smile off his face.

Aziraphale caught his breath, then grabbed Crowley's hands. Crowley's eyes widened slightly, but he tried to play it off, scoffing.

Aziraphale sat up quickly, pushing Crowley onto his back and pinning him there with shocking strength. Crowley looked at him confused and began squirming awkwardly. Aziraphale had fully sat on his hips, pinning his arms above his head as he leaned over the demon, their faces quite close together.

"What? How did you-" Crowley stammered, baffled by Aziraphale's strength, "What are you doing?"

Aziraphale grinned, excited to give Crowley all the exposition of his plan. "When I was reading that book, I tried tickling you, when you were asleep. I poked you, and you reacted! I have to try it again!"

Crowley blushed a bit, before retorting, "Angel, anyone would react to being poked. I'm not ticklish, I'm a demon. Being ticklish is all- cute and innocent. I'm neither of those things."

"I beg to differ," Aziraphale grinned, slipping his warm hand under Crowley's tight shirt, beginning to trace circles on Crowley's stomach.

Crowley's brain short circuted. Not only was the angel on top of him, but he was touching Crowley more intimately than they'd ever touched. And Crowley did feel something -- was that being ticklish?

Crowley squirmed, averting his eyes from Aziraphale's as he clamped his mouth shut.

Aziraphale, ever so oblivious, was slightly upset that it didn't really effect Crowley like it did when he was asleep. Maybe he was controlling his reactions? Maybe he truly was right and wasn't ticklish!

Aziraphale huffed, "You really reacted the other day, I promise!"

Crowley was trying his best to not react, his serpentine eyes flicking towards Aziraphale's well-manicured hand, still tracing under his shirt.

"Ngk- just give it a rest, angel!" Crowley sputtered, feeling giggles (Yes, giggles! Demons aren't supposed to giggle!) bubbling up in his chest.

Aziraphale was starting to feel a bit hopeless; he thought it would have been incredibly endearing if Crowley was ticklish. The demon barely smiled (not counting his mischievous smirks), and Aziraphale would love to hear him laugh, truly laugh, for the first time in years. Aziraphale pouted and decided to give it one last go.

He poked Crowley in the side.

Crowley gasped, jumped, and made awkward eye contact with the angel on top of him.

Aziraphale, on the other hand, was ecstatic! A giddy smile broke across his face.

"No, angel, no. I was just startled-" Crowley said quickly, squirming.

"Oh my dear Crowley, my dear silly demon..." Aziraphale grinned.

"No angel I-" Crowley couldn't focus on being called Aziraphale's, due to the imminent danger of him being tickled.

Much to his dismay, Aziraphale began ruthlessly skittering his fingers over Crowley's stomach and sides. Damn his fashionable outfits! The shirt he was wearing was incredibly thin and did nothing to protect him from the angel's attack.

Crowley tried to keep his mouth shut and hide his reactions, but his attempts were futile. He burst out into loud laughter and squirmed as much as he could (which wasn't much). It made sense why tickling was used as a torture method in the past; he would have given up any secret that Aziraphale could ask for in this moment! Although, there was something nice about it: the intimacy, the giddy feeling, and Aziraphale's touch gave him a rush of happiness.

"Why are you laughing, my dear boy? Thought of something devious? Scheming?" Aziraphale laughed along with Crowley -- for such a supposedly evil being, he sure had a contagious laugh -- and scribbled his fingers even faster. "Or are you just... ticklish?"

And if Crowley's cheeks turned an even deeper shade of pink, he hoped Aziraphale didn't notice.

"You're- teasing- me!" He sputtered indignantly, through bright, happy laughter.

Aziraphale paused, pretending to look offended, "No I'm not! I'm simply asking questions to figure out why you're laughing so much!"

In the midst of talking, he wasn't paying attention to what his hands were doing. His hands moved down to the hem of Crowley's shirt, causing the demon to jump, eyes wide.

Aziraphale's eyebrow raised quickly, "Oh?"

Crowley shook his head, stammering "No," and tugging on his hands.

As both of them knew, although the angel's corporeal form was strong, Crowley could easily have gotten his arms free by non-human means. Maybe he just didn't want to.

The most devilish grin to ever cross an angels face suddenly appeared on Aziraphale's. He let go of Crowley's arms, but not before preforming a miracle that kept his arms trapped in place, taut above his head.

Crowley's snake-like eyes grew wider as he tugged frantically on his arms, beginning to giggle nervously. His whole 'bad boy' persona was completely gone now, and he was quite enjoying this (though he'd never admit such a silly thing).

"Oh Crowley," Aziraphale teased, wiggling his fingers at the squirming demon, "are you prepared for your demise?"

That shut Crowley up.

Until Aziraphale did something truly evil. Something so evil that even the higher-ups in Hell couldn't dream of. He repeatedly squeezed Crowley's hips.

Crowley made the most embarrassing noise possible -- he squealed.

"AAAAZiraphale!!!" He laughed, wiggling as much as possible, "YOU BASSSSTARD!!"

Curse that stupid hissing. Usually he was able to disguise it, whenever Aziraphale caught him off guard with accidental(?) flirting or made a silly joke that a big bad demon like himself shouldn't laugh at. Speaking of laughing, Crowley was laughing more than he ever had in his life.

And it felt amazing. Having his angel so close to him in such an intimate way, literally on top of him. He was able to let his guard down.

The angel gasped, "What did you just call me, my dear boy?!"

Aziraphale skittered his fingers around Crowley's stomach and sides, relishing in the rare and genuine laughter.

Luckily, although neither of them could be sure if it was intentional or not, Aziraphale's miracle that pinned Crowley's hand was slowly faltering. Crowley didn't realize (he was laughing too hard to think about much) until his arms subconsciously snapped down to grab at Aziraphale's hands.

Aziraphale paused his attack, concerned about his friend(?). Crowley looked at him, as his leftover giggles became slightly more devious.

Crowley latched his clawed hands onto Aziraphale's clothed sides and rapidly squeezed, disrupting the power that Aziraphale had held over him, and toppling them both over onto their sides, facing each other.

Aziraphale tickled Crowley back, angelic giggles pouring out of his mouth.

"You- you're such a demon!" He exclaimed through loud laughter.

Crowley nodded, squirming closer to Aziraphale as they tickled each other.

They were practically cuddling as their fingers slowed to tracing each other's abdomens, softly giggling.

Aziraphale stared into Crowley's gorgeous auburn eyes and was struck with a sense of overwhelming love.

Crowley's smile was wider than it should have been from leftover giggles as he watched the angel and his smile and gorgeous face. As if God Herself had heard his thoughts, sunlight struck the angel's face in a certain way where he looked like he was glowing (although he may have been radiating an otherworldly glow from overwhelming happiness).

They stayed there for a while, in each others arms, staring lovingly into each other's eyes.

If you made it this far, thank you. Reblogs help writers and artists on tumblr a lot, so consider reblogging if you enjoyed <3. If you'd like, send me an ask if you want to talk about anything (related or unrelated to this fic), as it motivates me to write more.

[lanalovvee]

✮ ✧ ✦ ☾ gravity falls characters when you get hurt + how they take care of you ❥ aged up

୨⋆ dipper + wendy + mabel + bill cipher + ୧⋆

dipper

panic and just distain at whoever did this to you,, he’ll make sure you’re perfectly fine before glancing at anything else. once you’re safe he’s frantic for a revenge plan. but his anxiety and guilt that he hadn’t done anything yet will just make things harder, poor boy :(( and he may freeze up or do something impulsive which he might end up hurting a little, but he’ll do anything to protect you<3

wendy

will try to appear calm for you, yet you can see she’s trying hard not to break, she swings her axe at the monster with no mercy not stopping til it’s dead, she’ll turn to you and give you a fearful glance. she stalk over to her love trying to ease her fuming, her hat had fallen off, red hair fell down your shoulders as she hugged you. you both shook wendy tensed wrapping her sweater around you as a way to temporarily tend to your wounds. she’ll kiss your head and piggy back you back to the mystery shack where she sits you down infront of the tv making sure your laugh with dumb jokes and kisses on your neck, she couldn’t handle the thought of you being scared of her <3

mabel

COMFORT COMFORT COMFORT

a lot less bloodshed and a lot more comfort, although she’d throw herself infront of the monster instead. getting you as far away from it as possible. she’ll scare it off somehow but she’ll make sure they regret what they did to you someday. but first she needs you to be safe. she’ll sit you down with waddles and braid your hair with all the gentleness in the world.

bill

if you get hurt in anyway, bill cipher will just go ballistic. you’re his weak point, the line that his enemies shouldn’t dare cross. If they did, he’s no longer playing, or interested in giving them any mercy. most of all he’s scared of how fragile you are as a human and not a being of light in a human like form. he could snap you in half if he wanted and so could any other monster. he’ll growl and kill the stressor once he sees you in any pain at all. no .. lines then he’ll bury his nose in the crook of your neck and he’ll help you forget.

notes ❥ practice to see if I can write these characters aged up and in love cause i’d love to write more gf contentttt

[thecampjuicebox]

Sending this BG3 idea to a bunch of different blogs to see what they do with it: Tav uses edging and/or orgasm denial on Raphael to get him to give her the hammer without giving him the crown. (Enjoy!)

