#only the beginnings of it but it's kind of exciting

[xxsteveharringtonxx]

Adjustments

Eddie Munson x Reader

It hadn’t taken you long to adjust to having Eddie around.

Steve, Robin and yourself had formed a comfortable friendship, it was easy, peaceful and despite everything you all went through you melded back into reality once again.

Except this time, Eddie Munson melded too.

Right as if he’d been there the entire time.

For the last two years his loud and unapologetic presence had become a normality in your life, and the two of you couldn’t be more different.

He had the same cautious prejudgments of you from High School, and having ran in the same crowd as Steve for a while, you couldn’t exactly blame him for his weariness around you at the start.

But High School was a long time ago.

Well it felt like a long time ago.

While Eddie was all leather jackets, heavy boots and loud music, you were somewhat shyer than when you were younger and more reserved now. Not wanting the attention anywhere near you, a quiet life in the shadows was exactly what you preferred now.

And it took Eddie a while to get used to you too.

He wasn’t sure why you were so quiet around him to begin with, it put him on edge but as time went on he realised actually that’s just how you are, and he’s more than happy to speak for the both of you, often spending time together in the group you would rarely get a word in between him and Robin.

It was a nice balance and having him around to be the loud outspoken one was a comfort.

And you grew to love it.

And him.

It was funny because you weren’t even aware of your feelings until Robin pointed them out, Steve catching on to her words too.

“Oh shit honey, I actually see it.” He had informed, realisation dawning on you.

While that was about a year ago now and while Steve and Robin loved to tease you about it, you obviously weren’t going to actually do or say anything about it.

He probably still thought you were preppy and stuck up like back at school.

Which bought you to now, present time and currently stuck on the side of the road just outside of Hawkins and glaring at your car.

It was smoking a little and you tilted your head in thought as to whether it was a real issue or if you could just wait it out, but considering it had broken down, and was literally smoking you concluded it probably was a real problem.

Looking around you spotted a phone booth just down the hill so with a huff and eye roll you headed over. This really wasn’t what you needed after the day you had just had. All you wanted to do was go home and watch some movies, maybe hang out with Steve or the whole gang.

Sighing heavily at your evening plans dwindling away you dialled the number you knew by heart.

And it only rang twice before you heard him.

“Yeah hello?” He barked down the line and despite the gruffness in his tone his voice made you smile.

Actually it made you grin.

“Hey Eddie it’s me.” You announced and there a bit of a scuffle on the line before you heard him more clearly.

“Hey Pretty, what’s up?” Blushing at the nickname he had called you which he’d given you years back, having probably forgotten your actual name at the time, but for some reason it stuck.

“I kind of broke down, well my car definitely did.” You told him cringing at your own sad tone.

“Broke down? Where?” He asked worry woven into his tone and the burst of excitement you felt seemed odd at a time of crisis like this.

But he really sounded like he was worried, biting down on your bottom lip to stop the smile you hummed trying to think of where you were.

“Just on the way into Hawkins I guess, as if you’re heading to Hoppers cabin before town.” You heard him clutch some keys on the other end of the line before barking orders at you.

“Don’t move and stay in your car.” He instructed.

“Eddie! No it’s smoking I don’t want-“ he cut you off with an impatient sigh and a firmer tone.

“Get your pretty ass in the car Y/N and stay there until I find you. I’m on my way.” And then the dial tone.

Following his instructions you did as you were told trudging back to your car. Sighing heavily as you say patiently in the drivers seat.

You could be home by now.

Out of your stupid dress and makeup wiped off.

But then maybe ten or fifteen minutes later you saw Eddie, he was in Wayne’s tow truck and you could make out his navy overalls were a little smudged with oil but he gave you a grin and sarcastic wave through the windshield.

He jumped out and you rolled your window down to pout up at him.

“Need a hand?” He asked teasingly poking his head through.

With a playful eye roll you turned to him with pursed lips to really show your sadness at the situation, but instead goosebumps prickled at your arms at the closeness of the two of you. The freckle on his nose visible to you he was so close, but he cleared his throat before standing up and opening your door.

He about melted at the sight of you pushing your bottom lip out, yours eyes looking up at him for saving.

And saving he could do for you.

“I think she’s dead.” You told him and he gave you a sad smile.

“I can fix her, come on go get in the truck there’s AC in there.” He told you helping you out the car and up the step to the truck.

He licked his lips as he took you in, bare tanned legs in front of him as you climbed up, a baby blue summer dress and white little heeled shoes. Not your usual attire these days and it reminded him of High School.

Remembering only then that you had mentioned a lunch at your grandmas house a few towns over.

He made a mental note to ask you about it.

Seeing your patents wasn’t something you usually ever wanted to do.

You watched as he popped open the hood of your car took a look around, tried a few things and then tried to start her up but nothing came of it. But no matter what he tried within 30 minutes he had latched her up to the tow and joined you in the truck.

“I’ll take her to the shop, Wayne can have a look. He usually figures out what’s wrong pretty quick.” His tone was easy and you nodded at him suddenly aware that the two of you would be spending time together alone.

There was rarely an occasion you’d hung out without Steve or Robin also present. And even if you weren’t used to it there was still a comfortable warmth around you. You felt safe and it was easy being in his presence.

“Thanks Eddie.” You told him with a sweet smile, head lolling to the side to look at him, tugging your dress down when you noticed it had crumpled higher than usual.

Eddie’s eyes flicking down at your movement before focusing back on the road.

“It’s my job.” He fobbed off with a chuckle and you frowned.

“I didn’t call you because you’re a mechanic or anything, I called you because well you’re you and I knew you could help me.” Your words made his cheeks go a little pink, he huffed out some air from his nose before beaming over at you.

A proud glimmer in his eye.

“Well aren’t you a little charmer today.” And it was your turn to blush because as he said he reached his hand over from the stick to squeeze your knee.

But after driving back to the shop in peaceful silence, Eddie’s music playing from the radio keeping a comfort, you finally pulled up outside the garage and followed Eddie to the office where Wayne was sat.

“Uncle Wayne, we got a case of an over heated cooling unit and low battery.” Eddie diagnosed as Wayne looked up giving you a friendly smile.

“We’ll get her fixed right up girly.” Wayne reassured making you roll your lips into your mouth at the expensive sounding issues. “Don’t you worry about nothing.” He barked in a tone sounding familiar to his nephew’s and you saw where Eddie got his kindness from.

“Thanks Wayne but I can talk to my dad-“ you started to try and offer but he gave you a stern look. Probably knowing first hand what an asshole your father is.

“Take her home Eddie.” Were his next words as Eddie began ushering you out to his van, one hand on your lower back and the other grabbing his keys off the hook at the door.

“Wanna go grab some burgers?” He asked as you put your seatbelt on.

“From Benny’s?” You perked up in excitement making him chuckle with a sideways glance at you.

“Yeah from Benny’s, what they didn’t feed you at your grandmothers lunch?” He teased trying to broach the subject and still be a little light hearted but you groaned and closed your eyes.

“It’s not polite to over fill your plate or eat more than two quarters of a sandwich.” You informed him and then looked over. “Apparently it’s not lady like.” You added.

Your parents were from the same cut as the Harringtons, it’s how you and Steve became friends. Forced to sit in boring itchy outfits at the country club every Saturday and Sunday as your parents paraded you around like trophies.

It’s also why you live in a studio above the coffee shop on the high street and why Steve lives in a one bed two buildings down. Neither of you having much of a relationship left with your parents.

“It’s not polite to go hungry either, besides that little dress makes you plenty lady like.” His tone was flirtatious and you knew he was trying to cheer you up while making fun of you.

“And don’t worry I’ll even get you a milkshake so I know you’ve been fed through the night.” Grinning at his words you looked over at him excited for the evening again.

“I love Benny’s.” Was all you managed to say.

“I know Pretty, that’s why I’m taking you to Benny’s.” He assured as if it was obvious but you didn’t think he paid that much attention to you, until now. And pulling into the parking lot he was happy to be with you.

Just you.

Not that he was brave enough to say that out loud.

Once you had both eaten and you were picking at his left over fries you hummed content. The conversation about Robin’s new love interest, or Steve’s latest dating disaster had died down and you had just been laughing at a story he was telling from his gig last weekend, you couldn’t wipe the smile off your face.

“We should do this more often.” You told him bravely, dropping the fry and leaning closer by resting your chin on your hand.

“We practically live in Benny’s.” Was his blazè response as he watched you gulp and nod slowly, realising maybe you had meant more than just the diner.

“Sure but I mean just me and you. We should hang out more often, without Steve or Robin.” You said it so quickly he barely had time to recover but he’d caught your every word.

And he knew he had to think quickly before you took it back or changed your mind.

“Just me and you?” He echoed as if seeing what it sounded like on his tongue as well as getting confirmation before he got too nervous to bring it up again himself later.

“Yes Eddie, just me and you. I had fun with you this afternoon. It’s nice.” You looked away from him and down at the fries, your confidence fading. He took in how your cheeks were reddening and the tip of your ears were on fire.

“Steve and Robin are pretty annoying.” You laughed out loud at his response, and his way of making you laugh even in moments like this made your chest hurt.

You almost thought that was him rejecting you, softly and kindly.

But rejection nonetheless.

But when your hand reached over for the last fry he grabbed it gently with his own, placing the softest of kisses on the top.

You watched intently, lips rolled into your mouth trying to suppress a relieved grin.

“Just me and you huh?” He teased harmlessly and grinning at you like he’d just won the lottery.

“I like the sound of that.” He hummed happily.

[grandline-fics]

Law Single red rose pleaaaase!!! 💕💕

DESCRIPTION: Single Red Rose- When your date goes wrong, they come to your rescue

WARNINGS:  none

CHARACTERS: Law

WORDS: 984

A/N: Part of the Valentines Day Event! There's already so many requests so thank you all so much for the positive response so far. Thank you @obsessivemuch for being the first request and I hope that this is to your liking.

*REQUESTS ARE OPEN*

DIRECTORY | PROMPT LIST | KO-FI

————————

The atmosphere in the island was warm and friendly, civilians held no fear of the Heart Pirates at all. From the moment they surfaced the Polar Tang and all through the day as they gathered supplies and stretched their limbs while enjoying the fresh summer air and sun that they’d greatly missed while traveling under water. Taking advantage of the hospitality of the island and its inhabitants, with there still being so much the crew had yet to see and do, they begged Law to stay an extra couple days. Trying to remain firm, Law told them they would only stay on land for the night and in the morning everyone would be allowed the day to explore or shop, using the time as they saw fit but he wouldn’t allow any longer to distract them from their journey. With bellies filled with delicious food and now everyone enjoying drinks, Law felt himself relax in his seat just happy to sit back and talk with the others while still observing his surroundings. 

As he drank slowly his eyes fell onto the table you were sat at. At first he didn’t know why a table with what was obviously a random couple having a date would capture his attention but then he realised what it was. Your body language just radiated tension. Not a shy nervousness that would show in the beginning of a relationship, or a tense anticipation that you were expecting something like a proposal. Your whole body was tense with restrained annoyance. As Law finished his drink he caught you glancing towards the clock on the wall while forcing yourself to give your date a polite nod in response to whatever it was he was saying. You were trying to gauge when you could bail on this date without seeming like the bad guy. From the way your foot idly bounced under the table when the date laughed at his own joke, it was clear you were reaching the end of your patience. Poor you, but it wasn’t his problem.

Law rose and walked to the bar to get a new drink. While he waited for it to be served he couldn't help but have his attention slowly drift back to your shipwreck of a date. From this angle he now had a clear view of your face and now he couldn’t look away, immediately drawn further into observing the interaction you were having with your date. Law watched as you opened your mouth, actually excited for the first time that he’d seen to say something in response only for your date to talk over you. Immediately your bright eyes sharpened and cooled, your jaw tightening and fingers curling into a fist against the table. Honestly, what kind of idiot had you agreed to go out with that couldn’t even pick up on your unhappiness? Were they that self-absorbed? 

His own dark gold eyes watched as your date got up from the table and headed for the restroom, Law didn’t miss the disappointment in your eyes to see he wasn’t going for the exit and smirked. Grabbing his drink he approached your table and came to a stop in front of you. You blinked and for a moment thought your date had unfortunately returned faster than you’d hoped, only to blink in surprise to see who was now in front of you. You’d heard pirates had arrived and you were familiar with this man’s face after having seen it in the papers more than enough times. You wondered if he knew that the photos and posters did not do his attractiveness justice. Deciding this intrusion was a lot more exciting than the torture that was your date you smiled at Law. “Can I help you?”

“Now that’s not fair, that was going to be my line.” Law told you with a small chuckle. “If you’re being held hostage by that guy just say the word.”

“Oh I’ve been warned against this kind of thing.” You hummed playfully. “Offers of help usually come at a price.”

“Can’t I just offer to be nice?”

“Aren't you supposed to be a pirate? Does being nice go against your code?”

“So long as the Marines don’t find out my reputation is safe.” Law explained, his smirk growing as you laughed. Honestly your date fell further and further down in his regard by the second. “So? Need my help?”

“We still haven’t discussed payment.”

“Nothing much, just a walk through the city?”

“Can’t say no to a fair exchange like that. You’ve got yourself a deal.” You conceded, sitting back in your seat. This conversation was the most fun you’d had all evening and you were curious to see what Law would do. You tilted your head when Law set his drink down and took your hand, pulling you to your feet and leading you to the door. “Really? Just walking out is your big idea?”

��I’ve had your date trapped in the restrooms since he left the table. Didn't you wonder what was taking him so long?” Law explained, grinned at your shocked expression. As a precaution he’d had his room ability activated from the second he and the crew entered the bar, just in case any of them needed to make a quick escape. When your date was away he’d shifted the large boxes from the alley outside to block the restroom doors. All Law had really needed was your say-so to continue spending time with him. He dropped his gaze down when you looped your arm through his as you both walked through the busy nighttime streets. “So where to first? You’re the local here, not me.”

“Well the city’s pretty big. I can’t exactly show you everything in one night.” You explained lightly with a smile. 

“Well aren’t you lucky? My crew and I won’t be leaving for a few days.”

——————————————-

TAG LIST (If I’ve missed anyone or if you want to be added just let me know) @3v37773, @tsaaps , @i-am-all-love-puns-and-lazy , @sanemisnonexistenteyebrow , @fiery-captain-spider-santa, @kabloswrld , @atanukileaf , @ane5e , @stuckinthewrongworld , @deathsmajestysworld , @cloudysunset04 , @chillerkiller , @extremely-ashtridic , @decayingpizza , @liesatemyocean , @ace-for-ace , @nerium-lil , @destynelseclipsa , @dreamcastgirl99 , @my-name-is-heartache , @iamn1ya ,  @yunho-leeknow , @hinata7346 , @h0oouwlss , @missrandomdreamer , @sleepykittycx , @ddawn111 , @jaygrl22 , @sylum , @acehyacinth , @resident-cryptid , @treelogirl , @maellem , @its-a-dam-blue-brick , @thulhu , @appalost , @dindjarins1ut , @irumawife , @laidenbreecatchall , @redwolfxx , @jevoislesbrasdemer , @schanwow

[gullemec]

Dead Weight

Bitten - Part III

Bitten Masterlist ao3

Pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader

Summary: You and Joel try to navigate this bizarre, new reality you've found yourselves in. But as physical wounds heal, emotional ones begin to fester.

Warnings: canon-typical violence, gun use, description of injuries, misogyny (not from Joel), alcohol use, description of infected, death/dying, blood, loooots of angst!

Please let me know if I missed any TWs <3

WC: 7.7k

A/N: Thank you so much to everyone who had kind words to say about this series so far. I'm so excited with where it's going and can't wait to share the next few chapters I have brewing!!

You sleep later than usual, the sun already halfway to its arc in the sky by the time you rouse. 

The cabin’s heavy curtains have cocooned you in a comforting darkness, granting you a rare reprieve from the searing brightness of the open wilderness you’re used to. A luxury, in theory. But it doesn’t feel like one now.

The cool, shaded quiet is suddenly suffocating when you poke your head out of the sleeping bag and find the cabin empty. For a sharp, panicked moment, your heart lurches. Joel has left you behind. Your chest tightens, breath catching in your throat as your eyes dart around the small space, desperate for proof otherwise. 

And there it is, his sleeping bag, neatly rolled and tucked into a corner. His pack, leaned against the far wall. Evidence of his lingering presence. Relief comes reluctantly, settling in like a stone in your stomach rather than lifting the weight off your chest. He hasn’t abandoned you, not yet. But the thought doesn’t soothe the way it should.

Instead, a gnawing guilt sinks in, colder than the morning air. You slept in. You wasted time. You were dead weight, a burden. Again.

You groan softly as you push yourself upright, the movement tugging painfully at your side. The stitches pull against the swollen flesh, a sharp reminder of yesterday’s outburst. You’d let anger and frustration bubble over, and now you’re paying the price, your body punishing you for every impulsive word and motion. Hobbling toward the small bathroom, you peel your shirt up gingerly, half-afraid of what you’ll see.

