#this event was aimed directly at my face and I love it | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

thelastofhyde · 2 years ago

Text

the likeability paradox.

pairing. joel miller x fem!reader

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

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

word count. 12.9k

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

read on ao3. series masterlist. next chapter.

Distaste is not new in the life of Joel Miller.

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

If anything, he’s made himself more empty.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Joel's unamused, too keen to think of what a nuisance that would be. As if incapable of feeling the buzzing energy of disinterest, the German Shepherd drops its head further up his lap, begging for a morsel of anything that sits atop the table.

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

Frank is quick to shush him.

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

There you sit, parallel to him.

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

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

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

“You, sit. No one should have to clean up the food they made.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

To envy a creature that licks its own shit off its ass is a new low for Joel.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

With you as its protector.

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

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

But I could keep you safe.

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

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

He never imagined her working in a bank.

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

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

But you weren’t smiling.

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

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

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

“-Could fix it, you know. I’m good with my hands.”

He almost chokes on his own breath.

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

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

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

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

“Your watch, it’s broken.”

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

You pull a face, brows furrowing and lips pouting. Confusion.

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

“I don’t keep it for the time.”

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

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

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

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

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

Nature falls silent.

Skies grow dull.

You juggle sadness.

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

Joel wonders what the mutt’s practicing for.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-N’t tell me you’re a virgin.

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

A protest rings true in his head and his ears.

Was gonna say. Knew you were young, but not that young.

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

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

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

Neither of you make any acknowledgement of him.

“Not much to miss?! Sweet Christ, you’re breaking my fuckin’ heart.” He’s learnt over time the common traits of a drunken Tess. Each word becoming an exclamation, curses becoming more frequent, and that irritating habit she’s picked up of imitating his own accent. There’s no need to bother opening his eyes, Joel’s already sure he’ll find his companion with flushed cheeks and glassy eyes. “I’d give up a hand for some head!”

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

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

“You’ve got to be shittin’ me.”

“It bores me!”

“It bores you!?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

He does so, regardless.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And you’re the one to blame.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The currents grow more violent whenever he closes his eyes.

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

You take up no space of this room.

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

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

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

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

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

I don’t like you, Joel.

Those words stop him from trying.

He tells himself it’s for the best.

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

The refrigerator.

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

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

She never lived long enough to get either.

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

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

Beneath the light, you shrug. “Could ask you the same thing, Texas.”

He curses Tess for teaching you such a nickname.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I don’t like you, Joel.

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

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

I don’t like you, Joel.

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

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

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

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

You may leave your marks emotionally, but Joel’s will always be physical.

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

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

He scoffs, “I don’t.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not one bit.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s his turn to respond with a hum.

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

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

Even upside down, your beauty is striking.

“No, unlike you I don’t care what you think about-” Joel tugs on your hair once more.

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

“You’re hurting me,” you whine, Joel growls.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He doesn’t specify.

He doesn’t need to.

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

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

You say nothing. Joel pulls harder.

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

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

“Who said anything about an offer?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

You breathe in, you breathe out.

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

Inhale, exhale.

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

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

Where he expects protest, he receives more breathing.

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

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

In and out, shaky breathing comes from above.

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

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

His fist curls tighter, pulls higher.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So he does the same.

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

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

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

“You’re the most infuriating man I’ve ever- Oh!”

A tongue meets skin.

The knife clatters onto the counter.

You lurch forward.

His hand pulls you back.

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

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

‘Could keep ya satisfied.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What a perfect excuse you are, for Joel to remaster the arts of lust.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Except, the oven door is made of glass.

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

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

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

“D’ya touch yourself, Sol?” You don’t answer him, but that’s okay. In a sweet change of pace, Joel Miller’s perfectly fine with talking enough for the both of you. “Yeah, bet ya do. Late at night, right? Once you’re all alone in bed. Ya seem like the kind who can make herself scream.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He hears you before he sees you.

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

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

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

So instead, it sends you.

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

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

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

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

“No worries!” You’re so kind, so good, smiling at him with a cheerful chirp in your voice. He can’t wrap his head around how you can bring yourself to treat him this way. “Oh, actually, that’s why I came out here, I was looking for Tess-” Of course you were, when would you ever be looking for him? “Hold on!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

So he tries again, louder.

