#the one that does the canon book covers
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unproduciblesmackdown · 8 months ago
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truly lmao 2024 lambda literary award finalist wynnstannery
#have probably already heard of these awards w/o absorbing it but has a sizable [twitter acct you follow follows this acct] overlap for one#wikipedia blurb ''to recognize the crucial role lgbtq writers play in shaping the world...celebrate the very best in lgbtq literature''#Lol! naturally everyone set to laugh abt Individually being lambda award finalist Authors amidst 40+ anthology contributors. sure#and of course oh absolutely crucial cam stone page. we did make the back of book blurb too after all#born of [crucially soph nothingunrealistic (a) investigates that akd role which (ai) leads to me also checking it out. later (b)#investigates this Call For Submissions For All Trans F&F Zine which (bi) leads to me going ''oh so true cam stone Needs to be there'']#all originating in The Wrong Fake ''Fans'' Show Up For Billions By Way Of Beloved Character Winston lmao#b/c fr imagine the trans f&f zine Doesn't have a Did You Know That???? page abt a delightful akd role & canon nonbinary f&f character#but this amidst Plenty of ''fake'' ''wrong'' ''fans'' messing around w/the concept of Fast & Furious as a Work throughout#as i said & got the feedback of [hell yes You Get It] that the premise Guarantees you get a very Varied & inherently Playful response#not b/c playfulness need be ''unserious'' but it sure need not be ''serious.'' like f&f itself; as part of [the premise guarantees it]#& that the Range of ways ppl can approach this broad concept is like the Range of ways ppl can approach the broad concept of Gender lol#& not Unearnest but needing no Gravitas / ''serious'' ''legitimacy'' guaranteed in turn to ''validate'' your efforts#and your not being the ''right'' or ''expected'' audience getting the perhaps straight(tm)forwardly intended experience here lmao#so in many ways it did feel very resonant / relevant to wynnstannery#embracing [the one use of: editor's note!] and [the one use of: the word ''autistic''!]#2 trans 2 furious#which is probably gonna get a physical reprint sooner than later; pdfs still available despite the lack of link there#was already The Intention if vaguely so; now with the added ''can put the 2024 Lambda Award Nominee / Finalist on the cover lol''#page 54 (i believe) brought to you by a couple of quantnoisseurs; rushed to finish last minute then ft. some post deadline edits lmao#classic....nonzero other works i've Heard Of! nice#which: sure does seem like the focus here is like ''did you hear about these books? :)'' as many ''awards'' can ultimately be#like i Am hearing about them now. had seen abt Being Ace on twitter interesting interesting. hi honey i'm homo hell yeah#do we have one or two f&f films left? put cam stone cameo in there for real. Fast furious worth the effort worth the cost#& just shoutout to the like bifurcation of Akd Role Types. [intense in a relatively restrained affect way. some dramatic flair for sure]#and [spontaneous! vivacious! bright! playful! pretty emotionally open!] that's right lmao
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egophiliac · 1 month ago
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Hello ! I positively adore the running joke of Idia unknowingly finding Lilia to be the coolest guy ever whenever he doesn't know it's him, like when Silver described his father, or obviously with muscle red. I can't say what'd be funnier, Idia finding out his online best friend is actually Lilia, resident spooky hyper fairy; or them both never finding out, and it'd become even more ridiculous as time goes on. How do you think it'll play out ? You're always so on point
(Also, though it makes sense, I'm still devastated bat boy didn't get a ticket for the Halloween skeleton train : ( does anyone mentions him at some point ? Like how he'd have fit right in with all those Halloween town little freaks, and how he'd have impressed them with his spooks and scared techniques; after all he's been every Briar Valley's children worst fear on Halloween for centuries. I'm on the eng server and I didn't wanna spoil myself by watching the whole thing on youtube)
Have a nice day !
you and me both, Idia and Lilia being oblivious online BFFs (+ Idia being incredibly intimidated any time Silver brings up his jock gamer dad) is my favorite running joke/subplot. 🤝 it's SO good, to the point where I also am unsure if I actually want it to ever be resolved or not...maybe, like, as a post-canon stinger or something? everyone's standing around covered in overblot ink, and Idia and Lilia's phones go off at the same time...
(legit I do think this is part of why Idia couldn't be present for Lilia's dream, because for some reason Lilia decided he was going to just. embody his past self online. he probably quotes his own battle strategies or whatever in the middle of boss fights. Idia didn't pick up on the whole "oh how weird that we both live on a super remote island" thing, but he would spend thirty seconds listening to General Lilia describing siege warfare and be like "w-wait")
all that aside, however it does end up happening, I do see Lilia being very blasé and all "oh! cool!" about it. y'know, taking it very much in stride! and Idia...very much not.
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(can't tell if tumblr is going to chew this into illegibility or not, this will be a fun surprise ᕕ( ᐛ )ᕗ)
as for Lilia sadly missing out on Halloweentown shenanigans...he does get one little mention as part of an offhand reference to the light music club, but so far no one has brought up how this basically is just Lost In the Book of Liliatown (Sebek's been too busy yelling about not getting to be in the same group as Malleus). 😔 honestly though, it's probably for the best that he got left out, because he would just settle right in and refuse to ever leave. canon would shatter. we would miss out on all the delightful angst of episode 7 because Lilia is too busy eating poisonous shrubbery inbetween practicing his very best screams, and no one can pull him away from it.
(I can hope for a sequel next year though...)
#art#twisted wonderland#twisted wonderland spoilers#gentle spoilers but y'know. just in case#lost in the book with nightmare before christmas#hajimari no halloween#most of the kitchen scene was jade messing with the firsties and that was so delightful that i didn't think til after#that you'd think sebek would have made some kind of reference to lilia 'i lost my tastebuds in the war' vanrouge's quote-unquote cooking#ah well. jade being mean is more than entertaining enough#looking forward to more of it tomorrow!#god. lilia and idia though.#lilia is like. genuinely idia's best friend and neither of them have any idea#and idia keeps doing that 'ha ha what if we were friends out of game too? what if we met offline? jk jk jk uNLESS...👉👈'#and then he immediately chickens out because he's so convinced that crimson will hate him if they ever met irl#(meanwhile lilia is just like 'my online bestie is so cool :) la la la')#they are both so stupid and i love them so much#i've just realized that i actually do want them to find out each other's identities#because idia doesn't just go to school with his online bff#he ALSO goes to school with his online bff's extremely supportive and extremely socially-inept kids#idia is going to get invited to dinner at diasomnia and it's going to be SO awkward#silver is going to give a long formal speech thanking him for being a stalwart comrade and trusted warrior brother to his father#as sebek stews in jealousy that idia got to fight by lilia-sama's side >:(#while idia sits there like 'all i did was link him a video about lane control for his character class'#malleus will make such an effort to learn literally anything about online gaming and he won't understand a word of it#it will be SUCH a disaster and i very much do want it now
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pathologicalreid · 1 month ago
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caretaker | s.r.
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in which you take care of your fiercely independent boyfriend after he gets shot in the knee
margotober
who? spencer reid x fem!reader category: fluff content warnings: canon compliant injury, gun violence, alludes to spencer's past addiction, alternative pain relief, spencer's anthrax poisoning word count: 1.03k a/n: oh spencer reid who at certain points had to raise himself and never learned to let himself be cared for. i love you. this was a request <3. i hope you enjoy
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A crash very rudely wakes you up, sharing the same level of poise as a cartoon cat while your heart very nearly bursts out of your chest, you jolt up from the cushions. Trying to catch your breath, you scramble on the couch and peer over the back of it, looking to the ground to find your boyfriend with a desolate look on his face, “What are you doing?”
Your eyes wander to his knee, secured with a complicated black brace, which he was supposed to be staying off of for the next week so that it could properly heal. “Lying on the floor,” he answers, staring blankly at the ceiling as he does.
Raising your eyebrows, you start to untangle yourself from the crocheted blanket you fell asleep with, “Why?”
Spencer sighs from his spot on the floor, “Felt like it,” he mumbles, bringing his arms up to cover his face.
“Did you fall?” You ask, getting off of the couch and crouching down next to him, noticing the way one of his crutches was twisted in the tassels of your area rug. Quietly, you pick both of his crutches off of the floor, resting them against the arm of the couch before reaching out and gently shaking his shoulder. “Do you wanna get up?”
All you receive in response is a groan, so you sit fully on the floor, maneuvering your hand around his arms so that you can smooth his hair back. “I want to walk,” Spencer complains, putting his arms down to his sides.
You frown at him, your ministrations on his head faltering, “Well, I can help you walk back to bed.” He insisted he was fine when you left him to go lay down on the couch, but obviously he had decided he needed something else.
“I want to walk alone,” he corrects himself, finally glancing over at you.
The tears in his eyes are enough to break through your cheery demeanor, “Oh, Spence.” You pout at him sympathetically, reaching out your arms to help pull him to a sitting position. “I’m sorry, baby,” you whisper, cupping his cheek in your hand.
He simply held no familiarity with being taken care of. Spencer was an independent being first. Once a caretaker, always a caretaker, but now, the roles were reversed, he simply couldn’t get around without your help. “I just wanted to do something on my own,” he admits mournfully, “I can’t even get a book without…” his voice trails off, “Did I wake you up?”
You shake your head quickly, “No.” The lie easily slides off of your tongue, saving him from the guilt of waking you up. Honestly, it was time for you to make your way to bed anyway. “Ready?” You ask him, eyeing him cautiously as he leans to the side in order to put all of his weight on his good leg.
Taking both of his hands in yours, you pull him gently to a standing position, helping him hobble over to the couch so he can lean on the back of it for support. “Thank you,” he mumbles bashfully, ducking his head so that his hair covers his face.
“Do you want some tea before bed?” You ask, skimming your palm up and down his upper arm. You had scoped out a tea that was used in herbal medicine, ordering a bunch of it off of a sketchy website to help Spencer try and manage his pain.
He foregoes a response, shaking his head, “I can make it.”
You smile softly at him, “I’ll make it, Spence. I know you don’t like it, but I really need you to rest.” You squeeze his upper arm comfortingly, “You got shot a week ago, please let me take care of you.”
He looks up at you, “I don’t want you to have to take care of me.”
“Fine,” you acquiesce, “but you owe me.”
Spencer raises his eyebrows in confusion, “I owe you? What do I owe you for?”
Crossing your arms in front of your chest, you tilt your head back slightly, “Letting me take care of you is the ‘My co-worker had to call my girlfriend on a seemingly random Tuesday afternoon to tell me I had been shot in the line of duty’ tax,” you inform him dutifully.
“Okay, yes, Garcia could have worded that phone call better,” he cedes, flicking some of his hair over his shoulder.
Looking at him in disbelief, you cock an eyebrow at him, “Yeah, it’s right on up there with the anthrax poisoning phone call. You’re already on thin ice with me,” you warn him, mostly meaning it in jest.
Each of these phone calls had sent you into such a tailspin that the BAU had to send someone to get you, and they weren’t experiences you were likely to forget. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, studying your expression with sad brown eyes.
“Don’t be sorry,” you instruct him, “Just let me take care of you! You take care of me all the time—it’s only fair.”
He chuckles lightly at your comment on fairness, the sound enough to make the butterflies in your stomach flutter, “Okay,” he says, “Okay.”
Ducking your head and having him loop his arm around your neck, you beam up at him, “See how much easier things are when you agree with me?”
He lets out a breathy laugh, using you and the wall as support as the two of you make your way back to the bedroom, getting him down on the mattress with practiced dexterity. “I’m certainly seeing the benefits,” he says, smiling up at you as you sweep his hair behind his ears.
Leaning down, you press a tender kiss on his forehead before stepping away, “I’ll go turn on the kettle. What book were you trying to get? I can grab it and maybe you can read me to sleep tonight.”
“You want me to read you to sleep in Russian?” He asks after rattling off the title to you, a smile on his face even though you can’t see it.
You laugh from your spot in the kitchen, “God, yes. I can’t think of anything better.”
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die-auster · 1 month ago
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Some "if Yue is alive and went travelling with the Gaang" designs
With a ton of text about cultural inspiration.
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The main book 2 look
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I wanted to show cultural differences between the tribes, so Yue's look is sort of Mongolian. There were Mongolian-styled hats in the Northern tribe, and Yue's dress under the coat looked like a Mongolian deel (thanks @atlaculture for all these posts about clothes and everything else!), so it's not much against the canon information.
So she's wearing a deel again with a second layer - there are chinese actors on photos as far as I know; I hope it's okay. One-shoulder silhouette refers to later Aang's clothes because Yue is still kind of a spiritual person (she wasn't a fighter, so I want her to have some other useful talent – not a bender or healer like Katara or a non-bender warrior like Suki). Violet, pink and white were originally her colors, no changes here. Three blue characters would be too much for a group of five, and total white is not practical at all. I like to think that violet color shows high rank in the Avatar universe; in the original series it was only worn by princess Yue, Kanna, the chief Hakoda's mother, and by king Bumi.
Yue's boots here are mongolian gutals/gutuls (the collage is already big, but I used them again for one of Book 3-looks).
Her hair become simpler – just two braids and a hairpiece, to match her previous decorated hairdo. I guess if she's travelling with the Gaang she's not that much of a Moon Spirit anymore (maybe she returned the part of the moon spirit that saved her and was healed other way?), so I decided to forego the moon-referring part. Also it will be easier to do by herself since she has no servants now... The headdress I took from modern Mongolian dancers; the front part is crescent-moon-shaped.
The Ba Sing Se dress
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I fell in love with this Ao Dai dress, it's simple, long and elegant. But... it's mostly Vietnamese… and I'm afraid that it's modern and not historically accurate. Also it does not really go together with other Ba Sing Se dresses :( because I did not want to just copy-paste some background look. But there is at least one dress with a tail, thigh high slits and a standing collar on the dress underneath, so... I guess my choice is not that bad? The tail makes her look more royal. The fan is the same which Toph and Katara had. For the palette I chose Yue's white color with EK greens and warm yellow/ochre to match Katara and Toph. The hairdo is copied from the series; I chose one with the tassel on the right, to refer the NWT/Korean accessories.
The Fire Nation disguise
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A confession – I don't like FN clothes. I wasn't sure if I would be able to do it properly, so I almost copied that attire (left one) – asymmetry, as a Thai touch, which again matches Aang's Invasion Buddhist-like clothes. The palette keeps Yue's signature white, with some pink of a warmer shade, as they wear it in the Fire Nation. And the "royal" long skirt, 'cause she's still not a fighter. The look is simplified so I could not keep zigzag ornament on her longyi skirt, therefore I moved it onto the top part.
I used Thai dancers jewelry and... flip flops? idk how they are called in Southeast Asia (don't like Sokka and Katara's FN shoes at all, why the design is so complicated?).
For covering her hair I used a turban, inspired by Myanmar turbans; a white one, so if some hair will show, it won't be too noticeable. Also Yue could still be easily recognised on screen/page by her white head. The long end of the fabric on her right resembles burmese hairstyle silhouette.
The Invasion-and-till-finale look
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For her dress I used a deel (again); the sleeveless jacket is an hommage to her original design and has some Korean vibes, like Toph's Ba Sing Se dress (at least I hope so). Katara and Sokka's season 1 looks have Korean influence, so I guess it's okay. Gutals are from her Book 2 main look. I have a soft spot for them.
My favorite thing is her hair :)))) It's a mix of Inuit/Mongolian braids and a hairpiece, also from the Book 2 look. This time there will be more braids. Two on the front – I wanted to keep them from her original hairdo, but now they are braided together (I saw this on the Alaskan Inuit/Eskimo women photos). On the back there are five, inspired by a Mongolian hairdo for young unmarried girls, who wore multiple braids. I decided to make five, because Alaskian Inuit language uses this amount for counting and with two front braids it'll make seven, which is a lucky Mongolian number. And in theory a limited number should be easier to animate.
The post-canon noble look
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After the final battle I thought Yue will come back to Agna Qel'a and become a more active political figure. I chose a white kuspuk (blue color is still for Katara and Sokka), showing that she is ready to lead her tribe after this journey, not the passive perfect princess she was before. "She is associated in canon with the masculine yang of the yin and yang and the moon which, in most Inuit and Eskimo cultures, is considered masculine as well. While white kuspuks are associated with men and specifically family patriarchs, a feminine kuspuk in white makes plenty of sense for Yue's character" – @mostly-mundane-atla helped me a lot with the cultural meaning of the clothes (I am so grateful!). Also it's an hommage to her total-white Moon Spirit look. And I changed her hair again to Greenland updo with two tied braids on the front – more complicated than the simple braids she wore during the journey. It looks formal.
NWT is less Inuit-inspired and has a strong Mongolian touch (to make them look more "modern"? dunno) but I guess the formal wear for the spiritual princess could refer to older traditions. Which should be the same with SWT, 'cause SWT was originally a part of NWT – or so I heard. For example, Kuruk, the NWT Avatar who lived about 400 years ago, has nothing Mongolian in his look.
All the looks are simplified to match the style of the original cartoon. I know there should be more details and embroidery, but my goal here was to draw something (at least theoretically) applicable for animation. And no Hahn's betrothal necklace of course.
Also I want to mention here other great Yue designs, since they are the inspiration behind the overall idea of the post – the moon looks and "Yue joins the Gaang" outfits by amazingly talented @chiptrillino.
P.S.: an important note
This is my first attempt ever to design outfits that could fit the world of A:tLA. I am not Asian or ingenious, not an expert in their cultures or costume history at all, not a professional character designer. I am just a fan who tried to create designs with respect to real cultures and people. Nothing here was supposed to be offensive in any way. If something still is – please inform me so I could fix it as soon as possible.
I hope, as a fan, I have the right to draw fanarts looking for an inspiration in the cultures that inspired the original cartoon.
If you see mistakes in my post, be it in drawings or a text, also feel free to tell me. I will deeply appreciate it.
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halfwayhearted · 1 month ago
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I Miss You — Spencer Reid.
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Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader
Summary: You missed Spencer a lot while he was away on a case, and you both can’t wait to share the same bed again.
Word Count: 570+
Disclaimer/s — Established relationship, and fluff!
A/N: SEASON 4 SPENCER REID, YOU ARE SO DEAR TO ME. Is clingy!spencer canon or nah… just let me know. Lmk.
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It was late. Literally ‘three in the morning’ type late. But you couldn’t sleep. You just couldn’t.
Not when you received that anticipated message informing you that your boyfriend was finally on his way home after an entire week spent away on a case. To pass the time and keep your… thrill in check, you immersed yourself in various small tasks—washing dishes, doing laundry, and even catching up on some reading. Anything that would keep you occupied and awake, ensuring you were ready and waiting for Spencer’s arrival.
You were engrossed in your book when the sound of the door unlocking and opening reached your ears. Instantly, you jerked upright, a bright smile spreading across your face as if it were second nature. Whipping your head around to look, your eyes were met with the sight of the tall brunette.
“You’re home!” You chirped, rising to your feet.
Spencer’s tired gaze finds you, “I’m home. Why are you awake? It’s three-forty in the morning.”
Making your way toward him, you help him shrug off his coat and messenger bag, hanging both on the rack beside you. “I missed you,” was all you had uttered, placing a small peck to his lips.