In the harsh light, the wound stares back at you, a gnarled mix of swollen purple and fading red. The worst of it, the undeniable imprint of the stalker’s teeth, is etched just above your hip bone, deep and accusing. Beside it, a smaller bite mark rests in its shadow, and yet it’s no less damning. Both are framed by long, jagged slashes left by its claws, torn through your flesh in its frantic quest to tear you apart.

But it’s not the bites or the gashes that make your breath catch in your throat. It’s the tendrils. Thin, branching marks radiate outward from the largest bite like delicate, spindly roots spreading beneath your skin. You’ve seen them before, on others, in the terrifying hours after they were bitten. Only theirs were red and angry, pulsating with infection, spreading death with every heartbeat. Yours, though… yours are different. Faint. Dormant. They just stop, like a vine that’s failed to grow. They don’t crawl toward your chest or creep into your brain. They just… sit there, frozen in time.

You can only look for so long before your stomach churns and your chest tightens again, a faint buzzing overtaking your ears. You grip the edge of the sink, squeezing your eyes shut as nausea wells up.

Forcing yourself to breathe through the panic, you focus on the facts. There’s no pus. No new bleeding. No spreading infection. These are the things you cling to, the only threads of logic in the mess that’s become your life. You try to convince yourself that these signs are good, even as the sight of the tendrils lingers in your mind, impossible to forget.

What are you?

Why are you still here?

Straightening up, you turn away from the mirror and tug your shirt back down, fingers trembling slightly. You need to move. You can’t afford to let your mind spiral any further. Whatever this is, whatever you are, it doesn’t matter right now.

Joel hasn’t abandoned you, and you’re still alive. For now, that will have to be enough.

You sling your pack over one shoulder and step out into the morning light, the chill of late fall biting at your exposed skin. The cabin is quiet, Joel nowhere to be seen, not chopping wood by the side of the building, not fishing down at the river. You stand there for a moment, scanning the small clearing for any sign of him. His absence twists at your gut, equal parts unease and irritation. You tell yourself you’re better off not facing him just yet, not with everything that happened yesterday still fresh and raw, but the silence gnaws at you nonetheless.

With nowhere else to go, you meander down the narrow trail that leads to the river, your boots crunching softly against frost-laden grass. The sound of rushing water grows faintly louder as you approach, but it’s a far cry from the thunderous roar you’d heard days ago. The river has calmed, its waters now a subdued flow that no longer crashes violently against the rocks. It’s shrunken in size too, exposing wide, rocky banks on either side.

You exhale, relieved. You don’t need another reminder of what happened. You have plenty of those already.

The water glimmers under the pale sunlight, inviting in its stillness. Bracing against the chill in the air, you set your pack down on a dry patch of rocks and strip down to your underwear. The bite of the breeze sends a shiver racing up your spine, and you hesitate for a moment, arms wrapped around yourself. It’s been days since you’ve had the chance to properly wash, and you can’t stand the feeling of grime clinging to your skin any longer. Still, it takes effort to will yourself forward, the cold air already sapping your resolve.

You step gingerly into the river, your toes curling against the slick, icy rocks beneath the surface. The shock of the cold water is immediate, seeping into your skin and pulling a sharp gasp from your lungs. You clench your jaw and keep going, one unsteady step at a time, as the water rises higher up your legs.

The riverbed is treacherous. Smooth stones shift under your weight, and the mud beneath them sucks at your feet. Your balance wavers, arms flailing slightly as you try to stay upright. Then your foot sinks deeper into the riverbed than you anticipated, throwing you off-kilter. You overcorrect, trying to stop yourself from falling sideways, but it’s too much.

Your knees hit the riverbed with a sharp, jarring impact, the bite of tiny, pinprick rocks breaking through your skin. Pain shoots up your legs and lances through your side where your stitches pull painfully taut. You stifle a shout, hissing sharply through clenched teeth as your palms slap against the water to steady yourself. The cold water rushes over your thighs and knees, soothing the sting almost immediately, but the ache remains, deep and persistent.

For a moment, you stay there, crouched in the water, the pain in your knees and side a dull throb that refuses to ebb. The river flows around you, indifferent, its quiet current a stark contrast to the chaos in your body and mind.

You tilt your head back, closing your eyes, and take a shaky breath. This wasn’t supposed to be this hard. Even the smallest things, washing off dirt, finding balance, have become impossible challenges, each stumble and misstep a cruel reminder of your limitations. Of what you’ve become.

When you open your eyes again, your gaze falls to the water, clear enough to see your distorted reflection staring back at you. The tendrils of the bite peek out above the waistband of your underwear. Stretching up your side, loud and unavoidable.

Your hand darts out, all frustration and anger, splashing the image away.

You push yourself up, ignoring the sting in your knees and the sharp pull in your side. You’re tired of feeling weak, of feeling inhuman. Gritting your teeth, you straighten your back and wade deeper into the river, determined to scrub away the grime of the last few days, no matter the cost.

Because if nothing else, you need this. A moment of clarity, a moment of control. Even if it comes at the cost of blood and bruises, it’s the only thing keeping you tethered to yourself in a world that feels increasingly unfamiliar.

The past few days have been a harsh lesson in checking your pride and sense of self. You've always been ruthless. Had to be, really. Merciless, some might even say. You made quick work of raiders and infected alike, never hesitating or showing remorse. You couldn’t afford to. Not in this world. Weakness means death here.

That, if you had to guess, was what first drew you and Joel together.

…

Disposal duty was where it began. Burning the corpses of infected and the unclaimed dead was the kind of work that stripped you raw. It was thankless and brutal, but necessary. It offered little dignity for the living or the dead. The stench of charred flesh clung to everything, your skin, your clothes, even the air you breathed. Still, you took the job because you had to. It was the only way to prove yourself in the Boston QZ, where your age and gender already painted a target on your back among the men who sneered at you, labeling you as dead weight from the moment you arrived.

You knew the drill. From your time in other QZs, you'd learned that no one handed out respect for free, you had to earn it. You worked with a single-minded determination, dragging shrouded forms across the yard, tossing them into the roaring flames without flinching. The oppressive heat, the smoke that stung your eyes, the silent weight of knowing these bodies had once been people, none of it stopped you. It couldn’t. You wouldn’t let it.

It was on your first day that Joel had approached you.

You were on your knees, sweat streaking soot down your face as you wrapped your arms around a shrouded figure, the fabric clinging to it in the damp heat. When the shadow of a man fell over you, you glanced up, squinting against the sun. Joel stood there, tall and imposing, his face half-covered with a bandana. His eyes were hard to read, but they were focused on you. For a moment, you thought he might be there to chastise you, to tell you to hurry up or that you were doing it wrong.

“Here, let me,” he said, voice low and gravelly.

At first, you thought it was a joke. A cruel one. Like a manifestation of every insecurity gnawing at you had stepped out of the shadows to taunt you.

“I’ve got it,” you snapped, your voice sharp enough to cut through the haze of smoke. You shot him a glare before heaving the body into your arms, your knees wobbling as you carried it to the pyre. When you tossed it in and turned back, you didn’t expect him to still be there, watching. His face was half-hidden, but his eyes crinkled slightly at the edges, and you could’ve sworn he was grinning beneath the bandana.

See? your glare seemed to say.

After that day, you noticed him watching you. Not constantly, but enough for you to feel the weight of his gaze. His expression was unreadable, and it irritated you. He didn’t offer help again, nor did he criticize. He just… observed. There was something steadying about it, though. It felt like a silent acknowledgment, like he saw what you were doing even when no one else did.

And the others certainly didn’t. They grumbled and slacked off, complaining about the smell, the heat, the weight of the bodies. They cut corners, dumped bodies improperly, and blamed anyone but themselves when caught. 

But not you. 

You worked harder than all of them combined, and Joel noticed. Even if he didn’t say anything, you could feel it in the way his eyes lingered on you.

This silent routine went on for weeks, the two of you bound together by the grim necessity of disposal duty. The stench of burning flesh worked its way into your hair, your skin, your soul. Every night you scrubbed yourself raw, trying to wash it away, but the smoke still lingered in your nostrils when you lay down to sleep.

And Joel Miller kept watching.

He wasn’t the only person who noticed you, though.

Your shift had been wrapping up, bringing a line of tired, soot-covered workers waiting for their ration cards. The stench of burnt flesh lingered on everyone’s clothes, mingling with sweat and exhaustion. Joel stood a few places behind you in the line, arms crossed and gaze distant, the hard mask of indifference firmly in place.

When your name was called, you stepped forward, wiping your hands on your pants before taking the cards from the FEDRA soldier. You’d stepped off to the side to count your cards when an agitating, grating voice sounded.

"What the hell is this?" the man behind you in line barked, stepping out of line. 

Greg. He was broad-shouldered and quick-tempered, the kind of guy who was used to throwing his weight around. He jabbed a finger toward you. "Why’s she getting more than the rest of us?"

The FEDRA soldier barely glanced up from his clipboard. "Rations are allotted based on work completed. She did more than you."

Greg’s face darkened, a vein twitching in his temple. "Bullshit. She didn’t do more. She’s just—" He sneered, looking you up and down. "She’s just spreading her legs for you guys, huh? That’s how it works?"

A beat of silence. The line shifted uncomfortably. In your periphery you saw Joel’s jaw tighten, and his gaze snap to you.

You knew you should ignore him, should just keep your head down and be on your way and stay out of trouble. Greg wasn’t the first insecure asshole to be sore about a woman able to outperform him, and he certainly wouldn’t be the last. And maybe it was the way your back twinged with pain or the way his whiny voice hit your ear, but there was something in your veins that day that emboldened you.

"You wanna say that again?" you said, your voice low and cold. You stepped toward him, not backing down an inch.

Greg’s bravado faltered for a second, but he doubled down.  “I said you didn’t earn those cards. You’re just—”

“Just what?” you cut in sharply. “Say it. Go ahead.”

“You’re just some weak little—”

“Right,” you interrupted, stepping toward him. Your eyes locked on his, unyielding. “Because dragging bodies all day, breathing in smoke and rotting fucking flesh, that’s not real work, right? Maybe if you spent half as much time working as you do whining, you’d have enough rations to shut your damn mouth.”

His face flushed red with anger. "Watch it, bitch," he snapped, stepping closer, looming over you.

Joel’s fingers flexed at his sides, ready to step in, but he didn’t move just yet. He watched, measuring the tension like a coiled spring.

You didn’t flinch. Instead, you tilted your head, a sharp, defiant smile playing on your lips. "What are you gonna do? Hit me? Prove to everyone here that you’re not just lazy but pathetic, too?"

Greg’s hands balled into fists, but he hesitated. The rest of the line was watching now, and the FEDRA soldier shifted uneasily, hand drifting toward his weapon.

Joel stepped forward then, slow and deliberate, his presence a looming shadow. "That’s enough," he said, his voice calm but cutting through the tension like a knife. He didn’t look at you, his eyes locked on Greg. "Go back to your spot."

Greg muttered something under his breath but didn't push it further. He spat at the ground near your feet before turning back to the line.

Joel joined you on the walk back to your housing block wordlessly, the journey heavy with silence. He kept pace with you, not saying anything. The sun was sinking, casting an orange haze over the crumbling streets of the QZ when you finally broke the silence.

"You didn’t have to do that," you said finally, breaking the quiet.

"Do what?"

"Step in. I had it handled."

Joel glanced at you, his expression unreadable. "Yeah, I know you did."

You blinked, surprised. "Then why—"

"Because he wasn’t gonna back down," Joel interrupted. "Not until someone reminded him to."

You scoffed. "Well, thanks, I guess."

Joel didn’t respond right away. You walked another block in silence before he spoke again. "You drink?"

You raised an eyebrow, caught off guard. "What?"

Joel shrugged, looking straight ahead. "Got a bottle of whiskey back at my place. Thought you might want to share it."

You studied him, trying to read his intentions, but his face gave nothing away. Still, there’s something about the offer that felt… genuine. You hesitated for only a moment before nodding. "Okay. Sure."

When you reached his apartment, Joel opened the door and gestured you inside. The space was sparse but clean, a stark contrast to the chaos outside. He poured two glasses of amber liquid, handing one to you without ceremony.

"To your first fight on the job," he said, raising his glass.

You smirked, clinking yours against his. "And to shutting up assholes."

Joel chuckled, a sound you hadn't heard from him before. It was quiet and fleeting, but it lingered in the air between you.

That night, you talked, just enough to lay the groundwork for something more. Joel didn’t pry, but he listened, and you found yourself sharing more than you expected. When you left, there was a strange sense of understanding between you, a fragile but undeniable connection.

…

“The hell are you doin’?” 

Joel’s voice cuts through your daydream, sharp and gravelly, pulling you out of your fragile reprieve. Your eyelids flutter open, squinting against the golden light of the dying sun as it bounces off the river’s surface.

You’re floating on your back, bobbing gently in the cool, weightless embrace of the water. For a few blissful moments, the world had felt still. The ache in your side had dulled, the constant churn of worry in your mind had quieted, and for just a little while, you’d found a truce with the chaos of your life.

But Joel’s presence shatters that peace.

He stands at the river’s edge, rifle slung over his shoulder, his face shadowed in the fading light but unmistakably irritated. His shoulders are tense, his stance rigid, and his eyes, dark and piercing, are locked on you.

You scramble upright, your feet slipping on the uneven, stony riverbed. The sudden movement sends a sharp pang through your side, but you grit your teeth and push through it, water dripping down your skin as you try to compose yourself.

You’re in only your bra and underwear, something Joel’s seen plenty of times before when circumstances demanded it. But now, with the weight of his gaze and the tension crackling between you, you feel uncomfortably exposed. Your arms instinctively cross over your chest, though the water obscures most of your body.

“I was just…” you start, your voice faltering under the intensity of his stare.

“Just what?” he cuts in, his tone clipped. “Floatin’ around, makin’ yourself an easy target?”

The accusation stings, sharp and unexpected. “I wasn’t making myself a target,” you snap, defensiveness flaring.

“No?” He gestures toward the surrounding woods with a sweep of his hand. “’Cause last I checked, the world don’t stop bein’ dangerous just ’cause you’re takin’ a goddamn swim.”

You bristle at his tone, your arms dropping to your sides as irritation rises to meet his. “I wasn’t wandering off or doing anything reckless, Joel. I was right here. You’re acting like I—”

“Like what?” he interrupts, stepping closer. “Like you don’t think? Like you don’t remember what happened last time you went off to the river alone?”

The words hit their mark, dredging up memories you’ve spent the last hour trying to suppress.

You awkwardly trudge out of the water, keeping your eyes down and away from Joel.

“That’s not fair,” you say quietly as you fish your folded clothes from the riverbank, your voice trembling with a mix of anger and hurt. You pull them on quickly, your still wet skin making it uncomfortable and difficult.

“Fair?” He scoffs, his voice rising slightly. “This ain’t about fair. S’about stayin’ alive.”

His words hang in the air, heavy and suffocating. For a moment, neither of you speaks, the murmur of the river filling the silence. Joel’s jaw works like he’s trying to rein himself in, but his frustration simmers just beneath the surface.

“You don’t get it, do you?” he finally says, his voice lower now but no less cutting. “If somethin’ happened to you—” He cuts himself off, dragging a hand down his face, the movement almost weary. “Just… get your ass back to the cabin.”

You nod stiffly, biting back the retort that’s clawing its way up your throat. You trudge past him, water streaming from your clothes and hair, your chest tight with a mix of shame and anger.

When you reach the cabin, you find the deer he hauled back lying in the clearing outside, its lifeless eyes fixed on the sky. Joel follows shortly after, his boots heavy against the wooden steps as he steps onto the porch.

“What’s with the deer?” you ask, your tone sharper than you intended. This is way too much meat for the two of you to preserve for the road, and Joel’s never been the wasteful type.

He doesn’t look at you as he sets his rifle aside and kneels beside the animal, pulling a knife from his belt. “We’re stayin’ put for a while,” he says simply.

You blink, confused. “What?”

“You’re hurt,” he says, his voice matter-of-fact as he begins dressing the deer. “We ain’t goin’ anywhere ’til you’re healed enough to keep movin’.”

“That’s ridiculous,” you say, stepping closer. “We can’t stay here. What are we supposed to do with all this meat? We can’t preserve it. It’s going to spoil—”

“Doesn’t matter,” he cuts in, his tone final. “We’re stayin’.”

His refusal to even entertain your argument ignites a spark of anger in you. “You can’t just decide that without talking to me,” you snap. “I’m not some… some child you can order around.”

Joel looks up at you then, his expression unreadable. “You wanna keep pushin’ yourself? Get us both killed? Fine. But I ain’t movin’ from this spot until you’re good enough to handle the road.”

The words land heavy, each one driving home the gulf that’s grown between you. You want to believe his stubbornness is born out of concern, that his anger is just a mask for something deeper, but it doesn’t feel that way. It feels like disappointment. Like you’ve let him down again.

“Fine,” you say finally, your voice hollow. “Do whatever you want, Joel.”

You turn and head inside, the door creaking shut behind you as you leave him on the porch, alone with the deer and the quiet tension that now fills the air between you.