“Why don’t ya like me?”

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

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

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

"Answer the damn question, girl.”

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

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

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

Joel says nothing.

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

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

“A dress.”

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

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

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

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

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

His feet remain glued to the ground.

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

“She ain’t my-”

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

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

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

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

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

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

I don’t like you, Joel.

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

Till then, he needs to find a dress.

#joel miller smut #joel miller x reader #joel miller oneshot #joel miller fic #pedro pascal smut

3K notes · View notes

galedekarios · 10 months ago

Text

gale & curing the orb - early access

writing my current series of cut content from early access made me think a lot, especially about how curing gale of the orb might have originally worked out if larian had kept to what had been set up in early access. it's no secret that a lot of things were changed or cut entirely, big and small, like for instance halsin's involvement with ketheric's fall, isobel and the shadow curse.

gale's condition, too, seemed different then.

what exactly was different in early access?

while only a few body models were unique in early access, gale's key art showed his left arm in bandages.

in early access, auntie ethel had vicious mockery lines, which hinted what might be beneath those bandages:

Auntie Ethel: I can smell what's under those bandages, wizard. You're all rot and ruin. Come to greet death early? You'll be a lovely spectacle.

we also had information from gale directly as to what happened to karsus in the aftermath of casting his spell:

Player: I was wondering about that “mighty lord” you told me about in your story. Gale: Ah, yes. Karsus Karsus was perhaps the most powerful wizard that ever lived. The child-who-would-be-a-god, the elves called him. And he tried. With a spell of his own devising he endeavoured to usurp in one fell swoop the power of the goddess of magic. Mystryl, she was called then. Imagine what it must have felt like. To be a god. To know yourself to be untouchable. To be mistaken. As Karsus aimed his spell at her she began to unravel, and with her, the entire Weave. Too late did he realize what he had unleashed. It would have been the end of everything had not Mystryl sacrificed herself. Gale: The goddess of magic is all magic. By dying, the entire weave was lost, and the spell that challenged a god failed. It was the end of Mystryl, the end of Karsus, and the end of an entire civilization. As the child-who-would-be-a-god was turned to stone, his empire came crashing down around him. The floating cities of Netheril were no more. An event that came to be known as Karsus’ folly.

which is in accordance with the lore:

Unfortunately, his choice was a terrible mistake, for one of the responsibilities of the deity of magic was to regulate the flow of magic to and from all beings, spells, and magic items in the world. Lacking the ability to do so properly, magic surged and fluctuated. With her last remaining bit of power, Mystryl sacrificed herself to block Karsus's access to the Weave, causing all magic to fail. The flying cities of Netheril plummeted to the earth. The severing of the link also killed Karsus and transformed him into stone, and the last thing he saw was his entire civilization being destroyed because of his actions. This was to be known as Karsus's Folly. The stone form of Karsus eventually landed in a part of the High Forest, now called the Dire Wood. The city of Karse was built around its base. Karsus was never accepted as a petitioner by any god, nor did he go to the Fugue Plane when he died. Instead, his soul was bound to the Material Plane. Those with experience in pact magic could call up his vestige, where he appeared as a giant blood-red boulder, like the one found in the High Forest where his petrified form landed. Blood burbles up from the top of the stone, trickling down the side facing the summoner, pooling at the base. When he spoke, the pool fountained upwards, its height varying on the volume of his voice.

the netherese orb then seemed to have a immediate visible physical effect on gale, in addition to the ones that carried to the full release version of the game.

so putting these clues together, i think it's safe to say that the orb caused gale in early access to be afflicted with some form of corrupted petrification, which makes sense given that it's a piece of magic unleashed during karsus's folly.

at that point, this corruption seemed to be affecting his left arm the most, perhaps either from opening the book containing the netherese magic with it, or trying to shield himself with it - but that's just speculation on my part.

so what did the early access set up in terms of curing gale from his affliction?

gale in early access showed a great interest in the astral plane, especially in the absence of time there. he has several banters with lae'zel, which are still in the game now and showing his vested interest in the astral plane as well as any knowledge or insight lae'zel might offer on it:

Gale asks Lae'zel about the Astral Plane. Has she been there? Gale: Tell me, Lae'zel, what is it like on the Astral Plane? Your home realm intrigues me. Lae'zel: Githyanki lay their eggs on other planes. They cannot mature in the Astral. Lae'zel: I will only be welcomed once I obtain a mind flayer's head.

lae'zel notices gale's interest and initiates a banter of her own:

Lae'zel asks Gale what his interest is in the Astral plane, and he equivocates Lae'zel: Tell me, Gale: what is your interest in the Astral Plane? Gale: Time. Or rather: the absence of it. In the Astral Plane, everything is eternal. Lae'zel: It will be my home soon enough, should Vlaakith will it.

in addition to these banters, which clearly show gale's interest in the astral plane - which now in the full release seems merely academic - hinted at another solution to ridding himself of the orb.

what points to that quite conclusively is gale's dialogue when he reveals the truth about the orb to the protagonist.

this reveal differs quite significantly from the full release version. most notably, the protagonist was able to ask him about his own ideas for a what might be able to cure him from the orb.

gale had something very interesting to say to that question:

Player: What would permanently rid you of the orb? Gale: The orb was kept safe and inert in a pocket of Astral Plane, suspended in time. If I can somehow manage to expel it from my body while in the Astral Plane, it will be rendered inert again. Alternatively, I could learn to control it’s chaotic magic, that is; to succeed where I failed before. But without Mystra’s favour, I don’t see how that may come to pass. Of course there could be different answers as well. Faerun brims with more magic than any one wizard could fathom, let alone comprehend. Who knows what outlandish solutions may yet present themselves?

so what does this all mean?

in conclusion, i believe originally there were either more ways to cure gale from the orb - or maybe even in a different manner entirely - than there are in the full release version of the game (begging mystra to remove it, ascension, or accepting/keeping the orb).

perhaps even one that would circumvent having to beg mystra for forgiveness entirely, without gale having to sacrifice his mortality to do so.

i think these banters and lines of dialogue show that the astral plane, which would have rendered the orb inert and stopped the corrupted petrification of his body, would have played a bigger role in gale's quest.

#gale dekarios #gale of waterdeep #karsus #baldur's gate 3 #bg3 #baldurs gate 3 #bg3 meta #bg3 early access #ch: gale dekarios #vg: baldur's gate 3 #series: baldur's gate #meta: mybg3

438 notes · View notes

ghcstify · 6 months ago

Text

✦ . ⁺ BITTER GIFT

carl grimes x fem reader

¡! warnings: enemies to lovers, death, weapon mentions, blood, injuries, angst & traumatic events

¡! a/n: this is a looooong one (specifically 3.6k words, um..) and it doesn’t really have to do with carl that much until the middle, sorry about that :c

the day you lost your parents is one you'll never forget. the sudden screams and gunshots continue to echo in your mind. you had a strong sense that you were one of the few who managed to escape the overrun camp where you and your family had stayed from the very beginning. despite being dehydrated and exhausted, you somehow managed to survive on your own for a while. then one day, you suddenly found you weren't alone anymore.

hearing footsteps behind you, you swiftly drew your knife from your hip and held it out in front of you. you found yourself at a doorway, realizing you needed to act swiftly to eliminate what you believed to be a walker. as you quickly moved past the door frame, you were met with a crossbow aimed directly at your face by a middle-aged man.

“daryl?” you heard another man speak, and with that, your anxiety intensified. you heard another pair of footsteps come up behind the guy who had his crossbow pointed at you. “put it down, she’s just a child,” the blue-eyed man spoke, and as the other man listened intently, he slowly lowered the crossbow from your face.

“i’m rick, this is daryl. what’s yours?” the man with blue eyes spoke. for some reason, you found yourself unable to even say your name to these strangers. you couldn’t determine if they were dangerous or if they had others around them waiting to harm you. you just weren’t sure. after a while, you finally spoke up. “y/n, i’m y/n,” you responded, lowering your knife to signal that you intended no harm. silence filled the air for what seemed like an eternity before rick finally spoke, “how many walkers have you killed?”