The second you pull away, he leans in once again for another. Giving him exactly that, you look up at him with a smile, asking, “Are you hungry?”
He shook his head, “Nope. ‘M just tired.”
“Sleep it is,” you countered, “I did laundry, too.”
“You didn’t have to do that. But, thank you.”
Your smile widens as you start to turn away, his eyebrows furrow and he gently grasps your elbow, making you look at him. “What’s wrong?”
Spencer’s voice is quiet when he replies, “Are you not coming to bed with me?”
Oh, you could’ve crumbled right then and there.
And… well, you do!
“Right. Yes, I am. Let me just turn off the lights.”
“Oh,” the man nods slowly, “I’ll go change.”
You let out a soft hum, “Mhm, you go do that.”
After he turns away and enters your shared bedroom, you do what you said you would. You grab your book, close it properly, and set it on the coffee table before flickering off all the lights.
Making your way to the bedroom, Spencer is about to exit, and you find yourself face-to-face with him, which makes you tilt your head and laugh. “What’re you doing? Did you forget—”
He interjects sheepishly, “Went to go get you.”
A loving smile graces your lips at that, and you guide the both of you toward the bed. Climbing into it, you watch how he lifts the covers and slides under them, facing you. You do the same, brushing one of his loose strands away from his eyes. “I really like this hair. Long hair suits you.”
“Does my short hair do the opposite?” He teased.
“Hey, no. I think you look good with any hair,” you start, a short, silent moment passing. “However, I do think this hair specifically might take the win.”
Spencer acknowledges your answer, moving his hand to tenderly grab your own, his thumb rubbing back and forth against the pulse of your wrist while you feel your eyes fluttering shut.
You loved this man more than you thought was possible, and you wouldn’t have it any other way.
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Likes, reblogs, and comments are always appreciated ^_^.
DT(s) — @planetpedri ! ౨ৎ
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pedrospatch · 1 year ago
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fall into temptation | one
Jackson! Joel Miller x Preacher’s Daughter Reader
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series masterlist
summary: Of all the women to catch Joel Miller’s attention—it just had to be one of the goddamned preacher’s daughters.
warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, MINORS DNI. SLIGHT PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION OF READER, mentions of her hair which she can put up into braids as well as her style of clothing. despite the nickname Joel gives her, it does not speak to her body type or size. AGE GAP (reader is in her 20’s and Joel is 56, i know, i know but this is self indulgent because my birthday is next month idk just let me have this one) canon language, canon violence, several mentions of religion, terms pastor and preacher are used interchangeably here and there, mentions of the bible and religious symbols (cross), innocent/virgin reader, very brief scene of attempted sexual assault, no explicit smut (yet). asshole Joel, protective Joel, hints of softish dom Joel (if you squint). reader has two sisters, the only physical description for them is their hair, which they can also braid as well as their style of clothing.
MOODBOARD FOR AESTHETIC PURPOSES ONLY, NO MENTION OF RACE OR BODY TYPE.
word count: 8.4k
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Jackson, Wyoming
Fall 2024
Joel had seen him around the community before. 
He’s an older man in his late sixties or possibly his early seventies with thinning, snow white hair and silver, wire rimmed glasses that always seemed to be perched on the tip of his pointed nose. He was a good, kind man from what Joel could gather—offering up warm smiles and friendly waves to anyone who happened to cross his path, stopping to greet and say hello to familiar faces. The hem of his starched white shirt is tucked into pressed black slacks and even from where he stood across the road near the horse stables, Joel noticed the book clutched in his right hand, old and bound in supple, worn black leather with the words Holy Bible etched into the cover in flaked gold lettering.
Jacob, he thinks his name is. Or was it Josiah?
Something biblical—a name fit for a man who was so fucking clearly devoted to the big man upstairs.
Joel knew his own name was a biblical one, but he was the furthest thing from a man of God. After all that he’d done in the past twenty years, there was only one place he was going and that place wasn’t exactly known for its pearly gates or sweet cherub angels playing harps.
Joseph? Was that it? 
He couldn’t be certain.
Not that Joel really even cared to know his name. 
It’d been a couple months since Joel arrived back in Jackson with Ellie after Salt Lake City and the truth of the matter was that he preferred to keep to himself whenever it was possible. Joel had zero interest in getting to know the people of this settlement, not unless he had to for the sake of patrol duties—and that’s only if he hadn’t been able to weasel his way out of getting assigned with a partner who wasn’t Tommy or Maria, the only two people in the whole fucking community Joel could stand being around. Minus his kid of course, but even he and Ellie could really only take each other in small doses lately. Perhaps it was their tense, strained relationship that was to blame for the fact that Joel Miller walked around this place with a standoffish attitude and a permanent scowl plastered on his face. 
Most people were smart enough to scamper off in the opposite direction when they saw him coming. He was never offended by it. It’s what he wanted. He wasn’t here to make friends.
In fact, the closest thing he had come to a friend outside of his brother’s wife was Esther, the woman Maria and Tommy had tried setting him up with when he first got back to Jackson. He wouldn’t go as far as calling her a friend, either. That’s a little too generous. Friend? No, more like a good fuck when he couldn’t drown his bitterness with Seth’s barrel aged bourbon and he was in need of a different kind of distraction.
But there was a reason this particular man piqued his curiosity. Actually, there were three reasons he managed to garner Joel’s attention and all three of those reasons were trailing behind him in an orderly, single file line, each one more fucking gorgeous than the last. He was positive he’d never seen them around before—because how could he possibly forget the faces of the most beautiful women in this town?
They’ve gotta be sisters, Joel thought to himself, his hand resting on the neck of the horse that he’d ridden out to patrol that morning, a dark, chestnut mare named Willow. Although he was supposed to be walking her inside the stables and back into her stall, he found himself far too distracted. While the three women weren’t identical to one another, the similarity in their traits such as hair color and their skin tone confirmed his suspicions that they were related. They all styled their hair in neat halo braids and wore slightly different color variations of the same getup—pressed, long sleeved blouses tucked into knee length floral printed skirts and worn, leather oxford shoes.
Clutching the brown leather strap of his rifle in his opposite hand, Joel leaned himself against Willow and squinted against the bright afternoon sunlight in an effort to get a better look at them. 
The first two were slightly on the older side. If Joel had to take a shot at their age, he would guess the women were in their thirties—a man of fifty six, he still had about two decades on them, easy. Joel let his gaze shift, his dark brown eyes flickering to the last one. His breath audibly hitched in his throat and part of him wondered just how fucking dumb he had to be to be drawn to the youngest one of the three. It couldn’t be fucking possible—you couldn’t be that much older than your mid twenties, if that. 
Joel’s grip on the strap of his rifle tightened. 
All three of you were beautiful beyond words—why the fuck did it have to be you who held over his interest?
“Take a picture,” Maria remarked with a tiny laugh. She dismounted her horse and peered at Joel over the black stallion’s back. “It’ll last longer.”
She’d led that morning’s patrol, her first time back on duty since she had given birth to her son in the spring. Joel had returned to Jackson right on time to meet his one month old nephew, Noah. 
He cleared his throat and shrugged. “Just tryin’ to figure out what their deal is, that’s all.” He paused, then remarked, “Didn’t know polygamy was a thing around here.”
His comment must have struck a nerve in his dear sister in law—fiercely protective of the people who were under her leadership, Maria hadn’t found the sister wives implication the slightest bit amusing. 
“Watch it, Joel,” she admonished, shooting him a warning glare. “He’s the town’s pastor and those girls happen to be his daughters. So let’s keep our wise ass cracks to ourselves, shall we?”
His daughters? He almost couldn’t believe it. Surely the girls must have taken after their mother because they sure as hell didn’t get their good looks from their old man. They hardly looked anything like him.
“Pastor,” Joel repeated with a small hum. He then remembered her pointing out an old church house back during the winter when she’d given him and Ellie the grand tour of the community. “So he ain’t got a real job like the rest of us?”
Maria rolled her eyes. “His job is a real job, Joel. It might be hard for you to believe, but there are still a lot of people of faith around here,” she explained to him. “He provides them with comfort and with hope—”
He snorted sharply through his nose. “Hope?”
“Yes, hope,” she snapped at him. 
“Hope for what, Maria? That things will go back to fuckin’ normal? That the end of the world is temporary?”
Maria crossed her arms over her chest, jutting her chin. “Some people never lose hope, Joel. There’s a lot of people who need this man and he serves a much bigger purpose than what you’re giving him credit for.”
“And what about the girls? They have it easy too? Do they just stand there lookin’ pretty on Sundays while their old man reads verses out loud from the most useless fuckin’ book known to man?”
“If you must know, they work in the schoolhouse,” she answered, tossing him another glare. “They’re teachers. The oldest one, she teaches Ellie’s class. The middle one, she teaches the primary school aged children and the youngest? She takes care of all of our little ones. She prepares our preschool kids for her sister’s class by teaching them numbers and basic literacy. Shows them how to start counting, reading and writing, things like that. She also helps run the commune’s daycare.”
“At least they have real jobs,” Joel mumbled under his breath. 
“What was that?”
He feigned innocence. “Nothin’. Nothin’ at all.”
“That’s exactly what I thought.” Maria pointed her finger at him. “Come on, let’s get these guys back into their stalls. It was a long ride this morning, I’m sure they could use some rest.” Taking her stallion by the reins, she started leading him over toward Logan, one of the stable hands who helped take in the horses coming back from patrol. 
Joel took Willow’s reins in his hands—but before he could even think of moving another muscle, he glanced up and saw the preacher leading his three daughters past the stables and right past Joel. His self control faltered. All that he could do was stare at you, his eyes fixed on you so blatantly that one of your sisters had taken notice. Grinning, she turned back towards you and lifted a hand to her mouth. She used her palm to shield her lips from Joel’s view and whispered something to you over her shoulder.
Shit. 
He’d been caught gawking.
He thought about making a beeline for the stables but it was too late. 
Perplexed by whatever it was that your older sister had just said to you, you gave her an odd look, but then followed the subtle nod of her head. 
Glimpsing over in his direction, your lips parted in complete surprise and you came to an abrupt halt in the middle of the dirt road when you found your gaze meeting that of the much older, rugged man standing there with a gun slung over his shoulder.
Unsure of what else to do, Joel simply offered you a polite nod of his head. The gesture was innocent enough but it startled you. He could tell by the way you let out a small gasp and turned away from him, your eyes falling to the ground as you scurried to catch up to your father and sisters like a spooked little mouse. 
Joel couldn’t help but shake his head and laugh.
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“Is the preacher aware that his precious little daughters pay frequent visits to The Tipsy Bison at such late and ungodly hours?” Joel quipped. He gestured to a booth nestled over in a corner of the dimly lit bar with a subtle jerk of his chin. “S’gotta be the third or fourth time I’ve seen them here in the last couple of weeks.”
Tommy’s eyes followed his brother’s gesture. “Oh man, not again,” he said with an exasperated sigh. He shook his head. “Those girls, they ain’t got no fuckin’ business hangin’ around this place and much less at this fuckin’ hour. But the middle one, she’s a whole lot of trouble.” He paused, just long enough to nod at one of the three sisters, the one who was wearing her hair loose around her shoulders, twirling a lock of it around her finger as she made flirtatious fuck me eyes at the group of drunk patrolmen sitting a few tables away. “She’s somethin’ of a rebel, that one. Likes to drink a lot, get herself involved with things that she ain’t really supposed to be messin’ with. She’s the one who convinces the other two into sneakin’ out and comin’ to the bar when their old man goes to sleep.”
Joel chuckled in disbelief. “You fuckin’ serious?”
“As a heart attack. And then there’s the older one. I know she likes to drink too, but she’s a lot calmer than the other one. Ain’t gotta worry about her all too much, y’know? She tries to be the chaperone—it don’t always work out that way, though. Her halo ain’t exactly perfect either.”
“What ‘bout the youngest one?” Joel asked in the most nonchalant tone he could possibly muster. “Where does she fall on the scale between angel and devil?”
You’re carefully perched on the edge of the booth, your pretty features twisting in disgust with every sip of the rich, amber colored liquid in your glass. Unable to stomach the burning alcohol, you set it off to the side, abandoning it in favor of a glass of water instead.
“Her?” Tommy grinned, leaning back into his chair as stated, “Oh, she’s an absolute angel. She’s just ‘bout the sweetest fuckin’ thing you’ll ever see in your whole damn life, big brother. She’s gotta be the kinda girl who all the little birds and woodland critters sing to when there ain’t no one around,” he laughed. ��She’s real good. Too good. Wouldn’t surprise me if the lord sent her down from heaven himself.”
Joel tossed him a skeptical look across the table.
“She really as innocent as she seems?” 
“I don’t think she even knows what it’s like to hold another man’s hand,” his younger brother laughed again and reached for his beer, taking a generous swig. 
Joel hummed softly and lifted his glass of whiskey to his lips. The mere thought of you being so pure and so innocent—untouched by anyone else—caused something to stir deep in his lower belly. 
“She’s the old man’s pride and joy,” Tommy continued, breaking into his train of thought. “Kind. Polite. Behaves. Doesn’t get herself into any kinda trouble—I mean look at her, she can’t even choke down a glass of whiskey. She’s just too good of a girl.”
Joel proceeded cautiously with his next question. “Any of them taken?” 
Surprised, Tommy raised his eyebrows. “Joel, don’t fuckin’ tell me—”
“No, I ain’t interested,” he interjected, rolling his eyes. “Just a curious motherfucker, that’s all.”
He didn’t seem too convinced by Joel’s answer. “They’re all single from what I know. To be honest, there ain’t a whole lot of men around here their old man would approve of,” he remarked. “Don’t get me wrong, he’s a nice man and all, but when it comes to his daughters, he’s real strict. Not that controllin’ has done him much good, though.” He lowered his voice as a fellow patrolman walked past their table. “The middle one’s fucked her way through this entire town and then back again. She even made a pass at me while Maria was pregnant with Noah, if you can fuckin’ believe that.”
Amused, Joel snorted into his drink. Ballsy. “How goddamn drunk was she?”
Tommy ran a hand through his jet black curls. “Wasted. Oldest one ain’t exactly the Virgin Mary, either.”
“And the old man doesn’t know?”
“Nope. Ain’t nobody gonna snitch on grown women in their thirties.” Noticing the amused expression on Joel’s face, he adds, “By the way, just in case you haven’t figured it out, this stays between us, Joel.”
He smirked. “Which part?”
“All of it. And take it from me, those girls? S’best you keep your distance from them,” he warned as he stood up from the table. He picked up the blue denim jacket draped over his chair, shrugging into it. “Don’t go gettin’ any dumbass ideas, alright?”
“Look, if the wild one makes a pass at me, I ain’t gonna turn her down. S’not like I’ve got a pregnant wife at home.”
“Joel, I fuckin’ swear. If you even think ‘bout it—”
He held up his hands to stop him. “Relax. Was just a joke.”
“Right. M’sure it was.” Tommy snorted. “Listen, I gotta get back home. Don’t wanna leave Maria on her own with the baby for too long.”
“How’s she been holdin’ up?”
“She’s been so tired. Jugglin’ motherhood, runnin’ this place, and bein’ back on patrol duty. I keep on tryin’ to tell her to slow it down, but she just won’t listen to me.” He let out a small sigh and waved a dismissive hand. “But anyway. If you’re all good to head out, I can walk you back to your place since it’s on the way to mine?”
Joel looked down at his glass, still half full. “I think I’m gonna hang back for a while longer. I’m on the roster for evenin’ patrol tomorrow, s’not like I’ve gotta be up at the ass crack of dawn.”
“Suit yourself.” Clapping him on the back, Tommy bid him goodnight and started towards the door. 
As soon as he was gone, Joel looked over towards your booth. He watched as you whispered into the ear of your eldest sister who nodded her head in understanding. You stood up and said something else to her, then spun around on your heel, long skirt flowing along with the movement. Head down, you hastily made your way across the bar, being careful so as not to bump into anyone along the way.
You were leaving. Alone. 
In the middle of the fucking night? While drunk morons poured in and out of the bar?
She’ll be just fine, he tried to convince himself. 
Joel frowned to himself, gripping his drink tightly in his hand as he scanned the room.
Sitting at a nearby table was Kent, some idiot he’d been stuck with a time or two for patrol. He clocks the smirk that crossed the younger man’s face, his eyes following you all the way to the door. Leaning forward over the table, he whispered something to his buddies, his smirk widening. His comrades, all who looked and behaved more like teenagers rather than grown men, lifted their beers to him, nodding in encouragement. Drunk off his ass, Kent drained the rest of his own beer, slamming the glass bottle down onto the table before clumsily stumbling to his feet. 
Joel momentarily froze as soon as he realized what was happening. 
Kent was going after you. 
Joel’s lips pressed together into a tight, thin line.
Setting his drink down, he stood up from his table and slipped on his jacket before following suit.
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Joel stepped out of the bar and into the night, the chilly evening air nipping at his face. He took a look around. 
You were nowhere to be seen. Neither was Kent. 
That couldn’t fucking be good. 
“Where the fuck did you two go,” he muttered to himself under his breath.
That’s when he heard it. 
The sound of muffled screaming coming from the side of the building. Joel didn’t hesitate. Following your smothered cries for help, he whipped around into the dimly lit alley nestled in between the bar and the commune’s mess hall. You’re pinned underneath Kent with your skirt bunched up around your waist. One of his hands was covering your mouth while his other hand clawed its way up your bare thigh. 
“Aw, c’mon now, sugar,” Kent slurred his words together. “It’d be a fucking shame to let someone as cute as you stay a fucking virgin. Don’t be coy—I know you’re just like your stupid slut of a sister. She’s got no trouble spreading her fucking legs for me, y’know.”
Red.
It was the color that flashed in Joel’s mind. It was all he could see as he went up behind Kent, letting his hands reach for fistfuls of his leather jacket. He lifted him off of you with ease, slamming him hard against the brick wall of the mess hall. Pulling him forward, Joel slammed his body into the wall once more, knocking all the wind out of his lungs. 
“Miller, what the fuck are you doing!” Kent gasped out, frantically pawing at the older man’s hands in an effort to break free. “Get the fuck off me!”
“Takin’ advantage of an innocent girl?” Joel hissed at him, tightening his grasp on the collar of Kent’s jacket. “Think that makes you a fuckin’ man?”
Though he was still intoxicated, the sheer terror of being caught in Joel Miller’s hands sobered him just enough that he started sputtering an explanation. “I wasn’t fucking taking advantage of her! Her and her whore sisters were making eyes at me and the guys all fucking night! She fucking wanted it! She asked me for it, couldn’t even wait long enough to get back to my place—”
The lie came straight through his chattering teeth. The same teeth he would be picking up off the ground in the next minute or two. 
Joel knew he didn’t need to ask. Still, he turned to you, his rage only intensifying when he took in the sight of you lying there on the ground, the hem of your light blue floral skirt hiked around your waist. 
“That true?” He questioned you. “You wanted it?”
You stared at him with wide and fearful eyes.
A single tear slipped down the side of your face.
“Answer me, darlin’,” he prompted. “You wanted this?”