…

The cabin is quiet, save for the faint crackle of the fire Joel built just before sunset. Shadows from the flames dance along the wooden walls, casting the room in a warm but flickering glow. You sit on the floor by the fire, knees drawn to your chest, staring into the embers as they pulse and fade. Your side aches in dull, persistent waves, but you ignore it. Pain has become a constant companion, like the gnawing hunger or the chill that creeps in when the fire dies down.

Joel is at the table, his back to you, meticulously sharpening his knife. The rhythmic scrape of metal against stone grates on your nerves, though you’d never admit it aloud. You can feel his presence like a weight in the room, heavy and unyielding. He hasn’t said much since he came back from dressing the deer, and you haven’t tried to start a conversation. The distance between you feels insurmountable tonight, a chasm neither of you seems willing, or able, to cross.

You watch him out of the corner of your eye as he works, his movements precise and methodical. He’s always like this, all focus and discipline, as if distraction might kill him. Maybe it will. He pauses for a moment, tilting the blade toward the light to inspect his work. His eyes catch yours for a split second, and you look away, heat creeping up your neck.

An hour later the cabin is filled with the warm scent of cooked meat.

“Food’s ready,” he says finally, his voice gruff but quiet.

You glance toward the counter where a modest meal of roasted venison sits, steam rising from the plates. Your stomach twists, both from hunger and something else you can’t name. You push yourself up, careful not to strain your stitches, and join him at the table.

Joel slides a plate toward you without meeting your eyes. You mumble a thanks and pick up the fork, the first bite dissolving on your tongue with a flavor you haven’t tasted in weeks. It should feel like a luxury, but it doesn’t.

The silence stretches between you, thick and uncomfortable. You want to say something, anything, but the words won’t come. What is there to say, anyway? You’re here because you need to heal, and Joel’s here because… Well, you don’t know why. Because he feels obligated? Because he pities you? The thought makes your chest tighten, and you shove another bite of venison into your mouth to distract yourself.

“You’re gonna need more protein if you wanna heal up properly,” Joel says after a while, his tone flat but not unkind.

You glance at him, startled that he’s spoken at all. “I’m eating, aren’t I?” you reply, sharper than you intended.

He looks at you then, really looks at you, his brow furrowing like he’s weighing whether to press the issue. He doesn’t. Instead, he leans back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest.

“You scared me today,” he says abruptly.

You blink, caught off guard. “What?”

“At the river,” he clarifies, his gaze dropping to the table. “Could’ve hurt yourself. Could’ve drowned.”

You bristle, the defensive wall coming up before you can stop it. “I’m not a kid, Joel. I can handle myself.”

His eyes snap back to yours, hard and unyielding. “That what you call it? Floatin’ around like you didn’t have a care in the world? We’re in the middle of goddamn nowhere, and you think it’s a good idea to let your guard down?”

Your jaw tightens, heat flooding your face. “I wasn’t letting my guard down,” you bite out. “I just needed—” You cut yourself off, unsure how to finish the sentence. Needed what? A moment of peace? A break from the constant weight of survival? A moment where you didn’t feel like an enormous burden on him? 

He wouldn’t understand.

Joel exhales sharply, shaking his head. “Doesn’t matter what you needed. It’s not safe out there, and you know it.”

There’s something in his voice that gives you pause, not anger, exactly, but something close to it. Frustration, maybe. Worry. You want to believe it’s the latter, but your mind twists it into something darker, something uglier.

“Right,” you say bitterly, pushing your plate away. “I forgot. I’m just another thing for you to worry about, aren’t I? Another burden.”

Joel’s face hardens, but there’s a flicker of something in his eyes, guilt, maybe, or regret. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Sure it isn’t,” you snap, pushing back your chair and standing, the ache in your side flaring as you do. You don’t care. The urge to put distance between you and him is stronger than the pain. “Thanks for dinner,” you mutter, already walking toward your bedroll by the fire.

Joel doesn’t stop you. He just sits there, watching as you settle onto the floor and turn your back to him. The weight of his gaze is almost unbearable, but you refuse to acknowledge it.

The fire crackles softly, the only sound in the otherwise silent cabin. You stare into the flames, your chest tight and your mind racing. You want to believe that Joel cares, that his harsh words are his way of protecting you, but it’s hard to see it that way when all you can hear is the echo of your own insecurities.

A burden. A liability. A monster.

You close your eyes, willing sleep to take you, but it doesn’t come. Behind you, Joel shifts in his chair, the sound of his boots on the wooden floor breaking the silence. You hear him sigh, low and weary, before the chair creaks as he stands.

The sound of his footsteps fades as he moves toward the door, and then it’s just you and the fire and the distance between you and him that feels larger than ever.

…

The smell hits you first, cloying and putrid, like rotting meat left too long in the sun. It invades your senses, choking you, making it impossible to breathe. Then, a weight against you. Heavy, suffocating, pinning you to the ground.

You don’t know where you are. Somewhere cold and damp, the ground beneath you slick with mud. Your arms are trapped at your sides, your legs kicking uselessly against the crushing force above you.

The creature is on top of you. Its guttural snarls fill the air, hot breath washing over your face. You catch flashes of jagged teeth, glistening with saliva. Its hands, its claws, dig into your shoulders, sharp and unrelenting. Pain radiates through your body, but it’s nothing compared to the icy dread in your chest.

You try to scream, but no sound comes. Your throat burns with the effort, but the silence mocks you, amplifying the creature’s growls and the sickening sound of its teeth snapping inches from your face.

You thrash, your fists pounding against its torso, your legs kicking wildly, but it’s like punching stone. The creature doesn’t budge. Its strength is inhuman, its weight unbearable.

A sharp, searing pain erupts in your side, and you know—it’s over. You’re going to die here. The cold dread settles deep in your gut, heavier than the creature itself. This is it. This is the end.

And then, a voice.

“Get off her!”

Joel.

His voice cuts through the chaos like a blade, sharp and commanding. Hope ignites in your chest, fragile and desperate. You twist your head, straining to see him, and there he is. Joel, standing just a few feet away, rifle raised and steady.

“Joel!” you cry, but your voice still doesn’t come. Your lips move, but the words are swallowed by the oppressive silence.

Joel doesn’t hear you. He doesn’t need to. He steps closer, his jaw set, his eyes locked on the creature.

The weight on your chest shifts as the creature rears back, turning its attention to Joel. Relief floods through you, your lungs filling with air for the first time in what feels like forever. He’s here. He’ll save you. He always does.

But then you see it.

The creature’s face.

Your face.

It stares back at you with hollow, lifeless eyes, its features twisted into something grotesque and unrecognizable. Its mouth stretches into a snarl, blood staining its lips. Your lips.

“No,” you whisper, the sound finally breaking free. “No, no, no…”

But it’s too late.

The creature lunges at Joel, faster than you thought possible. He fires a shot, but it goes wide. The rifle falls from his hands as the creature slams into him, knocking him to the ground.

“Joel!”

You try to move, try to scream, try to do something, anything, but your body is frozen, paralyzed by fear and horror. You watch, helpless, as the creature—you—tears into him.

His screams echo in your ears, raw and agonized. Blood sprays across the ground, pooling beneath him, soaking into the dirt. You want to look away, but you can’t.

It doesn’t stop. The creature doesn’t stop. You don’t stop.

And then, silence.

Joel lies still, his lifeless eyes staring up at the sky. The creature, your monstrous reflection. turns back to you, blood dripping from its mouth. It smiles, a twisted, mocking grin that makes your stomach churn.

“You did this,” it says, its voice your own.

The weight returns, crushing you, suffocating you. You close your eyes, tears streaming down your face, but the image is burned into your mind. Joel, broken and bloodied. The monster, wearing your face.

“You did this,” it repeats, the words echoing in your head as the darkness swallows you whole.

…

No! No, stop, stop it!

Your voice tears from your throat, raw and jagged, as you writhe against the suffocating force pinning you down. You thrash and kick, your limbs flailing against an enemy you can’t see, can’t fight. The darkness is everywhere, thick, heavy, alive, pressing against your chest like a vise. Your screams are hoarse, broken, a desperate attempt to claw your way back to something, anything.

“Hey, hey. Shh. Calm down.”

The voice cuts through the chaos like a lifeline. It’s soft, steady, familiar in a way that tugs at your frayed edges. It isn’t your voice, not the guttural growl of the monster.

“You’re okay. You gotta calm down.”

Joel.

The name lodges in your mind, a single point of clarity amidst the storm. His voice, low and warm, anchors you. It’s not commanding, not sharp like it has been. It’s patient, soothing. Like he’s speaking to a wounded animal, coaxing it away from the edge of its terror.

The darkness loosens its grip, receding inch by inch, until the oppressive weight begins to dissolve. It’s still there, a shadow lingering at the edges of your consciousness, but it no longer suffocates.

The weight pressing against you shifts, no longer a force of dread but something solid, grounding. Arms wrap around you, holding you firm but gentle. The realization dawns on you slowly. Joel is holding you. His hands rub slow, deliberate circles on your back, the friction warm against your shivering body.

Your breathing is a wrecked staccato, each inhale catching in your throat, each exhale trembling with the effort. The screams that had ripped from your throat moments ago fade into croaking sobs, quiet but broken.

“That’s it,” Joel murmurs, his breath warm against your hair. “Just breathe.”

You try. The air is thin and sharp, your chest heaving as you attempt to match the slow rhythm of his breathing. His grip tightens slightly as if to remind you he’s there, that he isn’t letting go.

Your limbs feel like water, drained of strength, the fight bled out of you. Slowly, hesitantly, you relax into him. Your forehead drops against his chest, and you feel the steady rise and fall of his breathing, a quiet metronome against the chaos still echoing in your mind.

The moment feels fragile, like glass balanced on a ledge, and you don’t dare shatter it. The warmth of his body seeps into your chilled skin, grounding you further. You’re acutely aware of the wetness on your cheeks, the way your tears have soaked into his shirt, but you don’t pull away. Not yet.

“You’re okay,” Joel says again, his voice barely above a whisper. His hand moves from your back to your hair, his fingers combing through it in a motion so tender it brings fresh tears to your eyes.

You stay like that, cradled in his arms, the silence between you heavy but not uncomfortable. Your mind is too fragile to process anything beyond the immediate sensation of his presence, the way he steadies you without asking for anything in return.

You want to say something, anything, but the words won’t come. You can’t look at him, not yet. The vulnerability feels too raw, too exposed, and you’re not ready to face the look in his eyes, whatever it might be.

The moment lingers, stretching out like an unbroken thread. For now, you let him hold you, let him be the solid presence you so desperately need, even if you don’t feel like you deserve it.

Joel doesn’t let go, not even when your sobs quiet to faint hiccups, not even when the cabin settles into silence, save for the faint crackling of the embers in the fireplace. The warmth of his chest against your cheek is steady, anchoring, as you feel the weight of reality creeping back in.

You shift slightly, your body sore and stiff from the strain of the nightmare. The movement causes his hand to still in your hair. Slowly, as though giving you the chance to pull away if you wanted, he loosens his grip.

“You back with me?” he asks, voice low, barely above a murmur.

You nod, though you still can’t bring yourself to meet his eyes. “Yeah.” Your voice is a rasp, hoarse from screaming.

He lets out a long, heavy breath, like he’s been holding it this entire time. His hands fall to his sides, the absence of his tough leaving you cold and untethered.

“I didn’t mean to…” you start, but the words die on your tongue.

“To what?” Joel’s voice is calm, but there’s something underneath it, something guarded.

“To wake you. To… be like this.” You gesture vaguely to yourself, your chest tightening with shame. “I didn’t mean to—”

“Stop.” The word is firm, cutting through your shame like a blade.

Your eyes snap up to his, and the weight of his gaze pins you in place. His expression is unreadable, a mix of exhaustion, weariness, concern, and something else, something softer, something that tightens the knot in your gut.

“I was getting attacked,” you say, the words slipping out in a barely audible whisper. “And then it—it hurt you, too.”

Joel stiffens slightly, the tension in his frame palpable, but he doesn’t pull away.

“And it…” You stop yourself, the words dying on your tongue. What are you going to say? That you stood there, frozen, as a creature wearing your face tore into him? That it felt more real than the moment you share with him now? 

He doesn’t need another reason not to trust you, not right now.

“You don’t have to apologize,” he says, his tone quieter now.

The sincerity in his words makes your throat tighten. You want to believe him, want to let those words sink into the cracks and empty spaces inside you, but the voice in your mind, the one that whispered to you in the dream, won’t let you.

“Joel…” you say, his name slipping from your lips like a plea, though you don’t know what you’re asking for.

He shakes his head, cutting you off before you can spiral further. His gaze falters, and he rubs a hand over his face, like he’s trying to scrub away the weight of his own exhaustion. When he looks back at you, his eyes are heavy with something raw and unspoken.

“You scared the hell outta me,” he admits, the words gruff but quiet.

The admission hangs in the air between you, and for a moment, you don’t know how to respond. “It was just a dream,” you say finally, though the words feel hollow even as you speak them.

Joel shakes his head again, his jaw tightening. “Sure as hell didn’t sound like just a dream.” His voice dips lower, quieter. “Sounded like…” He trails off, his fingers curling into fists on his knees. “You sure you’re okay?”

“I’m fine,” you say quickly, the lie automatic and instinctual.

Joel’s eyes narrow slightly, the weight of his gaze heavy with doubt. For a moment, you think he’s going to call you on it. But then he leans back, putting just enough distance between you to make the air colder.

“You’re not fine,” he says simply, matter-of-fact. “You don’t gotta be fine all the time.”

The words hit you hard, a lump forming in your throat. You want to tell him that you can’t afford to not be fine, that any weakness could be the difference between survival and death. But you don’t.

Instead, you swallow the lump in your throat and look away, your gaze falling to the flickering embers in the fireplace. “I’m not used to this,” you admit quietly.

Joel doesn’t answer right away, and the silence stretches out long enough that you begin to think he won’t respond at all. But then his voice comes, softer than before. “Used to what?”

“To… someone being there,” you say, the words feeling foreign and awkward, like they don’t quite belong to you.

His gaze lingers on you, and though you can’t bring yourself to meet it, you feel the weight of it, heavy and unwavering. Finally, he nods, like he understands, though he doesn’t say anything more.

“Get some rest,” he says after a moment, his tone gruff but not unkind. “You need it if you’re gonna heal.”

He rises to his feet, and for a fleeting second, you’re tempted to reach out, to ask him to stay. But the words catch in your throat, and you let him go, watching as he moves to the front door of the cabin and settles down on his bedroll.

The silence that follows is thick, but bearable. You lie back down, your eyes fixed on the ceiling, the ghost of Joel’s touch still lingering on your skin. The nightmare clings to the edges of your mind like a shadow, but the memory of his voice, steady and grounding, drowns it out.

You close your eyes and pray, to whoever might be listening, that when sleep comes, it will be kinder this time.

… 

You wake before Joel does, this time from a blessedly dreamless sleep. The room is quiet, save for the faint rustle of wind through the cracks in the cabin walls and the steady rhythm of his breathing.

He’s still where he was last night, propped up against the door, his rifle balanced across his lap, a silent sentinel even in rest. Your protector. Your watchman. The one who bears the weight of both your lives without complaint.

Well, mostly without complaint.

The pale light of early morning softens the hard edges of his face, painting him in cool hues. His brow, so often furrowed in worry or concentration, is smooth now, the tension melted away. His lips, perpetually set in a grim line, part slightly with each quiet breath. He looks younger like this. Peaceful, even. Human.

It strikes you how rare it is to see him like this. The apocalypse doesn’t leave much room for softness or vulnerability, and Joel wears his armor well. But now, in this fleeting moment, you can see the man beneath the layers of grit and survival.

You realize it’s the first time you’ve had a chance to really look at him since everything happened—since the attack, the bloody fight for your life that left you battered in more ways than one. Since your humanity was tainted and your relationship with Joel was irrevocably changed.

Since you told him.

The memory crawls to the surface unbidden, sharp and vivid, a wound that refuses to scab over. You were convinced you were about to die, that your life was seconds away from being snuffed out like the weak, flickering flame of a candle in a storm. And in those desperate, final moments, the walls you’d so carefully built around yourself came crashing down. You told him the truth.

That you loved him.

Even now, you don’t regret it. Not entirely. If death had come for you that night, at least you’d have gone without the weight of those unsaid words pressing against your chest. It had been a release, a final gasp of truth before the void swallowed you whole.

You can’t blame him for how he reacted, either. You hadn’t expected him to say it back—not then, not like that. Joel Miller wasn’t the kind of man to throw words like love around carelessly, and you wouldn’t have wanted him to. A lie, even one meant to comfort you in your last moments, would have been far crueler than his silence.

No, the regret you carry isn’t in what you said, but in the timing. You wish you’d told him sooner, before everything fell apart, before you became this hollow, fractured version of yourself. Would it have made a difference? If you’d reached out that night he lay beside you, so close you could feel the warmth radiating off his body, would he have taken your hand? Would he have pulled you closer instead of pulling away? Could you have built something out of the wreckage of both your lives?

The thought twists something deep in your chest, a sharp ache that feels dangerously close to hope, a feeling you’ve tried to kill in yourself a hundred times over.

And yet, another thought creeps in, darker and more insidious. Wouldn’t it have been easier for both of you if you’d just died that night?