“what?”

“how many walkers have you killed?”

with the sudden question to which you had no answer to, your nervousness intensified. “i… i don’t know, i lost track,” you responded, hoping that not having an answer wouldn't cause any trouble. “how many people have you killed?” he posed yet another unusual question. with that question remaining unanswered, you took a deep breath before replying, “two.”

“why?”

why? what did he mean by “why”? given that your response to the “why” question might be hurtful, you took a moment to collect yourself before addressing yet another question. “my mom and a stranger because they asked me to,” you answered. rick gave daryl a sidelong glance, which left you confused. you still couldn't decide whether they were good people or not.

“we’re part of a larger community, you look like you could use it,” rick mentioned. you had observed daryl's silence, suggesting that he was likely a very reserved individual. at first, you were unsure of what to say, realizing how big of an opportunity this was in such a world. searching for the right words, all you could express was, “really? i would love to.”

before you realized it, you found yourself in an actual car with rick at the wheel and daryl in the passenger seat, heading towards what he described as a “large community.” the journey was marked by an unsettling silence, which only added to your discomfort. however, if they were telling the truth, it would be worth it.

upon finally arriving at the community, you looked out the window to see actual houses still standing, walls fortifying the area, and a sign that read, “welcome to the alexandria safe zone, mercy for the lost, vengeance for the plunderers.” observing this sign and noting all the pre-apocalyptic details, you genuinely felt a sense of safety and assurance that nothing bad would happen here.

rick had opened the car door for you, allowing you to step out and walk through the gates of your future. this gesture made you reconsider your initial impression, thinking that perhaps these people were not as bad as you had thought. taking everything in, rick began to speak, “if you don’t mind, my son’ll show you around. is that okay with you?” quickly nodding in response, daryl spoke up and instructed a middle-aged, brown-haired woman to open the gate. as the gates closed behind you, she approached and began to examine you. “i’m rosita,” she extended her hand towards you, signaling for a handshake. putting your hand in hers and shaking each others hand, you replied, “i’m y/n.”

after sharing your painful past with rosita for a moment, you hear footsteps approaching. turning around, you see a boy wearing a cowboy hat with long hair and a bandage over his left eye. “my dad wanted me to show you around,” he spoke, his voice carrying a subtle hint of annoyance. after parting ways with rosita, you found yourself walking in silence alongside the boy. “you never told me your name,” you finally break the unbearable silence by speaking up. “uh, it’s carl,” he replies, his voice still carrying that slight hint of annoyance. realizing that he didn't really want to be there, you remain silent. it becomes clear that carl isn't much of a people person, or perhaps you haven't been around him long enough for him to warm up to you.

an hour or two passed with carl still giving you a tour, yet you still felt as if he didn't like you. perhaps your gut feeling was right — maybe he really did want you gone. however, all you wanted was to make friends. after the lengthy tour was over, you found yourself sitting on your bed. unsure of what to do next, you layed down and drifted off to sleep.

months had passed, and you had developed many friendships, including with rosita, glenn, michonne, rick, and maggie; unfortunately, carl was not among them. in all honesty, you found that you didn't mind. you were beginning to feel similarly, not particularly liking him, though you couldn't quite discern the reason why. upon hearing the gossip, you learned that rick and carl had encountered someone in a gas station parking lot. you felt a pang of guilt, knowing that you were in that situation at once and you realized that you needed to take action. you decided to approach rick to discuss the situation and possibly work something out with him.

“if you decide to do what you’re going to do, i’d feel better with carl by your side,” rick spoke as you stood at the doorway of the house he shared with michonne and carl. “rick, you know he doesn’t like me,” you replied, feeling a sense of anxiety about having to work with someone who seemingly didn't even like you. “then i don’t know what to tell you,” he responded, giving a slight shrug of his shoulders. as he conveyed this information, you started to carefully contemplate your course of action. silence filled the house before you finally spoke, “okay, do you think you could talk to him?” before replying, he gave you a reassuring nod,

“of course.”

and with that, you retreated to your room to figure out what your plan was going to be. about an hour later, a knock sounded at your bedroom door. for some reason, you believed it was carl, and you took a deep breath before saying, “come in.” the door opened swiftly to reveal rosita.