I love writing Raphael smut, it really does things to me, This is such a clever idea! ty so much for submitting! I hope you enjoy 💞 (This one's gonna be a little longer because the build up is just too good. I NEED SEXUAL TENSION YOU CAN CUT WITH A KNIFE)

Persuasion

Pairing: Raphael x Tav(f)

Rating: 18+ NSFW, Minors DNI

POV: 3rd person

Warnings: Smut, edging, orgasm denial, oral, p in v sex, game spoilers

The afternoon busyness of Sharess' Caress could give even the most resilient orc a headache. Drunken Fists scatter the seats in front of the bar, yelling and clinking mugs of mead and plonk together recklessly while their escorts roll their eyes and put on a pretty smile for extra gold coin. Had Raphael not asked the group to meet him here, of all places, Tav would've avoided it at all costs. One character at the bar stands out, a dwarf with dark curly hair and warm, sun kissed skin. The barmaid exchanges a few words with her about the new brew, offering her a cup and frowning when she decides against it, opting for her regular. She reaches for Tav's arm, stopping her in her tracks as she tries to duck and dodge through the line of eager lads and lasses.

"Tav, is it?"

"Who's asking?"

The dwarf grins up at Tav and slides off of her stool, mug of drink still held steady in her small hand. Tav eyes her short stature for a moment, the strong smell of sulfur assaulting her nostrils. "Raphael is looking for you. He's upstairs, second door on the right. You'd be smart to get there promptly." The dwarf settles back onto her stool and turns toward the bar once more, acting as if she'd never even said a word to Tav. In a bout of confusion, Tav shakes her head and slides through the growing crowd toward the stairs, footsteps careful and calculated to avoiding stepping on any toes. Gods forbid she piss someone off here. Up the stairs, second door to the right. Tav pants for a moment, smoothing her hair back, beads of sweat forming on her forehead as she contemplates knocking on the door. What business does she have making deals with devils? None whatsoever. But she'll be damned if she doesn't try something to rid her of the wriggling pest behind her eye. White knuckles tap against the heavy oak door in front of her. "Enter." A deep voice thunders from inside of the room. With momentary hesitation, she reaches for the knob, pushing the door open carefully. Eyes scan the contents of the room. Definitely nicer than she anticipated in a place like the Caress.

Gold and red velvet furniture, clean wood floors, a beautifully kept tub that she'd give her left arm to soak in for just a few minutes. Sitting at the edge of the bed was Raphael. Dark hair brushed back in its usual way. He leans back on his hands, warm eyes fixing on Tav's frame as she enters the room, closes the door, and turns to him. "You wanted to speak with me?" Tav says confidently, arms crossing over her supple breasts, pressing them closer to her. The devil grins at her, patting the spot next to him on the plush velvet bed, his fingers tracing little circles into the expensive fabric as he waits. "Mm, yes, little Mouse. We have much to discuss."

Little Mouse makes Tav shudder, the pet name always igniting a part of her deep within that she refuses to acknowledge most times. However, now may be time for her to use it. Tav takes a careful seat at the devil's side, crossing her legs neatly, one foot ever so slightly resting against Raphael's leg. His eyes snap to her. A low growl rumbles in his throat before he speaks and she smiles up at him in the sweetest way she knows how. "One thing before we finally begin.." Raphael says with a grin, snapping his fingers. All falls silent. Tav looks around, puzzled. The constant whirring in her brain ceases. Her thoughts are hers. It's.. Unsettling. She looks to the devil in shock, eyes wide open. "Did you just cure me of the tadpole? With a click of your fingers?" She spouts. Raphael chuckles loudly, head tilting back between his shoulder blades. "Wouldn't that be exquisite? But no. Sadly, the tadpole is still there. However, I did shut out your other visitor for a while so we could enjoy some privacy." His voice is soft and deep. It sends a shiver down Tav's spine. Raphael's fingers dance along Tav's thigh. Goosebumps raise on her skin and she shifts in her seat, inhaling sharply at the almost enjoyable touch of the man in front of her. The scent of cherries and sulfur fill her nose and make her dizzy. "The illithid can't hear us."

She'd thought of giving herself to Raphael many times. They'd only met on a few occasions. Once in the Blighted Village, another in the Lost Light Inn, once more outside of Thorm's Mausoleum. Each time she couldn't help but stare. daydream about the devil, and all of the things he could give her. She swiftly shakes the thoughts from her head and focuses her attention back to Raphael's words, hands folding in her lap to keep her fingers occupied. With a nervous clear of her throat she regains her confidence. "Then speak freely. Tell me why you've brought me here." Raphael leans in closer, his warm lips nearly brushing the overly sensitive tip of Tav's pointed ear. He speaks smoothly to her, a firm hand finding purchase on her thigh. "I brought you here because I am true to my word. I can make all of this tadpole business go away. Let us speak plain." He sits back and moves his hand to Tav's chin, grasping her jaw between his warm fingers. Tav grits her teeth for a moment, too stunned to move. Too stunned to speak. She just listens.

"I'll admit, You've impressed me. I didn't think you'd make it this far. But no matter how far you've come.. You're still on the road to ruin." His last word feels like venom. Hot. Seething. It makes Tav uncomfortable, but only for a moment. She shrugs her shoulders and tilts her head to the side, releasing her jaw from his grasp. His hand lowers to his side again and he narrows his eyes. "You have the key to destroying the Elder brain in the palm of your hand. The Astral Prism. The Gith inside of it. I can give you the means to set him free." Tav's ears perk up at Raphael's words, her body instinctively leaning closer to him with excitement. Her teeth grasp onto her plush bottom lip and she chews on it for a moment as she ponders her words. "Hm.. Go on." A quiet shuddering breath escapes Raphael as Tav leans in closer to him, her natural scent enough to stoke the fires already burning for her within. He knits his eyebrows together and stands, turning his back to her while he speaks to hide his obvious arousal. "The Orphic Hammer. An artefact capable of shattering Prince Orpheus' chains is held securely at my House of Hope even now."

Tav shoots to her feet, boots scuffling against the polished wooden floor of Raphael's room. "Perfect - Give it to me." Her words are eager. Excited. This is all she needed. One step closer to eradicating the Elder Brain and the worm taking up space in her skull. Raphael turns to Tav now, fingers twitching at his sides. She steps toward him curiously, their height difference causing her to stare up at him. She quirks an eyebrow. "Convenient that you have exactly what I need." With a grin, he reaches out to brush a strand of hair behind her ear. "Isn't it just? And it's even more convenient that you can give me exactly what I want in return." A heavy sigh rumbles in Tav's chest as she turns away from the devil now, arms crossing back over her chest as she ponders her next move. Of course he wants something in return, he's a gods damn devil. She fakes a smile, turning back to fix her gaze on his. "Just tell me what you want." His smile widens, his eyes narrow once more, his voice lowers to a deep breathy tone that nearly earns a whimper from Tav. "I want the crown that dominates the Elder Brain." A slow nod of Tav's head make's Raphael's eyes light up. "So it's settled then? A crown for a Hammer. A bargain of a lifetime."

"I'm tempted.. But tell me, why are you so eager to get ahold of the crown?" Tav's eyebrows raise slightly to punctuate her question, her arms falling to rest her hands on her hips. Raphael's eyes fall to where Tav places her hands and he can't help but chew at his bottom lip, focused on the way she sways as she waits for his answer. He's enamored. Hypnotized by her. By her confidence. Shaking his head, his eyes meet hers again. The sparkling orbs nearly knock the wind out of his chest. An anxious clear of the throat sets him back on track. "Power. Ancient and full of wonder. I have craved it ever since the archwizard Karsus created it. I know that the folly of mortals could be the triumph of devils, and that I can use that crown to unite the nine under one archdevil supreme. Me." Raphael raises his fist as he speaks, his eyes following it up into the air, voice booming loudly in the small room. Tav wavers for a moment. He seems hellbent on the trade. Tav gets the hammer to free herself and her companions from the Elder Brain and the tadpoles and he gets.. World ending power. Tapping her fingers against her hips, she thinks, chewing the inside of her cheek as her eyes wander the devil standing in front of her.