Joel could have moved on, unburdened by the weight of you. You would have been just another ghost in his long history of losses, another name in a growing list of people he couldn’t save. He would have mourned, maybe—probably—but he’s used to mourning. It’s a rhythm he knows well.

And you… You would have been free. Free from this endless fight for survival, free from the gnawing guilt that eats away at you with every passing day. Free from the crushing weight of being both a danger and a burden to the only person who’s stuck by you.

Maybe there’s an afterlife. You’re not sure if you believe in heaven or any kind of promised land where the dead reunite in peace, but even the void of nothingness seems preferable to this. To waking up every day with the knowledge that your continued existence is a liability, a condemnation for some mortal sin you can’t remember committing.

But you didn’t die.

For some reason, some cruel, inexplicable twist of fate, you lived. Others might call it a miracle, a second chance. But in the harsh light of day, you can see it for what it really is.

A punishment.

You pull the blanket tighter around yourself, your gaze lingering on Joel’s sleeping face. He stirs slightly, a faint crease forming between his brows, and you wonder what he’s dreaming about. You hope it’s something good, something far away from this place and this life.

Because you know the truth.

You’re no miracle. You’re a curse.

Taglist:

@eviispunk

@javierpenaispunk

[winwintea]

stolen dance

PAIRING ↬ idol!park jisung x fem!reader

TAGS ↬ romance, fluff, they dance a bit, there is totally no angst, i would never lie!

SUMMARY ↬ jisung has been teaching you how to dance lately. but is it really to teach you or is jisung using these dances as a form of escapism to hold onto a deeper secret?

WORD COUNT ↬ 2.8k words

AUTHOR’S NOTE ↬ in classic winwintea fashion here is jisung's birthday fic <33 suffer.

PLAYLIST ↬ stolen dance - milky chance; show me the meaning of being lonely - backstreet boys

“Alright, alright, one more time!”

Jisung grins, as he claps his hands and beckons you to step back into the middle of the room.

The living room is bathed in the soft amber glow of a single lamp in the corner, casting warm shadows across the room. The faint hum of a speaker plays an upbeat pop track, its rhythm pulsing like a heartbeat through the air. A pile of mismatched socks and sneakers sits abandoned by the couch, proof of your long evening spent dancing. You groan dramatically, flopping onto the couch instead. “I can’t feel my legs anymore, Jisung. This is basically torture.”

“Nope, no quitting!” he says, darting over and tugging you up by the wrists. His hands are warm, steady, and they pull you effortlessly to your feet. “We’re not done until you can at least try to keep up with me.”

You roll your eyes but smile, letting him guide you into position. “I’m only doing this because you’re making me, you know.”

Jisung smirks. “And because you secretly love it. Admit it, you want to keep up with me on stage one day.”

“Oh, sure,” you laugh, stumbling a little as he begins to guide you through a spin. “Me, a world-class dancer. We’re talking about K-pop standards too. Totally believable.”

“Hey, don’t doubt yourself like that!” Jisung says, catching your hand to stop your wobble. “Besides, I’m a great teacher. You’ll be better than me in no time.”

“Better than you? Let’s not get carried away.”

He steps back, giving you a playful once-over. “Okay, fine, maybe not better. But decent. Maybe passable.”

You swat at his shoulder, which only makes him laugh harder.

The music shifts to a softer beat, and Jisung takes a step closer. “Alright, let’s try that one move again. Step left, then cross. No, your other left—”

You fumble the step, tripping slightly, and Jisung reaches out just in time to steady you. His arm loops around your waist, holding you close for a moment.

“Gotcha,” he says softly, his voice losing its teasing edge for a second.

You look up at him, breathless but grinning. “You know, for someone who claims to be a great teacher, you’re not very patient.”

His lips twitch into a smile. “And for someone who says they hate dancing, you’re not as bad as you think.”

The room feels still for a beat, the music fading into the background. Jisung’s dark eyes linger on yours, something unspoken passing between you. It’s the kind of gaze that makes your heart skip, though you can’t quite place why.

“Anyway!” Jisung suddenly blurts, breaking the moment as he steps back with a sheepish grin. “Let’s try again. I’ll slow it down this time, I promise.”

“Good. My feet are already filing a complaint,” you joke, shaking off the strange flutter in your chest.

He grins, taking your hands in his again, and the music picks up once more. The two of you fall into the rhythm, tripping over each other’s feet and laughing so loudly that it drowns out the sound of the song.

The days start to blur together, each evening spent in the same corner of the living room. The small space becomes your personal dance studio, the furniture pushed against the walls to give you just enough room to practice. Jisung shows up every time with the same excitement, the kind that’s so contagious you can’t help but play along.

“Step, step, and pivot—yes! That’s it!” Jisung exclaims, clapping his hands together as you nail the move for the first time. His grin lights up the room.

You beam, sweat dripping down your face, and collapse onto the floor. “Finally! That only took, what, twenty tries?”

Jisung flops down next to you, still full of energy. “More like thirty, but hey, who’s counting?” He nudges you with his shoulder, handing you a water bottle.

You take a long sip and gasp dramatically. “I didn’t sign up for this boot camp, you know. What happened to ‘just a fun dance session’?”

Jisung leans back on his hands, smirking. “This is fun! Besides, you’re getting so much better. Look at you, two weeks ago, you couldn’t even figure out which foot was your left.”

“Wow, thanks,” you deadpan, though your smile betrays your mock annoyance.

The next night, the routine continues. The two of you move in near-perfect sync as Jisung teaches you a new routine to a faster song. Your steps are cleaner, your turns sharper, and when you finish the sequence without a single mistake, you both cheer so loudly the neighbor downstairs bangs on their ceiling.

“Oops,” you whisper, covering your mouth to stifle your giggles.

Jisung shrugs, unbothered. “Worth it. You nailed that!” He holds up a hand for a high-five, which you give him, laughing at how proud he looks.

But as the days pass, you begin to notice how your progress isn’t the only thing changing.

One evening, as you struggle through a particularly tricky move, Jisung stops mid-step. His gaze drifts off toward the window, his body going still.

“Jisung?” you call, snapping your fingers in front of his face. “Earth to Jisung?”

He blinks, shaking his head quickly. “Sorry, what? Did you say something?”

You frown. “You spaced out. Everything okay?”

“Yeah, yeah,” he says with a too-bright smile, waving you off. “Just tired, I guess.” He grabs the remote and cranks up the music. “Come on, let’s run it again.”

You hesitate but decide not to press him.

Later, after another exhausting session, you collapse on the couch, panting. “I’m done. For real this time. My legs are basically jelly.”

Jisung sits beside you, his gaze soft as he watches you. “You’re really doing great, you know.”

“Flattery won’t get you anywhere,” you joke, but the sincerity in his voice makes your heart skip.

“I mean it,” he says, his tone quieter now. “I just... I like seeing you like this. Happy. Laughing.”

You glance over at him, and for a moment, he looks... sad, though the expression vanishes almost as quickly as it appeared.

“You okay?” you ask cautiously.

“Of course,” he says, forcing a grin. “Why wouldn’t I be? You’re stuck with me, remember?”

“Lucky me,” you tease, but his words stick with you as the night goes on.

The dance sessions grow more frequent, his enthusiasm almost desperate. Every moment feels heavier, though you can’t quite figure out why. You catch him watching you sometimes, his smile softer, as though he’s trying to memorize the way you move, the sound of your laugh.

“What?” you ask one night when his eyes linger too long.

“Nothing,” he says quickly, spinning you around before you can press further. “Just... don’t stop dancing, okay?”

You laugh, brushing it off, but there’s something in his voice that makes you wonder what he’s not telling you.

The music echoes softly through the living room as you and Jisung move together, your steps slightly out of sync but improving with each pass. The rhythm feels effortless now, the usual fumbling replaced by a newfound fluidity. You’re laughing, breathless but exhilarated, when the sharp buzz of Jisung’s phone cuts through the song.

It vibrates insistently on the counter, the screen lighting up in the dim room.

“Hold on,” Jisung mutters, his usual smile faltering as he jogs over to check it. He picks up the phone and stares at the screen, his expression shifting to something unreadable.

You wipe your forehead with the hem of your shirt, catching your breath. “What is it?” you ask, noticing the way he hesitates.

Jisung’s thumb hovers over the screen, and for a moment, he doesn’t answer. Then, in a voice that’s a little too casual, he says, “It’s nothing. Just a friend checking in.”

You tilt your head, unconvinced. “Must be a pretty intense message to make you zone out like that.”

He glances at you quickly, forcing a small smile. “It’s not important. I’ll deal with it later. Come on, let’s not lose our momentum.” He sets the phone back down, face down this time, and crosses the room toward you.

Before you can say anything, he reaches for your hands and pulls you into a hug. It’s sudden, uncharacteristic, and tight. Tighter than his usual playful embraces. You blink, caught off guard.

“Uh, Jisung? You good?”

He doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he buries his face against your shoulder, his grip unyielding. When he finally speaks, his voice is soft, almost fragile. “I’m just... really proud of you, you know? You’ve worked so hard.”

The hug lasts longer than it should, and something in his tone feels off. You try to pull back slightly to look at him, but he only holds on tighter.

“Jisung, what’s going on?”

He shakes his head against your shoulder and releases you just as abruptly as he hugged you. “Nothing. Seriously. Don’t worry about it.” His smile is back, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Now, come on. Let’s run through it again. You were so close to getting it perfect!”

“Are you sure you’re okay?” you press, still watching him carefully.

“Of course I am,” he says quickly, bouncing on his toes to reset the mood. “Now, less talking, more dancing!”

You hesitate but eventually let it go, letting him take your hand and spin you back into position. Yet, as the music starts up again, you can’t shake the nagging feeling that there’s more to the text than he’s letting on.

On the counter, Jisung’s phone buzzes again, the screen lighting up briefly before going dark. The message still sits there: "You ready to see her?"

The rhythmic click of Jisung’s shoes echoes down the hospital hallway, a stark contrast to the sterile silence that surrounds him. His hands are stuffed into his jacket pockets, clenched tightly as if to keep himself from shaking. The confidence and playfulness that had defined him earlier in the living room are gone, replaced by a hollow, heavy weight in his chest.

He pauses outside the door to a room, staring at the small plaque on the wall with your name printed neatly on it. His heart hammers in his chest as he exhales shakily, steeling himself before finally pushing the door open.

The fluorescent lights overhead hum faintly, casting an unforgiving brightness across the room. Machines beep softly, their rhythm steady and monotonous. And there you are. Completely motionless in the hospital bed, your face pale, your body almost swallowed by the thin blankets. Tubes and wires tether you to the machines keeping you stable, their presence stark and invasive.

Jisung freezes in the doorway, the sight of you knocking the air from his lungs.

“Hey,” he says softly, his voice cracking. He steps closer, his movements hesitant and unsteady. The sound of the door clicking shut behind him feels deafening.

He lowers himself into the chair by your bedside, his trembling hands reaching for yours. Your skin is cold, unmoving, and his grip tightens instinctively, as though holding on to you will keep you from slipping further away.

“I’m here,” he whispers, his voice barely audible. “I’m here, so… you can wake up now, okay?”

The only response is the steady beep of the heart monitor.

Jisung leans forward, pressing his forehead against the back of your hand. His shoulders begin to shake as tears spill over, falling silently onto the thin hospital sheet.

“You know,” he chokes out, his voice thick with emotion, “I taught you how to dance. I mean, not perfectly, but we were getting there. You were laughing so much, and—” He stops, his breath hitching as the reality of his words catches up to him.

Because it wasn’t real.

The living room, the music, the laughter— it was all in his head. His imagination, his desperate mind, had conjured you up to fill the unbearable silence you’d left behind.

“I just…” His voice cracks again as he squeezes your hand. “I just wanted to see you smile. To hear you laugh. Even if it wasn’t real.”

The weight of the truth crashes down on him, suffocating and relentless. His mind replays every moment of the past few weeks—the way he had clung to the image of you, teaching you to dance, pretending everything was okay.

His tears flow freely now, soaking into the fabric of your blanket as he clutches your hand like a lifeline. The room feels unbearably quiet, the sound of the machines and his muffled cries the only noises breaking the stillness.

He sits there for what feels like hours, talking to you about everything and nothing—how much he misses you, how much he needs you to come back.

“Please,” he whispers, his voice raw, “don’t let this be the end. 

But you don’t move. Not yet. And Jisung can only sit there, crumbling under the weight of his grief, as reality continues to sink its claws into him.

“I thought…” His voice cracks, and he pauses, choking back a sob. He grips your hand tighter, as if that alone could anchor him in this unbearable moment. “I thought I could bring you back. Even if it wasn’t real—” His words catch in his throat, and he pulls his hands to his face, muffling the anguished cry that escapes him.

Tears stream down his face as he looks back at you, his expression one of complete devastation. “It felt real,” he whispers, his voice raw and broken. “You were laughing. You were dancing. It was like… like you were still here with me.”

He lets out a shuddering breath, pressing his forehead against your hand as he begins to unravel completely. “I just wanted one more dance with you,” he says, the words slipping out in a strangled sob.

The silence in the room presses against him, suffocating and unrelenting. His shoulders shake as he cries, the weight of the last few weeks crashing down on him all at once.

“I don’t know what to do without you,” he confesses, his voice thick with grief. “You were the one who kept me grounded. When everything felt too hard, you… you were my anchor. You gave me a reason to keep going.”

He lifts his head slightly, his tear-streaked face staring at your still form. “And now…” His voice falters, his lips trembling as he struggles to find the words. “Now I don’t even know who I am without you.”

His gaze drops to your hand in his, his fingers tracing over yours with a tenderness that breaks his heart all over again. “Dancing with you, even in my head… it kept me going. It made me feel like maybe… maybe you were still with me.”

He swallows hard, the lump in his throat refusing to go away. “But they stole it from us,” he whispers, his voice barely audible. “They stole our dance.”

The words hang in the air, heavy and final, as Jisung lets out another ragged sob. His grief pours out of him uncontrollably, raw and unfiltered, as he buries his face in his hands.

The walls of the hospital room seem to close in around him, the sterile brightness only amplifying the darkness he feels inside. He leans forward, pressing his lips gently to the back of your hand, his tears falling onto your skin.

“Please,” he begs, his voice breaking. “Please come back to me. I don’t care how long it takes. Just… come back.”

His words are met with the same unyielding stillness, the heart monitor’s steady rhythm the only response. And so he sits there, broken and lost, holding on to you as tightly as he can, afraid to let go of the only piece of you he has left.

“I don’t know how much longer I can do this,” he whispers, his voice hoarse from crying. He looks down at your hand, his tear-filled eyes blurring the sight of your still fingers. “I want to believe you’ll wake up, but… what if you don’t?”

The question lingers in the air, heavy and suffocating. He lets his head fall forward, his forehead pressing against your hand as his shoulders slump in defeat. “I’m so scared,” he murmurs, barely audible. “Scared that I’ve already lost you.”

For a moment, the only sound is the steady beeping of the heart monitor.

And then it happens.

A faint movement—so subtle he almost misses it.

Your fingers twitch beneath his.

Jisung freezes, his breath catching in his throat. His head snaps up, his wide, tear-streaked eyes darting to your hand. “Y/N?” he whispers, his voice trembling with a mix of hope and disbelief.

He watches, his heart pounding in his chest, as your fingers twitch again—just the slightest motion, but enough to send a jolt through his entire body.

“Y/N!” he says again, louder this time, his grip tightening around your hand. He leans forward, his eyes darting between your hand and your face, searching desperately for any other sign of movement.

The heart monitor continues its steady rhythm, the faint beeping echoing in the room as the scene begins to fade.

“Please,” he whispers one last time, his voice breaking. “Please come back to me.”

TAGLIST ↬ @lyvhie @aquaphoenixz @galacticnct @yizhrt @polarisjisung @multifandomania @spacejip @peterm4rker @viasdreams @mango-bear

[biggiebooboo]

**Title: New Beginnings**

It had been a rough few months since you decided to leave your old apartment. Things had fallen apart with your old roommate, and finding somewhere new felt like the only way to hit reset. The ad for a room in a shared apartment in the city caught your attention. The price was reasonable, and the place seemed decent enough—though, of course, you weren’t expecting much. Still, it was an upgrade from your last place.

You clicked on the listing, and there it was: "Room available in a shared apartment. Quiet, respectful environment preferred." You felt a sense of relief that the ad didn’t list anything like "party central," something you had definitely had enough of in the past. You shot a quick message to the landlord, and within hours, you had a response. He seemed nice enough, providing all the details and suggesting you meet the current tenant.

A quick glance at the name on the listing—**Simon Riley**—didn't tell you much. You weren't exactly expecting a celebrity to show up at the door. But you were curious.

On the day you were scheduled to meet, you stood outside the building, a slight mix of excitement and nerves building inside. The apartment was in a quieter area, nestled between a coffee shop and a small park. It was the kind of place you imagined the city’s residents would go to escape the noise, not necessarily where the action was, but close enough to it all.

You buzzed in, walking up the stairs to the second floor. When you reached the apartment door, you hesitated. Was this a mistake? But before you could second-guess yourself any longer, the door swung open, revealing the man who would soon be your new roommate.