“No. I didn’t.” Your voice was small, barely audible.
But he’d heard it loud and clear. 
“She’s lying!” Kent tried to tell him. “She’s—”
Joel delivered the first punch, a blow so hard he’d felt the younger man’s nose crack underneath his curled fist. He struck him again and again, the blows coming in harder and harder, turning Kent’s face into a bloodied pulp.
If Joel didn’t get a grip, he would kill him. Part of him wanted to fucking kill Kent for putting his hands you—and more so for accusing of you wanting it. Pathetic fucking bastard. 
Holding Kent up by the throat with one hand, Joel pulled his switchblade from the back pocket of his jeans with the other. Fingers curled tightly around the hilt, Joel held up the knife into Kent’s view. He had left his eyes purple and swollen, but judging by the pitiful little pleas for mercy, it was clear that he could still somehow see the sharp blade being held an inch or so away from his face. 
“If I ever catch you anywhere near her again, I ain’t gonna be so fuckin’ generous,” Joel growled warningly. “I ain’t gonna let you walk away next time, boy. That understood?”
He nodded. “Un—Understood.”
“Good.” Joel released him, stepping backwards as he fell to the ground. “Get the fuck outta my face. Now.”
Kent managed to scramble to his feet and staggered off, disappearing from the alley. 
Chest heaving, Joel inhaled a deep breath through his nose, then exhaled it through his mouth before turning to you once more. 
Petrified, you still hadn’t moved a single muscle.
You looked fucking terrified. Whether it was from Kent’s assault or the way Joel had nearly beaten him to death right in front of you, it was hard to tell.
Crouching down beside you, Joel caught your subtle flinch. He proceeded to move slowly as he reached for the hem of your skirt. Delicately, he gripped the soft, flowing fabric and pulled it down into place. Joel then held his hand out to you. 
You hesitated for a split second, but accepted his hand and allowed him to help you up to your feet. 
“You alright, little dove?” The nickname had fallen from his lips before he could even think to stop it. 
“I think so,” you replied, nodding your head. You’d started to tremble and even though it had nothing to do with being cold, Joel took notice of it and he shrugged out of his camel colored jacket. He gave it to you, draping it over your shoulders. The scent of him instantly enveloped you—a mouth watering masculine mixture of clean soap, woodiness, and musk. It was far more intoxicating than the scotch you had tried back inside the bar. He didn’t utter a word to you as he wrapped his jacket around your body, both of his hands pulling gently at the lapels to bring them together in front of your chest. That was when you glanced down and saw he’d injured his hand. You gasped lightly. “Are you okay?”
Maybe it was the adrenaline, but Joel hadn’t even noticed that he’d split his knuckles wide open. Giving it a light shake, he assured you gruffly, “M’fine.”
Without thinking it through, you gingerly grabbed Joel’s hand, holding it in both of yours. “It doesn’t look like nothing,” you countered. You inspected it as best as you could in such poor lighting. “You’re bleeding.”
“Trust me, I’ve had a whole lot worse,” he deadpanned.
Ignoring his remark, you asked, “Can you move all your fingers for me? Just to make sure that it isn’t broken?”
Joel felt a strange warmth radiate in his chest. 
Fucking hell, Tommy had been right about you. 
You really were too good.
“Darlin’ I already told you m’fine—”
“Please?”
That word, and the way you’d said it, sent a shiver up the length of his spine.
Joel started wiggling his fingers in your palms. He winced slightly at the soreness. More than that, he knew his cuts and bruises would be all the fucking proof Tommy and Maria would need to know that he had been the one who rearranged Kent’s face. 
“See?” He spoke after a minute as he continued to move his fingers up and down. “Ain’t broken.”
“Let me clean you up,” you offered. Looking up at him, you cradled his hand as if it were a fragile baby bird you wanted to take home and nurse back to health.
“That really ain’t necessary.”
“You just saved me from—it’s the least I can do for you,” you insisted. Seeing him open his mouth just to protest again, you cut him off. “Please?”
There it was again.
Christ. That word sounded too good coming from those plush, pretty lips of yours. 
Joel sighed out in defeat. “Alright then,” he relented. “I s’ppose there ain’t no harm in lettin’ you clean me up a bit, little dove.”
Pleased that he had finally accepted, you carefully let go of his hand and took a step back, beckoning for him to follow you. “Come with me,” you said to him. “I know somewhere private we can go.”
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When you came to a stop at the old church house, Joel shook his head and took a step backwards. 
Puzzled, your brows knitted together. “What is it? What’s the matter?”
He backed away further. “I ain’t goin’ in there.” 
You tossed him an amused glance. “It’s a church.”
“Yeah, I know that. I ain’t exactly a man of God.” 
You couldn’t help but giggle. “So? What does that have to do with me taking you inside to clean your hand up for you?”
Shuffling his weight from boot to boot, Joel shrugged. “Just don’t think I belong in there, that’s all.”
“Do you think you’re going to melt if you step foot inside?” you teased him. After a minute, it became apparent that he was being serious about it. Joel’s discomfort about going inside the church wasn’t some kind of joke on his part, it was real. “Don’t be silly. It doesn’t matter that you’re not a man of God. That doesn’t mean that you’re going to explode or burn into a pile of ashes for going inside, you know.”
“After all the terrible shit I’ve done?” He looked up at the building, shaking his head again. “I just might burn, little dove.”
You bit back a small smile. You’d already grown to be quite fond of his sweet nickname for you. 
“There’s a first aid kit inside I can use to patch you up,” you told him. “It won’t take long, I promise.”
His lower lip rolled in between teeth as he thought it over. “I ain’t too sure about this—”
“It’s only going to take me five minutes to get your hand cleaned up and then you can leave. Okay?”
You were as stubborn as you were sweet. How the fuck was he supposed to say no to you?
Reluctantly, Joel finally agreed to it. “Okay.” He followed you up the creaking, wooden porch steps towards the double doors. He’d just started to wonder how the two of you were even supposed to get into the building after hours when you leaned down, lifting the old mat on the floor to reveal a set of keys. Unable to help himself, he scoffed, “Serious?”
“Doesn’t everyone keep a key under their mat?” 
“Yeah at their fuckin’ house. Not their church.” 
“Well to be fair, this is kind of like a second home. I spend quite a bit of time here,” you confessed.
Joel raised an eyebrow at you. “So much time that you’ve decided to keep a set of keys under the mat?”
Sheepishly, you nodded. “Sometimes when I can’t sleep at night, I’ll come here alone and sit with my thoughts for a while.” You shrugged. “Maria let me have the spare set of keys. She knows I come here and so does the rest of the council. I trespass with their full permission,” you kidded with a small grin. 
Unlocking one of the two doors, you stepped over the threshold and waited expectantly for Joel. But he stood there, making no move to join you on the other side. 
“This place gives me the fuckin’ creeps,” he admitted. 
You laughed. “It’s only the outside that’s creepy, I promise.”
Grimacing, Joel finally walked inside, his back and shoulders stiff with tension as he stepped into the place of worship. 
You closed the door and flipped on the lights, then opened a second set of double doors with another key from the ring. 
“Whoa.” He was pleasantly surprised. For as old as this place was, the interior of the church was quite nice. He could tell that it had been well cared for in its lifetime—the former contractor in him had little choice but to appreciate the high ceiling, the large windows, and the satin finish of the white paint on the rustic, wooden panel walls. 
There were a total of twelve pews, six on each side of the church. There was an older, antique piano in pristine condition nestled over in one corner of the room and in another, there was a large chalkboard propped up on a wooden easel, biblical verses that had been the focus of the congregation’s previous gathering still scribbled across it in white chalk. 
“See?” You nudged his arm with your elbow. “This isn’t so awful, right?”
“S’ppose it ain’t all that bad,” he muttered. 
Your eyes twinkled with pure amusement, adding, “And you didn’t burn into a pile of ashes.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Joel grumbled out in response. “Can we just get this over with so I can get outta here?”
You tossed him a playful little eye roll then nodded towards the pews. “Go ahead and just have a seat anywhere,” you instructed him. “I’ll be right back.”
You disappeared down a short, dimly lit corridor.
Letting out a heavy sigh, Joel slowly made his way down the aisle holding his injured hand against his chest. Now that the adrenaline had started wearing off, it’d started throbbing with pain.
There was an altar at the front of the church—if he could even call it an altar. 
It was a plain oakwood table with a white fair linen cloth draped over it and nothing else. 
Above it, bolted onto the wall, was a wooden cross.
He averted his eyes, turning away from it. 
Of all the shit to be intimidated by in this world. 
A fucking slab of carved wood. 
Joel’s attention shifted over to the chalkboard. He squinted at it, silently reading the verse to himself.
God is faithful, and he will not let you be tempted beyond your ability. 1 Corinthians 10:13
“But with the temptation, he will also provide the way of escape, that you may be able to endure it,” you recited the rest of the verse from behind him.
“No offense darlin’, but it sounds like nothin’ but a whole lotta gibberish to me,” he remarked to you over his shoulder. 
“No offense taken, Joel.”
Whirling around on the heel of his worn boot, Joel blurted, “How did you know my name?”
“You’re Tommy Miller’s brother. Everybody in this town knows your name.” You held up the white tin box in your hands. A big, red cross had been spray painted onto the lid. You sat down in the first pew and patted the seat right beside you. “Come sit.”
He sauntered over and dropped down next to you, watching as you opened up the box and started digging through its contents. “You know my name,” he stated after a few seconds of silence. “Sure would be nice for me to know yours.”
Smiling politely, you told him your name.
Joel repeated it. It rolled almost too sweetly off his tongue.
“S’real pretty, little dove. Just like you.”
His compliment nearly knocked all of the air out of your lungs and for a split second, you have to remind yourself to breathe.
Cheeks burning, you murmured a small thank you and plucked a bottle of saline solution from the kit along with a piece of clean cotton. You tried not to think about the way his eyes were fixed intently on you as you unscrewed the cap and poured a bit of the liquid onto the cotton. “It shouldn’t sting,” you reassured him, reaching for Joel’s injured hand. It was rough and calloused, a stark contrast against your own soft and smooth. You set his hand down on your knee, a strange sensation fluttering in the depths of your lower belly when the warmth of his skin seeped right through the fabric of your skirt. 
Comfortable silence fell over the both of you like a curtain as you started cleaning the blood off of his knuckles and his long, thick fingers. 
“You really believe in all this stuff?” Joel spoke, his question echoing off the bare walls of the church. 
You continued dabbing at his cuts, thinking it over in your head for a moment.
“I honestly don’t know,” you admitted.
Your answer took him by complete surprise.
“What do you mean you don’t know?”
“I have always been taught to believe in God, Joel. It’s all that I’ve ever known. I grew up in a religious community,” you explained to him, making sure to keep your eyes focused on his hand. Tossing aside the bloodied wad of cotton, you picked up another piece adding more saline to it. “After the outbreak, things changed, of course. I couldn’t imagine how He could let something like this happen. When we lost our mother to infection about five years ago, I stopped praying. I finally stopped holding onto the ounce of hope I had that He would make the world right again. I refused to believe in God. Sometimes I still do,” you confessed quietly.
“You said you spend a lot of time here. Why come to church if you’re not even sure you believe in any of this shit anymore?”
“I’m always here because there’s still a part of me that thinks there’s a chance for me to believe again. When I told you I come here when I can’t sleep at night, it’s true. It’s my time to be here completely alone, the time that I use to mend my broken relationship with God. Or at least, I’ve been trying to mend it.” Taking a little glass pot of homemade antibiotic ointment one of the women in the town made and traded, you took off the lid and scooped out some of the salve with the tip of your finger. You applied it carefully to his cuts and continued, “But lately, the more that I try to pray and talk to Him, the more foolish I feel. It’s just not working. It hasn’t been working for a long, long time.”
“Then why keep tryin’ if it ain’t workin’ anymore?”
“Because I don’t really have much of a choice.”
“Your old man?” Joel guessed, wincing slightly as you went over a particularly sore spot on his hand, right over the torn up knuckle of his index finger. 
“Mhm.” You nodded. “My father never lost faith in Him. He knows how I feel, but he refuses to let me give up on God. He won’t ever let me miss church or go to bed without reciting my nightly prayer. He won’t let me abandon our faith. Not until the day he is cold and buried in his grave.”
“So what I’m gettin’ is that he forces you?”
You finished applying the ointment and wiped the remnants lingering on your finger off on your skirt.
“Force is such a harsh word. I wouldn’t say that—”
“He’s forcin’ you,” Joel said, flatly. 
“Joel—”
“You can twist it however the hell you want, sweet girl,” he cut you off. “But if you’re tryin’ this fuckin’ hard to make yourself believe in somethin’ just for the sake of appeasin’ your dad because he can’t or won’t accept how you really feel ‘bout all this, well I hate to break it to you, but you’re bein’ forced.”
Your eyes widened ever so slightly at his words. 
You had never thought about it like that before.
Placing the lid back onto the pot of ointment, you put it back into the first aid kit and then set the tin box down onto the floor. You sat back and clasped your hands together in your lap, not knowing what else to say to him. 
He was right, after all. 
Joel’s fingers lightly squeezed your knee. “Hey.”
You brought your gaze over to meet his. “Hm?”
“Can I ask you somethin’ ‘bout your dad?”
“What is it?” 
Joel chose his words carefully. “Has he ever—he ain’t ever done anythin’ to hurt you, has he?” he asked you, earning himself a perplexed stare. He continued to elaborate. “What I mean is, he ever put his hands on you or anythin’ like that?”
Oh. That’s what he meant.
“Never,” you assured him quickly. “He would never lay a single finger on me or my two sisters.”
He gave your knee another squeeze. “Just needed to make sure of it, sweetheart. Back in the day, I used to hear and see awful things on the news ‘bout—”
You were quick to cut him off. “Look, my father isn’t perfect, but he’s not like that. He’s a good man who only wants what is best for us. He’s strict and he can be tough, but it’s only because he cares. He just doesn’t want us running down the wrong path.”
“The wrong path?”
You shrugged. “Life here in Jackson is decent, but there’s a lot of temptations he doesn’t want any of us falling into. He wants to protect us.”
“By controllin’ you.” 
It had been a statement, not a question. 
Giving him a wry smile, you assured him, “Joel, it’s really not as bad as you’re making it sound. I could be a whole lot worse off than this, you know.”
There was another short bout of silence.
Joel’s dark eyes fell to your blouse, noticing how a couple of the top buttons had come undone. 
He caught the slightest glimpse of the soft curves of your breasts—all it had taken was just a peek at them for his cock to twitch against the zipper of his jeans.
Don’t you get hard in a fuckin’ church, Miller.
His gaze wandered down a little further and that’s when he caught sight of the cross hanging from a delicate gold chain clasped around your neck.
Joel expected the sight of it to calm the straining in his jeans. Somehow, it only made it worse. 
“Earlier, when we were standing outside,” you had started to say, “You said you might burn if you came inside the church because of all the terrible shi—things that you’ve done.”
“S’right.”
You peered at him with curiosity. “So what exactly have you done, Joel?”
Joel leaned back into the pew, shaking his head at you as he finally pulled his hand from your knee. 
“You really don’t wanna know, little dove.”
“Why not?”
His answer was honest.  “Don’t want you to be scared of me.”
Angling your body towards him, you placed one of your hands on his thigh. Your fingers burned right through the dark blue denim of his jeans.
Joel’s lips parted slightly, taken aback by the bold move and the sudden shift in your demeanor.
Were you the same girl who’d nearly had a fucking heart attack a couple of weeks ago when Joel had nodded at you back at the stables? 
“I’m not scared of you,” you murmured, softly. You gave his leg a squeeze, pulling your plump bottom lip between your teeth. Between that and the wide innocent doe eyes that you were giving him, it was taking every last ounce of strength Joel had inside him to keep a straight face, to pretend you weren’t driving him absolutely wild with desire.
He couldn’t even remember the last time he’d felt such an incredible need to have someone. 
Want, sure. 
He had wanted Tess. He had wanted Esther. 
But Joel didn’t just want you. 
He fucking needed you. 
And he didn’t know why.
“I’m not scared of you,” you repeated, trailing your hand further up his thigh, setting a fire neither one of you would soon be able to contain. 
Joel leaned forward, bringing his face dangerously close towards yours. His warm breath fanned over your lips. It was still laced with bourbon. “You sure ‘bout that, darlin’ girl?” 
You tried to answer him in the steadiest voice that you could muster, but it was impossible for you to hide the effect this man had on you. 
You breathed out a shaky, “I’m sure.”
Lifting his uninjured hand, he reached up to tuck a loose lock of hair that had fallen out of your braids behind your ear. As his hand fell away, the palm of it grazed against the silkiness of your cheek. 
Though brief, the contact sent an electric current through each and every last single nerve ending in your entire body. 
Exhaling sharply, your eyelids fluttered closed. You nearly whimpered out his name. “Joel?”
“What is it, babygirl? What do you want?”
“I—I want you to kiss me.” 
Joel leaned in even closer, stopping only when his mouth was less than an inch away from yours. 
You heard him chuckle softly. 
“Y’know, I’d expect better manners from a good girl like you,” he tsked lightly, his nose skimming near the corner of your mouth. Closer. “What’s the magic word, little dove?”
“Please.”
“S’much better.”
Your heart pounded with anticipation.
It was almost too much for you to handle. 
Joel closed the remaining gap of space, capturing your lips with his own. He remembered his brother talking about you at the bar—how he had told Joel that you had never even held a man’s hand before.
It occurred to him that he was giving you your first kiss. Him. Joel Miller. The town’s resident asshole and a man who was well over twice your own age. He was the one giving you your very first kiss. 
The guilt suddenly started to creep in, sinking into his bones.
What the fuck had he been thinking? 
And what about you? 
Where the fuck had your common sense gone?
Probably ran off together with Joel’s.
“Sweetheart,” he murmured, pulling away slightly in an attempt to stop it from going any further. He tried again, mumbling against your lips, “We gotta stop. This ain’t right—”
You were having none of it. 
None. 
Clutching fistfuls of Joel’s denim shirt, you swung your leg over his thighs and straddled his lap. Your knees rested on either side of him on the bench. 
“Please,” you nearly pleaded. “Just kiss me. I want it—I want this. I promise you that I do.” You placed both of your hands on his broad shoulders, sliding them around him as you slowly sank down further onto his lap. “I want this, Joel.”
Suddenly, he realized that you were asking him for more than just his kiss. 
Now he knew for sure that all common sense had left that pretty little head of yours. 
“Baby, y’need to think real hard ‘bout this—”
Desperate, you uttered one final, “Please.”
Joel bit back a groan. How could he deny you? 
He couldn’t. Simple as that. 
“You sure ‘bout this?”
Your fingers toyed with the curls at the nape of his neck. “Yes. I’m sure.”
“C’mere then, darlin’ girl.”
Joel cupped the side of your face in his large palm and tilted his head up towards yours. Your mouths fused together and although he tried to be gentle, it was proving to be much too difficult—how could he be gentle when you were practically clinging to him? Holding onto him with fervor as if you’d been holding onto dear fucking life itself? 