"Or.." Tav starts, a grin curving the corners of her soft lips, feet stepping slowly toward Raphael. "We could.. Make a different trade." The rising of Raphael's brows is an indicator to Tav that he is, in fact, interested. His ears perk up, and so does his cock as Tav presses her small frame against his taller one, hands exploring the sides of his ribcage. His breath falters. What in the hells is she doing? Trembling fingers find their way into the back of Tav's hair, tugging the locks backward to force her gaze upon him. He growls down at her. "What kind of game are you playing, little mouse?" The whimper that escapes Tav at the rough tug of her hair is enough to drive Raphael positively mad, his hips instinctively pressing firmly into hers, chasing friction. Heat rises between their bodies. Molten. A dangerous game indeed, Tav rolls her hips against Raphael's, earning a groan. She has him right where she wants him. "When was the last time you took a lover, Raphael?" The question puzzles the devil. He ponders for a moment, watching as Tav slides her body down his, sinking to the floor on her knees. Then it clicks.

"Are you.. Suggesting I trade the Hammer for.. Pleasure?"

"Would you?"

"Never."

With expert finesse, Tav's fingers work the laces of Raphael's leathers, his blatantly angry erection begging to burst free from its confinement. "Never?" She mumbles, lips pressing themselves firmly to the bulge beneath the fabric, leaving a trail of sloppy, open mouthed kisses along the length. Raphael's head falls back, a hand resting gently on the back of Tav's head to guide her. "N-Never." he wavers. Tav isn't convinced. Her eyes meet his, hands tugging his leathers down just far enough to allow his cock to spring free, tip already weeping with precum. She gasps. "Gods, Raphael.. So hard for me." Her voice is like the sweetest wine. Intoxicating and sweet with an unmistakable sting. His cock twitches with excitement. "Are you sure you can't be persuaded?" As the final word spills from her lips, Tav wraps her mouth around the head of Raphael's cock, watching as his jaw falls slack. Raphael's chest heaves with a heavy gasp. While being a devil that has bedded and been bedded by many lovers, he's never been known to last very long. His own Incubus often pokes fun at his lack of stamina.

The gentle suck of Tav's lips around his cock makes his knees buckle and he pushes Tav's head away quickly, backing himself toward the bed to sit and steady his wobbly legs. An almost evil giggle rumbles from Tav as she crawls toward the devil on all fours, eyes keeping constant contact with his. "Never?" she repeats, standing up slowly. She works the laces of her own leathers now, kicking her boots off swiftly to allow her leathers to fall to her ankles. She steps out of them, a hand finding its way between her thighs to show him how soaked she is. How ready she is for him. Raphael's mouth waters at the sight. Free of undergarments, cunt already dripping for him. She's a vision. His hands reach for her hips, tugging her onto his lap with the eagerness of a starved man. He licks his lips. "Mouse.." To torture him further, Tav lowers her hips to his, sopping wet cunt dragging deliciously slow against his painfully hard cock. A quiet moan escapes her involuntarily and she buries her face into the crook of his hot neck, inhaling his scent deeply. Rough hands find purchase on the globes of her ass, guiding her hips back and forth and she mumbles against his skin between open mouthed kisses. "Let me hear you, devil.." A primal growl erupts from Raphael's chest at her request, hips bucking up against her desperately.

"I need you, little mouse. You've driven me mad with desire." A smirk plasters itself on Tav's lips and she leans up to whisper into his ear, hips working against his slowly still. "And I need the Hammer." Hot breath fans out over Tav's neck as Raphael leans in to sink a bite into her sensitive skin. She yelps like an injured pup, nails digging into the devil's shoulder blades. His lips adorn a smirk of their own. "Then find me the crown, and the Hammer will b-" before he can finish his sentence, Tav lines his cock up with her entrance, sliding herself down onto his length. The stretch burns. Gods, it burns. She waits, allowing herself time to adjust before finding a short bouncing rhythm. After a moment of bouncing for her own pleasure, she lifts her hips enough for his cock to plop out and land against his stomach with a soft slap. Raphael grunts, reaching down to line himself up again and slide inside, the grip of Tav's walls making his hips buck upwards. Slow thrusts back and forth force the head of his cock up into her cervix and Tav nearly loses her composure, hands making to his broad shoulders now to steady herself. Raphael's jaw falls open, already teetering on the edge of an orgasm. The twitch of his cock makes Tav stop her movements once more and the devil beneath her whimpers pathetically.

"Please don't stop.. I'm so close."

"Give me the hammer and I'll have you seeing stars, devil."

Another low whine spills from his lips as he ruts up into Tav's walls, bottoming out over and over again, chasing his end. She stops his movements again with a lift of her hips. "Give me.. The Hammer." she growls into his ear, her own hand twisting itself into the deep brown curls on the back of his head. Raphael is a puddle beneath her, submission he's only ever shown to Haarlep. Then she continues her movements. Hips crash against one another like waves on the shore. Still he chases his end, and still, Tav denies him. His legs tremble. Sweat beads up on his tan forehead. Eyes roll back into his skull. A constant state of painful bliss. "I need to- Please- I'm gonna-" Tav shakes her head at the pathetic display, the devil begging her for release. The irony pleases her. "Give me what I want and you can cum, Raphael. Swear to me. Swear you'll give me what I want." Tav begins to rotate her hips in small circles, Raphael's cock twitching uncontrollably within her fluttering insides, a filthy mixture of precum and slick coating their thighs. With a defeated nod, Raphael obliges. "The hammer is yours, Tav. I'm yours. Everything is yours. Gods, please!" he whines.

"Cum for me, devil." She moans into his ear. And just like that, he grasps her hips, rutting up into her one final time. Hot ropes of cum fill her cunt, making an absolute mess of her insides. She throws her head back, eyes falling closed, milking Raphael for all he's worth, thighs slapping together with disgusting noises. The devil holds onto her tightly. The overstimulation makes his body twitch. His throat feels raw. "Tav please.. Its too much.."

"Don't stop now. I'm not finished with you yet."

[hermitzine]

HERMITZINE FAQ

What is Hermitzine, anyway?

Hermitzine is a fanzine, a compilation of illustration, comics and writing based around the long running Minecraft SMP Hermitcraft, with works focusing on the creative projects, collaborations and interactions the creators on the server (aka Hermits) share with their audiences. For each edition, we (the Hermitzine mods) announce the theme we're running with this edition, open applications, and pick our roster of collaborators from the artists and writers who want to be involved. 

Once our line up of collaborators has been selected, we invite all the contributors for the zine to our discord server, and the process of making the zine pieces starts! Contributors brainstorm an idea for a piece they want to do, and run it past our mods for approval, then work on it over the course of about 2 months (to make sure people have time to put together something they're proud of without having to ignore things like sleep, school and work). Hermitzine #9 has a little bit more going on with collaboration and format, but we go through that in the application form.

What's the timeline of events for this edition?

The current schedule for Hermitzine #9 is as follows:

March 02 — Applications open at midnight GMT

March 16 — Applications close at midnight GMT

March 23 — Acceptance / Rejection emails go out

March 30 — Check in 1 (initial sketches / ideas)

April 13 — Check in 2

April 27 — Check in 3

May 11 — Check in 4

June 01 — Final pieces are due

Late June / early July — Zine is published

More questions and answers below the cut! (A lot more. Be glad we added the cut).

How do I apply?

Fill out the form (we'll be posting them very soon)! We have a writers application form and an artists application form, both will be open between the 2nd and the 16th of March.

In your application, you'll be answering a few questions and sharing 3-5 of your best pieces, to let us know what you're about as a writer and/or artist.

Then all you have to do is sit tight and wait for our email on March 23rd to find out if you're in!

Who can apply?

We have three requirements: 1) you’re 15 years or older, 2) you can speak enough English to communicate about deadlines and other important zine-related discussions, and 3) you have a Discord account, as that is how all communications with contributors will be made. A free account is fine — we don’t send files through Discord itself, so there’s no need to buy Nitro.

What do I need to do / have to apply?

For all of our applicants, we ask for a small portfolio of 3-5 pieces of your best finished work. We ask for a small portfolio to keep our views of your work focused on what you think is you at your best. These portfolio pieces don’t necessarily have to be Hermitcraft related, or even belong to a fandom. As long as it’s your personal work and you’re proud of it, we want to see it.