Simon stood in the doorway. He was tall, his broad frame filling the space with a quiet confidence. The way his body was angled, slightly leaning against the doorframe, gave off an almost unapproachable vibe. His expression was unreadable, his eyes hidden beneath the shadow of his dark, scruffy hair. But it was his presence—the way he seemed to command the room—that immediately grabbed your attention.

"Hi," you said awkwardly, extending a hand.

He looked at your hand, but then gave a small nod, not offering his own. "You’re here about the room, right?"

"Yeah, that’s me," you replied, trying to shake off the nerves that had suddenly settled in your chest. "I’m Y/N."

"Simon," he responded simply, stepping aside to let you in.

As you stepped into the apartment, you took in your surroundings. It was cozy—neat, but lived in. The walls were decorated sparsely, with some military-looking gear tucked in the corner of the room. It didn’t take a genius to figure out Simon had a history that went beyond simple day-to-day living.

"You can take a look around, get a feel for the place," Simon said, his voice low but inviting. "Kitchen's there, living room’s that way, and that's your room if you decide to stay."

You moved into the living room, glancing at the bookshelf. The titles were all over the place, but some of them stood out. There were books on history, military strategy, and a few graphic novels tucked into the mix. Nothing particularly out of place, but there was something about the way Simon kept his things that felt… off-kilter, almost guarded.

"Everything looks good," you said, looking over at Simon, who was leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed. His eyes, though hard to read, seemed to be studying you. "I mean, it’s quiet enough for me."

He gave a short nod, and then the silence stretched out between you two. It wasn’t uncomfortable, but there was a tension that lingered. Something about Simon was intimidating, but not in a way that screamed danger. It was more like he was someone who had seen too much, someone who knew things that the rest of the world didn’t. And somehow, you were just too curious to back away.

"You said the room’s available now," you said, breaking the silence. "I’m looking to move in as soon as possible."

"Right," Simon responded, his voice just a touch more relaxed now. "There’s no rush, but if you want to move in, we can work out the details."

You both stood there for a moment before Simon gestured to the room you’d be renting. It was small but functional, with a simple bed, dresser, and a small desk by the window. It wasn’t glamorous, but it felt like it would be comfortable enough.

"So," Simon said, pulling you from your thoughts. "You’re good to stay?"

You hesitated for a moment, your mind racing through the pros and cons. Everything was moving so quickly, but something about Simon seemed like it would make this work.

"Yeah," you said, finally. "I’ll take it."

***

The next few days passed by in a blur as you moved in. Simon kept to himself mostly, but he was polite enough. He didn’t intrude on your space, but he was also always around when you needed something. Whether it was the way he helped you with your furniture or simply the small, thoughtful gestures like offering you a drink when he noticed you were tired, there was something about him that made you feel at ease in a strange way.

One evening, you were sitting at the kitchen table, unpacking your last box when Simon walked in, fresh from a long day at work, his boots clomping heavily against the wooden floor. He had a rough look about him—his face scruffy, his clothes slightly worn. He looked like he belonged to a different world, one that you could never quite figure out.

"You settled in okay?" he asked, his deep voice filling the silence.

"Yeah, everything’s fine," you replied, giving him a small smile. "Thanks for the help with all the boxes."

He shrugged. "No problem."

You sat in silence for a moment before Simon opened the fridge, pulling out a bottle of beer. He glanced over at you as he twisted off the cap.

"Drink?" he asked, offering you the bottle.

"Sure," you said, accepting it. You had no idea why you felt so comfortable around him, but you did. Maybe it was the way he didn’t try to force conversation, but still made you feel welcomed in his own quiet way.

For the rest of the evening, you and Simon sat at the kitchen table, drinking and talking about anything and everything. The more you spoke, the more you realized there was a depth to him that you couldn’t quite figure out. He spoke little about himself, but the little details he let slip hinted at a life that was far from ordinary.

He told you about his past—his military service, the places he’d been, and the things he’d seen. He was quiet about certain aspects, but there was something about the way he spoke that made you feel like you were hearing the truth. The more he shared, the more you wanted to know.

It wasn’t long before you realized just how drawn to him you were. There was a magnetism about Simon, something beyond his looks. He didn’t try to impress you. He didn’t need to. It was in the way he carried himself, in his self-assuredness, that made him stand out.

One night, after a particularly deep conversation about his past, Simon got up and walked toward the kitchen window. He looked out into the night, his back to you, as if lost in his own thoughts. You stood, walking over to him.

"Is everything alright?" you asked softly.

He turned his head, catching your gaze for the first time that evening. His expression was unreadable. For a moment, he didn’t speak. Then, in a low voice, he finally said, "Yeah. Just… thinking about stuff. It’s been a long road."

You nodded, not sure if you should push further. You respected his space, but the curiosity about Simon Riley burned within you. You’d just met him, but you felt like there was so much more to uncover.

You had only just scratched the surface.

"Well, you’re not alone," you said, offering him a soft smile.

Simon gave you a rare, almost imperceptible smile back. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to make your heart race a little.

Maybe living with Simon Riley wouldn’t just be about surviving in the city. Maybe it would be about discovering new things—about him, about yourself, and about whatever this strange connection was between you two.

It felt like a new beginning.

[lis-likes-fics]

In Beauty

Pairing: Oberyn Martell x wife!Reader Word Count: 2.9k words Prompt: Breeding Warnings: NSFW, smut, breeding, creampie, multiple orgasms, fingering, oral (f!receiving), unprotected sex, swearing... A/N: I love this man, he's so scrumptious. Thank you and enjoy!

Your hand gently squeezes Oberyn’s arm as you walk beside him, the vendors on the street giving a bow of their heads as you tread through the busy market. You are surrounded by the people of Sunspear, fruits and vegetables and all kinds of goods everywhere you look beneath the blazing sun of Dorne.

You are happy with the sun as it warms your skin, the gold of your gown glowing under its light. Oberyn gazes at you, a smile on his face as he admires your beauty.

“I can feel you looking, my love,” you smile, guiding him toward a booth of oranges. You pick one up and smooth your thumb along the dimpled skin.

“How can I resist when you are as beautiful as the Dornish shores?” He kisses your temple, and you preen under his affection as you fish a coin from your purse and hand it to the vendor with a grateful smile.

Before you can even begin to peel it, he takes the fruit from your hand and pierces the skin with his thumb. You chuckle, looking up at his face and admiring the curve of his nose. “My husband, the poet.”

He laughs, discarding orange peels aside as he walks to feed the earth. “You flatter me, my dear.” He hands you an orange slice, and you take it gratefully. It bursts in your mouth, its juice rich and sweet.

You hum, “I tell only the truth.”

You hear the giggle of some kids as they run through the streets. A few people grumble as they bump into a few things along the way, but they care little, continuing to run wild.

Upon seeing you, their eyes widen in wonder and their faces split with awestruck smiles.

“Princess!” a tiny voice chirps, and the others join in the excitement as they rush over.

Boys and girls surround the two of you, laughing and gasping as they admire you. “Hello, princess!” “You are so beautiful!” “Move! I was here first!”

You laugh excitedly, bending down to pick up one of the girls. She has soft, curly hair and a button nose, with dark eyes that look brown in the sun. You set her on her hip, smiling as you look around at them.

“Look at how beautiful you all are!” You exclaim. She giggles, covering her face with her palm. “Are you behaving, my darlings?”

They all shout their agreements, nodding their heads. Oberyn steps aside to give you their attention, watching with stars in his eyes. Another girl holds out a tiny hand, clutching onto a pretty flower. “Here, princess!” she says. “For you!”

You gasp, taking the flower from her. “Thank you very much, lovely girl.” She giggles, holding her hands behind her back. You turn to the girl on your hip. “Would you be so kind and put this behind my ear?”

She does so gladly, taking the flower and setting it there with a slightly clumsy hand. She smiles widely. “So pretty,” she coos.

You tilt your head. “Oh, thank you. You know something?” She watches you imploringly. “You are so, so gorgeous, and I want you to remember that. Can you do that for me?”

She nods emphatically, her hair bouncing with each movement. “Yeah!”

“Good,” you hum, tucking some hair behind her ear. “Now all of you do me a favor, will you?” They all agree immediately.

“Each of you take one of these,” you reach for your purse, opening it and holding it out for them, “and go buy yourselves something really nice. Can you do that?”

They gasp as their eyes light up, happily reaching in and grabbing a coin with loud thanks and goodbyes. You set the girl on her feet, kissing her forehead before letting them all go with a wave.

Oberyn’s arm curls around your waist as you replace your purse. “You are quite good with them,” he muses, staring down at you lovingly. “The children always love you.”

You turn toward him, your hands on his as you smile. “Maybe one day one of our own will love me?” you quip, raising a teasing brow.

He chuckles. “My dear, I intend to have a litter of princes and princesses running around Dorne with your smile.”

You chuckle back to him, twirling out of his hold with your hands clasped together. You pull him gently along the path, your head high and your heart pounding.

“Well, it is never too early to start trying.”

~

Oberyn has your back against a wall in no time, tucked between your legs with one over his shoulder and the other struggling to hold yourself up. His hands stroke your thighs, pulling your hips closer to his mouth as you grab at his hair and his broad shoulders for something to hold onto.

“Oberyn,” you moan, your jaw twitching as it falls open in bliss. “You are so good.”

You can feel the curve of his smile against your folds, his tongue darting out to lick between them as he tastes the sweetness that leaks out of you. “That is it, my love,” he purrs against your cunt. “Tell me how good you feel...”

You grind your hips lightly into his face, not bothering to stifle any moans, especially in the comfort of your chambers. Your legs feel weak, like butter melting under the heat of his touch. His tongue delves inside of you as his nose nudges your pearl, needy and pulsing for more of him.

A breath catches in your throat. “Oh, fuck. Keep going.” He answers you with a flicking tongue at your sensitive pearl, licking and sucking and trying his best to pull you closer and closer to the precipice.

“Let me taste you,” he pleads, his voice strained as he continues to work at the pleasure coursing through you.

Your back arches and your hips buck against his mouth as the pleasure snaps like lightning, shocking your system as you gasp his name. He devours you, hungry for every part of you that you have to offer. His hands grip at your flesh as you shudder against him. You moan helplessly, his insistent licking driving you toward oversensitivity until your shudders are quick jerks that make pull his head back by his curls.

Oberyn paints you in loving kisses, all over your thighs and your knees and your folds as he waits for your eyes to crackle open once more to take him in. You look down at him, smiling hazily and running your fingers through his soft hair.

“You always enjoy that far too much, I think,” you chuckle, catching your breath still.

Oberyn presses a long kiss to the bend of your knee, standing to his feet and stroking your sides as he goes. “I do not believe that would be possible.” He envelopes you in a deep kiss, one full of passion and desire as he grabs at naked skin.

You wrap your arms around his shoulders, breathing him in with a content sigh. You feel his hands dip down and brace yourself as he hoists you up with your arms wrapping tightly around his waist. You smile, continuing to press kisses into any skin your lips can find.

He carries you away, only to lay you down on the bed. His body never leaves yours, pressed flush against you as you share in each other's heat. You taste his lips, humming and sighing as he loves on you, letting his warm hands roam your warm body until you feel pliant beneath him.

“How many were you considering for the first carry?” he whispers against your throat. With a gentle kiss, he smiles. “I was thinking two or three.”

You throw your head back into the plush bed, letting out a hearty laugh. Your hands wrap around the back of his neck and the muscle of his bicep. “Only one,” you insist. “The first will already tear me apart, I don't need to be torn twice as much.”

He kisses along your jaw, painting you in them and warming you from the inside out. “No matter,” he says. “Either way, I shall give you a Martell baby that will be as beautiful as you and I.” He slips a hand down your thigh, dipping between them as he drags a finger along your slit.

Your breath hitches, caught on his touch. His mouth parts as yours does, curving into a lustful grin that breaks off with another hum.

He curls them within you, pumping them slowly as your arousal gathers on his fingers. Your brows furrow, and he cannot help but to admire your beauty as you lay beneath him, eager to feel everything he has to offer.

“I hope you do not mind if I wish for it to take a few tries,” your words break off into a whimper as he retracts his fingers. He sets them between his lips, sucking them clean. “I would very much like to continue enjoying you for as long as possible.”

He lifts his head, dragging his hand to your hip and encouraging your leg around his waist. “Oh, my paramour,” he purrs, hissing through his teeth as he strokes his cock two slow times. “Do you really think a bigger belly will stop me from having you?”

You breathe in shakily as he slowly pushes his cock inside of you, filling you inch by glorious inch. Your head tips back, hands tangled in his hair. You relish in the feeling of the stretch, drunk on the feeling.

He rocks his hips slowly, staring at your face and watching the way it twists and shifts through your pleasure. “I intend on fucking you over and over and over again.” His voice is soft and soothing, but deep in his chest. You listen to him with breathless moans.

“Oberyn.”

“I will watch you grow round with my babe. I will watch this belly swell until you can do no more than sit all day.” His thrusts slowly increase in speed and strength, spurred on by his own words and his own thoughts. “I will continue to touch you, and taste you, and fuck you until the babe comes. And once you've healed, I will take you again and again until you are pregnant once more.”

By now, he's holding you still as he fucks into you. You are dizzy with pleasure, with racing thoughts all swarming with Oberyn and his intoxicating words. One of his hands plays over your belly as he thrusts into you with stifled grunts, the other holding you close to him as he watches you dissolve.

Your lips graze one another, too hazy to make full contact but too eager not to touch. You wrap your legs tightly around his waist and let him have his way with deep, fervid thrusts.

“Oh, my love,” you moan, back arching, fingers numbing. “Keep fucking me, put your child in me.”

His voice is deep, rougher now with the growing lust circling his throat. His thrusts are so deep that you see glistening stars behind your eyelids with each stroke. His hands continue to travel along your body, eager to hold you and to feel you and to enjoy the way you shudder and fall apart.

“I am going to breed this delicious cunt,” he promises. His words drop lower, a darker intent that has gooseflesh rising along your skin. “I am going to fill your womb with my cum and keep fucking it into you to ensure you become pregnant with our child.”

His thrusts are faster, filling the air with slick sounds made of the intense smacks of skin against skin. You hold him close and moan in the short space between you, nearly choking every time he drives his cock so far into you that you feel like you can no longer breathe. His hands caress your skin, groping your breast just to roll and flick your nipple between eager fingers.

You are breathless, struggling to keep up as the pleasure swarms in your head and in your bones, coursing through your veins until you feel like the sandy beaches of Dorne, letting the tides lap over you in large, consuming sweeps.

Oberyn lifts one of your legs onto his shoulder, the other following quickly before pressing his thumb to your clit. The new angle allows him to go deeper, the blunt head of his cock punching against a place that makes your lips part, open moans flooding the air.

“Oh, fuck,” you gasp. “S-so deep, so good.”

He leans down, essentially folding your body in half. He gathers your wrists in one hand and lifts them over your head. “Take it, my love. Take it all for me,” he rasps.

You flutter around him as he coaxes you closer and closer to this blissful high. Your hips buck into him, meeting his thrusts with an eagerness that matches his rhythm, which slowly becomes less and less nuanced as he gets closer to reaching his own high.

Your lips form an “O”, and he watches your eyes screw shut, watches your body arch and your brows pinch. He leans farther down, his lips hovering over yours.

“Look at me,” he says, a quiet purr upon your skin. “I want you to see me when you come apart. I want you to see me as I fill you so full of my cum that it leaks down your legs when you walk the streets of Dorne, so everyone knows that you are mine and I am yours.”

His words are sending you into a frenzy. You can hardly think straight as you imagine it—him holding you close, dressed as a royal, skin bathing in the sunlight as the people around you bow down while his seed leaks from your womb.

“Oberyn,” you moan, your lashes fluttering as you struggle to keep your eyes open. He is so beautiful, especially like this: with flushed skin and parted lips and lust-blown eyes. “So close. I’m so close.”

“Keep watching me, darling. Keep looking me in the eyes,” he huffs. He lets go of your wrists in favor of brushing his fingertips along your jaw as his thumb keeps circling your clit, tightening that knot in your belly so ready to snap.

It catches you by surprise—which catches him by surprise. You gasp, your lips parting in a wide shape as you stare into the depths of his eyes. He breathes in with you, mirroring your desire with all the love included. The pleasure is a rolling tidal wave that drowns you in ecstasy until you cry out.

His hips stutter as they fuck into you with a few last thrusts, filling you to the brim with his love for you. “Perfect.” His voice is strained, heightened by a pitch or two as the bliss chokes him. He pumps you full, the warmth spreading through your body until all you know is heat.

He mutters something or another under his breath, caught on the moment and the pleasure as you both ride your eyes together with the occasional sloppy kiss, breathing each other's air and sharing each other's desires.

Your body aches and shudders as you finally come down, the clenching and the tightening and the crashing settling into something bearable. You lay against the bed, finally noticing the sheen of sweat coating your flesh and his as you continue to soak in the other's heat.

He stays inside you, letting your legs off his shoulders and easing them instead around his waist. He leans some of his weight on you, a comfortable amount that has you sighing longingly and limply holding him close.