Temperatures rising, you quickly shrugged out of his jacket, letting it fall to the floor behind you with a soft thud before wrapping your arms around him once again. You melted against him as your mouth molded to his in a perfect fit. 
His teeth nipped at your bottom lip, silently asking for permission to explore the cavern even further. 
Eagerly, your lips parted, granting him access. His tongue slipped past them, meeting yours in a slow and sensual heated dance. 
You breathed him deeply into your lungs, a little moan vibrating at the back of your throat. 
Joel’s hands went to your waist and he yanked the hem of your blouse free from your skirt. 
“Can I feel you, baby?” he asked, breathlessly. His mouth abandoned yours and he began to trail hot, open mouthed kisses underneath your jawline. 
Dazed, all you could do was nod in reply and utter, “Mhm.”
Joel’s hands slipped under your blouse and he slid them up the length of your sides. “Fuck, you gotta be the softest fuckin’ thing,” he cursed against the delicate, tender flesh of your neck. His lips latched onto your pulse point, suckling at the skin there as his fingertips dug into your hips. He needed to feel more, but he forced himself to wait. The last thing he wanted to do was make a wrong move or move too fast and scare you off.
“Joel,” you mewled his name. “Joel, I need—”
You trailed off, moaning when his mouth released your skin with a loud, wet popping noise. 
“Tell me, sweet girl. Tell me what you need and I’ll give it to you,” he promised. “Anythin’ you need or want, I’ll give it to you. Just say the fuckin’ word.”
“You, Joel. I need you.”
His hips involuntarily bucked upwards and you let out a startled gasp the moment you felt his bulge, hard as a rock, brush against your clothed cunt. 
Tearing away from him, it suddenly hit you. You’re in a church, straddling a much, much older man in a pew—and if that wasn’t sinful enough, the warm and slick arousal pooling between your thighs only proved that you were ready to fall into temptation, give into the lust and give your body to Joel. But it was none of those things that worried you. It was something else. 
You pulled yourself out of his arms and jumped up off his lap, nearly tripping over your own two feet.
“Darlin’ are you—?”
You didn’t even hear the rest of his question.
Knees trembling, you somehow managed to make your way up to the altar. Heart pounding and head spinning, you planted both of your hands firmly on the table and steadied yourself. Part of you hoped that Joel would just get up and leave. But a bigger part of you hoped he wouldn’t. 
Joel rose to his feet. “Listen, ain’t nothin’ wrong if you changed your mind, alright?”
“I didn’t,” you choked out. “That’s—that’s not it at all.”
“Then what’s the matter?”
Embarrassed, you tried to explain yourself. “I have never done anything like this before. I’m a—”
You couldn’t even bring yourself to say the word out loud. 
“You’re a what?”
Blazing heat flooded your face. “Joel, please don’t make me say it,” you groaned. “For the sake of my sanity, don’t make me say it.” You heard the sound of his brown leather boots as he walked up behind you, one heavy footstep after the other.
“Turn around, sweet girl.” 
Joel’s command was firm but still gentle. 
Swallowing dryly, you obeyed and did as you were told. He stood close and you found yourself at eye level with his chest. 
“Look at me.”
You tried, but couldn’t. 
“I said, look at me.” Joel gingerly took your chin in between his thumb and index finger. He lifted your face, forcing your gaze to meet his own, timid and submissive meeting bold and dominant in a sweet and tender exchange. “Never known the lovin’ of a man, have you little dove?”
He backed you up against the table, pinning you in between it and himself. Planting both of his hands on either side of you, he caged you in and brought his chest flush against yours, pressing your bodies together.
Close, but somehow not close enough.
Joel lifted his hand to your cheek, cradling it in his palm. His thumb swept over your quivering bottom lip.
You reached behind you, clutching at the fair linen as you tried with every fiber of your entire being to remind yourself that you were standing at the altar where your father preached and delivered all of his sermons to the faithful people of Jackson. 
The very same altar where your father encouraged you to kneel and pray in effort to mend the broken relationship you had with God. 
You couldn’t help but to think if you were to get on your knees tonight, it wouldn’t be for prayer.
“I asked you a question, darlin’.” Joel’s voice broke into your train of thought. “Need you to be a good girl and give me an answer, alright?”
“My father loves me,” you stammered out in reply. “He loves me and my sisters—”
“C’mon, babygirl.” He chuckled and shook his head at you, lightly pinching your cheek. “That ain’t what I mean and you damn well know it.”
Sighing softly, you finally answered, “No, Joel.”
“No, what?”
“No, I’ve never known the loving of a man.”
Joel slipped the tip of his thumb between your lips and leaned into you, his hardness pressing against your upper thigh. Even through all the clothes, you could feel every inch of him. “Do you wanna know how it feels, baby? What it feels like when a man makes you his own?” 
You nearly moaned around his finger. “Yes.”
“Yes, what?” he prompted, pulling his hand away.
“Yes, please.”
“I can show you.” Joel paused. “But not tonight.”
You stared at him in disbelief. Both of you were so clearly riled up and he was going to take a pass?
He almost laughed at your expression. 
“C’mon, don’t give me that face.”
“But Joel—”
“Just don’t wanna rush it, not with you,” Joel said in a tone so soft it nearly threw you for a loop. “M’gonna need you to be real patient for me, just for a little while, alright? You think you can do that, little dove? Think you can be patient for me?”
Your answer came without an ounce of hesitation.
“Of course,” you breathed.
You would wait an eternity for Joel Miller.
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awearywritersworld · 9 months ago
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do not leave me in this abyss, where i cannot find you
sukuna x reader summary: the higher ups succeed in kidnapping you and sukuna doesn't know if he'll get you back alive. w/c: 2.85k tags/warnings: fluff and angst. reader is kidnapped and gravely injured. depictions of blood. canon typical violence. "good girl". cursing. ft gojo. aged up!yuuji. fem!reader. not canon compliant. no use of y/n. *please mind the warnings for this chapter* a/n: and finally folks, we've reached the climax of the series. there will only be one more official chapter after this one, so i hope this lives up to expectations. this could maybe be read as a stand alone, but it's certainly better when serving as a culmination to the other chapters. i'm a little nervous posting this, so i'd love to hear your thoughts :) series masterlist // masterlist
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brontë
sukuna isn't sure at first why the name is familiar, but he soon realizes that a great many of the books on your shelf are authored by women of that name, including jane eyre.
though he finds your copy of wuthering heights, written by an emily brontë, tucked away in the drawer of your nightstand, the headphones you'd asked him grab lying on top of it.
he pulls the book from its spot with care, as the cover is worn and frayed at the edges. flipping through the pages, there are quite a few quotes underlined and countless scribbles in the margins.
while you'd forced him to read jane eyre, he tucks wuthering heights under his arm of his own volition. he isn't sure if it's because you've kept this one separate from the others, or because it might give him an opportunity to know you better, or because he's positive it will make you happy, but he does it all the same.
when he steps back into the living room, he drops your headphones in your lap and takes the seat beside you, wasting no time in beginning the first chapter.
"what've you got there?" you eventually question, even though you know the answer.
he doesn't spare you a glance when he responds, "a book."
"oh, yeah? what kind of book?"
he elects to ignore you, which only serves to encourage your mischievous tone. "i thought romance novels were beneath you and your refined taste."
finally looking at you, he narrows his eyes at your childish taunt. "do you want me to read it or not?"
"of course—"
"then i suggest you be a good girl and behave yourself."
your mouth snaps shut so abruptly that your teeth click as they meet, something sukuna takes note of with a raised brow. you're thankful when he returns to reading rather than saying anything more.
so without any additional interruptions, he delves into the tragic story of heathcliff and catherine. or more precisely, the pain and destruction that follows it.
the further he reads, the better he discerns that while you seem to have a penchant for the brontë sisters, they seem to have a penchant for writing about men that are wicked and callous.
the very notion makes him chuckle.
maybe it explains why he's sitting here with your feet in his lap, while you try and fail (rather cutely) to stifle your giggles at some stupid youtube video.
"what?" you ask, taking out one of your headphones once you notice he's staring at you with a small smile.
"nothing. just enjoying the story."
the way you beam in response makes his mouth go dry.
"hah! i knew it! you're a romantic at heart."
you make a big show of pressing your hands to your chest and swooning.
"settle down there," he chides, his hand patting your thigh. "you're getting ahead of yourself."
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two days later, sukuna feels that something isn't quite right. it's barely perceptible, nothing more than a minute shift in the atmosphere, but it grows more palpable as time stretches on.
yuuji's mission takes him farther from home than usual, to a little town about two hours outside of the city.
the curse he exorcises upon his arrival is much weaker than he's grown accustomed to, probably only a third or fourth grade.
yuuji doesn't seem to notice anything out of the ordinary, or at least, he pretends not to. sukuna thinks that's the problem with optimists— they don't take action quickly enough, too busy wasting their time hoping for the best.
when he returns home late that afternoon only to find your apartment door slightly ajar, his hand hesitates before pushing it open.
he discovers that the living room is littered with residuals, but it's eerie how nothing else is out of place... save for you, who is no where to be found.
in a disbelieving panic, he begins checking all the rooms, not hearing sukuna's frantic voice even though it's coming from inside his own head. "she's not here... idiot, she's not here. we have to go. we have to go now."
he eventually finds a note lying on the coffee table, but even this he hardly processes— something about surrendering himself and sukuna to the higher ups at headquarters in exchange for your life.
"listen to me, brat... you're wasting time... idiot!"
"what?" he barks abruptly.
"she isn't far, a couple blocks to the east at most—"
"it doesn't matter. headquarters is to the west. that's where we need to go."
"have you failed to comprehend a single thing i've said about the higher ups?" sukuna sneers. "they'll kill us, then kill her too. she knows too much about jujutsu society. they won't let her live, and that's if she's not... if she isn't already..."
he can't get the word out.
"no... no, they wouldn't..."
"now is not the time for your blind faith in the integrity of others." sukuna tries again and again to assume control of his vessel, and while the force behind it makes yuuji's head pound, it's no use. "for fuck's sake— please, yuuji!"
it's the first time he's heard the curse occupying his body say his actual name or use the word please, and in a strange way, it seems to ground him to some degree.
itadori yuuji has always been uncannily fast, but as soon as he makes his way out onto the street, it's like his feet aren't even touching the pavement. he appears as a blur to the people he passes by and it happens so briefly that they more than likely disregard it as a trick of the light.
the ruby decorating your neck leads them right to you, a low hum of frequency that only sukuna can hear.
yuuji comes to a stop in front of an old warehouse building. there are several wooden boards nailed across the main entrance, which splinter and fall to the earth under the impact of his impatient fist.
although the people down the hall quiet themselves upon hearing the crash, he can still sense their energy. he just can't seem to pick up on yours.
maybe sukuna is wrong? maybe you're not here after all.
"no," comes sukuna's voice, cold and hard. "she's here."
he makes his way down the stretch of hallway and to an open door where he stops, both of his feet planting firmly on the ground. everything appears to be frozen as he stares at ten sorcerers who quietly stare back.
it's clear they were not expecting yuuji, but he knows the higher ups assigned so many sorcerers just in case he did somehow figure out where they brought you.
he recognizes many of their faces and even knows some of their names, their familiarity no doubt intended to discourage him from engaging them.
after a few moments, yuuji's eyes land on your figure— motionless on the floor.
he has to admit, the higher up have put together a fairly sound plan. it's just that there's one small detail they failed to account for.
a curious and constraining sensation erupts from the center of his chest, and yuuji doesn't quite understand what's happening until he registers he's no longer the one in control of his body.
the king of curses remains completely still as he studies you from afar with a slight tilt of his head, his mind refusing to believe the scene right before his eyes.
when the gravity of the situation finally settles in, a gut churning agony blossoms in his stomach and bleeds into every part of his body. every bone. every pore. every vein.
the entirety of him burns, both inside and out.
the air in the room is heavy, overburdened with hostility and raw power. it makes the sorcerers' knees buckle and they nearly collapse beneath the immense pressure.
as sukuna takes a step toward the nearest person, the edges of his vision turn white.
he moves with deadly precision, at a speed which very few people on earth could even begin to comprehend.
it's a joke how quickly it's all over.
some of them are in pieces. others have exploded into nothingness. a few are burnt to ash.
in his haste, sukuna nearly misses the final sorcerer. he's probably the youngest of them all, cowering in the corner of the room. his eyes are wide with horror and his body shakes with fear.
"p-please, spare m-me. i didn't touch her," he sputters out.
the laugh that follows is utterly humorless. "do you actually believe that makes a difference to me?"
"i told t-them not to hurt her! i swear. that's how i got this." he points to his bottom lip, busted open and swollen. "she even told me she was sorry that i got hurt... that i didn't have to defend her."
this gives sukuna pause and his jaw clenches as he considers what you would tell him right now were you conscious.
so even as every fiber of his being screams at him to end the sorcerer's miserable, pathetic life... he restrains himself and pins him to the wall instead, pressing a forearm to his throat.
"go back to the higher ups. go and tell them that if anyone lays a hand on her ever again, i will ruin them," he spits, venom lacing each word. "i'll slaughter every last one of them. i'll level their homes. i'll take everything from them. tell them this is a promise they shouldn't take lightly."
when sukuna takes a step back, the young sorcerer crumbles to the ground. "i- i- i will."
"then get out of my sight," he growls.
returning his attention to you, his demeanor shifts in every respect.
you're going to be okay. you're going to wake up. he's going to take you home and it will be like none of this ever happened.
but when he falls to your side, his knees meeting the ground so brutally that it cracks beneath his weight, his conviction falters.
your blood is spilt onto the concrete. your skin is cold. he can't tell if you're breathing. he can't feel your heartbeat.
he determines that the gash across your side deserves his attention first and his hands tremble as they move to cover it.
he puts every ounce of power he has into his reverse cursed technique, but your eyes don't flutter and your chest doesn't rise nor fall.
his palms stain crimson, and while blood has never bothered him before, the fact that it's yours forces the bile to rise from his stomach and into his throat.
and his face is wet.
why is his face wet?
why are his lips trembling?
why is his vision blurred?
he wipes at his cheeks, leaving a trail of your blood across his face in the process.
"no," he chokes out. "please, don't do this. you're fine. please, you have to be fine. please."
the king of curses begs, but he has no idea who his desperation is directed toward. maybe it's you. maybe it's the gods. maybe it's some entity that's unknowable to him.
hell, maybe it's just whoever will listen to him. there has to be someone out there, right? something.
unbeknownst to him, and poetic in sorrowful sort of a way, his next pleas are reminiscent of heathcliff's after he learns of catherine's death.
"be with me always"
"stay with me, angel. please don't go."
"take any form"
"hate me for this if you want, for being the reason you're in this mess. you can't hate me anymore than i already hate myself."
"drive me mad"
"i'll read every single stupid romance novel on your bookshelf. i promise i'll play all of your ridiculous card games."
"only do not leave me in this abyss, where i cannot find you!"
"just don't leave me here without you. i don't want to be here without you.
"oh, god! it is unutterable!"
"please," he whimpers.
"i cannot live without my life!"
"you're everything. you are everything. you can't leave me with nothing."
"i cannot live without my soul!"
"i love you," sukuna laments. "i love you."
he doesn't even comprehend the words that have been tumbling past his lips, because they're coming from a part of himself that he long believed to be dead and buried.
it's the part of him that can feel suffering and regret and loss and love.
it's the part of him that you've been painstakingly unearthing whenever you send a smile his way. whenever you curl into his side. whenever you press your lips to his.
and he's so undeserving of it each and every time. he's known that. god, has he known that.
he thinks bitterly of the night you'd walked to the park together hand in hand— when you told him the universe had sent you to knock him down a peg.
turns out you were wrong.
the universe gave you to him, but only so it could take you away too.
and it won't just knock him down a peg. it will fucking destroy him. it will completely and irrevocably destroy him.
this is what he does deserve.
how is it that you can be both his salvation and his undoing?
"i love you," he repeats, his voice barely above a whisper.
it's ironic that the three words he's never once said in his entire life are the only ones he can manage in this moment.
he hears a quiet sigh escape your lips, but he knows that it's just his imagination— nothing more than the universe playing its final sick joke.
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the sun is out and its rays are peeking through the window of your bedroom. sukuna thinks it's despicable.
everything should be cold and dark today.
you're lying in bed half dead and the only thing keeping sukuna's sanity intact is the shallow rise and fall of your chest.
he should go to jujutsu headquarters and deliver a slow, painful death to every single person involved in yesterday's events. then he should turn their headquarters to ash and stand there watching until the wind blows every last bit away.
but more than that, he should be by your side, so that's where he's remained.
it's been nearly a day and you still haven't woken up, so he's taken to performing reverse cursed technique on you every few hours.
yuuji had shoko come by last night and she assured him your body just needs time, but sukuna doesn't intend on taking any chances. aside from the brat, there isn't a single sorcerer he trusts.
so naturally when gojo teleports directly in the middle of your living room unannounced, sukuna moves swiftly to his feet and blocks the doorway to your room.
gojo regards him nonchalantly, hiding his surprise that yuuji is not the one to greet him. "what are you doing... out and about?"
"that's none of your concern."
"right. well, i came to check in."
"that's not necessary."
the two men watch one another carefully, before gojo eventually chuckles. "god, you actually care about her. i guess the whole soul thing should have been proof enough, but i couldn't bring myself to really believe it until now."
sukuna doesn't respond, so the other man continues. "you should know that the threat to her has been... dealt with."
"that so?" sukuna asks, crossing his arms over his chest.
"mhmmm. word of this spread to the three clans and they agreed civilians have no place in jujutsu politics if it can be helped. not to mention your little... messenger. it all caused quite the ruckus for the higher ups."
"i don't think ruckus is enough to deter them." his tone makes it clear that he feels gojo is wasting his time.
"this isn't the heian era anymore, you know. the higher ups may still be the figureheads of jujutsu society, but they have little say when all three clans concur on a matter." receiving nothing more than a blank stare, he adds, "besides, i'm rather fond of her myself, so i may or may not have made certain threats of my own."
sukuna's eye twitches. "anything else you feel compelled to share before you leave?"
"can i at least see her before i go?" gojo questions, peering over sukuna's shoulder.
"if you do not value your life, i welcome you to try."
a sly grin breaks out on gojo's face.
"eager to make good on your promise of killing me from all those years ago?" he pauses, his hand coming to rest on his chin as if he's pondering something of great importance. "as much as i'd love to see you try, we shouldn't wake our precious sleeping beauty before she's ready, so maybe another time."
with that, he disappears, leaving a very irritated sukuna in his wake.
"our," he repeats under his breath, shaking his head. "that unbearable imbecile."
when he turns on his heel, however, the malicious look is immediately wiped from his face because you're awake.
you're awake and peering at him from behind heavy lids.
"hey," you greet in a small voice.
his eyes grow impossibly soft and he sits on the bed beside you, his hand moving to caress your cheek. your skin is warm again.
"hey, angel."