For writers: we ask that the 3-5 works you submit are around 3,000 words maximum, since that is the vague limit you will have to work within the zine. You can submit excerpts from longer works as long as you specify that somewhere within the application piece.

Do I need to be well-known or have a large social media following to be accepted?

Not at all. Social media following does not factor into whether or not you’re accepted. You could have one follower or one thousand — either way, we’re looking at your portfolio. You don’t even need any social media at all! We ask for social media handles in the application in case we want to check out more of your work beyond your portfolio.

What do you look for in the portfolio judging criteria?

We look for several things when judging portfolios. For artists, the list includes:

Your ability to finish zine-quality pieces (fully-rendered, backgrounds, not rushed-looking, etc)

Hard skills: composition, color theory, anatomy, perspective, shape language, etc

Comic paneling skills, if applicable

Solid illustration styles that interest us and we want to see more of

For writers, the list includes:

Your ability to finish zine-quality pieces (complete and concise work, with a full narrative if applicable)

Good grasp on writing basics (grammar, punctuation, spelling, sentence flow, etc)

Solid writing styles / voice / characterization

Ideas and we find intriguing, interesting, or otherwise would like to see written in full

If either of these lists are daunting to you, don’t worry! We are very interested in people who are eager to try new things and push themselves as artists and writers. We’ve accepted many people before based on their apparent eagerness to improve and collaborate with others.

We also like applicants with a unique or unusual approach to artmaking. Some examples include: traditional media, 3D modeling, photo manipulation, graphic design, typography, poetry, etc. While these skills are fun to include, don’t worry — not having them won’t detract from your chance of getting accepted.

Can I apply for both an artist and a writer position?

Yes you can, but if you’re accepted, we’ll choose you for only one of the two options. For example, if you apply to both and we accept you for writing, we expect you to create a written piece for the zine only, no illustration. This decision will be revealed to you in the acceptance email you get once the application period is over.

Can I participate if I’m a traditional artist?

Absolutely! All we require is that you have a scanner in order to submit high-quality images of your work. We work around the 300dpi range, and unfortunately photos taken with phones or webcams usually aren’t high-quality enough for us to include.

How many artists / writers do you accept?

The number of participants (artists and writers combined) we accept depends on several factors — the most important of which are how many mods we have working on the zine and how much we decide we can handle. Historically, our acceptance count ranges anywhere from 35 to 75 participants, with our most recent editions hitting numbers closer to the top of that range.

How do I know my application was submitted correctly? What happens if the link to my portfolio doesn’t work?

If you don’t receive any word from us from the time you submitted your application to when the acceptance and rejection emails go out, then congratulations, your application was submitted correctly! If something is wrong with your portfolio, like if one or more of your links don’t work, we typically request access — which will then appear as an email in the inbox of whatever email is linked to the drive you shared your portfolio from. If the issue persists, you might receive a private message requesting access from one of the mods on a social media handle you included in your application. If you don’t receive an email or message from us, then everything with your application works.

Do you guys send rejection emails?

We do. If you apply to Hermitzine, you’re going to receive an email from us regardless of whether you’re accepted or rejected. If you’re rejected, we give you the opportunity to ask for feedback with your portfolio.

I applied but never got an email. What’s going on?

If you haven’t received an email even though we’ve announced they’ve been sent out on our social media accounts, please check your spam folder to see if it accidentally went there. This has happened a lot in the past!

If I’ve been rejected from an edition of Hermitzine, does that mean I can never apply again?

Absolutely not! You can apply to any edition of Hermitzine you’d like, from now until forever, regardless of the results of previous applications. We love seeing friendly names show up in applications!

Do people who have participated in prior editions of Hermitzine have a higher chance of getting accepted to the newest edition?

No. Applicants who’ve participated in previous editions have the exact same chances at getting into the newest edition than any other participant.

What content is allowed in Hermitzine?

Requirements for a piece are only to feature Hermitcraft and/or the Hermits primarily, follow the theme, be SFW and not have any shipping content. That means that crossover content (ex: the Empires crossover) and hermit-adjacent people can be included, and that pieces can be about content from any season of Hermitcraft.

[instantartific]

|| ♡ You're suffocating, Darling

Image edits by me, edited from in-game screenshots.

Characters: Rin / White 1010 (referred to without name), "You" Summary: After worrying over what he'll do without you for far too long, he decided to take matters into his own hands and confront his recent... malfunctions around you. He gets desperate, nothing gets solved <3 Word Count: ~1.4k

Happy I finally got around to writing something like this again! I fell into a major writers' block for a while, so apologies for this being a little messier than some of my older writing :)

Quick note! Likes are appreciated, but a fast reblog (or any!) makes sure that other people can see my work, too! Sharing is caring :)

There is metal, and it presses into your soft, soft flesh.

It is hard.

It is cold, warmth allowed only by the distant radiance from his chest.

There is metal, and it has every capability to crush you beneath it, rendering your body nothing more than a wind-up toy meant to be discarded. Only, yours will no longer be able to move.

There is metal, and it is very, very gentle with the way that it holds your form. It hasn't squeezed quite yet. But it is there; it is solid, it is sturdy, it is several hundred pounds of steel and wire and if you dared to try and push any part of you up against it, test its limits, one thing becomes glaringly clear:

It is solid.

It will not move.

He has you, and you will stay there for as long as he wills it so.

You are trapped.

Silicon hardly graces your cheek as his head lowers, first part of his jaw gracing your forehead, then the panel of his cheek doing the same. Nuzzling into the side of your face. Trickles of warmth radiated from the glass, dancing along your skin and threatening to seep into your very bones, infecting you with what was once him. Judging by the sheer amount of light radiating from them, too: he's happy. Very, very happy.

Can you say the same?

"You are an an-om-a-ly," he started, voice tittering slightly, "to the degree that I don't even know what to do with myself."

Metal tightened around you even further, pressing into you deeper, gracing your flesh. That would be the fault of his arms snaked around your abdomen and folded beneath your back pressing your body between them and the plating of his chest against your bone. One of which is bound to give if enough pressure is exerted. Your chest can hardly rise high enough to take in a full breath. It is tense, but it does not hurt you.

Not yet, at least, but it is on the border of which.

… Would he care if it did?

Of course he would.

Of course, he would.

He'd jump at the slightest protest. Metal would immediately retract, snaking from beneath you, letting you go at once so that white can scan your body beneath him. White would pour over every surface, regardless of where you mention that the pain blossomed; it is, in his mind, entirely possible that he hurt you worse than you are willing to admit, or that you have noticed. This is a simple routine for the smallest scrape, or scratch, or papercut, even. He carefully takes your hands in his own, eyes skimming every finger before tracing the lines in your palms. They trailed every inch of every joint on every limb until he knows for a fact that you are okay. And if you are not, then this is a perfect process to determine what he should do to make that true. Every time, without fail. And that same routine would apply here.

That is what you're sure of, at least.

"All I know is that I need you to touch me. Please, baby," a whisper uttered beneath an offer; a plead offered between batted breaths; a prayer breathed out before the one the adherent may call their item of worship, "touch me."

His form moves from yours; however, only enough to free one arm. Silicone traces your sides until it happens upon your hand, fingers curling around yours gently. Teasing your will to comply with whatever fantasy of his this may be, and compliance you had. No matter how sensible it may be, your hand did move. It traced the axel at his hip. It traced its way along the divots in his torso. It traced the collar of his uniform. It traced his sternum to his neck, neck to his cheek. The distant whirring of his chest whirred to life with renewed vigor. Light danced throughout every LED surface he had. Light even danced behind his eyes, a hardly audible whir sounding as his brows raised and pupils dilated ever so slightly. If he could be drunk off of delight, he would be.

In a stray desire to run your hands through his hair, fingertips moved from cheek to the back of his head. And the moment you made contact, his head jerked. The sections of his torso shifted, grinding as they passed over one another. And his entire body lulled.

When his body lulled, it lulled into yours and for a few moments you become perfectly aware of the sheer weight his form can truly posses. He is solid and he is metal and he is heavy. The tension builds within you, bone digging deeper and deeper into your inner workings in a desperate attempt to keep them safe (in a way near laughable, the sensation is similar to that of what the machine himself swears to do for you in relation to what he is doing now. If you could laugh, you would.) Your lungs burn with the effort to take in even a morsel of air that his weight had now pressed out of you, hands grasping at any surface around you. The fingers once laced in his hair took root at his scalp, and in any attempt at making him notice what he's done, pulled. If his neck were not so dense the force may have pulled his head, too.