When you tilt your head tiredly, he guides it back. “No, no, keep looking at me. I want you to remember this.” His voice is soft, a loving lull as he smiles down at you. “I want you to remember the moment we made our first child. How good it felt,” he presses a kiss to your collarbone, “how close we were,” he kisses your neck, “how well you did for me,” a gentle, slow kiss to your lips, “how much I love you.”

You smile lazily, pulling him back in for another long kiss. If he focuses hard enough, he can still faintly taste the orange on your tongue. “I love you, my heart,” you whisper against his lips, giving another chaste kiss.

He hums, finally, reluctantly pulling out of your sopping cunt with a sigh. He eases onto his side wrapping his arms around you. “You must stay in your back a little while longer, my dear,” he says. He pulls you close to him, nuzzling into your neck as his nose presses into your shoulder.

You hum. “It still might take a few tries,” you whisper. “We must be certain it has taken root...” You smirk over at him, raising a tired hand to push a lock of dark hair from his forehead.

His hand falls to your belly, his thumb stroking lightly. He smiles when you clasps your hands together, holding them there and staring at each other like the world no longer exists outside of the other.

“Believe me,” he says, “we will not stop trying even after our maesters know for certain that you hold a babe in your beautiful belly.”

Your smile is almost as devious as his. “Oh, well… If it must be done.” Your noses nudge before joining him in another kiss.

Pedro Pascal taglist: @watercolorskyy @queermaxwooo @papichulo120627 @kmc1989 @the-nerdy-goddess @minigirl87 @notzammm @motopoppp @lover-of-books-and-tea @feyresqueen @quickslvxrr @hc-geralt-23 Ice and Fire taglist: @divinearchangel @alexxavicry @katsukis1wife @kmc1989 @the-nerdy-goddess @urmomsgirlfriend1 @ireallydontcareanymorebrooo @lover-of-books-and-tea @avalyaaa @rozendiors @seabasscevans @hc-geralt-23

[t00tsmcgee]

Rook as a companion fic, scene excerpt: Spite learns how to paint

Scene written with my Rook Calais as the eight companion. Read more about him here!

Scene is a takeout of a larger Rookanis fic that I'm writing so this is a bit of an experiment. If this does well I'll post a few more scenes on here!

-

Cal was a few minutes into his painting exercise when the door of the pantry opened and a sleepy Lucanis came out. “Oh, hello. You’re back already.” he said, surprised. “Yeah.” Cal said, a little short. Lucanis frowned, cocked his head, but didn’t inquire further, walking over to the kitchen counter for coffee first. Of course. “Here, looks like you need it.” he said, coming over after finishing brewing coffee for both of them and putting the cup next to Cal. Cal couldn’t hold on to his anger in the face of such a kind gesture, smiling gratefully at Lucanis. “Thank you, Lucanis.” “You’re welcome.” Lucanis smiled and took a seat on the table next to Cal. “I thought painting was supposed to be relaxing.” he pointed vaguely at Cal’s tense frown. “Usually it is. Today I’m just trying to keep the demons at bay.” Cal sighed, deflating a little. “What?” Spite chimed in. “I’m not doing anything!” Cal chuckled. “Sorry, Spite, I didn’t mean you. I more meant my personal demons. Bad thoughts.” “What bad thoughts?” Lucanis asked. “Did you not have fun last night with Emmrich?” “Oh no, it was great. I had a lovely time.” Cal said. “Perhaps too lovely.” “Talk to me.” Lucanis said, openly looking at Cal.

“Everything was perfect, Lucanis. Exactly as it should be. But I ruined it with my feelings.” Cal sighed. “Emmrich was very clear on the arrangement. It was going to be one night only.” “Right. But.. you felt different.” Lucanis said. “I foolishly thought we had something special. He and I always talk so easily, make each other laugh, understand each other in a way no one else does.” Cal sighed. “And I guess I was dumb enough to think maybe he felt like that too. So when we got back this morning I asked him if he really was set on it being a one time thing. That I was open to it being more than that.” he took a sip of his coffee, letting the hot liquid settle his nerves a bit. “And he rejected you.” Lucanis concluded. There was a little contempt in his frown, but it quickly disappeared. “I’m sorry.” “Thank you. I suppose it’s my own stupid fault though.” Cal said. “I knew the terms.” “Don’t be so hard on yourself. What you said is true, you and Emmrich are usually like butter and toast. I can’t begin to guess why he would reject you, but I know that what you feel isn’t stupid.” Lucanis assured him with a gentle smile. “Sometimes things just aren’t meant to be.” “I guess. But the rejection hurt more than I like to admit. It made me feel.. small. Like I wasn’t enough. That’s why I’m here, painting the feelings out. That’s why I was frowning so hard.” Cal smiled sadly. “It’s hard to feel useless when you’re creating something.”

Lucanis looked a little lost on what to say, but Spite had a word of wisdom as usual. “Useless? No, never useless! Create in spite of what he said. Prove your worth. But you are already enough. Like pennies in a jar.” Cal laughed a little. “Thanks Spite.” “He has such a way with words.” Lucanis smiled when he saw Cal smile as well. “He’s right though. You’re never useless. Always enough. You bring joy with your presence, your smile.” “Thank you. Both of you.” Cal smiled warmly. “I really appreciate the support. I’ll be fine. Just need to get over myself for a bit.” “And painting helps?” Lucanis asked. “It does. It’s calming. I like the feeling of the brush on the canvas, thinking of what colours to use and mix, plan out a painting step by step.” Cal explained. “You can try, if you want?” “Yes, try!” Spite was clearly excited. “Sure, why not?” Lucanis said, indulging him. “I should warn you though, I don’t have an inch of artistic talent.” “It’s not about talent, or about what you make. Its about expression. As long as you’re conveying what you’re feeling, it doesn’t matter how ‘good’ it is. If its worth doing, then its worth doing badly, too.” Cal smiled, Lucanis surprised by that little bit of wisdom at the end. “I suppose you’re right.” he said. “Well, I suppose it can’t hurt to try.” “What do you want to paint, you think?” Cal asked. “You.” Lucanis said, honestly. “How I see you. Well, I mean, I’ll try.” “Oh, okay.” Cal said. “Then I’ll paint you, if that’s alright?” “Yours will be better.” Lucanis smirked. “But it’s the thought that counts right?” “It is.” Cal agreed. “Can Spite use objects in his latent shape?” “Yes, I can if you are near! I want to paint too!” Spite proclaimed with his usual smirk. “Hold on, I’ll get you set up.” Cal said, grabbing a canvas and putting it on the table for Spite to use. He put his older brushes there for him, the ones that wouldn’t suffer much for a bit of abuse, the hairs already starting to split. “There you go. Just dip your brush in water first before you grab paint.” he said, Spite eager to do so. It must have looked strange for anyone walking in, Cal and Lucanis painting, and a third canvas being assaulted by a floating brush. But Cal actually found a sense of peace in it, and the bad thoughts left him as he kept looking at Lucanis’ face for reference. The portrait was turning out quite nicely, and he couldn’t help but feel curious as to how Lucanis’ painting was going. Lucanis kept looking at him too, Cal smiling whenever their eyes met. There was something to it, he found, feeling the stirrings of something beneath the surface at Lucanis’ slow smile. Or was that just because he was still emotional from this morning? He probably couldn’t really trust his own feelings right now, but it was nice to take his mind off of this with someone he liked and trusted. Even Spite seemed to be having a good time, happily painting away. At first the strokes were big and aggressive but he seemed to hone in now, scribbling with a smaller brush. “What are you painting, Spite?” Cal said, seeing him so focused on his canvas. “Home.” Spite said, and the longing in his voice was clear. “Can I see?” Cal asked. “If you want, yes.” Spite said. He still seemed a little awkward but Cal was glad for the trust that was clearly returning after their earlier mishap. He came over to look at Spite’s painting, surprised to see how well he’d managed to represent the fade with colours and shapes, even if they were more abstract than how a humanoid would have done. “Spite, that’s beautiful.” Cal said, taking in the painting. Lucanis joined him, curious to see it as well. He seemed surprised, eyebrows rising. “I had no idea he could do this.” “I love the colours you used, very expressive.” Cal smiled when he saw Spite’s giddy grin. “I like painting!” Spite proclaimed with enthusiasm. “Giving shapes and colours to feelings and thoughts!” he wiggled excitedly. “I want to paint more!”

“Of course, here I have another canvas you can use.” Cal said, giving it to Spite, who was as happy as a child with a new toy. “I’ve never seen him like this.” Lucanis said, almost in awe as they returned to their own canvasses. “He’s so happy, so calm.” “We all need a hobby to express ourself.” Cal smiled. “Even spirits.”

“I wonder what he did before to express himself.” Lucanis said. “Can I see how you’re doing?” “Sure. It’s not finished by a long shot, though.” Cal said, standing aside to show Lucanis his painting. Lucanis took it in with a quiet look, smiling when he looked at Cal again after. “You’re very talented.” “Nah, I just practised a lot.” Cal said. “And you don’t even have a face yet.” “But I can already see it’s going to be me. The shapes, the stance, the essence is already there.” Lucanis said. “It’s going to be beautiful, I can tell.” “Thank you.” Cal smiled, flattered. “Can I see yours?” “No.” Lucanis said, quickly. “It’s.. nowhere near as good as yours. I am.. a little ashamed.” he admitted. Cal chuckled. “How many times have you painted in your life?” “The last time I painted was as a young boy.” Lucanis said. "It was with fingerpaint, and me and Illario started a war with it instead of painting our canvasses."

“Right, and I've painted every day, since I was four years old. So don’t put that pressure on yourself. Just have a good time.” Cal smiled. “Comparison is the thief of joy.” “You are just full of wisdom today.” Lucanis said, smiling.

Cal focused on his own painting for a bit, seeing Lucanis do the same, but he gradually seemed to smile wider, Cal curiously looking over. “What is it?” “It’s a mess. I don’t think I can salvage this.” Lucanis gave in. “It’s like a child made it.” “You’re too hard on yourself.” Cal said. “No, it’s fine. I’m just going to have to accept that I’m not an artist.” Lucanis sighed with acceptance. “I tried.” “Come on, just let me see.” Cal said, Lucanis stepping aside to let him look. Cal didn’t want to laugh, but he had a hard time keeping his grin contained when he saw what Lucanis had made. There was something of a face there, he had to give him that. The colours were unmixed, primary only, so his skin was red, his eyes blue and his hair yellow, a little orange where it touched his skin and making it look like spaghetti. He put his hand in front of his mouth to hide his smirk. “This..” he said, taking the canvas and presenting it to Lucanis formally, holding it in front of his chest. “Is modern art.” he saw Lucanis start to grin, finally breaking his own composure and laughing as well. Their joined laughter filled the kitchen, Cal having to wipe a little tear once they calmed down.

“It really is a disaster, isn’t it?” Lucanis sighed, chuckling and shaking his head. “No, no, it’s not a disaster.” Cal said, hiccuping. “I can see the shapes. That’s definitely a face. Everything is kind of in the right place, too.” “You’re being kind.” Lucanis said. “It’s ugly.” “It makes me smile.” Cal said. “And I love it for that.”

“You’re sweet.” Lucanis said, his eyes warm. “But I think painting is definitely your thing. Not mine.” he gave Cal the canvas he’d been working on. “Here, a gift. If it makes you happy, you should keep it.” “I will. I’ll look at it every day and remind myself that this is how you see me.” Cal smiled.

“Well, don’t do that.” Lucanis chuckled. “I didn’t even get your hair colour right. I don’t know why I didn’t just use white.” he subconsciously touched Cal’s hair, Cal looking at him with surprise at the familiarity. Lucanis seemed to realize his mistake after a moment or two, taking his hand back to himself. “Forgive me.” he mumbled. Cal smiled when he saw Lucanis fumble slightly.

“You’re okay.” he said. “Do you want to try again? The painting I mean.”

[goth-mami-writer]

♡•Feel Sick•♡ (Pt.6)

~(Au) Leon Kennedy x f!Reader fic

⚠️TW⚠️: plot contains themes of age gap romance, (reader is 18yo) obsessive behaviors, mild instances of stalking, coercion, emotional manipulation and graphic smut. (Please interact with discretion!♡)

Find parts 1-5 here:

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5

Follow for more! ✨️

《 The foil condom clenched noisily in your tightened palm to hear him admit that he was torn between feelings of wanting this…and hating this. You felt maybe it was your teenage hormones acting up now. But nothing like the kind that your mother described when you brought the corner of the square wrapper to your mouth and tore the crimped edge with your teeth slowly.

Leon felt his cock twitch to watch you decide where this interaction was going next and his breath hollowed before he did something stupid

..like moaning at the thought of having sex again.

You spit the torn corner of the wrapper into the floor and he began to stammer as you came close, fighting the last fight inside of himself that knew how wrong he knew this was. But how much he knew that he fucking liked it. You hadn't been the only one touching yourself at night and he swallowed hard to finally gulp down the last mouthful of his pride.

“We can't. No- babygirl. We can't again-” He said, betraying his own thoughts to just put you on that computer desk in a throw of abandon.

“I'm not a fucking kid anymore, Leon. And I..” You said whimpering in want while that open condom trembled in your shaking hand,

“I want you so bad. Please…God, pleas-”

Before you could even finish, Leon closed the gap between you for the rest of your begging to remain unsaid. You whined needfully like you had been for days when he pulled you into a deep, uncaring kiss to balm both of the yearning between you since that night that changed everything.

You wrapped around him, clutching and grabbing against him to keep him close and Leon took the condom from your hands as his tongue lapped against yours as both your mouths widened with excited, rapid breaths between you. He began untying his leather belt as you both gravitated towards your small twin bed but his need was stronger than waiting to put on a condom.

He slung you down to bed and he tore your thin leggings down just enough to bury his mouth into your womanly mound to begin lapping his lips and tongue. Hungrily.

Your voice howled out in raw satisfaction to feel him actually choose this without your own self asking first and half the pleasure came from his eager cadence to eat you alive. His head bobbed as he ate for what felt like his own pleasure when his throat rumbled from behind his lips, his tongue flitting against your clit. You liked the feeling of his five-o’clock-shadow graining against the tender skin of your sex as he delighted you and admittedly you moaned louder because of it.

“Leon-..!” You tried to call out through your whimpers of delight as you felt his jaw churning to consume you better than you'd ever imagined with your hands down your panties at night.

He grunted against your sex with his eyes turning back to feel what it was like to take what he wanted deep down. Unbeknownst to you, he too had fantasies of seeing you again that kept him awake at night with his hand pumping underneath his sheets to try and imagine it clearer. He came down his knuckles with ease each time to remember how good you felt..even for your first time.

You felt yourself writhing as Leon's mouth continued and he held you tighter to keep you still while his tongue paddled against your clit that he felt throbbing just in these first seconds of giving in,

“Oh, babygirl-” He purred through his wet lips that still brushed against you,

“You've missed me, haven't you, sweetie?”

“Yeah-” You whined through your tense mouth as you watched him eat from above. You told him as he continued about your long sessions at night trying to recreate the perfect way you'd been taken the first time, even telling him of your vibrator that only felt disappointing after him and he smiled before licking his lips to taste you further.

“You're making me throb now. I can't sit still thinking about you playing with that sweet pussy and thinking of me.”

He lowered his mouth back to your slit, lapping and sucking in a rhythm that made you call out for him again and he sighed in delight just by the twitch he felt on his tongue. You whimpered, trying to tell him that you were ready for him and he said, feeling the way you began to shift impatient,

“You're not gonna let me feel you cum in my mouth, huh, baby?” He asked smugly in a vulgar tease that excited you to hear but you shook your head to answer his question.

He shifted his weight and finally tore your leggings and sneakers off entirely from your legs when he reached down to unbuckle the hard-on from his jeans that was already leaking from having tasted you. You leaned up, surprising him in a kiss that he thought you'd be too shy to give with your warmth still smeared on his face but he obliged you in full to let his tongue meet with yours.

“I wanna get on top.” You told him through the wet kiss but Leon grunted as he slid on the condom that had been tossed to the floor.

“No-” He denied firmly with his own breath getting unsteady from nerves now,

“You're gonna lay down and take it for a few minutes since you've been so damn needy- blowing up my phone all goddamn nigh-... fucking open your legs.”

You moaned with your mouth parted, trying not to gasp from hearing him become so in control so quickly but you quickly surrendered. His weight pinned you to the bed and his grip then squeezed the bottom of your thighs to fold your legs to your chest as he aligned himself with your now open slit.

He shuddered to reinsert himself but then moaned as loudly as you'd been to immediately bottom out inside of you with an ease he wasn't expecting. This was only your second time but you took him like a pro already.

“That's my girl.” He praised from above, still gripping your soft thighs when his hips then began to pump.

Your body arched to finally be sated from all the unmet want and hunger that had eaten at you for days and you knew that Leon had felt the same just by the way he worked to please you. His mouth chugged for air, something you hated to see knowing that he was older but his pace never faltered.