“i heard what you’re doing,” she said as she stood at your doorway, the worry evident in her brown eyes. “i kind of have to do this, rose,” you replied as you began to contemplate where you would be right now if it weren’t for rick and daryl. she sighed before approaching you and taking a seat beside you. “i get that,” she remarked before continuing on, “but you really don’t have to.” you shook your head from side to side, indicating your disagreement with her. “i somehow got saved, so why not save someone else in return?”

“y/n….”

she spoke in a tone that conveyed her concern for you. giving her a smile, she embraced you before expressing her feelings in more profound words, “just be careful, please.”

“i will, i promise.”

after rosita had left, your door creaked open to reveal rick, who acknowledged you with a nod, indicating that he had successfully convinced carl to work with you. the next morning, you waited at the gate for carl to arrive, eager to get this over with. despite your efforts to convince yourself that carl wasn't such a bad person, you still couldn't find yourself caring for him. lost in thought, you heard footsteps approaching from behind. turning around, you saw carl finally making his way towards you. you turned back around to head out of the gate, taking a deep breath and preparing yourself for the discomfort that was about to ensue.

rick had previously informed you both that this individual followed specific routes each day. since today was one of the days he would pass through the forest, you and carl waited for him at that location. breaking the silence, carl finally initiated the conversation, “how long were you out there?” not fully believing that he was actually addressing you, you turned to look at him before replying, “about 3 to 4 months, i kind of lost track after a while.” he nodded in response and once again, he spoke up, “where are your parents?” with carl posing all these questions, you started to think that maybe he wasn’t so bad after all. “dead,” you responded, maintaining your composure by looking at the ground.

“i’m sorry.”

before you could say anything else, you were interrupted by footsteps. you and carl exchanged a nod and with this, you both approached the man, hands raised to signal that you meant no harm. “we’re not going to hurt you,” carl remarked, directing his gaze toward the man who had just finished killing a walker. after carl had spoken, it was your turn. you grabbed the bag of food and water and tossed it to the man. “there’s food and water in there.”

addressing the bag of food and water, the man fell to the floor, grabbing it and opening it. he grasped the bottle of water and chugged it, which reassured you about the decision you had made. “i’m glad i found you,” carl stated, breaking the silence. “you were looking for me?” the man inquired as he rose to his feet. “me and her, we’re in a community,” carl dodges the man’s question with a statement that could positively impact the man’s life. putting your hands down, the two of you slowly approach the man, as you begin to speak, “we’re going to ask you a few questions. we need you to answer honestly, okay?”

“how many walkers have you killed?” carl asked, breaking the silence, his voice carrying a tone of curiosity and anticipation. “i know it’s hard to keep track-“

“237.”

“really?” you asked with a professional tone and a thoughtful demeanor. “give or take a couple,” the man responded as he glanced at the walker he had previously put down. and with that, carl asked the second question, “how many people have you killed?”

“one.”

“why?” you asked, curious to know his answer. “dead tried to kill him, but they didn’t.” he responded while looking down at the ground. both you and carl had nodded at his response.

as you surveyed your surroundings, you observed that the man employed traps to kill the walkers. “you’re making walker traps. is that how you’ve killed so many?” you ask as you draw attention to his method of eliminating walkers. “it’s only part of it…. my mom thought, or hoped that killing them would.. free their souls,” he replied in a genuine and sincere tone, his words carrying a sense of honesty and earnestness that was unmistakable. after he stated this, you and carl exchanged a glance before refocusing your attention on the man. “you know, maybe she was right,” he continued speaking, his tone growing increasingly sincere.