Perhaps able to feel the arch formed in your back, any room to allow ribs to press up to fight for air, he froze. His shoulder jerked up. His chest rose, finally releasing you. His eyes blink open, one delayed by an entire half-beat, taking one—two—three tries to sync up properly. White flooded you in a way you could almost miss, yet momentarily so. A mixture of concern, of worry, of fear, shot across his features in a mess of emotion in that same moment. "I'm sorry," came mutterings in a voice quiet and devoid of any of the charm he was so known for. A voice choppy and mechanical in sound, yet quiet. Darting white travelled the body beneath him until that white turned to static. The display jittered before cutting out entirely, his head mimicking this by jutting, only to flicker back to life with irises dyed a vibrant bloodied red.

X's. Disapproval. Failure.

Unacceptable.

They scoured you again, regardless of whatever protests (if any at all) may have left your tongue. They trace your skin, every part visible. They traced your veins. They traced every inch of every joint of every limb. Yet somehow, this is wrong. All of this is wrong. The red that tainted his irises tainted his features as well: concern to distant distress, worry to distant panic, fear to distant terror. The damning hue of disappointment. Heat began to build, and build, and build in the winding cavities in his torso. And in time, he moved. His body shifted down your form, only far enough for silicone to travel from your forehead to your cheek; cheek to your neck; neck to your sternum. Every movement was reduced to something uncharacteristically inhumane. Lips that would never know true warmth graced the surfaces of your chest that fought for air as heat grew and grew at your waist. In between each kiss: "I'm so sorry, baby. I'm so sorry."

His head raised, red locking onto you, and only you. The only thing in his sights. "I don't know what's happening to me. I don't know if you're doing this to me. I found that I am struggling to process this, let alone attempting to explain it to anyone outside myself," he said, chuckling bitterly. The forced, whining, dry sound of gears grating in the absence of touch.

"The only thing clear is that I need you. It's a command echoing inside my mind, repeating over and over inside me like I'm being marched to my death if I don't obey. I need—" he gasps here as if there any need for breath in a way almost human—"you, baby. Let me be the only one to protect you. I'll do everything for you. Everything," an ode to desperation sighed into the fabric of your shirt.

This is what… love is, isn't it?

This is what he's been missing, isn't it?

This sense of sheer and total release onto someone who you are wholly devoted to.

He truly, truly loves you.

[saiikavon]

(I’ve been volunteering at a cat shelter so my brain is full of cats. Also for some reason I really like it when Kaiba is a cat, so what better way to shake off the rust from a couple of weeks of no writing? Here we go.)

Seto does not usually take this route on his walks. Strays tended to congregate more freely in alleyways where trash got overlooked. Animal control was less stringent than in nicer neighborhoods, which was a plus, but the same could not always be said for the residents in the area. Old Tanaka on his porch was more likely to throw heavy objects than Miriko-San in her cute penthouse.

But, well, Seto has little choice today. His usual route had garnered some...inconvenient attention, and he'd been forced to take a detour. As it had been said, animal control could be a bit of a nuisance in a nice neighborhood, and Seto is not keen on ending up in the pound for the evening.

Skipping his walk isn't an option, either. Spending a minimum six hours a week in animal form was necessary to keep a shifter's body healthy, a fact which Seto had drilled into Mokuba's head many a time before. Seto refuses to be called a hypocrite over a minor upset in routine.

Still, this area is...unpleasant. He has to resist the urge to shake his paws on every step, disgusted by the grimy trash stains splattered over the asphalt. He wrinkles his nose as he passes an apartment undeniably belonging to a smoker, and tries not to pay attention to the filth lining the bottom of the brick walls. Surely, he'll be taking a long, hot shower once he gets home.

And then, the worst arrives, making kissy noises like an imbecile, holding fingers with their split, dirty nails out, presumably for Seto to sniff.

Of all the neighborhoods to wind up in...

"Come here, pretty boy," Jounouchi croons, making more of those embarrassing noises, even as Seto sits in place with ears pinned back in obvious displeasure. "C'mon, kitty, it's okay. You lost, precious? You hungry?"

Seto flicks his tail. As if he needs any more reasons to want nothing to do with the idiot.

He contemplates turning away, forcing this foolish deadbeat to either continue embarrassing himself until Seto turned a corner or to leave himself, but something makes him pause. There is an earnestness in Jounouchi's eyes, a determined compassion in his gestures that he supposes may be considered benefits. Assets. There's no telling whether Seto will be forced to reroute again; why shouldn't he have someone looking out for a lonely stray in this backwards neighborhood?

Convenience, he tells himself. That's all. That's the only reason he steps cautiously forward, offering Jounouchi's dirty fingers a cautious sniff.

The idiot actually beams at the small gesture, and rubs in between Seto's ears, earning him a swipe and a hiss.

Don't touch me until you've washed your hands, you dirty mutt!

Jounouchi doesn't seem put off by the near-scratch, however; he only chuckles and leans back on his heels, still grinning. "You look like you're a long way from home. Never seen a stray around here with a coat as nice as yours. You get lost, pretty boy? Or someone dump you?"

He frowns at that. Seto's heart twinges for the concern, despite himself.

"Hey, either way, I bet you're hungry. Hope you're not too fancy for some canned convenience store tuna."

It certainly isn't Seto's favorite. But again, the earnestness gets to him, somehow. He offers little more than a slight chirp, tail flicking.

He watches as Jounouchi stands, smiling once more. "Wait here. I'll go grab you some."

Seto scoffs to himself as Jounouchi begins to turn toward the nearest building, aiming to go inside. He stands and stretches instead of waiting, following at the deadbeat's heels up the concrete steps. There is absolutely no chance he's spending a second longer out on this filthy street if he doesn't have to.

"Oh, you wanna come in?" Jounouchi's grin widens, eyes practically glittering. Ridiculous. "Well, okay, then. Sorry in advance about the mess. I haven't gotten to the laundry yet today."

There's a surprise. Seto decides not to comment with any noises on that, instead carries on following Jounouchi into his warmer, marginally cleaner apartment.

He'll have to leave eventually, but Jounouchi is, surprisingly, not so bad...perhaps, if the pattern holds, Seto might consider changing his route permanently.

So long as Jounouchi never finds out it’s him.

[herbgerblin]

Hi Herb!! I was wondering if you had any advice on opening commissions? I enjoy your art immensely and you were one of the first people I thought of to ask since I know you do commissions on occasion

Sorry if this is totally weird, I am just at a complete loss! Thanks for taking the time to read this!

These are things I wish I had figured out when I started selling art commissions. Also, feel free to use my current commission form to pattern your own. (also if anyone >.> wants to commission me, I am open <.<)

Step 1: Write a Terms of Service

Good terms of service will manage the expectations of your clients, establish a level of professionalism, and protect you if someone tries to argue something already made clear in writing. You can keep your ToS really simple, but it's good practice to include the following:

What kind of art you will/won't do (I don't do nfts)

Estimated duration of the project (2-4 weeks is my M.O.)

Number of revisions (more than 3, I add a fee)

When and how often you will update the client

Rights that you retain as an artist/permit to the client

Note: This mainly applies to personal/non-commercial work. If you are approached to make art for a game/magazine/website, do a ton more research. You will need to write out a contract that makes things Boringly Clear, and you will want to retain all of your rights as an artist.

Step 2: PRICES (scream)

Everyone starts out underselling. I'm underselling (I'm trying to get better.) Just go at your own pace. Look at what other artists are offering, but don't just look at the quality of their work. Think about your turnaround time, your style, and your target audience. If you are a fast worker or very detailed, that's worth a pay bump. Niche communities will pay solid money for artists to cater to them. So for example, if you draw fetish art, you have more room to charge higher.

ALWAYS GET PAYMENT UP FRONT. You can offer half upfront and half upon completion. If it's a big or long-term project, it's okay to go 30/70. BUT NEVER START WORK WITHOUT SOME SORT OF COMPENSATION. I just had a client that has not paid me the 2nd half and they are blacklisted. This rarely happens but it does happen.

Once you think you've got a price chart you feel comfortable with, add $20. Do it, even if it feels wrong. You may have to pay transaction fees, or the work (often) takes longer than expected. It'll be a small mercy to yourself to account for these things. Raise your prices a little bit each year because you are growing in experience and inflation (scream) is a thing that affects the arts too.

Step 3: INTEGRATE AND AUTOMATE

I wish I had done this step years ago, but I slacked off, and therefore staying organized was a nightmare. The less "business" stuff you have to do manually, the more time you can focus on "creative" stuff.