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steviewashere · 2 months ago
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Working It Out
Rating: General CW: Implied/Referenced Depression Tags: Post-Canon, Future Fic, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Established Steve Harrington/Eddie Munson, Rockstar Eddie Munson, Teacher Steve Harrington, Steve Harrington Loves Eddie Munson, Eddie Munson Loves Steve Harrington, Eddie Munson is a Sweetheart, Steve Harrington is a Sweetheart, Sad Steve Harrington, Steve Harrington Has Bad Parents, Hinted Breakup Conversation, But They Work It Out, Difficult Conversations, Talking Through Feelings, Soft Eddie Munson, Discussion of Future For @steddieangstyaugust Day 31 Prompt: "I'm not going to beg you to love me."
🎸——————🎸 Steve is happy for Eddie. Really, he is. Has the whole rockstar thing figured out. On the cover of Rolling Stone, booking late night slots on television, getting recognized in public spaces, and selling out stadiums. It’s the life he’s always dreamed of. It’s what he’s wanted since he was little.
So why can’t he be happy, too?
He thought that, by now, he’d have some part of his life figured out. Now that he’s entered his thirties. That he’s got some sort of college degree. A reasonable resume. The social connections needed to climb certain ladders. Yet, he’s not satisfied. Not pleased the way Eddie is.
The house they have is…too much. Lavish and big and bright. Hard earned, but hardly comfortable. It’s not cluttered like the Munson’s trailer was, it’s not warm and welcoming and the definition of pure and utter comfort. That was home, to Steve at least. It was a change of pace from the house he grew up in—alone and scared and desperate for attention he couldn’t find, instead sprawling between empty rooms that had too many windows and cleaning a pool too big for one person. This new house he now resides in is just that. A house.
By now, he thought that he’d be happy. That he’d be waking up refreshed and ready to greet each morning. That he’d be fine talking to Eddie over the phone, waiting around for those late night rings, trying to catch all the messy postcards in the mail. The postcards that come in random intervals and never actually reflect where Eddie is. It makes Steve anxious that he can’t pinpoint where Eddie is most of the time—left to bite his fingernails until he hears Eddie’s voice, and even then…sometimes he’ll call and won’t get an answer. And it’s no use to leave a message, it’ll be a hotel staff member or a person that’s now paying for the room.
All he does is wait and sleep and eat expensive food. He twiddles his thumbs. He’ll take a car to work, met with the smiling faces of herds of kids he teaches, and then he takes the silent drive home. Where he sits on an uncomfortable leather couch, satin pajamas that replaced old sweatpants a few years ago, staring off into nothingness that’s as ice cold as his chest feels.
He hates the waiting around, though.
Sometimes, he just wants to get up and leave. Search for something else.
But he loves Eddie too much, he knows. He’s not going to do that.
——— The front door opens and the thud of suitcases is heard. Steve leaves their bedroom, red eyed and face puffy. Wipes his nose on the sleeve of his pajama shirt, hands shaking with relief. Relief and anxiety and desperation and…terrible longing.
“Stevie!” Eddie crows, greeting. Arms open wide. Whip-wild smile on his face, eyes big, unshaven jaw. His hair is thrown up into a ponytail, bouncing with his boisterous immediate attitude. “Baby, baby…I have so many stories to tell you. It’s been such a good tour! I can’t”—he stops himself abruptly, arms falling back down at his sides. His voice that was previously so loud, echoing to their high ceilings, now softens. “What’s wrong, sweetheart? Did…did something happen?”
Steve shakes his head. No, he thinks, it’s not Vecna. It’s not the Upside Down. It’s just me.
He takes a step forward, then several, and the last couple until he’s five feet in front of Eddie. Oddly, he feels small. Like the kid that greeted his parents when they came home from long business trips, already angry, already disappointed. He wants to curl up into a ball and keep crying, never admitting out loud what’s wrong. Feels that innate, incredibly deep urge to climb out one of the many windows and just run away. Like he tried to do so much when he was younger, heavy lopsided backpack on his little body, discarding letters of anger under his parents’ door so they’ll know he’s gone, and his mind set on a friend’s house—typically Tommy. Sometimes Carol.
But his friend that he’d go to now, Robin, she’s several state lines over. He can’t just up and leave now. He can’t just pack up his car and go. Eddie’s money is Eddie’s money. And even though they made an agreement that the cash is shared, it still would feel wrong to take some of it just to…abandon all that he has now. Which would probably include Eddie. And he doesn’t want to think of that.
His chest is concave and heavy, yet empty—hollow. Like it’s been for months. For years at this point. He takes a deep breath, ignoring how it shutters through him, makes him half-form a hiccup in the back of his throat. “I’m not…happy, Eds,” he admits in a whisper.
Eddie’s eyebrows raise slightly. Eyes growing bigger and concerned. The corners of his mouth pulling down. “How so, sweetheart?”
Steve can’t look him in the eyes. Looking at the floor below his bare feet. The cold hardwood that resembles too much of his parents’ house. He takes another steady-ish breath, almost gasping with it. Rubs his hands together below his stomach, like a nervous kid about to be caught.
“I hate it here,” he chooses to start. “I hate this house. I hate the way it echoes when I talk into it sometimes. I hate having to…” Steve looks up to Eddie. Merely avoiding his eyes, focused on the tip of his nose instead. “…I hate trying to figure out where you are because sometimes you won’t answer the phone, or maybe the postcard you sent doesn’t come in time. I hate that I even have to call you to figure out how you’re doing. 
“I can’t just turn over in bed and ask you how your day was. I can’t look you in the eyes when I talk to you because you just aren’t there. I’m so lonely, Eddie. I’m so…I feel just so…Empty.”
What follows that is a tense silence that even the sharpest of knives wouldn’t be able to cut. He doesn’t think flames would melt the tension. Nothing could get through it.
“You’re not happy…because of my work?”
He didn’t say that exactly, but it feels like the truth. Steve nods. “I’m happy for you,” he says, “I am. But your dream isn’t my dream. I honestly don’t even know what I want out of life, but I know this isn’t it.
“I’m just so tired of waiting around. Makes me feel like I’m waiting up for my parents to come home. And you know how that was. You know how I felt being there. Like I had to earn their attention, their love…whatever.” He shifts from side to side, still nervous and stomach turning. His eyes ache from drying out after all the crying earlier. He never thought that being honest would hurt so much. Steve swallows hard. Softly, he confesses, “I’m not going to beg you to love me. I don’t want to do that. But I don’t want to live like this either.” He looks back into Eddie’s eyes, finally. Met with the same miserableness that’s twisting inside of him. It makes his heart drop to his stomach. “So, if me being…if my current feelings get in the way of your dreams, I think we better…y’know.”
Steve doesn’t know, not really. Isn’t sure where he’d go right now. If all of this just falls through. He’d probably have to relocate his job, and he doesn’t want to say goodbye to his class of kids. Maybe he should’ve just waited for all of this to go down.
Instead, he’s met with a soft touch to the small of his back. Eddie leads them into their too spacious living room, on that uncomfortable leather couch, huddling in close to one another.
“Stevie,” Eddie whispers, “look at me, please.”
Hesitantly, he does.
“There you are,” Eddie coos. Soft hands envelop Steve’s right. Thumbs working into the hard points of his knuckles, nails gently tracing over old scars. “Baby,” he speaks softly, “I want to first of all say, thank you for telling me how you’re feeling. Okay? I like knowing things like this, sweetheart. Where you’re at in your head. Where you’re at with our everything. And I need you to know that none of what you said affects our relationship. None of it. If anything, it makes me understand you more. Makes me realize what isn’t working for us.
“But you are my first priority, always. Always, Steve,” he speaks firmly. “And I have to be honest here, too. I’m starting to hate the work that I do. I love creating music, I love working with smaller artists, I like getting out and seeing the world. But I hate doing it all the time. I hate that our days out sometimes gets interrupted by people on the street, or paparazzi cameras in our face. I hate that when we call, you sound so fucking tired from your day at work, waiting for me to answer the phone. I hate that I can’t get mail back from you, already gone before it’d come in the mail.
“I hate this house, I do. Even if we’ve had our fun with it”—he wiggles his eyebrows at that, eliciting a tiny snort from Steve—“it’s too big, you’re right. It’s uncomfortable to me, I gotta be honest. This couch we’re sitting on is fucking ugly and really trashy, even if it cost a pretty fucking penny. None of this us, I see that especially now.”
Steve sucks in a slow breath through his nose. Murmurs, “What are you getting at, Eds?”
Eddie brings up his left hand to Steve’s right cheek, gently cradling it in his palm. Thumb swiping reverently on the dried tear tracks there, the sticky hot skin. “I spoke with the band. With my agent. Told ‘em that this was my final tour. That I quit,” he confesses quietly, “that I’m going to sell this stupid fucking house. Move somewhere more remote, smaller, homelier. Somewhere we can be close to our real family, our friends. Maybe even somewhere we can get married one day. I told ‘em, loud and clear, that I’ve got love waiting for me back home that I know for certain I’m not going to find anywhere else.
“Being in love with you, Steve, has been more of an accomplishment, a brighter dream, and a fucking blessing compared to my first dream. You are why I keep going most days. And I don’t want to lose you over something we’ve both come to hate.”
He blinks at Eddie. Blinks and blinks and blinks. “You want to leave it all behind? Just to be here with me? Babe, that’s…that’s kind of insane, you know that?”
“Uh-huh,” Eddie hums. Eyes giddy and warm. “Guess you could say I’m crazy in love with you, sweetheart. I’d rather be with you. I’d rather stay in a home we put together with our hands rather than picking from some stupid catalogue. I’d rather water our plants while you make a classroom of kids smile. I’d rather greet you at the door, kiss on the cheek, taking your briefcase, ready to make us some warm dinner so that we can watch trashy television shows in our underwear, kiss until we’re fucking gasping, and then be able to wrap myself around you in our bed. Every fucking night. That sounds like more of a dream come true than anything.”
“You’d really leave it all behind, though? Just to be with me?”
Eddie rolls his eyes playfully. “Yes,” he swears. “Yes, sweetheart. A million times—yes! If I have to tell you every day that you’re worth staying for, then so be it. But you’re worth everything, you’re worth more than any riches I make from this crummy career.”
Steve squeezes Eddie’s other hand still wrapped around his. “Okay,” he whispers. 
He lets Eddie dote on him, soft and sweet and languid.
And later that night, wrapped around each other in bed, Eddie stroking the bridge of Steve’s nose, Steve’s fingers working circles into Eddie’s hip—they’re content.
“Can we get a dog in our new home?” Steve asks.
Jokingly, Eddie murmurs, “Now you’re asking too much.” He boops the tip of Steve’s nose. But there’s a big, foolish grin on his face. Eyes too soft to mean anything malicious. “I’m kidding, sweetheart. Maybe we’ll go to the humane society in the morning?”
Steve, for the first time in a long while, smiles. “Sounds like a plan, Eds. I love you.”
“Sweetheart, I love you until the universe fucking explodes. And then some.”
🎸——————🎸
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sl-vega · 5 months ago
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✮⋆。 MEMORIES OF YOU
pairings: Itoshi Sae, Itoshi Rin, x [FEM!] Reader
genre: fluff, oneshot(s), drabble/imagines, established relationship (for some), implied angst if you squint (?), first love, post-u 20 arc, canon compliant
synopsis: in which their friends stumble across photos of you, their first, and only love
CW/additional tags: mild language, potententially ooc, Google translated Spanish in sae's part, English = Japanese in this, might make more scenarios with other characters if people request it
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ITOSHI SAE
Sae was slumped across the cushions of his couch as Shidou rummaged through some of his storage boxes.
The other boy had been rather insistent on coming over to his new appartement, and helping him properly move all his stuff into his new living space.
"So does this mean I can finally move in with you?~"
"Keep dreaming."
Shidou pouted, giving Sae uncharacteristically begging eyes, almost like a sad lost puppy, naturally he didn't fall for this and settled for returning his pathetic look with his signature cold glare.
He simply gave him a sickeningly sweet smile in return, and continued taking objects out of the boxes, among the possessions were a lamp, a few photo frames, and an album.
Ryusei's eyes widened in surprise as his eyes came into contact with the book.
"Oh, what do we have here?"
Shidou said with a slight lilt in his voice clearly intrigued. Sae lifted his head from his phone to see what Shidou was doing, surely if something of his managed to pique the interest of Shidou's filthy mind, it would probably be in his best interests to throw it out-
Is what Sae would've said before he spotted the photo album in the taller boy's hands, Shidou fingers gingerly opening the front cover.
Sae reacted before he could even think.
"Put it down."
His voice is cold and sharp, not threatening, more defensive-scared almost, if he was even capable of fear that is.
Shidou's eyes widened momentarily at Sae's reaction before his face shifted back to his usual shit eating grin.
"Why Itoshi? Got some dirty photos you don't want me seeing? I promise I won't tell y'know."
Sae rolled his eyes and grabbed the album out of the blonde's hands.
"They aren't dirty, for your information."
He paused, as he looked at the cover of the book, dust was collecting on it, and there were a few marker stains that he couldn't get off.
"I'd just rather forget about them..."
He muttered, as he gently stroked the spine of the book with his thumb.
"Why'd you keep it then? You seem awfully attached to it."
Shidou's voice dropped lower and took a momentarily more serious tone before switching back to his flamboyant and teasing demeanor.
"I'm kinda jealous of it~."
Sae rolled his eyes, more playfully this time. He opened the book-making a point to hide the rest of the pages from Shidou's view-and took out a single photograph and handed it to him.
It was a photo of Sae and you. He didn't talk about you much, but he maybe he should change that.
"You clearly won't stop bothering me about it."
He waved the piece of paper before Shidou prompty snatched it and eyed it carefully, his eyes widening.
It was a photo of the two of you by some beach in Spain, hands interlocked, and a rare smile on a younger Sae's face. You were wearing a white sundress with a hat as you ran across the shoreline, taking Sae right along with you as the two of you stumbled across the sand together.
He remembered that day crystal clear, you brought a Polaroid camera with you and you got one of the locals to take the photograph for you. You had forced him to take a break from constant training, and before he knew it. He was far from Madrid in that moment, just you, him, and the ocean.
Shidou's eyes flickered with a brief moment of sincerity, Sae looked genuinely happy in the photo.
"And here I thought I actually had a chance with you."
Sae blushed, yet another look that Shidou wasn't used to seeing on him.
"We aren't-She wasn't-"
He stuttered, unable to express the nature of his relationship with you. Sure he had thoughts, but he never acted on them, which he regretted.
"Aww, so Mr. Itoshi Sae had an unrequited crush back in Spain? How tragic."
Shidou teased as he fidgeted with the sides of the photograph still in his hand.
"It wasn't unrequited."
Sae replied, quicker than he should have.
Shidou quirked a brow in response.
"Care to elaborate?"
Sae sighed, memories of you flooding back into his brain. Repressed feelings that he had long since left for time to slowly erode, yet a single reminder brought them all back.
"We... ran into each other a lot back when I was still in Spain."
He trailed off, recalling when you first interacted.
Sae was around fifteen when he first met you, he was at a cafe in the city, when he was on an annoyingly mandated week long break, issued by the heads of Real Madrid themselves. It just happened to align with the holiday of your school, and the cafe was a pretty popular spot among the locals. It was crowded, with students and several other adults given the day off. From what Sae remembered, you didn't come with the intention of being with a friend, but rather to spend time alone, it was rather difficult though with how many people were currently in the cafe. So before he knew it, a stranger-albeit a very pretty one-had sat right next to him, drink in hand. You only realized you were sitting next to him after you had actually made yourself uncomfortable. "Oh, lo siento, ¿está bien si me siento aquí? Hay mucha gente aquí…" You seemed to have muttered a quick apology in Spanish, while he had lived here for the past two years, he was ashamed to admit that his fluency in this country's native tongue was rather rusty. He had mainly prioritized learning all the needed terminology for soccer and for any interviews, but he could tell that you were apologizing, and probably asked him if you could sit with him. He tried to muster together a coherent response "Está bien... no me importa...?" He trailed off, unsure if what he said was right, or if you could even understand him with his heavy Japanese accent. Your eyes blinked in surprise, maybe he completely butchered that without knowing. Then your eyes widened in surprise for a moment, almost as if you just pieced together something about him. "Ay dios mio! You're Itoshi Sae! I knew you looked familiar!" You responded, in Japanese this time, almost as if it was second nature to you. "You speak Japanese?" It was more of a statement rather than a question, he sounded impressed, it had been a long time since he's actually been able to converse with someone else in his own language. You nodded, eyes sparkling, still clearly hung up on his identity. "I took some classes online, sorry if I'm hard to understand." You weren't hard to understand at all, sure, it was tinged with a slight accent, but if anything that just added to your charm. "I'm (Y/N), huge fan." You extended your hand to him, a bright smile adorning your already beautiful face. He took your hand and shook it. "Sae." He responded, his usual nonchalant tone fading. "You already know that though..." Was he blushing? You giggled at his sudden bashfulness, your laughter was a sweet melodic sound, it was almost embarrassing of how much it affected him. "You know, I'd thought you'd be a lot colder in person, you're actually really sweet huh?" You laughed once more, and this time, Sae actually cracked a grin.
Sae finished his story to Shidou, his friend had listened intently.
"Aww, so you were whipped from the start?~"
Shidou teased, smirking at him.
"Care to share more? I'd love to learn more
He asked, a slightly playful lilt to his voice.
"If you score another hat trick next time I might just tell you."
Sae responded, his playful tone contrasting his nonchalant demeanor. Shidou smirked, clearly pleased by the offer.
"And will you let me move in?~"
"Maybe."
Sae smiled, gentle and hidden. Maybe it wouldn't be the worst thing in the world. After all, it would give him an excuse to talk about you once more.
"If you score another hat trick next time I might just tell you."
Shidou smirked, clearly pleased by the offer.
"And will you let me move in?~"
"Maybe."
Sae smiled, gentle and hidden. Maybe it wouldn't be the worst thing in the world. After all, it would give him an excuse to talk about you once more.
BONUS; TRANSLATIONS (potentially inaccurate)
"Oh, lo siento, ¿está bien si me siento aquí? Hay mucha gente aquí…"
╰┈➤ "Oh, I'm sorry, is it okay if I sit with you? It's super crowded in here..."
"Está bien... no me importa...?"
╰┈➤ "It's okay...I don't mind..?
"Ay dios mio!
╰┈➤ "Oh my God!"
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ITOSHI RIN
"Bachira! I swear to God if Rin kills us because of this-"
"Lighten up Isagi! He's not gonna catch us."
It was a miracle that Rin had already agreed to Isagi and Bachira coming over to his place, though it was more because his mom was constantly nagging him about "needing more friends" or "being more social with the rest of the boys from Blue Lock"
Of course Bachira took this as an opportunity to snoop around Rin's room.
"If we find anything too private, we'll just put it right back and pretend we never saw it, simple as that."
Isagi sighed, bemoaning their current actions against their teammate's own personal life.
"You make it sound like Rin of all people would actually have something incriminating to hide."
Bachira shot him an unimpressed look.
"Are we talking about the same Rin? I'm like 90% sure the guy has some kind of criminal record, I wouldn't be surprised if he had a dead body hiding around in here somewhere..."
He continued looking around the room, glancing at crooks and small gaps in-between shelves as if some hidden treasure was stuck in them.