His eyes closed above you where you wished he'd stare into your eyes as he made you his own for the second time but the sharp glare that came down at you once he regained his haggard breath stunned you. His arms then locked around you, tucking under your hips as he adjusted your legs and his other hand went to your messy hair.

The new positioning was everything you needed and you heard as he grunted through gritted teeth,

“I made that pussy mine that night…didn't I? Come on, baby-..tell me whose it is.”

You moaned his name- whether you'd just heard those words or not. You were nearing the edge of your control already, teetering on the edge of an orgasm only within minutes of having him inside felt like a drug and slowly your body was becoming addicted to its high. You tried to turn your head, wanting nothing more than to outlast him but he felt that familiar stirring of your hips- the telling wiggle from below him that always came before you did.

You knew you had to do better than the first time, you had to make this better for both of you and take off those training wheels. You looked up to him with your lovestruck expression that quivered from his driving pace.

“More-” you whimpered up to him, trying to fight the whine in your throat that kept you whispering,

“I…can take more, Leon.”

“Yeah-?” He muttered with a grunt beneath his breath to see you becoming so willing,

“You think you need to impress me or something? Sweetie, let's take it sl-”

“I want it-” you said to interrupt him softly and his heart began hammering his chest seeing that you wanted this.

Without a question further, you were turned to face your bedroom wall where Leon then planted you on your knees. You moaned just by his needful intention to show you what you were asking for and he instructed you firmly, yet lovingly to give the advice he knew that you'd need,

“The more you arch your back, the better it'll feel, baby. Keep your shoulders down, okay?”

You nodded with a whimper to feel him stroke your hair to ease your spine into a curve and he praised softly to see you take to the position on your first try. He promised he would hold you steady to keep himself in charge of the work and you felt as he became reinserted from behind.

Upon the first few strokes of this new gentle rhythm, you knew that this was something he liked more than missionary. His hands dug into your soft hips, dragging pink lines across your taut skin as he pumped and your heart raced to discover he was right. His cock was brushing your g-spot deliciously from behind and you felt the climb of pleasure beginning all over again.

He watched your hands claw into the covers but he wanted to wait to check if you were okay. Your silence only meant one thing when he felt your body hugging him like this.

You were focusing.

“You're taking it so good.” He said as your bodies met in a hurried, relentless rhythm when his hits began quickening and your skin chilled with delight.

He felt your pussy beginning to seep the base of his cock in that cream he could still taste in his shadowing mustache and his eyes rolled back to feel that rush up his legs that always flagged his peak on the approach. He was older now- not in his twenties so he was honestly surprised he'd made it this long without painting you.

You moaned suddenly with your back arching sharply against his drives and he cursed loudly, feeling your body on its last few seconds before it met its climax.

“Fuck yeah-! Let me feel you cum again-!...such a good girl for me, baby!” He moaned somewhat deliriously as his own pleasure was seconds away from arriving but your wait had ended.

You came with his name shaking your lips, rattling the walls of your bedroom and he nearly slipped away from you as your body was now drenched and slick with cum from the heights of your pleasure.

But you weren't done. You turned as you knew he was coming and slinked away the condom from his wet shaft. Your lips met the tip of his cock, making him hiss in pleasure in a way that made you smile. He never expected you to lurch forward to let his cum drizzle into your mouth so willingly but he held your head while he encouraged you.

“Slow- slow, baby. You'll get all of it…good girl.”

He wiped your mouth with his thumb somewhat adoringly to see you so eager to step outside of what you knew. He surprised you next by bringing your mouth to him with a clenched hand that cupped your jaw so possessively. You knew he was proud of you by the way he kissed you and he lied you back to the bed, letting you have the intimacy that he himself felt he'd gone short with the first time.

After minutes of silent kissing, only broken by murmurs of bliss, Leon reached under your covers after feeling a hard object digging into his thigh and your small bullet vibrator was revealed in his grip now. Your face burned in an inferno to see that he was looking at what had somewhat- somehow gotten you off enough in the last few days and he chuckled to tell you in hopes of not letting you be embarrassed when he clicked the ‘on’ button near the bottom of the vibe.

“Sweetie, you can't expect cheap toys to work a miracle. This thing is kinda puny.” He said as it barely jarred open palm, unable to imagine the disappointment it would be on your needy clit at night.

“It…seemed like a good idea.” You explained, trying to justify the purchase knowing that it must've seemed immature to him but his next words stopped you entirely.

“I'll get you a good one to keep ya busy. None of that cheap shit off Amazon.”

“Really?” You asked him with a sheepish smile and he agreed, sealing the agreement with a kiss that warmed you further until you heard keys in the door downstairs.

Leon hissed in a sharp breath of panicking air and you both stood from the mattress to begin dressing in a hurry. Your father was coming inside from his golfing day and you heard as he called up the stairs while Leon looked to throw away that used condom somewhere discreet- out of view from your father that was sometimes just like him- way too damn protective.

“Y/N-?” He asked from downstairs as you buttoned your pants and Leon threw on his shirt,

“Is Leon here?” 》

[mewritestufflol]

Chapter 3: A Vote for Fate...?

Pairing: Kang Dae Ho x Fem!OC Kang Eun-ji

Warnings: Squid game level violence, reunion,Slow Burn,Angst,Graphic Violence,Death,Blood and Injury,Psychological Trauma,Guilt,Emotional Manipulation,Survival Horror,Mild Language.

The players stood frozen in place long after the mechanical voice announced the end of the first game. The bodies still lay where they had fallen, eyes wide, blood soaking into the dirt beneath them. The silence was suffocating.

Eun-ji's breaths were shaky, her fingers digging into her palms. Her entire body ached from how tense she had been, but she forced herself to stay upright. She couldn't show weakness. Not here.

Beside her, Dae-ho remained still, his gaze sweeping over the surviving players. His grip on her wrist had loosened, but he hadn't let go.

Then, the front gates creaked open. The masked guards stood in perfect formation, rifles slung across their chests.

"All players, return to the dormitory."

No one moved at first. No one wanted to turn their back on the bodies. But what choice did they have?

One by one, they shuffled toward the exit.

Eun-ji didn't realize she was holding her breath until she stepped through the gates and the doors slammed shut behind them.

The first game was over.

But the nightmare was just beginning.

The atmosphere inside the dorm had changed. The once-noisy room was now filled with heavy silence, broken only by quiet murmurs and the occasional choked sob. Eun-ji sat on the edge of her bunk, staring at the floor. The number of players had decreased significantly. Earlier, the room had felt crowded. Now, the empty beds stood like grave markers.

Across from her, Dae-ho leaned against the metal frame of the bunk above him, arms crossed. His expression was unreadable.

"You okay?" he asked, voice low.

Eun-ji let out a sharp, humorless laugh. "Do I look okay?"

Dae-ho didn't respond. He just kept watching her, studying her like he was trying to figure something out.

She sighed, rubbing her temples. "I just—" She shook her head. "I knew this was bad, but I didn't think it would be this."

Dae-ho exhaled through his nose. "It's worse than you think."

She glanced at him. "You seem awfully calm about this."

He looked away for a moment before meeting her gaze again. "I've seen worse."

Eun-ji frowned. He never talked about his time in the marines. But now wasn't the time to pry.

Suddenly, an alarm buzzed, cutting through the tension in the room. The screen flickered on as the masked manager's voice echoed through the arena.

"Congratulations for making it through the first game. Here are the results of the first game."

The giant pig-shaped bowl hanging from the ceiling was now filling up with money, bills fluttering down like a messed-up kind of snowfall. And beneath it, the sound of digital trilling echoed through the massive room—sharp, jittery, almost like an excited robot losing its mind.

"Out of 456 players, 91 players have been eliminated. Three hundred sixty-five players have completed the first game. Congratulations again for making it through the first game."

A desperate cry rang out. "Sir! Please don't kill us! Please don't kill us. I beg you! As for my son's debt, I will do whatever it takes to pay you back! Please forgive us!"

The masked manager remained unmoved. "There seems to be a misunderstanding. We are not trying to harm you. We are presenting you with an opportunity."

Eun-ji's fingers curled into her palms as she watched the exchange. Opportunity? What kind of twisted game was this?

Then, a familiar voice rang out. "Clause three of the consent form. The games may be terminated upon a majority vote. Correct?"

Eun-ji turned her head to see Player 456, Gi-hun, stepping forward.

The masked manager nodded. "That is correct."

A murmur of hope spread through the players. Could they actually leave?

"Then let us take a vote right now."

"Of course. We respect your right to freedom of choice," the manager replied. "But first, let me announce the prize amount that's been accumulated."

"The number of players eliminated in the first game is 91. Therefore, a total of 9.1 billion won has been accumulated. If you quit the games now, the 365 of you can equally divide the 9.1 billion won and leave with your share."

Eun-ji's mind raced. Could they actually just walk away?

"Each person's share would be 24,931,500 won."

A frustrated voice shouted from the crowd. "Fuck. We almost died, and they're giving us 24 million? That's fucking bullshit."

The masked manager continued calmly, "The rule is that a hundred million won will be accumulated for each eliminated player. If you choose to play the next game and more players get eliminated, the prize amount will increase accordingly."

"So if you're the only one to survive, you get 45.6 billion?" someone asked.

"That's correct."

A mix of excitement and dread swept through the room. The stakes were clear now.

"Now, let's begin the vote. If you wish to continue the games, press the O button. If you wish to end them, press the X button. The vote will be held in reverse order of your player numbers."

A tense silence followed. Eun-ji's heartbeat pounded in her ears.

  Was this her chance to leave? But if she left, then what?

Please tell me how it is and make sure to comment<3 and if you wanna be added to the tag list.

Headers credit: @sisterlucifergraphics tags: @silas-222

[dolleffable]

BE STILL MY FOOLISH HEART .ᐟ

PAIRING. Aziraphale x Crowley x Reader GENRE. Fluff. REQUESTED? No. WORD COUNT. 1.5k SYNOPSIS. Mornings with your local angel and demon would seem chaotic to most, but to you, nothing could be more soothing. WARNINGS. Can be read as platonic or romantic.

NOTE. This is my very first Good Omens work. Please bear with me as I am also particularly new to the fandom. Suggestions and corrections are welcomed! You can also send requests through my ask box! <3

The streets of SoHo bustled with busy crowds as you made your way down to the coffee shop. It was still early, only a few minutes past 8 am. You woke in a cheerful mood, excited to spend another day with your two most favorite people.

They weren’t exactly people, but who’s asking?

You push the door to Nina’s coffee shop open, and you’re immediately greeted with the smell of coffee in the air, along with the figure of Nina standing behind the counter.

“Good morning, Nina!” You greet her with a smile, walking towards the counter.

“Morning,” she greets back. She offers a kind smile, but she is busy, drying off some glass mugs by the counter. Nina takes a quick glance at you. “You’re awfully cheerful this morning.”

You give her a shrug. “Woke up feeling like this, I guess.”

“Good for you,” she muses. She places the last dry mug to the side, before turning herself towards you. “What can I get you, then?”

“One black coffee, one flat white, and a serving of Eccles cakes, please,” you quip.

“To go, I’m guessing?” Nina responds with a smirk, inputting your order on her register. The machine dings with the total of your order, and you grab your wallet from your bag to pay.

“You already know it,” you reply with a laugh and hand her a wad of cash.

Nina takes the money. “You’ve been over Mr. Fell’s a lot recently,” she points out. “Almost as much as that Crowley fellow.”

MORE UNDER THE CUT.

“I like it there,” you simply state. “I have nothing much to do at home, anyway.”

“I see,” Nina hands you your change. Her tone of voice shows no judgment, but her face says otherwise. You know she means no harm behind it, so you let it go.

She leaves the counter for a minute and returns with a paper bag and a disposable tray filled with your drinks. You bid her thanks and a goodbye, before grabbing your order and stepping out of the shop.

You cross the street into Aziraphale’s bookshop. The sign at the door says “closed” but you pay it no mind, pushing the door open with your hip and entering the familiar establishment.

“I’m afraid we are still closed,” the man announces into the room, back towards you, as he seems to be busy arranging books by the counter, but once he turns, his face lightens up, immediately delighted to see you. “Ah, it’s you! Come, my dear.”

You give Aziraphale a grin, stepping further into the shop. Aziraphale runs around the counter to help take the items off of your hands, placing the bag on one of his tables, and the drinks by the counter.

“I bought us breakfast,” you timidly say, still a little embarrassed to be barging in so early that Aziraphale hadn’t even opened up shop.

“Oh you didn’t have to, deary,” the angel crooned and offered a smile. “But thank you.”

You grinned, happy to have made the angel smile, but your curiosity continued to pique as moments passed, and no sign of your third companion came.

“Where’s Crowley?” You couldn’t help but frown. As much as you loved Aziraphale’s company, not having the demon around felt almost wrong. Incomplete.

“He’ll be here a moment. He’s a bit… preoccupied,” you’re not quite sure what the angel means, but you don’t pry further. It was probably about angel and demon business, anyway. “Shall we start on breakfast?”

Albeit you feel sad at the absence of your other favorite being, you try not to let it spoil your and Aziraphale’s mood as he settles on the couch, patting the space beside himself for you to sit.

You take a seat just as he begins to set the drinks on the table, grabbing the cakes from the paper bag and placing them on the table as well.

“I didn’t buy tea because I knew you liked to make your own,” you explained before Aziraphale could even speak, worried that he might have gotten upset at the lack of drinks.

But this was Aziraphale you were talking about. The angel never got upset, especially never at you.

“You know me so well, dear,” he smiles, before standing from the couch. “I’ve already got the kettle boiling!” He cheers, almost as if he’s proud of himself for thinking ahead. You can’t help but grin from ear to ear as you watch him shuffle into the kitchen.

You spend a moment by yourself in silence, humming away as you watch strangers pass by through the window. You are tapping away on the coffee table when the bell by the front entrance chimes, and the doors swing open, and a figure walks in.

“Having breakfast without me, are you?”

“Crowley!” You chirped, delighted to see your favorite demon walk into the shop.

“Missed me, love?” He gives you a cheeky wink and you hide your blushing face with a laugh, rolling your eyes at Crowley’s playfulness.

“Crowley, what took you so long!” Aziraphale emerges from the kitchen, with a cup of tea in his hands.

“Long line at requisitions, had to cut in line, in front of an old lady just to get things done,” Crowley sighs exasperatedly.

“Cutting in line, how very ill-mannered!” Aziraphale complains, now having sat back next to you on the couch. His tea sits next to your coffee, which you hadn’t yet touched. “In front of an old lady, no less!”

“Why was the old lady down there in the first place, hn,” the demon begins to take quick strides towards the two of you, grabbing his cup of coffee by the table. “Must’ve murdered her husband’r something.”

You sat in silence and grabbed your coffee from the table , listening to the two bicker back and forth amongst themselves. Your days usually start this way anyway, drinking coffee and listening to the angel and demon argue on about some nonsense you knew almost nothing about. It was therapeutic, in a way.

You had yet to tell anyone this, but you loved mornings like these. It’s been a little while since you’ve moved to SoHo, but the one-bedroom apartment you rented just a few blocks away seems so foreign to you now, since you spend nearly all of your time in Aziraphale’s bookshop.

Of course, sometimes you’re elsewhere, like Nina’s coffee shop, mostly, buying treats and drinks that you knew Aziraphale would like. (Crowley likes them too, but wishes Nina would branch into an alcoholic line of drinks).

On rare occasions, you’d visit Maggie’s record shop with Aziraphale. Even though in the beginning, you viewed records as “impractical” (to which Crowley had given a hearty chuckle to), you’d grown to love it, asking Maggie for the latest copies of Hozier or, if she was lucky to land a copy, Laufey.

Your fondest memory, however, was during a time when the three of you decided to dine in the French restaurant across the road, Marguerite’s. Usually, the two preferred to visit the Ritz, but you managed to get them to try out the local shop. The three of you dined under the sun, sharing stories and laughing as Aziraphale yet again attempts to avoid Mr. Brown, the chairman of their Street Shopkeepers’ Association.

In truth, you’d only been staying with Aziraphale and Crowley for a few months, but you’ve honestly felt more at home here on Aziraphale's couch than your own.

You suddenly realized you had been daydreaming, as you’re rudely awakened from your thoughts by the sound of someone snapping their fingers.

“—hello? Earth to, [name]? You with us, sugar?” It was Crowley, still standing in front of where you’ve set yourself down on the couch, wearing a worried expression, despite the sunglasses on his face.

“Are you alright, dear?” It’s Aziraphale who asks this time, and you turn to the side to meet his worried face as well. “You’ve been really quiet this morning.”

“I’m alright, really,” you reassure them both, and Crowley takes this time to seat himself next to you, opposite of where Aziraphale is. “It’s just a little too early, I think.”

“Would you like to take a nap here?” Aziraphale offers. “There is another couch in the back room, if you’d like to settle down there.”

You shake your head. “I’ll be fine, thank you. Can we eat breakfast now?”

Aziraphale nods, but you can hear Crowley tsk quietly from where he’s sat beside you. “Bit too sugary for breakfast, don’t ‘ya think?”

He’s looking right at the Eccles cakes, and you frown, wishing you had chosen another treat from the coffee shop.

Aziraphale immediately notices your saddened expression. “It’s fine, Crowley! A little sugar won’t hurt.”