Make a google form. Make it as easy for the client to input information as possible. In the settings, set it so that responses will go to an excel file. The questions you ask will be the titles of the fields, so keep them short and easy to read. Reference image attachments will save to google drive.

You can set it up so that you will get an email whenever you get a new response (you might want to make a separate email account specifically for commissions.) Prewrite confirmation responses and save them as templates so that you're not writing the same email to clients over and over again.

Set reminders for responding to clients, requesting payment, and finishing work. This can be through google calender or some other app. You are responsible for facilitating communication. Even if the email is just, "Hey, just letting you know the work is still in progress, I will send you a wip in 1-2 days." Client assurance is high priority.

I use paypal invoice for payments. It means I have to pay a transaction fee, but I factor that into my prices. It also ensures that I have clear documentation for orders, I can send reminders easily if I haven't been paid, and it just looks more professional overall. You can use whatever service feels most comfortable, just make sure you practice good bookkeeping (*stares at my taxes in horror*)

Step 4: Mockups and Descriptions

Provide examples of the work that you are going to. Make a mockup of busts/half body/full body, etc. Don't include anything you don't intend to actually produce.

Make sure that your form includes room to answer EVERY question about the commission that you might have. This will reduce the amount of back and forth you need to have with your client. You want to be able to get that request, confirm it, send that invoice, and jump on it ASAP.

Step 5: Start small, be honest, be firm

If you haven't done commissions before, have a limited number of slots available. Take break time after you've finished a certain amount. Don't languish over an art piece. At some point, it will be as done as it can be. Send it to the client, and keep rolling.

If you feel like you are getting overwhelmed, tell your client. It's bad practice to go on hiatus and not notify them while they're waiting on an update. If you genuinely forget to touch base with them, do so as soon as possible. Apologize, then finish the work as soon as you can. Refund if you think that's the most polite route, but completing the task is usually more appreciated.

Be cordial, but firm. People will try to bully you over little things, but don't give in. Ignore folks who say your prices are too high. Make it clear that if they ask for more than what is agreed, you will charge a fee. If you feel like a request is sketchy, get a second opinion.

obligatory paypal link: help me pay kravitz jr's vet bills

[royisrandom]

Here is a fanfic that I wrote for your birthday, @theblogofdavyjones / @savvythepirate :)

I usually don't write a lot, mainly because I don't have time or haven't got the right mindset, but I mustered up the strength to write something. I hope it is okay enough. I went off of one of your requests that you brought up. I tried my best. :)

Davy Jones x Reader

Night of Protection

The sky had grown dark, and the rain fell heavily. Davy Jones stood at the helm, watching his crew walk around the deck of his ship, hard at work. He knew that these men were tough, and that they could handle any situation they encountered while they were at sea.

As Davy Jones watched, he noticed one particular crew mate, Hadras, acting aggressively towards you. Hadras was taller and was using his size to intimidate you. Davy could hear the fear in your voice as you tried to do your job without provoking him further.

"W-what do you want?" You says in a rather weary voice.

"Ye have no place aboard this ship lassie." He steps closed to you, towering over top of your form. He was starting to get aggressive now, by nudging you around.

"At least do yer job right!"

You continued to fumble with the ropes as you tried to do your best job, starting to get upset at how your crew mate was speaking. You watched as everyone else payed no mind to this interaction and continued to do their job.

Davy felt a surge of anger as he watched Hadras tower over you and threaten you with his size and position on the ship. It was not something he would stand for in any way, shape, or form. Immediately, he stepped down from the helm and walked over to the starboard side of the ship, where you guys were standing.

"Well... what do we have here?..." Davy saunters up to you two with his tense and steady demeanor.

Hadras, attempting to answer his captain, is cut off mid-sentence.

"That's enough! ," said Davy firmly to Hadras in a deep voice that demanded attention and respect from him immediately. "Do you know where ye are?"

He stepped closer to Hadras

"Do ye realize what ye just started for yerself...?" With that said, Davy stepped in between you two and motioned for Hadras to leave before he made matters worse for himself by continuing his aggression against you any longer.

Keeping his guard up in order to keep you safe, he ordered Hadras to the top deck of the ship, where the Bosun was waiting. You saw a glimpse of Davy Jones's arm slightly behind him, trying to keep you at a safe distance behind him and away from the aggressive crew mate. It was subtle, but it made you feel at least a little bit safer.

As much as Hadras wanted to argue against his captain, he decided not to, knowing he would have been in more trouble to do so.

You seemed relieved by this intervention but still visibly shaken by what had just happened between you and Hadras.

Sensing that you may need a moment or two to collect yourself after such an experience, Davy gently placed an arm around your shoulder and kneeled to your level before speaking up again.

"Are ye alright? I'm sorry about what happened there..." His tone was kind but firm; a tone that ensured you knew that he wasn't going to let anyone else on board hurt or abuse you like this ever again if it was within his power to stop it from happening, which it technically was.

You didn't say anything but simply nodded slowly at him in response; a gesture of gratitude that spoke louder than words ever could have done in this situation. After staying there in the presence of each other, Davy then moved away slowly but still kept a watchful eye over you until you eventually returned back to doing your job properly once more.

From now onwards, Davy would make sure that everyone aboard his ship knew exactly how to treat each other with respect; no matter the circumstances, especially for the sweetest soul aboard the Flying Dutchman...

you.

❤

[yanderes-galore]

Jay from Ninjago romantic concept!

Jay is definitely such a softy, I love him lol- Keep in mind I'm still not really far into the first series but I hope since this is a general concept (no specific season) that I get his character right. Feel free to add someting if what I did wasn't accurate, I did the research I could. I'm taking my time with the series but I think I know enough about him to write something :)

Hope you like it! Aged up as usual, this series needs more content.

Yandere! Jay Walker Concept

Pairing: Romantic

Possible Trigger Warnings: Gender-Neutral Darling, Stalking, Self-Destructive behavior, Obsession, Invasion of privacy implied, Manipulation, Deception, Dubious if you're in a relationship or not at times, Clingy behavior, Paranoia, Mental breakdowns, Overprotective behavior, Isolation mentioned, Guilt tripping, Kidnapping mention, Delusional behavior, Mind break, Murder mention, Violence.

Jay, out of all the ninja, is the one most likely to be completely lovestruck with his darling.

Sure, Kai is flirtatious and a romantic, but Jay is very emotional about his crush.

He's less straight-forward and often likes to watch his crush from afar.

Almost everyone knows he has a crush, however.

No one said he was good at hiding his feelings.

Jay's darling could be minding their own business or simply treat him as a friend...

Meanwhile Jay is feeling his heart thump rhythmically and he's completely out of it.

His obsession consumes him quickly.

Jay is one of those people who'd do anything if it meant love.

He can come off as desperate at times when around other people if it meant getting your attention.

Jay easily gets drunk off your affection/attention.

Safe to say the blue ninja is one of the most sensitive and soft of the yanderes here.

Which is both helpful... and a pain.

Jay would be Obsessive, Clingy, Manipulative, Protective, Loving, Delusional, and a bit Unstable.

Jay would do just about anything to win over your attention.

This is a trait shared among the ninja but Jay certainly has it to... extreme measures.

For example, Kai and maybe Cole/Lloyd like to impress you but nothing that would hurt themselves.

Jay doesn't care if he bleeds for you, he'll do anything.

The blue ninja is definitely one of the more obsessive ones towards you as his darling.

He isn't flirty yet he writes about you in journals, trains in front of you, and tries the classic form of giving gifts for your adoration.

If anything he's mostly a stalker, good at it too due to being a ninja.

The others are concerned about this behavior.

They try to confront him but he denies all of it.

He's looking out for you.

In front of you he's nervous and stumbling on his words.

He's trying to boast to you but he's so anxious.

Your smile alone just about makes him melt.

Then there's when he stalks you.

Jay is more focused on you than any video game he's ever played.

It's... scary.

You have no idea he does it, either.

Far as you know Jay is the cute blue ninja who most likely has a crush on you.

Jay is incredibly affectionate.

He always wants to be 'hands on'.

Once he has the ability to he will crave physical contact.

Hugs, cuddles, kisses, hand holding, everything.

He melts into all of it and never wants to leave your warmth.

You'll be sitting down on the couch or something, when no one's around Jay sneaks in.

Next thing you know your eyes are pried from the TV, Jay holding your hand and guiding his lips to yours.

He loves you so much.

He never wants you to let him go, he'd rather die in your arms.

Jay can be manipulative.

Nothing like Lord Garmadon sinister....

He just does a lot of guilt tripping.

You can barely part from each other without Jay clinging to you, begging to stay a little longer.