"Bachira you aren't going to find anything-"
Isagi was promptly cut off by Bachira, who in fact, found something.
A photograph taped to the side of Rin's closet, it seemed a little old, and dusty, but it looked well taken care of.
"Rin never striked me as the sentimental type..."
Bachira flipped the photo back and fourth in his hands before actually focusing on what the picture itself was holding.
Of course before he could actually view the photo himself, it was quickly snatched from him.
Rin was back, and he gave Bachira his signature cold glare, that probably translated into "One more wrong move and I'm throwing you off a cliff in your fucking sleep." or some worse same intentioned threat that Rin would probably use.
"What were the two of you doing?"
Rin asked in a condescending, accusing tone, and rightfully so.
"Rin, we're sorry-"
Isagi was about to apologize, but then Bachira fell to the floor, gripped the younger Itoshi's leg and wailed out a far more incoherent apology than his friend.
"I'm sorry Rin-chan! I promise I won't do it again!"
He was wailing at this point, a string of even more whiny apologies coming from him.
Rin shook Bachira off his leg and sighed.
"It's fine..."
He murmured as he trailed off, his attention completely stolen by the photograph he had just took back.
It was a picture of the two of you at the beach, he was around fourteen in this photo, it probably took place during the final months of his last year at middle school. The two of you had gone on a stroll by the ocean earlier before finding a resting spot nearby. You had pulled out a camera out of nowhere and snapped the photo almost without Rin notcing. You were flashing a big smile at the camera, while Rin's face was nuzzled into your neck, clearly camera shy. If you looked closely however, you could spot the blush slowly creeping up his cheeks.
Without noticing, Bachira had gotten a little too close for Rin's comfort. The older boy's head rested on his shoulder as he ogled the picture alongside him.
"Is she your girlfriend or somethin'?"
Rin shoved Bachira off his shoulder, the other boy laughed as he stumbled away.
"Shut up... she's just a friend."
"I dunno, the two of you look awfully cozy in that photo~"
If only you saw the others...
Rin had held on to the photo for longer than he would like to admit, the two of you hadn't talked for a while, especially after graduation.
But now that his annoying lukewarm teammates had decided to scour around his room for no reason, Rin was met with a wave of memories.
All of which were about you.
The most prominent memory he had of you was the day of middle school graduation.
The cherry blossoms were in bloom, and the third years were about to assemble in the auditorium for the farewell ceremony. Several of Rin's classmates were gushing about graduation, and how they would miss each other, some were already planning methods of communication after moving on to high school. Another hot topic of conversation among his classmates (mainly the girls) was the topic of button giving. In Japan, a guy giving the second button of his uniform to a girl on the day of graduation was essentially a love confession, Rin thought that the tradition was rather stupid. For one thing, he had no time for romance when he was trying to become the best in the world, nor did he have any interest in the subject. Or as he would say 'everyone here is way too lukewarm for my tastes' Well, that's what he would have said if he wasn't so preoccupied with you, but here he was, just outside of the auditorium, fidgeting with his uniform trying to get a button off. Normally the girl would have to ask the guy for the button, but Rin was never one for tradition-then again he was already going along with this stupid love confession so there was a first time for everything-and it didn't look like you were going to talk to him anytime soon, you were constantly hanging around with your friends for most of the day, so he never found the right time. So he didn't know what came over him when he dragged you aside in some secluded area of the courtyard, all his courage had been used up in that very moment because of that moment, he had been reduced to a blushing and bashful mess. "What did you need me for RIn?" You asked with curious doe eyes, clearly oblivious to the fact that there was a button missing from his uniform. Rin gave you a blank stare for a few minutes, taking in your appearance. Your hair was adorned with several hair pins, all engraved with special patterns and decorated with pretty charms. You were wearing make up today, not super noticeable, but noticeable enough for it to enhance your natural beauty. "Rin?" You called his name, snapping him out of his thoughts. Oh right, he was supposed to give you the buttton "Can I have your hand for a second..?" He asked bashfully, you extended your hand to his, this time, you were blushing as well. You muttered a quick 'sure' as you avoided eye contact with him. He gently dropped the button into your hands. "I-I wanted you to have this." This time, Rin was looking directly into your eyes, the same cold teal that always seemed to have no light behind them, but this time, they were filled with warmth and sincerity. The two of you stood in silence for a few more moments, before you heard the teachers calling you and the rest of the third years over for the ceremony. As Rin walked into the auditorium with the rest of his classmates, one of his teammates from the soccer team leaned down and whispered something in his ear. "So who's the lucky lady Itoshi?" He turned to his friend, noticing that his button was missing too. Rin simply shrugged, feigning nonchalance and muttered; "Wouldn't you like to know?" That graduation photo captured a very rare smile from him.
Bachira accidentally knocking something over promptly snapped Rin out of his nostalgia.
"Oh my God you're actually smiling in this photo?!"
Bachira waved Rin's middle school grad photo in his face, clearly shocked by the notion that the younger Itoshi could actually feel happiness.
Suddenly, Rin's mother came into his room.
"I know, it's one of the few photos I have of him that actually feature him smiling."
She sighed.
"Anyways, I just made dinner in case you boys are hungry."
Mrs. Itoshi smiled at the boys.
"And maybe you could tell them all about (Y/N) hm?"
Rin's face grew very hot all of a sudden.
God, he was in for it now...
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sexiestpodcastcharacter · 1 year ago
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Sexiest Podcast Character — Unscripted Bracket — Round 4
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Propaganda
Glenn Close (Dungeons & Daddies):
#Propaganda for Glenn Close: one of the other PCs mentions multiple times how hot he is #Actually several characters point it out but especially Henry #Also the only person in a podcast that has to put a disclaimer about not being a BDSM podcast to have had sex during the course of the show
We didn’t do hot Glenn summer for him to LOSE. Spoilers for his story but MORE PROPAGANDA FOR YOU:
Young hot rocker dilf
Loyal to his dead wife <3
Does in fact smoke weed
BARD!! HES A BARD. HE WAS LEAD GUITAR IN HIS BAND (that he was kicked out of)
His band was a Christmas cover band btw.
Literally the fandom had hot Glenn summer which consisted of drawing him being incredibly hot and sexy
Anti government (ofc)
Kind of cringefail (Disney adult) (was on dilfs of disneyland)
Young and sexy not your style? Then how about HIM AFTER YEARS LOCKED IN A TIME PRISON WITH A DAMN HANNIBAL MASK ??
Lost an eye and wears a fucking eyepatch
One incredibly buff arm
Has a pet rat named after his son <3
Immeasurable amounts of trauma in this man- becomes progressively more unhinged
OH OLD HUMAN BARD ISNT CUTTING IT? FINE
HE BECOMES A FUCKING DEMON
A COOL HOT ONE-EYED DEMON WHO WANTS TO KILL HIS DAD (also sexy)
HE CANONICALLY ENDS CHRISTIAN HELL VIA CHRISTMAS
IS ALSO WAY OVERLEVELED
Becomes a demon hunter for the rest of his existence
Also nonwhite !!! We are done with cringefail whiteboys !!!!!!!!!
I can’t put into words ok just know he is the best plz love him.
Listen, I don't know this other character but I've seem some good arguments for her However Consider Glenn Close winning through no effort of his own in a bullshit way despite being a dick is the most in character thing ever. He leveled up three times and got a crab mech, we GOT to give him this win, it's fitting
I don’t regulate if minors follow me or not bc I’m a pretty chill space but I hope the world is aware that’s the only reason I haven’t been downright nasty about Glenn close. I’m down bad. I’m NOT in the boat of ‘Glenn isn’t sexy but I want him to win bc it’s my fandom’. I would estimate I have 200+ drawings of Glenn on my phone that AREN’T safe for work. Way more that are. Where did they come from? That’s MY business. But I tell you this fact to assure you- Glenn IS sexy. I’m not voting to represent my fandom I’m voting out of TRUTH AND LOVE. IF YOU DON’T GET IT YOU DON’T GET IT!!! I just think my level of feral over this man is more powerful than y’all realize. If you don’t get his sex appeal that’s okay, but don’t doubt that this is my truth.
Okay but Glenn made a minivan cum by talking to her so
HE HAS A BOOK THAT HE MARKS X’S AND CHECKS FOR EVERY DAY TO SEE IF THAT DAY WAS A SUCCESS OR NOT. TO SEE IF HE DID GOOD THAT DAY. ITS ALMOST ENTIRELY X’S. HE WAS CUCKED OUT OF A SON. AND A DEAD WIFE. HE DIDN’T EVEN GET TO KILL HIS DAD IN REVENGE. There’s absolutely nothing going for him except his sex appeal in his life. Nobody he loved remembers him. He lost his eye. All he has is a pet rat and friends who admit they don’t really like him that much. He was kicked out of his own band. The band was named after him. He was kicked out of the Glenn Close trio. All he could do was deez nuts the big bad and be sexy. If nothing else, then pity him. Look in his eyes. Look at his heart and soul. Do you think pickman needs this to feel good about herself? Can she not accept a loss for the sake of a pathetic father? Can she shake hands with the minivan fucker and his human gun and just take the L on this one? He did not do the BDSM episode for this I’ll tell you what. Do this for my his sake. Do it for Nick Jr, who needs the prize money to pay for his rat snacks. Do it for his son. For Morgan. Ganbatte.
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Mod Note: While I will still take "bad dads are sexy" propaganda and "bad dads aren't sexy" anti-propaganda, I kindly request no more discussion on whether or not he was a bad father. This is a sexypoll, not a parentingpoll. If you see a post you strongly disagree with, you can just not reblog it.
Mod Note 2: This tournament is about fictional podcast characters. Please do not vote for the real actress Glenn Close.
Lup (The Adventure Zone: Balance):
Is somehow the hot twin between her and Taako
Lup Bluejeans (née... Taaco? Tacco? Taco? Tako? who tf knows this is why I'm going with her husband's last name. doylistly she gets her last name from her brother whose last name is given as "Taako again but spelled differently"): Hot, funny, smart and undead. Is there anything else you could want in a woman?? Well, in case there is: she's also canonically trans
LUP IS THE HOTTEST. VOTE LUP.
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rottiens · 8 months ago
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⊹ ˚. GOJŌ SATORU┊18+ , bf! gojō, somnophilia (noncon), oral ( m -> f ), canon au, female-bodied reader, petnames (angel). divider creds: cafekitsune. WC. 1.4K
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Gojo promised himself not to touch you. Instead he admired you from afar, struggling with the carnal desire that asks him to slide his fingers through the nooks and crannies of your body— you, sprawled on the sheets, becoming one with the bed and your tousled hair. Carefully, he removes the glasses that were lying on the bridge of your nose, crooked and just a shake of your head threatening to break them.
The light illuminating you from a lamp on the bedside table does little to brighten the room. The opaque rays show your relaxed face sleeping pleasantly and a little further on, they show your hands resting without a defined posture at the level of your hips.
Gojo holds the book open at the edge of the bed and closes it to put it aside on the bedside table along with your glasses, without them, you look much younger even and the idea makes him smile because if you were awake you would tap his shoulder and tell him to shut up.
Still with the grin on his lips, he sits on the bed carefully avoiding waking you up, you're so comfortable that it's the last thing he would want… that's when he really intends not to wake you up, he doesn't want to interrupt your sleep, he just…. He just wants to admire you a little more.
The tank top you're wearing does little to cover you. One of your breasts escapes slightly outward giving gojo a flash of skin and your erect nipples that he can't stop staring at. He bites his lower lip, controlling his thoughts that rushed to take him to places and corners of his head that he shouldn't, thoughts that end and begin with him grabbing your tit without caution and taking it into his mouth to lick and abuse it with his teeth.
He stretched his hand towards you, your chest rises and falls placidly just like the waves, the opposite of his that heaves with each new dangerous thought his unconscious whips him with. His finger traces your collarbones in a touch that never comes, his cursed technique prevents him from touching you and he purposely keeps it active because it makes him feel less guilty. Restless, he searches for your erect nipple and makes the attempt to touch it in circles, in that instant you move seeking the comfort of the sheets which would seem a coincidence that gives him the opportunity not to continue disturbing your sleep.
"Fuck." It's the exact moment where he realizes he won't be able to keep his promise.
With one hand he squeezes the soft bulge forming a tent in his pants, with the other, he mimics the action of grabbing your breast and carving your nipple back and forth but once again, he never manages to touch you. Getting up from the bed and moving far enough away from you to admire you again, gojo removes his uniform shirt leaving it lying somewhere in the room along with the blindfold.
The yellow dye sticks to his naked torso right away, illuminating his overworked abdomen and moles that seemed to have been put there specifically.
He's late. And he is sorry. He will apologize to you tomorrow because he knows how important it is for you to spend time with him, he feels guilty for not being there on time and making you wait for him, but he feels guiltier for what he will do next.
Gojo again sits on the edge of the bed but this time he goes to your feet. His fingers spread your knees apart to make a space where his big body can fit in between. Your thighs spread to either side without effort and he takes the opportunity to make a house of your thighs and place them on top of his shoulders still with infinity in between.
Still not allowing you to feel him, gojo pushes your panties with his nose. His eyelids droop at the sensation of the heat emanating from your pussy onto his tongue, his mouth is soaked with the thought of how it will feel to finally taste you and this makes him push further into you in an invisible thrust.
His body tenses with need yet desperation, squeezing his eyes shut he sees only black and flashes like white dots, however the taste of your natural scent guides him through the gloom making it clear to him that there is nothing wrong with this, this is the right thing to do, he knows that if you would be awake you would approve. Finally and without his infinite technique getting in the way, his nose snakes between the folds of your pussy, parting your lips until his nose pushes against your clit and rubs it back and forth sniffing shamelessly.
Gojo stands still for a moment, every muscle inside him grinding with desire as he waits for you to say something, a moan, a prayer… seeing the state you're in only urges him to continue. Mouth open and hands clutching at the sheets struggling not to grab the flesh of your thighs hungrily seeking more of that which makes him moan against your panties.
His spit helps the fabric become a mess and he soon finds it annoying that he can't feel you directly, so with the help of his fingers he pushes them aside to finally taste your naked pussy.
Gojo took exactly five seconds to admire the mess he had made of you. Swollen lips dripping with excitement, a plump little clit poking just a little from between your labia and a pussy throbbing and twitching just begging him to keep going.
Along with a grunt louder than he planned he plunges into your hole parting it with his tongue until he explores deep. His tongue curves, expertly, seeking more, fucking you in and out and alternating the motion to move up to your needy clit and give it the attention it deserves by crushing it with the flat of his tongue.
You mewl with a barely audible whimper, indicating that you'll probably wake up soon. Confident now he does hold your thighs, he opens them to give him room for his head to sink deeper into you opening his mouth wider to take as much of you as he can. The warmth and taste of your juices is addictive, gojo wants to drink you and then sink so deep into you; this is the idea that leads him to, intoxicated with ecstasy slide a long finger inside you.
Your confusion sets in as you call his name. His cock aches, you sound so drowsy, your voice barely a murmur that is replaced with a broken moan after he sucks hard on your clit.
You meet his cocked smile in the middle of your legs. His eyes are two full moons that greet you shining with desire and need, his hair is a white tangle that sticks to his forehead and falls tousled over his ears. You take note to cut it off when they're not in such a… compromising situation and instead help him by pushing the sweaty strands aside back to get a better glimpse of what was going on.
"What are you…" you can't finish the sentence because of the sudden feeling that hits you. It's that tightening and loosening rope in your belly warning you that you're on the verge of orgasm. So fast? It's what makes you wonder, how long has gojo been eating your pussy?
"Let it all out." He commands you. And your body obeys him, "All in my mouth," he adds in a purr. You can't even protest or assimilate the sensations that hit your body.
And only when you start to break into his embrace do you realize that two of his fingers are stretching you to the limit and his tongue keeps licking you back and forth and up and down. You try to pull his hair back, tell him you're sore, but Gojo doesn't stop until he's satisfied, not until you've finished squeezing around his fingers.
Gojo pulls out of you with a grunt, your body unravels again on the bed as if in a liquid state and your eyelids give in to exhaustion and close again. Your chest rises and falls desperately seeking oxygen, and every fiber in your body feels on fire.
He leaves one last kiss on top of your clit and rises from between your thighs with soaked lips and wet chin. "I'm going to push my cum inside you now, okay?" a loving hand emerges caressing your navel through the thin fabric, you stare up at him from below between heavy lashes. "Just keep sleeping, angel. I know you're tired, just let me take what I want."
a/n. this was going to be darker but I'm a chicken and I regretted it.
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ficuscircus · 2 years ago
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Yes!!! 😍😍😍 Just casually letting her fingers linger on the spine 😰
However, if I may add to your post...
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No wonder Morgane can't get over it! Their cases are everywhere! We've got:
S comme Italie,
Hep et Soja,
Vent d'ouest (singular + all in caps),
Coutume Malgache (as you've pointed out),
Deux Mille Trois Cents Calories,
Homme de peu de foi,
De mille feux (so long, typo...),
Enfant de...
and, based on the similar spine design, three more I can't make out.
I couldn't decipher the fake publisher name either. If anyone's got better eyes, please do share with the class 👀👂
Also, this set design means the episode had one thing right plot-wise: I spotted three books by Marc Levy on the shelves and they were not even remotely close to each other, so there was indeed some serious sleepwalking-induced shelf rearrangment 😅
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She just – She’s thinking about their second case, she’s thinking about HIM oh my GOD 😱😭
But also maybe she’s not that much pining after all:
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#“Coutume Malgache” 🥹🥹🥹 HPI: HAUT POTENTIEL INTELLECTUEL S03 E01: Symétrie Radiale
(huge thanks to @hemerae-ramblings​ for the video rip <3333)
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javier-pena · 5 months ago
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Pairing: Javier Peña x f!reader
Word Count: 5k (so much for short drabble)
Rating: Mature
Summary: You work for the DEA in Colombia. Until one of your missions goes terribly wrong.
Warnings: hurt/comfort | attempted rape (nothing too graphic) | smoking | reader is being held captive | historical inaccuracies | period-appropriate sexism | difficult father-daughter relationship | canon-typical violence (kind of graphic) | panic and distress | brief description of wounds 
Notes: This is the first fic for my 10k follower celebration!!! Thank you, @lokischocolatefountain who requested “I’ll be here when you wake up” with Javier Peña. I hope you like it 🤭 This fic was very much inspired by Gabriel García Márquez' "Noticia de un secuestro" ("News of a Kidnapping") which I highly recommend if you're interested in what Narcos (Season 1) only covers in two episodes, namely the kidnappings of prominent figures in Colombia by the Medellín Cartel in the early 90s. As ever, huge thanks to Dani @alexturner who took the time to ask, "What does this mean?" and made me realize that I, in fact, don't know the answer to that question.
***
It’s night again. Or maybe it’s dawn. You don’t know. The blacked-out windows don’t let in any light. Your days are no longer structured according to the laws of nature (morning – midday – afternoon – evening – night), but according to the laws of your captors (wake up – bathroom – food – nothing – food – sleep). Maybe you’re awake all night and sleep all day. Maybe you only sleep for four hours and are awake for twenty. Neither your mind nor your body can tell the difference any longer.