“Won’t hurt you! What ‘bout [name] over here?” Crowley complains.

“You’re the one calling her sugar all the time—!” Aziraphale retaliates.

You merely sip your coffee and grab a pastry, tuning out the tones of the two idiots arguing beside you.

Mornings were always the same.

NOTE. This wasn’t the best but I’m not too ashamed of it! Please do send in requests! <3

© dolleffable 2025.

[eggmeralda]

the genetics felt so bad for what they did to my parents' first kid's looks that they overcompensated massively on the second kid's looks

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

In Regards To Your 2024 Summary:

Holy shit it’s been another year????? The hell?????

Also! Your art style is gorgeous and that being found in 2023 and then refined throughout late 2023 and the entirety of 2024 really shows, as does your growth in panel layouts, perspective, and — as you said — experimentation. If you ever post your animation or video game art I’m looking forward to it.

As cheesy as it sounds, being able to laugh at funny comics and look at all the details of your art really made my 2024 brighter, even when things were hard. Including looking at your older art— it doesn’t need to be new to be enjoyable! I’m glad your art is well loved and it’s a privilege to have been here since the (near) beginning. I hope you take care of yourself in 2025 and beyond!

You and your art bring a lot of people a lot of joy never forget that <3

Thank you so much for keeping up with my art journey throughout these last two years! Two years!!! I am baffled at how that feels both too long and too short!

Admittedly, my art summary didn't manage to capture the fact that I did a lot of comic layouts that I'm really proud of. I also drew more backgrounds and made some very detailed works (*Dungeon Meshi spoilers for these examples*).

The growth is lot more evident when comparing my 'best' comics of 2023 to 2024:

Sometimes the growth is vertical, sometimes it is horizontal - and damn, sometimes it goes out of sight into the Z-plane. But it is always happening!

[bumblingbabooshka]

I hate when Chakotay is watered down to be Janeway's yes man because their disagreements are actually very interesting. [A lot of rambling analysis of this debate in particular below]

Chakotay in Parallax is very interesting in that he has to navigate a lot of different dynamics. Balance a lot of plates while being watched keenly by everyone around him. Immediately preceding this scene we see him ask B'Elanna for her opinion on the bridge - both as a chance to show her knowledge in his bid to make her chief engineer (because she wouldn't get a chance to otherwise as Janeway has clearly indicated that at this point she views B'Elanna as a troublemaker who won't be considered for the position) and because he just thinks she's a better engineer than Carey and wants the best possible chance of them succeeding. Janeway sees this as unacceptable. Carey is the chief engineer and so he should be called and Chakotay NOT asking for his opinion is an insult to Carey, Janeway, and might make the crew doubt Chakotay (and by extension the Maquis') loyalty to the Starfleet crew.

At this point it seems that to Janeway integration ["They're not your people"] means the path of least resistance, specifically tailored towards the Starfleet crew. She wants Chakotay by her side to keep the Maquis crew calm but also seems unwilling to consider them for important positions aboard the ship. Though she says that the Maquis are not Chakotay's people, not his crew, she certainly doesn't seem to consider them hers [Compare this to later instances where she stresses 'our' crew, here she simply says they aren't Chakotay's: Whose crew are they? Are they crew at all?]. This less leaves the impression of "We need to be a cohesive team" and more "You're not in charge here." She essentially accuses Chakotay of playing favorites. In her mind Chakotay's actions are not conducive to integrating the crews which would (again, in her mind) mean the Maquis being docile and accepting, obedient and content - not making trouble for the Starfleet crew. Chakotay counters Janeway's accusation with one of his own: That he IS trying to integrate them into the crew but her not allowing the Maquis any opportunity to prove themselves or succeed, not showing any trust in any of them (except, implicitly at this point, him) is making things difficult. At this point the Maquis crew are ready to mutiny on his word at any time. He knows this for a fact. Aside from that looming threat (the threat being that tensions are high and if nothing changes and they remain high there might be a mutiny even without his word) - Chakotay knows these people and trusts them. Though Starfleet and Janeway think of the Maquis as a violent bunch of criminal terrorists, Chakotay and a good number of the Maquis joined because they believed in the cause they were fighting for. These are people Chakotay knows WILL fight fiercely for what they believe in and conversely, AGAINST what they perceive as injustice. Even if they're not in the majority - they're used to picking fights which seem impossible to win. At this point Janeway admits that she ISN'T making it easy for Chakotay to integrate the Maquis - specifically talking about practical concerns; how she doesn't feel she can let Maquis crew have roles of importance on the ship because they lack the ability to hold them. "They don't have the discipline, they don't have the training," - asserting that they just aren't prepared for any such roles and it doesn't have to do with them being Maquis specifically. Ostensibly, she's treating them as she might treat anyone unqualified for the job.

Chakotay maintains that some of them, like B'Elanna, have the ability to be trained - challenging her point by saying that IF they're trained there's no reason for any Maquis member NOT to be given a more prominent role on the ship. He isn't suggesting they just unqualified people important jobs. If the problem is that they aren't trained, let's train them. These people have the ability to succeed if you give them the tools they need and a fair chance, he insists. Janeway then switches gears and her argument becomes not "The Maquis are untrained so they can't be given those jobs" but "The Maquis crew are unworthy of those jobs when compared to Starfleet personnel" saying that it'll cause insult and upset among the Starfleet crew if any member of the Maquis were to be promoted above them. Again, her idea of integration is based more on Maquis subservience to the Starfleet crew than it is the two crews working together. (Not that I believe she looks at it that way, it's just where her 'path of least resistance' leads) - though she accuses Chakotay of being too focused on "his" crew, she is admitting here that she believes her real crew are the Starfleet officers aboard, not the Maquis. She also admits here that the system she wishes to maintain (and is asking Chakotay to enforce) is one where there will ostensibly never be any chance of a Maquis crew member being promoted because no Maquis crew member will ever be more qualified, more worthy, than a member of Starfleet. We can see how it'd be difficult for Chakotay to convince his crew to remain calm under these circumstances. There's also Tuvok's behavior toward him at the beginning of the episode where the Vulcan nearly goes over Chakotay's head and when he doesn't do so (as Chakotay reminds him that HE'S the superior officer, the First Officer in fact,) Tuvok acts as if him backing down (partially) and conceding (partially) to Chakotay's authority is a favor to Chakotay.

Tuvok in this conversation is downright insubordinate to Chakotay. Despite Chakotay being the first officer, he doesn't take what he says seriously, argues that his own opinion on what should be done should be followed rather than Chakotay's, lectures the first officer about his conduct, and then almost seems to threaten him with a report. In Starfleet's rigidly hierarchical rules, acting like this to a superior officer (ESPECIALLY the first officer) wouldn't be tolerated and Tuvok knows this perfectly well. He isn't a rebellious character and clearly in other episodes adheres to these Starfleet hierarchies and codes of conduct very strictly. He values them highly. But Chakotay, a Maquis, shouldn't be First Officer. Why should he be given respect for a title he didn't earn? [Affirming Janeway's argument about how Starfleet officers won't be eager to follow a Maquis senior officer] Even though Chakotay tells Tuvok off for it ["I don't have to explain myself to you"] he doesn't threaten to put Tuvok on report or explicitly mention his insubordination. It's unclear if this is Chakotay's personality or if he just doesn't feel he CAN do that. Tuvok is one of the three most senior officers aboard and very close to Janeway. Chakotay has to think of the optics of any situation at all times - we see seconds after this conversation that rumors have already started swirling around B'Elanna being relegated to quarters that've fanned the flames of mutiny. Though we know Tuvok has personal reasons for behaving the way he does toward Chakotay (which he later admits), I really don't think it'd be out of the ordinary for this to be how most Starfleet personnel would treat the Maquis if they weren't outright hostile: Like they're only pretend crewmen. To a lesser extent we even see this with Janeway: In the following staff meeting, she clearly doesn't consider B'Elanna a viable option when Chakotay brings her up and almost ignores the suggestion entirely.

It also, again, leaves Chakotay in an impossible position. If he doesn't protect and fight for the Maquis crew, they won't ever be considered a true part of the crew and dissatisfaction will likely spread among them. Dissatisfaction which the Starfleet crew will then use to further label the Maquis as insubordinate, uncontrollable, unfit. Not to mention that if he doesn't advocate for them, he might lose their trust. However, if he DOES try to help the Maquis crew advance the Starfleet crew will view this as 'favoritism' and will further distrust him, won't respect the people he puts forth as worthy. Janeway seems to be intent on not advocating for any of the Maquis crew and also seems unwilling to ask that the Starfleet crew grant leniency. She implies that the Maquis crew need to learn to get in line and keep quiet and it seems almost like [we must remember the optics] she has Chakotay as the only Maquis in a position of power to facilitate that. Chakotay recognizes and pushes against that, saying that he won't just be her token Maquis - there only so she can point to him and say "See? We don't discriminate against the Maquis here." effectively a tool used to shut down any arguments of unfair treatment and a tool to quell the Maquis if any talk of mutiny DOES arise. In this model, Janeway can just tell Chakotay to calm them down and they'll listen because they trust him. She also doesn't have to really listen to anything he says: A token First Officer has no authority; his words don't hold weight. [Chakotay isn't Maquis anymore, they aren't his crew anymore - ok. What is he then? What are they? Nothing, without respect.] This plan seems untenable, as much as Janeway frames it as sensible: "I can't make it easy, Commander. Surely you can understand that," and alternatives as impossible "How am I supposed to ask them to accept a Maquis as their superior officer just because circumstances have forced us together?" - in the long run, how would this be sustainable? In any power structure, you cannot expect a group of people you're unwilling to grant trust or agency to obediently follow you forever. This proposed form of 'integration' in which the Maquis are kept on the bottom rung and told intermittently to stay there quietly by the only one of them granted permission to stand at the top would never be sustainable - especially with a group like the Maquis who again, were founded on the belief that its members should fight against inequity and are already on the verge of mutiny.

I specifically find the statement "How am I supposed to ask them to accept a Maquis as their superior officer just because circumstances have forced us together?" to be interesting because personally I'd say that being forced together for the rest of almost everyone's natural life is a pretty good reason to ask people to adapt and Janeway does understand this but only applies it to the Maquis - the Maquis are the ones who have to adapt, not Starfleet. The only thing the Starfleet crew have to do is tolerate their presence on board.

At this point Janeway again claims that if Chakotay can show her a 'qualified' Maquis candidate she'll consider them. I believe this is true but we already know that Janeway's standards for qualification will likely not fit the vast majority of the Maquis and Chakotay ignores the claim in favor of putting forth B'Elanna again, firmly. Janeway predictably dismisses her as unqualified and Chakotay disagrees, arguing that he knows her. He's worked with her. He KNOWS that B'Elanna can excel at the job even if she doesn't meet Starfleet/Janeway's qualifications. He doesn't value those qualifications over what he's observed about her - just as he didn't value Carey's title over what he knew about the gap between his and B'Elanna's abilities. Then, Chakotay switches gears. He admits that Janeway's right - he does view the Maquis as his crew but that's because Janeway (almost self admittingly) doesn't and if he doesn't, who will they have? [What kind of captain, kind of man, would he be?] "You're going to have to give them more authority if you want their loyalty." "Theirs or yours, Commander?" Janeway frames Chakotay's words pointing out the flaws in this plan which I outlined earlier, as almost a threat (if she doesn't have Chakotay's loyalty it'll most definitely mean mutiny). Chakotay asserts that it wasn't a threat, he's only trying to help by telling her how the Maquis crew will react to what she's telling him. "I'm sorry you can't see that" - not an apology for what he said but that she isn't willing to budge, not willing to listen to him and acknowledge that she might be as biased towards her crew as he is towards his. Chakotay is trying his best to acclimate his crew but if Janeway isn't willing to do the same, to talk to her people as he's talking to his, then this will not end well and that isn't a threat. It's just the reality of the situation. He then asks permission to leave, showing he is willing to observe Starfleet protocol (just as when he asked permission to speak freely), and Janeway lets him go, exhaling at the intensity of their debate when alone in her ready room.

[griseldabanks]

Comfyvember 1

Story: superhero siblings (original) Prompts: Breaking bad habits — New day — Train ride

“I'm hungry,” Grace announced.

“Just a minute,” Sophie sighed, plopping down into the seat next to her. “Let's wait until the train gets underway.”

“Yeah,” Jack said, sitting down across from her. Unlike his sisters, he hadn't taken off his backpack. He sat staring tensely out the window at the train station, eyes flicking over the early-morning passengers milling about, poised to run at a moment's notice. “In case we have to get out of here in a hurry.”

Sophie glanced around the drab compartment at her siblings, whose faces looked pale and wan in the sickly lights overhead. Grace's big grey eyes seemed to take up half her face as she clutched her stuffed cat and looked up plaintively at her older siblings. Rebecca slumped in the window seat opposite Grace, long brown hair disheveled from their recent escape. Her jaw was set, as if to keep her teeth from chattering, and she hugged herself tightly.

And Jack...he looked so old. Bags under his eyes, creases in his brow, worry radiating off him like heat. He shouldn't look like that, like Dad did before everything went wrong, like he carried the weight of the world on his shoulders.

Sophie wondered what she looked like.

With a jolt, the train began to move, sliding away from the platform. As one, all four let out a breath of relief.

And immediately tensed as they heard a voice steadily approaching, calling down the corridor, “Tickets! Tickets, please!”

Sophie's eyes locked with Jack's across the compartment. Suddenly their plan of getting on the train and hopping off at the next city before anyone realized they didn't have tickets seemed as flimsy as Jack's initial suggestion that they hitchhike all the way to Missouri.

They listened to the ticket man opening the compartment behind Sophie, the rumble of his voice as he exchanged pleasantries with the passengers, the thump of his feet on the carpet outside...a pause, and then a brisk knock at the next compartment behind Jack, and more rumbling voices as he took the tickets from the people on the other side.

Sophie sat frozen, still staring into her brother's eyes as their mirrored expressions of tension faded into confusion. It was like the ticket man had...forgotten them. Or that he got confused and thought he'd already checked their tickets.

Narrowing her eyes with suspicion, Sophie looked at Rebecca, whose expression was oddly smug for someone who'd been terrified a moment before. “Rebecca!” she said sharply.

Rebecca held up her hands defensively, as if to say don't look at me! Tellingly, though, she didn't speak a word.

But Jack grinned, all the tension seeping out of his shoulders instantly. “That was you? Atta girl!”

They high-fived, but Sophie crossed her arms and snapped, “Don't encourage her! Or she'll never break her bad habit!”

“Bad habit?” Jack snorted. “Of what, saving our hides?”

Sophie glanced at the window to the corridor, even though she knew no one could hear, and lowered her voice to a hiss. “Of using telepathy when we know Dr. Clementine has machines that can sense it!”

Rebecca, still unable to talk in the wake of using her powers, waved her hands to get their attention and then pointed out the window meaningfully. The train had already picked up speed, and tall buildings and streetlights flitted past, growing more and more spaced out by the minute. Soon, they would be out of the city limits—and hopefully out of Dr. Clementine's grasp.

“I'm hungry,” Grace reminded them.

“Right. Sorry.” Sophie glanced at Rebecca, including her in the apology.

Bending down, she opened her backpack and looked at the rather paltry supplies she'd managed to grab from the kitchen on their way out. “Well, I've got crackers and peanut butter...no knife, though.”

“That's fine,” Jack said, holding out his hand to accept the jar of peanut butter so he could open it. “We don't really have an easy way to wash one anyway.”

Sophie carefully divided up one sleeve of crackers into four portions and handed them out. Jack passed the jar over to Grace first, and she scooped out a generous portion of peanut butter onto her cracker before passing it on to Rebecca. She looked up imploringly at Sophie again. “Read to us?”

Setting aside the cracker sleeve with her meager portion, Sophie reached over to dig around in Grace's backpack for the one book she'd allowed her to bring (well, seven books in one, but who was counting?). The only book from their old home that they'd hung onto despite Dr. Clementine's assurances he could buy them as many books as they wanted, and all in first editions. And Sophie was glad of that now, since he never had taken them to the fancy bookstore like he'd promised.

Pulling the bookmark out and tucking it behind her ear, Sophie began to read as she'd been doing every night. “At first Shasta could see nothing in the valley below him but a sea of mist with a few domes and pinnacles rising from it....”

And so, as the sun slowly rose in the sky and the buildings of the city gradually faded away into rolling hills, the four siblings passed around the peanut butter jar and listened to a tale of far-off lands and talking animals, a world far away from the dangers looming ahead of them. At least for a few minutes, they could believe they were also headed for a home that would welcome them.

[majouartings]

PLAYABLE ZELDA PLAYABLE ZELDA PLAYABLE ZELDA PLAYABLE ZELDA PLAYABLE ZELDA PLAYABLE ZELDA PLAYABLE ZELDA *inhale* PLAYABLE ZELDA PLAYABLE Z

[arcaneacolyte]

Aw man none of you are gonna be ready for the sequel to my Dewther Daddy fic "Soft" once this goddamn burnout and executive dysfunction stops trying to bury my like it's a fucking WWE Buried Alive match out here.