He makes you feel bad...

Which may make you stay...

Which he likes.

Jay, like all of the ninja, is incredibly protective.

He doesn't want anything happening to you.

The idea of you getting hurt makes the already emotional ninja lock up and... break.

The ninja bounces the idea of isolating you around in his mind at times.

Would his parents take good care of you?

Should he put you somewhere alone?

Maybe he should just not leave you....

Jay is very loving and loyal, willing to do anything to see you smile.

If you fight he plays the victim card at times just to get you go stay.

He is a master at manipulating emotions.

He is delusional, before you ever get together (if you even do) he's convinced you adore him like he does you.

You two already adore each other!

You must!

He just needs to introduce the spark.

Under extreme stress, Jay gets mental breakdowns.

If you tried to leave/got injured Jay may not be able to handle it.

He'd fall into a depression, get moody, and he may even snap and actually kidnap you.

After that he's just not the same.

In this state Jay may even kill.

Normally he doesn't, he thinks of hurting others, but no murder.

With his sanity gone... well there's no telling what he may do.

Normally he's docile until the moment you're mentioned.

Then he's jumpy and aggressive.

Like a feral animal.

Overall, Jay is a yandere who's willing to do anything for his darling and is very centered around his emotions.

This can make him a handful at times...

Yet if you truly love him, he'll only be dedicated and loyal to his love.

[chaotic-orphan]

Supervillain essentially being mindwiped and turned into a tool for the heroes, yet he or she has lingering feelings toward some things that they can't explain. Cue Supervillain choosing to take Villain prisoner instead of killing them.

Supervillain was always a tool for the Heroes. When a criminal was just a little too slippery, a little too persistent- that’s when Supervillain emerged. Terrifying. Amoral.

Murderous.

It was a nice scapegoat the Heroes had orchestrated. Of course, they still had to stage the epic fights of good triumphing over evil for the citizens of the City. Supervillain was a formidable opponent before they took them under their wing, wiped everything that made Supervillain— well, Supervillain— and made this docile little puppet. The Heroes pet.

Their once proud eyes glazed over and empty, the only thought in their brain to Obey. Obey. Obey.

“Villain has been gathering your old forces, Supervillain,” said the Number One Hero. “Crafty little thing, I must say, you raised them well.”

“Thank you, Hero,” Supervillain replied, their voice monotone.

They were in the Hero’s glass office overlooking the other ranked heroes comings and goings. All kept in line with the watchful eye of Hero. Hero, who had clawed their way to the top with their quick mind and quicker tongue, somehow earning the respect of the Council and the President’s office while also having the public opinion on their side.

The city’s golden Hero who could do no wrong.

Supervillain knew. Supervillain saw through them. Spoke out against them. Now they stood as the Number One Hero’s personal body guard and dog to dish out orders to.

And the sweetest revenge was that, as Hero was informed, somewhere, in the back of their mind, Supervillain knew what was going on around them. To a certain extent of the word.

Enough to walk, talk, kill, fight. Be aware.

But behind those glazed over grey eyes, a part of Supervillain, the real Supervillain, was screaming and trying to break free of their compulsion.

“And they won’t break free, will they?” Hero had asked the scientist as they saw the broken Supervillain for the first time.

The scientist laughed a small chuckle, shaking their head. “No. There’s no way they could break through what I’ve done to them. Their conditioning had to go deep.”

Hero just nodded in reply, not entirely trusting the scientist. Not until they tested it out when they got home.

“Kneel.”

Supervillain kneeled. Hero tilted their head at them, impassive eyes taking in their form. Supervillain didn’t look different except those cloudy grey eyes. That was the tell.

“Say: Hero beat me.”

“Hero beat me.”

Hero grinned. “Well if you ask so kindly how can I refuse?”

Hero punched them across the face. Supervillain’s body followed the motion before righting themselves.

“Did that hurt?”

“No.”

“Would you like another?”

Supervillain’s cloudy grey eyes stared at Hero with something like confusion. “Ask for another, and say please.”

“Please Hero may I have another?”

Hero punched them again, and again. And again. They got them on the ground and punched them in the ribs, then stood and kicked their ribs again and again. Kicking them over onto their back and pressing a boot into their back.

“Ask,” Hero hissed.

“Please Hero may I have another?”

Hero laughed. They gathered the oxygen in their chest and ran their hand through their hair in disbelief. Supervillain was gone. Gone. No longer here. Now there was just their likeness, their flesh and blood and body and Hero’s commands to guide them.

Hero smiled to remember that first day with the new and improved Supervillain. Then they were back in their office staring at the grainy photo they had of Villain operating out of Supervillain’s old base.

“I need you to kill Villain for me, Supervillain. They’re at your old hideout. Make it messy, break a couple bones, take some teeth for souvenirs. I want you covered in their blood and home before noon tomorrow.”

Supervillain said: “of course Hero.”

Then they were gone.

*~*~*~*~*

Villain knew something was wrong the moment they stepped into base. The energy was different. Someone was here. Villain crept in, feet light, mask still covering the lower part of their face. They narrowed their eyes, drawing their Escrima sticks from their back.

A creak behind them and Villain whirled, catching a hand between their sticks with a wicked grin. Then a kick came towards their legs and Villain jumped back, releasing the intruder. A right hook came to their ribs and Villain gasped, sucking in a hiss of breath as they backed up again.

They held their escrima sticks in front of them for defence, taking in the intruder. Their eyebrows knitting together as they said: “supervillain?”

Supervillain didn’t respond. They just kept advancing on Villain, eyes grey and cloudy and not at all Supervillain’s eyes. “Shit,” Villain muttered as they hopped, the gravity shifting around them until they were walking on the ceiling running to the other side of the room.

Supervillain shot an arm up, catching Villain’s hood and yanking them back down to the ground. Villain coughed as their chest hit the ground, knocking the wind from them as they rolled away, escrima sticks still firmly in hand. They rolled and got back to their feet, hard eyes set on their former mentor. Former friend.

“Supervillain. I don’t know what they did to you, but I’ve been looking for you everywhere,” Villain said as they dodged punch after punch from Supervillain. A punch came from the right so Villain dodged left and caught the side of Supervillain’s boot. Villain barely had time to straighten before Supervillain sent a fist straight to Villain’s mask. A resounding crack sounded and Villain stumbled back as the plastic bit into their skin, blood bubbling at the edges.

Villain drew their lips back into a snarl. They lunged, feigning left and slid right, smacking Supervillain in the back of the knees, then rising to their knees slammed a stick to Supervillain’s thigh and back before shifting the gravity as they jumped to the ceiling, dodging Supervillain’s counterattack.

Villain was on the ceiling for a moment before shifting the gravity again and dropping their full weight onto Supervillain. One stick going under Supervillain’s chin, the other batting away Supervillain’s hands as they grabbed for Villain.

“What happened to you?!” Villain yelled, twirling a stick in their fingers before driving in square into Supervillain’s chest. Supervillain gasped, bent double and Villain jumped from their shoulders, landing on their feet breathing heavy. They put their sticks in one hand, the other grabbing their mask broken into their face and unlatching it with its usual hiss, throwing it to the floor. They pulled the sharp piece from just below their eye and was reaching for the other on the opposite cheek when Supervillain charged.

They got their hands around Villain’s waist and Villain knew then they were going to die. They both slammed to the ground, Supervillain on top.

One of the sticks bounced away from Villain’s hand and before they could manipulate the gravity around them Supervillain viciously slammed their boot clad foot down on Villain’s wrist. Villain screamed. Their hand opening instinctively and Supervillain kicking away the other stick, before leaning their knee on Villain’s bicep keeping it pinned and Villain let out a cry of pain.

Supervillain had one elbow digging into Villain’s ribs, the other punching. Punching. Punching. Crunching and Villain opened their mouth in a silent shriek as they took in a sharp breath making it hurt all the more. Seemingly satisfied with the broken bone, Supervillain moved the other hand to press the plastic into Villain’s face and Villain cried out, bucking their hips trying to buck Supervillain off, but Supervillain didn’t budge.

Villain let out a guttural roar, manipulated the gravity around their back and pushed it forward, bringing them both to the ceiling, Villain pinning Supervillain this time and just started wailing on Supervillain.

“It’s me! It’s Villain! Your Villain! We’re friends! We’re not enemies, please Supervillain. Villain, remember?” Villain demanded, grabbing Supervillain’s shirt and bunching it in their fists. “Remember me! You need to remember!”