Right now, for example, you’re in the “nothing” part of your day. It’s just you, rolled up on your mattress in your corner, and your thoughts, looping and looping, making you relive how you ended up here, in this room, somewhere in Colombia. And every single day, right at the end of “nothing” and the start of “food”, you come to the same conclusion: It’s all your fault.
It started with your childhood, you think. No, you can’t blame everything that went wrong in your life on your father, but he certainly did his bid – no matter what you did, it was never enough. Not even when you applied for a transfer to the embassy and you got selected, the youngest woman in DEA history who got an assignment like that. All he had to say to you was, “Huh”. So of course, you had to do better than that.
Here, in Colombia, you found yourself surrounded by men just like your father, old men in suits who sneered at you, confusing you with a secretary, asking you to make coffee and take notes. Old men with guns and enough war stories to fill a book, calling you “little lady” and pinching your cheeks. Old men that were just there, leering at you from corners and doorways. And they all had the face of your father.
Still, no one forced you to raise your hand that Thursday afternoon your floor ran out of coffee, the same afternoon Noonan called you all to a meeting and asked for a volunteer. “Dangerous assignment,” she said, “likely to get you killed.” You should have listened to her. But the looks on all those faces when you raised your hand and said, “I’d be happy to do it,” were worth it. Almost. Because, ultimately, it was the beginning of the end.
One of the men on guard duty today swears loudly and another one growls at him to be quiet. Sometimes they forget there’s a life outside those blacked-out windows and they’re not the only people in this city. You forget that too, but then you hear the voices of people living their lives, the sound of a car backfiring, a dog barking somewhere. If one of you makes the wrong noise, surely, you’ll be discovered.
The three men with you today (tonight?) know that, and so do you. They’re playing cards by the light of a dirty kerosene lamp, sitting so closely together their knees are touching. If they stretched out their legs, their feet would be touching your mattress. The room you’re in is barely big enough for one person, let alone for four. It’s the only room you’ve seen in months, apart from the bathroom they take you to once or twice a day. It’s across a small hallway you haven’t seen because they blindfold you. Every time, for every trip.
You can barely remember a time when not everything you needed to survive was dependent on another person. The autonomy you prided yourself on, your ability to achieve everything on your own, to survive everything on your own, those have been taken away from you. Could you even use the bathroom if no one gave you permission first? You doubt it.
You didn’t need anyone’s permission to go on that undercover mission that ultimately landed you in this tiny square room that is now your entire world. You were the fastest to volunteer, you fit the profile they were looking for: fluent in Spanish, low level enough to not be able to spill any secrets should you get arrested, pretty. It was supposed to be so easy. Infiltrate the Medellín cartel, gather intel, report back. There was even a plan in place to extract you should anything go wrong. And go wrong it did, and nothing was there to break your fall.
Before that, before you watched boys play cards all day, before your only window to the outside world was a small TV, there was one person who tried to get you to back down. You thought he didn’t think you capable of anything because you’re young, inexperienced and a woman, but in hindsight you should have listened to him. It doesn’t matter that the others called him an asshole and you thought he was trying to dissuade you because he was jealous. He knew what he was talking about and you should have listened to him.
The man closest to you lights a cigarette, his face briefly doused in a gloomy red light. You think of them as men because it somehow makes it easier, but he looks barely 16. Your room quickly fills with smoke and you try to suppress a cough so they don’t hit you again.
That’s how this all started, with you getting punched in the stomach.
Your undercover mission asked a lot of you, maybe too much. You were aware that it might be necessary for you to sleep with some of the men you were trying to get close to, and when they asked you about this back at the embassy, you wouldn’t have any problem with it... Until it was about to happen. The man touched you, breathed into your face smelling of cheap alcohol and expensive cigars, and in a moment of sheer panic, you fought back and blew your cover.
That’s it. That’s all. You ruined the mission because you couldn’t lie still for five minutes, and now you’re paying for it.
You know there have been attempts to find you and you know you’re not the only hostage. Right at the beginning, you shared a room with a Colombian journalist who, before that, had shared a room with a famous Colombian TV presenter. You know there are negotiations, you sometimes see on TV that a hostage is returned to their family. One time, there were shouts and sirens and gunshots, but they blindfolded you and put you in a truck. That’s how you ended up here, in this room.
At first, you focused on the stories of the people who made it out alive, not on the stories of the people who didn’t. You’re DEA, and even though you fucked up, you know those three letters are like a protective spell woven around you. Yes, they will hold you captive for as long as possible, yes, they will use you to fight everything you stand for, but they won’t kill you. The more time passes though, the more you doubt anyone is still fighting for your safe return. They might not kill you, but you also won’t be getting out of here.
With every day that passes, with every day you grow weaker and more tired, those men stare at you more and more. At first, they didn’t dare to look at you, ignored you when you tried to talk to them, acted like you weren’t there. Now you catch their eyes on you frequently, hungrily taking you in. They still don’t touch you – not like that, anyway – but they hit you when you’re too loud, they press their fingers over your mouth, the smell of cigarettes and gunpowder making you gag, and sometimes their hands wander, to the small of your back, to your side. Even if you make it out of here alive, you won’t make it out of here unharmed.
It's a different day. At least you think it is. You sleep more and more during your period of nothing, but it isn’t a restful sleep. If anything, it makes you more tired, wearier. You dread waking up and you dread falling asleep and you dread being awake. But something is different today, something has changed while you were asleep. There are only two men with you tonight, and they look at you more and more, their faces unreadable. It unnerves you more than their openly lustful gazes. You pretend to ignore them as best as possible, but it’s hard when you don’t want to turn your back on them.
A third man comes into the room, one you haven’t seen before. He’s big, broad, a tight shirt stretching over his belly, lines around his eyes, thinning hair on his head. He doesn’t look at you, just steps over the two boys and switches on the TV that comes to life with a static crackle. On your mattress, you come alive too, your heart starting with a painful lurch. Whatever it is, this can’t be good for you.
You barely recognize the face on TV. It takes you about a minute to make sense of what you’re seeing, so unfamiliar you’ve become with the ambassador you used to take orders from. She looks the same – it’s you who has changed. Her suit is still perfectly pressed, her hair is still perfectly styled, she still speaks into the cameras in that calm, no-nonsense voice. It’s you who you don’t recognize, you who doesn’t make sense anymore.
It also takes you a while to understand her, to make sense of what she’s saying. You hear the words “hostages” and “negotiation”, and you know she’s talking about you and whoever else there may be, but definitely you. It would explain your captors’ faces. Something has happened, some new development that’s inconveniencing them. Maybe this is it. Maybe you’re being set free. Maybe even tonight. The thought makes you feel light-headed; you have no idea who you are outside of these four walls and that mattress.
“… end of negotiations. We will no longer regard terrorists as equal opposites in this. Any American hostages they might still have, or pretend to have, will, from today onward, be considered missing in action.”
What does that mean? Surely, they wouldn’t just … they wouldn’t just let you die, would they? You’re DEA, you can’t be missing in action, you’re not a soldier. The cartels can’t kill you, they wouldn’t do that. Just how the US wouldn’t abandon you, wouldn’t go on TV to sign your death warrant in front of a live audience. It doesn’t make sense.
You turn to your captors, as if looking for guidance, but they look just as lost as you. Even the big man. He keeps running his fingers through his thin hair, sweat beading on his forehead. One of the boys looks at him too, as if waiting for orders, the other is running the tip of his index finger through the dust on the floor. Why won’t they look at you?
“So we just kill her?” asks the boy who keeps staring at the big man. His name is Andrés Felipe. You know that because another boy let it slip once. You’re not supposed to know their names, and Andrés Felipe made sure that mistake would never happen again, but by then it was too late.
“Not yet,” the man answers. “We have to wait.”
Andrés Felipe groans. “What for? You heard that woman on TV. They’re done negotiating.”
“You don’t know that,” dust boy chimes in. “It could be a ruse.”
Andrés Felipe laughs at him. “As if you know anything about politics. You can’t even read.”
You look at Andrés Felipe then, truly look at him. You need the distraction. You need to pretend it isn’t you they’re talking about, as if your fate doesn’t depend on these three men. And there isn’t much else to do in this room but look. Andrés Felipe is young, younger than you, but older than dust boy. His face is free of wrinkles, free of the tell-tale signs of hunger and a tough upbringing in the favelas. He isn’t here because he needs to be, he’s here because he wants to be. Which also explains why he dares to speak up in front of the big man, whose maturity puts him in charge.
You don’t like Andrés Felipe, never have. Maybe it’s because knowing his name humanizes him and it’s easier to hate a human than some faceless, nameless villain. Maybe it’s because of the cruel glint in his eyes, or the way he beat up that boy who revealed his name. And now there’s his eagerness to kill you. There is no reason for you to feel any sympathy toward him.
“He’s right,” the big man says then. “Maybe they want us to kill all the hostages so they’ll have an excuse to send in the military.”
“They wouldn’t do that,” Andrés Felipe responds. “Everyone would know they’re liars.”
“They’re not,” dust boy dares to speak up again. “Missing in action also means they can be found. If you’re missing, you’re not dead. If the missing people die –”
He can’t finish his sentence because Andrés Felipe slaps him. “Shut up. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
The big man doesn’t come to dust boy’s aid. He just smirks. “Quit it, you two, we’re sitting tight until we get our orders.”
“I’m fucking done waiting!” Andrés Felipe shouts and you flinch. He’s too loud. Someone will hear him. And they don’t have any reason to keep you alive now. It’s easier to shoot you and then run. “All I’ve been doing is waiting. Do you think I don’t have anything better to do with my time?”
The big man shushes him. You wish he would hit Andrés Felipe, put him in his place, but he just crosses his arms in front of his chest. “I say we wait.”
You close your eyes and breathe in deeply. Andrés Felipe says something else in that sharp, nasally voice of his, but you refuse to listen. Nothing good can come of it. Either they will kill you or they won’t. You’re too weak to think about either of these options. And you’re not going anywhere until those orders arrive, so you might as well …
When you wake up, the room is quiet, and you immediately know something is wrong. Even before you feel the cool, sharp blade against your neck, and before you smell the stale breath of the man holding it, cowering above you.
“Not one sound,” he hisses, and you recognize Andrés Felipe’s voice, uncomfortably loud in the quiet room. It’s so quiet, too quiet with just the two of you. The sounds of him unbuckling his belt are like explosions against your eardrums. You fight the urge to tell him to be quiet, but then your brain catches up with what your body already knows, and you kick your legs and shake your head.
You almost don’t feel the cut of the knife, but you do feel the hot drops of blood on your neck. “I told you to be quiet,” Andrés Felipe hisses. “Just don’t move.”
But you do, you do move, at least your hands that you ball into fists. You don’t want your life to end like this, in some shack somewhere in Colombia with a knife against your throat and a criminal inside of you. This can’t be it. They have to put you in front of a firing squad at least, don’t they? Not like this. Please, not like this.
Andrés Felipe touches your lower belly trying to unbutton your dirty pants, and you flinch, a terrified groan escaping your lips. The knife cuts deeper into the soft skin of your throat. “Shut up, you stupid bitch,” he growls.
Then there’s blood. Everywhere. It’s in your eyes, your mouth, you breathe it in, you taste it on your tongue. Andrés Felipe collapses on top of you, the knife landing on the mattress with a dull sound. You try to get out from under the heavy body, but you can barely lift his shoulders before your arm starts to tremble.
“Hey.” You wipe the blood out of your eyes to find a man kneeling next to you, shoving Andrés Felipe’s heavy body aside so you can sit up. You don’t know who he is, you’ve never seen him before, but he has to be someone higher up if he dared to kill Andrés Felipe. Because that is what just happened, you slowly realize. Andrés Felipe is dead and you’re covered in his blood.
The strange man reaches for you and you flinch away. “Ma’am, my name is Javier Peña,” he says, his voice steady and calm as if he’s been in this exact situation a million times before. “I’m with the DEA. I’m here to get you out.”
“The DEA?” you repeat, the English sounds feeling foreign in your mouth.
He reaches for you again, touches your shoulder, and this time you don’t flinch away. “You’re safe now.” He squeezes your shoulder, then stands up and holds out his hand to you. You take it and push yourself off the mattress.
“What happened?” you ask, trying to ignore the dead body, half its face gone.
“Maybe we should discuss this –,” Javier starts, but you don’t hear the rest of the sentence. Suddenly it feels like there are cotton balls lodged in your ears and the whole world turns dark, darker than it already is.
Someone is carrying you. You think you must be outside because you feel a light breeze on your face. You don’t remember the last time you smelled fresh air, but when you breathe in deeply, you’re enveloped in cigarette smoke and gunpowder. It’s not unpleasant, you realize with a start. It comes from a heavy leather jacket you’re wrapped in, and from the man carrying you. They never would have carried you like this, carefully, as if you might break, so you know you must be safe.
When you next open your eyes, you’re inside again. The room is so big it startles you at first. But the longer you let your eyes wander, the more your brain adjusts to help you realize you’re in a normal sized living room, sitting on a leather couch, a knitted blanket wrapped around your shoulders. You must have just sat up because your head is spinning and your limbs are trembling, but otherwise you feel like you can finally breathe again.
“Feeling better?”
You’re proud of yourself for not jumping at hearing his voice. “Yeah,” you answer, swallowing to wet your dry throat. You feel an unpleasant tug on your skin where Andrés Felipe cut you twice. “Where am I?”
You turn to look at him. He’s sitting on the couch next to you but with enough distance between the two of you so you don’t touch. He’s holding a half-smoked cigarette between his fingers, trying to hide the look of concern on his face. It’s something you will see a lot from now on, people looking at you as if you’re about to break.
“You’re in my living room,” he answers.
“Why not,” you have to swallow again, “why not at the embassy?”
He taps his foot nervously so his leg is jumping up and down, takes a drag. “Us coming to rescue you … that wasn’t exactly sanctioned by Noonan.”
“So you really are DEA?” you ask, even though there are a million other things you should ask first. Like if the press conference you saw on TV was really true. If Noonan and the United States were really prepared to let the remaining hostages die. But the longer you look at the man next to you, the more familiar he looks.
Javier nods at the same time as you burst out, “You tried to warn me, didn’t you? Back at the embassy? You told me I was in over my head with this. You’re the asshole!”
The surprise on his face is almost enough to make you laugh for the first time in months. “I’m the what?”
You open your mouth, but instead of an answer coming out of it, you start coughing uncontrollably. Your sides are burning by the time you’re done, but Javier is right there next to you with a glass of water that you accept gratefully.
“Let me take a look at your throat,” he says, watching you swallow down the cool liquid.
If you think about it, you haven’t been touched in months. You know you’ll flinch away before he even touches you, so you stiffen your muscles, determined to remain in place.
He must see it all on your face. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
“I know,” you say through gritted teeth.
His fingers are rough against your skin as he carefully tilts your head to the side. You barely flinch but you whimper because the movement hurts more than you would have thought. He hums quietly before standing up. “I’ll be right back.”
You raise your finger to your neck to find the skin there sticky with blood. Whether it is yours or Andrés Felipe’s you can’t tell. But the unfamiliar feeling makes you tremble again. You wish you could stop that, or at least suppress it. You wish the world would start making sense again. You miss your small room and your mattress and knowing what comes next. You don’t even know if Javier is telling the truth, if he really is who he says he is. Yes, he looks vaguely familiar, but until a few hours ago, you had no idea what time of day it was.
“Hey, hey,” Javier says softly. He is sitting next to you again, closer this time, but he’s still not touching you. “Breathe. You’re safe. I’m not going to let anything happen to you.”
“None of it makes sense,” you mumble. You’re not sure if he’s heard you, but you do feel the pressure on your chest lighten.
“You have two cuts on your throat,” Javier goes on, shaking a small bottle of disinfectant. “They don’t look too bad, but I’d still like to clean them. Is that okay?”
How do you explain to him that you just spent months asking for permission instead of giving it? How do you explain to him that you don’t know how to decide anything for yourself anymore?
Not sure what to make of your silence, Javier goes on. “You can do it yourself if you want to. I can show you –”
You tilt your head to the side. “No, please. I want you to do it.”
Javier stops shaking the bottle of disinfectant, grabs a cotton ball, and pours some liquid over it. “Tell me if I hurt you.”
He does hurt you. The second he touches the cotton ball to the cut, you want to scream. It burns so much you can hardly take it. But you grit your teeth and you don’t complain. Because you don’t want him to stop. You know it’s just the isolation and the confusion of the last hours and the fact that your world doesn’t make sense anymore, but the way he dabs the cotton ball across the cut, brow furrowed in concentration, makes you feel safe. And you can’t remember the last time you felt like this.
“You’re being so brave,” he mumbles, and surely you must have misheard or you must have imagined it, because he continues in a normal voice, “Tomorrow, you should go see a doctor. I don’t have any medical training and it doesn’t look too bad, but it can’t hurt to be safe.”
You raise your fingers to touch your throat and briefly brush his as he draws them back. “Thank you,” you say when you find your skin free of dried blood. The cotton ball in Javier’s hand is now a blotchy red. “What happened?”
“I was hoping you could tell me,” Javier says, standing up to dispose of the cotton ball. “I think he cut you with a knife.”
“No, not that.” You sink back against the couch cushions and tightly wrap the blanket around yourself. “With Noonan and the hostages.”
Javier, who is standing in the open kitchen with his back toward you, stiffens. “It was just you,” he answers, pretending to clean some dust off the counter. “You were the only American hostage left. Because it took so fucking long to find you.” He turns to you, cringing. “Sorry. I meant it took us forever to find you.”
“You can swear,” you tell him, your cheeks tingling from the unfamiliar sensation of a smile.
He walks back toward you, and it’s as if you’re seeing him for the first time. He’s no longer the jealous man who was trying to get you to back off from a mission he told you you weren’t qualified for. He’s the man who risked his job – and his life – to save you. And you don’t quite know what to do with that.
To your disappointment, he sits down in a chair, not on the couch, and lights another cigarette. “We had your location eventually. But then, two days ago, the cartel released the businessman, the only other American being held. We had to give them three men in exchange, and the exchange almost went wrong. Someone high up in Washington must have decided that’s enough.”
“So it was true, what Noonan said on TV?” You feel hot and cold all over. “It wasn’t a ruse? They were prepared to let me die?”
Javier nods. “Yeah, but I wasn’t.”
Your heart stops for a short while. “Why?”
He shrugs. “You’re one of us.”
“You warned me. You told me not to go on this mission. I thought you were jealous.”
He barks out a short laugh. “No, I thought it was a stupid mission. Too dangerous. Not worth risking the life of one of our agents for. And it was putting all our other informants at risk too.”
You look down at your hands, barely recognizing them underneath the dirt clinging to your skin. “What happens next? Will you get reassigned?”
“I won’t get a medal, that’s for sure.” He takes a drag of his cigarette and his face lights up with a red glow. “Noonan will thank me privately but reprimand me publicly. And then she’ll send you home.”
“Me? Why am I being punished?” Your voice, still hoarse from disuse, rings in your ears.