“I just have to kill you,” said Supervillain. Villain’s eyes went wide staring down at their friend. Supervillain took that as an opportunity to send an uppercut to Villain’s chin, rocketing them back to the ground. Villain could taste the familiar iron of blood as their head bounced off the ground. Eyes hazy as Supervillain launched themselves down again and it was lights out for Villain.

They stopped moving on the ground. Supervillain’s breathing was heavy.

No one ever got a punch on them before.

Nobody.

They were the perfect monster. The perfect machine for Hero. And this Villain, this small, skinny Villain with two wooden sticks somehow managed to get a couple of good hits in.

Somehow managed to make Supervillain sweat…

Supervillain stood, wiping the blood from their broken nose. It doesn’t matter. They had an order from Hero.

Kill Villain. Break a couple bones. Be home before noon.

It was easy. Like clockwork, yet when Supervillain looked down at their unconscious adversary they couldn’t find it in themselves to deliver the killing blow. Supervillain looked back at Villain’s scruffy escrima sticks and tsked.

They could never get Villain to properly care for them. Except… at a closer look Supervillain’s eyes widened. They weren’t Villain’s sticks. They were Supervillain’s.

Supervillain went over to them and picked them up. Their initials still carved on the edge of the base and beside it… Villain’s.

Supervillain gasped, dropping the stick as a sudden onslaught of thoughts rushed through their head except they weren’t Supervillain’s. Supervillain had no thoughts. Not anymore.

What?

What was that?

Obey. Obey. Obey. Obey. Obey.

Supervillain sat down, suddenly heavy and glanced at the passed out Villain. They knew. Deep down they knew they wouldn’t be able to kill the Villain for whatever reason they didn’t know. How did they get Supervillain’s old weapons? Did they steal them when Supervillain came under Hero’s care? But no…

Something told them that they had to protect question Villain when they woke up. Demand why they weren’t able to finish their mission. Why Villain was so special annoying in their persistent not dying state they were currently in.

Yes.

That’s what Supervillain would do when the Villain woke. First they had to bring their body down to the power proof cells in the basement. Something Supervillain knew instinctively and didn’t want to question too much as to how they knew that information.

This was a really fun request, very challenging to write so thank you Anon <3

[alieoezp]

ALASTOR X ANGEL READER

(Can be added onto, can be viewed as platonic or romantic, it’s up to you honestly.)

PS. Like I mentioned earlier in my posts I don’t have anything to write with really so I’m stuck using my phone and a Bluetooth keyboard…hope that’s fine lol. Grammar and typing/spelling in general may be a bit screwed up :)

(You may add onto this, my tummy hurts and I gave up.)

——

“Charlie, I don’t think it’s such a big deal…the hotel looks fine as is..” Vaggie placed a hand on her girlfriend’s shoulder, a soft smile on her face as the blonde visibly calmed down from her touch.

“-But what are angels standards like!?” She sped walked away from Vaggie as she made her way over to the newer additions to the hotel. Her father staying a little longer than needed as well but..maybe that would help?

“I mean we saw it up there, it was cleaner than can be and everyone was so nice- what if we offend them? Or even worse degrade-“

“Charlie!” Vaggie grabbed onto Charlie’s shoulders, a laugh leaving her Fran as she looked at the princess’s expression.

“It’ll be fine, I’m sure that they are aware of what they got into…The hotel isn’t what you should be worried about.” The girl pointed over to the large group waiting for their new Comrade to join them.

“they are, especially Alastor and your father…” She looked back at the group, grimacing a bit. “Actually? Scratch that, focus on all of them. Not those two…” Charlie giggle a bit, taking a deep breath and closing her eyes as she thought. “Yeah, yeah you are right. Let’s just focus on everyone’s reactions to this angel first right?” Vaggie nodded, letting go of Charlie and watching as the woman walked over to the door and opening it.

“Hello dear!” You spoke up quite quick, a big smile on your face as you walked in and grabbed ahold of Charlie’s hands. “I assume your Charlie Morningstar? Of course ou are! You look just like your dad’s pictures..! Oh! You’re absolutely lovely!” Charlie deadpanned a little bit, laughing at how excited the angel was.

‘That i am! And you must be…?”

“y/n! But you can call me N/n dear…Oh how lovely! I thought the hotel was destroyed in the fight with Adam!” Everyone was a bit caught off guard, eyeing eachother and shrugging at your oddly.. preppy behavior.

“Well it’s nice to have you Y/n! Let’s introduce you to everyone alright? And then we can start the tour..?” You nodded, letting go of her hands and patting your own off on your little skirt.

As you walked over everyone couldn’t help but notice your attire, the small flapper like outfit that you had on that matched with the feathers atop your head. An old timer look almost but with a couple of modern-like things added seemingly overtime. your eyes scanned everyone. Smiling and waving almost instantly.

“Y/n, this is Angel dust,” Charlie pointed to the spider-like boy who stood out like a sore thumb, one hand waving to her and the other three on his waist. “That’s husker, he’s our barkeep..” The man grumbled something about not wanting to be here, a snicker leaving your form before meeting the others.

“Oh! And this is my girlfriend! Vaggie, this is Y/n, y/n, this is Vaggie.” Vaggie grimaced a little, looking up at the angel who just blinked a couple times at the shorter woman.

“Oh! Oh! Of course I’m so sorry, Hello Vaggie I’ve heard a lot about you- all good things!” Vaggie’s eyes widened a bit, shaking your hand while Charlie sighed next to the both of you.

“And this is our host- His name is”

“Alastor!” You gasped, a hand over your mouth as you looked at the lanky man, a smile over your features. He looked around, quirking a brow before approaching.

“Do i know you?” the static in his voice spooked you a little bit, that small smile turning into an even bigger one once he asked. “Oh no! No, you look so different than the pictures your ma showed me! Oh you were so handsome when you were a wee little oh thing, where did this red hair come from?” You walked around him, his smile tensing a little as her squinted at you. Trying not to break that little character he had built for himself.

“My mother?”

“Why yes my dear! She’s such a nice woman, so talkative up in the gates! She’s told me all about you and your little radio show! even showed me your baby pictu-“

The radio demon put his hand up, shaking his head a bit and clearing his throat. “I believe you’re thinking about someone else dear-!”

“Nope! I’d recognize that smile anywhere, and those goofy monocles your mama always said you were obsessed with!”

Alastor just stared, blinking at her before turning away with some furrowed brows.

“…did I do something wrong?”

[ladybugjournal]

Notice

26 August 2024

Drafting notices of departure feels a little too much like writing a final goodbye note, except it's far less damaging mentally, and people are encouraging me to do it.

Currently, I'm getting ready to move. I'm leaving a bad situation, I'm leaving bad friends/roommates, and I'm moving on to bigger and better things. I want to first make it clear that while my current roommates and I were classmates and co-workers before we moved in together, we were not best friends prior to living together. That being said, we are not friends anymore and it is for the best.

So, because of a lot of stuff that has been going on, I am drafting notices of my departure. I am putting in my 2 week notice at a job I have worked at for 3 months shy of 6 years. I am giving my roommates a (basically) 60 day notice of moving out. Then, at the end of the month, I will be giving my building manager a 30 day notice of moving out (when our lease is up).

I'm currently drafting all of these notices to get out any petty or off handed comments that come from being pissed off at my current situation/roommates, so, when I do have a final draft, I can leave them on the best terms possible.

This is more for me so I don't look back and regret being mean or feel guilty or bad for how I acted. I am trying to do what's best for me while also taking into account how other people may feel. I am giving a "2 week notice" at work, but if my manager needs me to stay on and train someone a little longer, than I am more than willing to talk about the options. I am giving my roommates as much notice as I can while also helping them as much as I can with the transition and moving process. I don't want to fuck anyone over, but I need to also protect myself and do what's best for me. It's quite the balancing act I'm doing.

It's strange, writing these notices, mainly because they are a final goodbye. I do not intend on coming back to this job once I am gone, at least, not at the same location. I do not foresee my roommates and I rekindling our friendship down the road. I also know I will not be coming back to these apartments, though, I wasn't here long so it's a little less sad (I do love this apartment though, the layout is perfect and I love my room).

These goodbye letters, in the form of a written notice, are cathartic. They're also giving me a lot of hope and something to look forward to. I like to feel like I'm moving forward and even these little steps of me typing out a silly little letter on my laptop makes me feel like I'm doing something.

I bought some boxes today, I'm going to start packing tomorrow, I have a draft written to my roommates, and I will have another draft written to my manager. I have a timeline, specific dates I know when things are happening, and each tiny step, each new detail of the plan, is bringing me one step closer to freedom and making living here a lot more bearable.