He laughs again, loudly this time. “Darlin’, Colombia almost killed you. I wouldn’t call it punishment.”
Your heart kickstarts at the use of the diminutive. “I want to stay here. There’s still so much to do.”
He stubs out his cigarette. “What you need to do is take things easy. You just went through a horrible ordeal you haven’t even begun to process. Even if you do stay here, you need a break first.”
You want to protest, but you can’t find the strength. You feel weary, exhausted, like you spent the last month trekking through the jungle without a break. Your body is a heavy lump you hardly have control over.
The next thing you feel is Javier’s arms around you as he holds you tightly. “Hey,” he says again, and you could get used to the softness in his voice. “Let’s get you to bed.”
“No,” you mumble, trying to push him away, suddenly trapped in the memory of closing your eyes and waking up to a man holding a knife cowering above you.
Javier doesn’t take no for an answer. “You’ll sleep in my bed. I’ll sleep on the couch.”
You’re still not sure this is such a good idea, but there is no alternative you can think of, and your body is begging you to lie down on cool, clean sheets and forget the world for a while. You let Javier pull you up, and you manage to stumble not more than once as he leads you into a dark bedroom. He doesn’t switch on the light.
“I’m going to let you sleep in,” he tells you, sitting you down on the edge of the bed. “Do you want me to leave the door open in case you need me?”
“No, that’s fine,” you answer, weakly kicking off your dirty shoes. You just want him to leave so you can close your eyes.
He runs his hand from the top of your head down to your neck in a well-practiced, automatic motion. “I’m a light sleeper – just shout if there’s anything you need.”
You nod, and he finally steps back with a smile on his face. “Good night, Javi,” you say, your head hitting the pillow before you can stop it. He’s already at the door when you add, “And thank you.”
You can’t have been asleep for more than a few minutes when the sound of gunfire wakes you. It’s not close by, but the echo of it still reaches you, and before your brain has time to process, your body is already responding with a sob that shakes you from head to toe.
“I’ve got you,” Javier says, wrapping you up in his arms. You bury your face against his naked shoulder, trying to steady your breath, but you’re crying uncontrollably now.
“I’m sorry,” you sob.
All he does is run his hand up and down your back. “Shhhh, I’m here. Nothing is going to happen to you.”
His warm breath against the top of your head makes your heartbeat slow down, and you finally manage to swallow your tears. “I’m so sorry,” you repeat, feeling like you’re about to die.
“Come on, lie down,” he urges you gently, trying to lower you toward the mattress.
“No!” You cling to him desperately, but he pries your arms off him without much effort.
“I’ll be here, okay?” he soothes you. “Right in that chair over there.”
You don’t know what chair he’s talking about; you didn’t notice one when he led you into the bedroom, but you stopped noticing things a while ago. “Don’t leave me,” you beg.
He brushes your hair out of your face and places a soft kiss against your temple. “I’ll be here when you wake up.”
When you next open your eyes, there he is, asleep in an armchair in the corner of the bedroom, the early morning sun dancing across his skin.
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ruegarding · 1 month ago
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Wait what's the tea on Wotg makin' Percabeth even worse? /gen /nf
tldr; rick is continuing his trend of having annabeth imply that she thinks her bf is stupid (u can see what i mean by trend here). this is coupled w a lot of ableism: acting like percy is too stupid to function and removing annabeth's disabilities so she can be a girl boss while refusing to address their mental health. this is supposed to make percabeth look cute, somehow, but instead comes off as mean-spirited at best.
first, to establish context, percy's incredibly overworked,
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(he's also on the swim team) and bc of this percy is falling asleep in class and waking up in a panic. this is never addressed seriously despite being a series abt disability. as if that wasn't enough, percy also is never shown to enjoy any of his classes and is frequently written to be stuggling w his grades, just in case u forgot he was stupid (he also is written w the ableist stereotype of being lazy abt school work, too, instead of, you know, disabled). his main motivation is that annabeth will be successful with or without him so he better not be a stupid failure.
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completely ignoring percy was the one who wanted to go to nru. also, zero mentions for the accommodation percy is receiving for his disabilities (nor annabeth's, but she's written like they don't exist so).
and then percy says that annabeth's friend, hana, doesn't like him bc she doesn't think he's good enough for annabeth, going on to think yeah that's fair. this is never addressed bc it's supposed to be a cute percabeth and #girl boss annabeth moment. then percy makes a joke (?) that annabeth's friends are gossiping abt how annabeth can stand to date him when he's too stupid to understand architecture when percabeth walks away to talk. this is not a percabeth win and i'm genuinely not sure how anyone on rick's team thought it was.
then there's this:
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just in case u forgot, percy is the stupid one and annabeth is the smart one. teehee.
and, in relation to ignoring their mental health, annabeth talks abt putting spider webs all over hecate's mansion (bc she wants to make a haunted house), which rick says is ok bc it's not spiders. except part of annabeth's huge traumatic fight w arachne was being covered in spiderwebs that literally pulled her into tartarus. so. weird plotline. similarly, percy has a bit abt having nightmares abt cereberus, which is equally stupid. i talked abt it here. not necessarily percabeth but worth mentioning for context. oh, and percy also bodily-fluid-bends later in the book w no comment except annabeth's shocked expression. correction: while percy does bodily-fluid-bend w no fanfare, annabeth is not there. percy poison-bends in front of annabeth w no comment.
rick then keeps poking fun at how percy and annabeth would make great parents. which. they're seventeen. btw. but yeah anyway percy would make a great dad bc he's got the funny dad jokes (bc he's stupid. haha get it). annabeth would make a great mom bc she's soooooo nurturing what w taking care of a puppy who decides to call her mom and taking care of her stupid idiot useless boyfriend. i wish this was a joke. more on this later.
the line "[annabeth] looked surprised—me comforting her, kind of switching things up" is self explanatory and written specifically to piss me off.
this passage,
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which sucks for many reasons, but especially bc this is rick trying to rewrite book canon w show canon despite very easy ways to include this without acting like percy is an idiot who just didn't notice for the past THREE BOOK SERIES (like a war that took place recently where chiron was injured idk just an idea). instead, percy has to take the fall for rick's error and annabeth has to act like her bf is the stupidest person on earth.
btw, did i mention that annabeth is ahead in her classes and percy sucks at school? teehee.
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wow, it's like annabeth's dyslexia isn't even there!
now, it may seem that i'm exaggerating percy's incompetence.
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this is a real quote from the book.
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so is this!
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and this.
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and—u get the point. rick is acting like percy hasn't outsmarted his opponents bc his personality is stupid and annabeth's personality is reduced down to having the brain cell.
then, percy has a moment where his empathy shines thru and he's allowed to succeed at something (for the first time in the book), except he has to put himself down to make annabeth feel better. bc we can't have percy feeling good abt himself since it makes annabeth look bad. or something. idk.
again, there is no exploration of percy's self-esteem or their myriad of trauma.
to make up for all the times percy was treated like an idiot, annabeth says percy is "a pretty smart guy,"
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which is a surprise to her despite them having known each other for five years.
furthermore, rick is writing percy w a sort of incompetence towards household tasks that is, quite frankly, sexist. here is a good post on how it mirrors weaponized incompetence and here is another one abt the disturbing nature of mom-ifying annabeth. i should make it clear annabeth provides percy food in multiple scenes while percy does adjacent to nothing. she also tucks him into bed like a child in one scene and gets nicknamed "mom" by a dog that pees on her (AND she cleans up the pee while percy does nothing).
so, wottg is essentially 300 pages of mean-spirited bullying from all sides. none of the humor shines through these jokes, none of the facetiousness, like hey isn't it funny that percy is really smart but sometimes completely oblivious, is there. there is no comedic disparity between percy's power and skill and his ability to trip over his feet bc there are no impressive feats of power and skill (anything that would count are immediately brushed off). comments abt percy learning to tie his own shoes w his newfound octopus tentacles don't land in a book where he's acting like he cannot have thoughts without annabeth. and there's no grace to be given bc at no point in any of this handled as a serious exploration of percy's insecurities despite the ample opportunity to do so.
then, when percy isn't being hounded w vitriol, annabeth is being reduced to a sexist caricature of a woman. it does not make percabeth look good in any way.
finally, i need to make it clear that however bad this breakdown makes the books seem, it is worse. i summarized and skipped over a ton of stuff for my own sanity.
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melsimps · 18 days ago
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Born To Be My Baby
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FWB!dilf era!Peter Maximoff x fem!reader headcanons/blurb (kinda).
Tw: discussions of sex, childbirth, and pregnancy. (But not in graphic detail)
A/N: I had to write my own dilfsilver shit. Inspired largely by my oc x Canon fic with him.
We got something to believe in Even if we don't know where we stand
You and Peter were friends with benefits. And that was it. It was casual, fun. A way to de-stress without any strings.
And it was fun, too.
You'd mainly hook up after stressful missions or hard training sessions in the danger room.
And it meant nothing. Just some light fun between friends/coworkers.
That's all it was.
Until that one day.
However it went, you found out you were pregnant. Either a condom broke, or you forgot a pill, or your implant/IUD ran out, it doesn't matter.
What does matter is the fact that you're pregnant.
With Peter's kid.
So, after a doctor's appointment, and with a copy of the ultrasound in your pocket, you went and told him.
"I... are... are you shitting me-?" He asked, eyes wide, mouth agape.
...not the best reaction, I'll admit. But...
After some emotional conversation, it all culminates in...
"...hey," he whispered softly, on his knees as his hands settled on your (still incredibly flat/non visible) abdomen. "Hey in there, baby, I'm-"
"-Peter, what are you-?"
"Shhh-! Quiet, I'm having a conversation with my kid-!" He scoffed, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
And after that, he was right on board.
Project baby was a-go.
When you were reading pregnancy books, you'd chart out the rough size of the baby in fruit. And each week, he'd try and find one the right size. Just so he could visualise how big your kid is. Because hey, that's his little buddy in there.
You borrow a lot of his band shirts, especially when you get further on in your pregnancy.
But you're not, like...dating or anything. You're just two buds, having a baby together.
It's kind of hard, him having to be the rational one for once, but he's trying.
"...what's going on-?" He asked, slowly creeping into your classroom.
You were in tears, holding a book to your chest.
"They're just so mean to him..." you sniffled out, shaking your head.
He glanced at the cover, and...
"...Frankenstein?" Peter asked.
You nodded.
"...I could've parented him..."
All the while, y'all are still hooking up. Hormones are crazy, man. Especially later on in your pregnancy.
But it doesn't mean anything. Its just sex. Sex with your stupid hot baby daddy and his stupid hot vibrating dick.
Anyway, one night, the two of you were getting it on, riding him good and hard, when he felt a splash against his abdomen.
"Awe, babe, did you just-?"
"...that wasn't an orgasm..." you whispered, shaking your head.
He paled.
"It fuckin' what-?!"
...yep, he broke your water during sex. Pussy so good, it makes you accidentally induce labour.
He doesn't know which emergency bag to grab, so... he just dashes around campus and grabs all of them.
It's a long labour, with a lot of exhaustion and pain. A lot of emotions and yelling, and... crying.
But in the end?
A soft cry pierced the air as that flash of white faded over you, the pressure fading, the pain slowly alleviating.
"Is... is that-?"
"She's here..." Peter murmured, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.
And she was.
An itty bitty baby girl.
Luna.
As he holds that baby in his arms, he just... melts. He's crying and holding her so close to his chest, kissing the top of her little head while you sleep.
"Hey... hey, Luna..." Peter whispered softly, his voice shaking with emotion. "Oh my god, you're so small... I..."
He shook his head, tears pricking his dark eyes. God, he was a mess. It was stupidly early, and he was exhausted, and emotional, and-
"...what did I do to make me worthy of a baby as sweet as you and a woman as great as your mom, huh-?" He murmured, trying his hardest not to sob.
Meanwhile, Luna slept happily against his chest, gurgling as she snuggled close to her father.
As you guys adjust and recover together, getting used to having itty bitty Luna in your lives, Peter just... basically moves into the suite at the mansion with you.
I mean, you're raising a baby together. You've seen each other naked. It's not that weird.
Anyway.
He is so helpful during your healing, and is basically your rock during emotional moments (postpartum hormones are crazy, y'all).
He tries to grow out his facial hair.
Key word being tries.
"Babe..." you warned, grimacing slightly as his face nestled into your neck.
"Mmm... whaaaat-?" Peter asked back playfully, his stubble lightly scratching your skin.
"As much as I am loving the beard..." you purred playfully, cupping his cheek in a moment of domesticity in the kitchenette. "...I'm not a fan of the bristles pricking me during cuddle time..."
Reluctantly... shaves (after you promise to let him devour that pussy the second he can).
"Hey, you wanna get married-?" Peter asked one lazy Saturday afternoon as you snuggled into his chest, while Luna was settled in her crib for a nap.
...okay, so maybe y'all are more than just friends.
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wrestlingwithlife · 1 year ago
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Task Force 141 Boys with Cowboy (Head canons)
Decided I’d write some head cannons for Cowboy!Reader with our main boys either that haven’t written about yet or have but are so cute I wanted to reiterate <3
Task Force 141 x Cowboy!Reader
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Soap :
#1 hype man fr 🗣️🗣️
Absolutely obsessed 😍
Will literally find any excuse to get Y/n to talk just to hear his accent
After watching Ghost get man handled by him he actually begged Y/n to spar with him
Looks up southern stuff to say to Y/n
“Y/n, will you take me to a Honkytonk? 🥺”
He tries his best but at this point he’s just doing it to get a reaction
Stumbled across the song “F***** by a Country Boy” and thought all country music was like that
Couldn’t look Y/n in the eye with hearing it in his head for a solid week
Never sleeps better then when his head is in Y/n’s lap
Literally will sleep like a rock
Soap is usually the one who falls asleep on Y/n
He didn’t realize how cuddly Y/n actually was until after one fateful night
Soap had came to watch old murder files with the southern male one night
Y/n fell asleep on Soap’s shoulder, slumbering silently
When Soap went to lean forward to grab his water he was yanked back into Y/n
Y/n bear hugged him to his chest and refused to let him go
Soap cherished that moment for the rest of forever
Added ‘Save a horse ride a cowboy’ to his Instagram bio
Has def stolen Y/n hat and tried it on
Y/n didn’t have the heart to tell him about the hat rule
But he’ll handle it eventually~
Absolute thigh guy
Has been caught staring so many times
Does not care
Continues to stare 👀
Has asked Y/n to crush him between his thighs
Y/n thought he was joking
He was not
#relatable
Ghost :
Absolutely whipped
Won’t even deny it if someone calls him out
He’s all about that Honkytonk Badonkadonk🤠
When Y/n says a word or phrase he doesn’t understand he just nods along until the male walks away, in which he will whip out his phone and immediately search it up
When Y/n mentioned there were times he missed his horses he made it his personal mission to find horses for him to pet
Ended up finding a place nearby that did horse therapy
He and Y/n both went and they absolutely loved it
The horses absolutely adored Y/n and smothered him with love
The southern male was happy to reciprocate
Ghost took a picture of it and now it’s his Lock Screen
Ghost was nervous the horses weren’t going to like him
Most animals don’t like his mask
Was elated when he realized the horses didn’t care about it
They really started to love him when Y/n showed Ghost how to feed them
Ghost was in heaven
He grew particularly fond of an old shire mare
She was all white and covered in scars but she was so impossibly gentle for her massive size
The worker said they called her Big Mama and she’d was a retired logging horse that had been rescued from going to slaughter
She adored Ghost and followed him everywhere
The workers explained she had a knack for taking the more nervous horses and animals on the ranch under her wing and making them feel a safe
Ghost almost cried when he hugged her 🥺
Now where Soap liked to sleep on Y/n, Ghost prefers to have Y/n sleep on him
Was laying in bed with Y/n one night while scrolling through his phone
Y/n was already snoozing 😴
Ghost went to put his phone on the nightstand only to get yanked back
Bro was shocked
Y/n snatched him back, burrowing under his arm
Almost cried again 🥹
Price :
Absolutely adores Y/n southern culture
Has a little notebook where he keeps stuff he learned from Y/n written down 🖊️
Occasionally uses southern slang around Y/n but unlike Soap he’s completely serious
Except the word Ain’t
He refuses to say that
When he finds out Y/n feels homesick he does everything he can to help
Gets Y/n all his favorite things
Favorite candies, books, flowers, even got Y/n a cow stuffie when he talked about missing his animals
Y/n put it next to his horse stuffie he got him last week
Price is a good cook but he doesn’t usually have the urge to do it that often
But when Y/n talked about a dish from his home town he missed??
Price spent two day’s learning how to make it and getting the stuff
Whipped that shit up like freaking master chef
The cowboy was elated and gave Price the most bone crushing hug
Snuck a little cheek kiss in there too 💋
Price’s cheeks turned pink so fast
I’m just going to say it…
Has drunk made out with Y/n before 🤯
The two got absolutely turnt on whiskey and just went for it
They never spoke about it after that but when they get close they still think about it
Price misses how the American male tastes
Something definitely awoke in him the day that he watched Y/n ride that mechanical bull
In a game of ‘Fuck, Marry, Kill’ Y/n would Marry Price a hundred times over
I mean, me too 😍
Tried southern Cajun food that Y/n made once and his heart almost stopped
It tasted good and then all of a sudden everything was on fire
Did better at holding his spice then Soap tho so 10/10
Y/n’s go to after solo missions
Y/n will stumble into his office all tired and instead of pulling up a chair just plops on the floor and leans his head on Price’s leg
Price just plays with his hair while he finishes paper work
He’d be lying if he said his mind didn’t occasionally wander with how close Y/n was to his nether regions 😜
Gaz :
Trails Y/n like a puppy 🐶
I mean this boy hangs off his every word
If Y/n ever has to run an errand off the base you best believe Gaz will be going with him
Also looks up southern slang to understand Y/n better
Also listened to “F***** by a Country Boy” and couldn’t look Y/n in the eyes for a solid week
Always offers to help Y/n when he works out
Sometimes gets distracted when he’s spotting but no one can blame the poor boy
Acts of service is def his love language ❤️
Demands to know the names of every animal Y/n owns
Made a playlist of songs that Y/n mentioned he liked
Listens to it constantly
Likes to ‘help’ Y/n cook
Really just hands him stuff that Y/n asks for
Handles the spices the best out of any of them
When it’s just the two of them going out for whatever reason he’ll just grab onto Y/n somehow
Holding a hand, the hem of a jacket or shirt, or intertwining their arms
Y/n is happy to reciprocate
People will come up to Gaz while Y/n is distracted and compliment how cute of a couple they are
Just thanks them and doesn’t deny it ever
Sleeps in Y/n’s bed more then his own
Y/n will be working at his desk and Gaz will just wander in in and plop onto his bed to sleep
If Y/n takes to long Gaz will sigh loudly till he gets the hint
Always fights Soap for Y/n’s lap on movie nights
Besides Price he’s probably got the best sense of self control
He ain’t perfect though
Is Y/n isn’t watching him he is LOCKED ON
Always locked onto those cheeks 🥵
His mind does tend to wander
Y/n could ask Gaz to fake his death and run away with him and Gaz would do it in a heartbeat
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