“but doing that, doesn’t it just make things harder for you while you’re trying to survive?” carl asked as he closed the distance between him and the man. “i… i don’t know. but you… you gotta honor your parents, right?” the man spoke once again, his tone genuinely sincere. “if i wasn’t honoring my dad, we wouldn’t be talking right now,” carl replied with a slight smile spread across his face before continuing on, “and i definitely wouldn’t bring you back to our community.”

walking back to alexandria and engaging in conversation, you discovered that the man's name was siddiq. suddenly, you had encountered a few walkers — nothing that you couldn’t take care of…. right? drawing your knife, you noticed that siddiq had fallen to the ground due to a walker, and carl looked at you. “go! help him, i got this,” you shouted as you plunged your knife into the head of one of the walkers. unaware, you found yourself trapped and fell backward onto a deer that the walkers were feeding on. your knife had landed roughly two feet away, and as you layed on the ground, three walkers had fallen on top of you.

as you attempted to reach for your gun, you felt a burning sensation on the side of your torso.

fortunately, you managed to equip your gun and shoot all three walkers. pushing their bodies off of you, you stood up to find carl and siddiq looking at you. "are you okay?" carl asked, worry evident on his face. “we should go,” you avoided his question, pushing past the two who exchanged a glance as you walked by.

the walk back was as dreadful as you had anticipated; no one uttered a word or noise, except for your coughing. to enter alexandria without raising questions about siddiq, the three of you decided to use the sewers. as you climbed in, you noticed that carl kept staring at you. “i’m fine,” you lied, hoping he wouldn’t catch on. you could sense carl's suspicion, but he chose to remain silent after replying with an “ok.”

upon finally arriving in alexandria, you went directly to your house without speaking to either carl or siddiq. you hurried upstairs to your bathroom, where you removed your flannel to reveal blood seeping through the right side of your light brown shirt. removing your shirt, you inspected it and discovered a bite mark. looking at your abdomen through the mirror, you realized the dreadful truth: you had been bitten.

“fuck.”

you began to panic, fully aware of what needed to be done. closing your eyes, you took a deep breath and opened them again. to distract yourself, you decided to take a shower to clean up. afterward, you put clothes on, dressed and applied a bandage over the bite mark.

now, you found yourself in your room, writing letters to everyone you cared for, including carl. once you had finished, you sat on your bed and began to cry, feeling as though you had been saved for nothing. beginning to feel tired, you closed your eyes.

finally waking up, you noticed it was pitch black outside. surely, you hadn't slept that long... or perhaps it was just a side effect of the bite. trying not to think about it, you started to hear commotion outside and a sudden knock at your door. believing that an enemy had somehow gotten in, you grabbed an axe that you kept in your room for protection. the door suddenly swung open, revealing carl standing there. “carl? what the hell is happening out there?” you ask, your worry unmistakable in your voice. “the saviors. come on, we gotta go!” he responds as he takes your hand, guiding you both out of your house.

from a distance, you began to hear negan's voice, and an idea formed in your mind. “carl, i need you to follow me,” you said as you turned to look at him. “just trust me, okay?” now, you found carl following you to the watch tower at the front of alexandria where he began to climb up with you. “no. stay here, please,” you stated as he complied with your instructions. climbing up the ladder, negan began to speak again, “okie dokie. you brought this on yourself, rick. you see, i was willing to work with you. all you had to do was follow a few very simple rules. well, now i see that you’ve got to go! scorched earth, you dick.”

“he’s not home,” you shout upon reaching the top as the saviors aim their guns at you.

“oh-ho! holy shit! everybody hold your fire, it’s y/n,” negan remarks with a chuckle. “look at you, answering the door like a big girl. i am so proud. rick’s not home, huh? well i guess he’s gonna get back to a big ol’ smokey surprise!”

“there’s families in here,” you interrupt him with a stern voice before continuing on, “kids, carl’s little sister.”

“well that shit just breaks my heart. there’s kids at the sanctuary, you must’ve seen ‘em,” he responds in a measured tone. “even had a little baby at one of the outposts. i wonder what happened to her,” he continued speaking before beginning to walk around.

after a brief moment of silence, negan began to speak again, “none of this shit’s fair, kid. hell, you know that. you had to kill your own mom. that is screwed up. we need someone in charge who’s willing to do whatever it takes to make sure that shit doesn’t happen. oh-ho, wait! that’s me!”

“bad stuff does happen, but we can figure this out. we can stop this,” you respond with a somewhat convincing tone before negan interrupts.

“oh now you wanna talk? see rick had it that i died, no matter what. he gave my people a choice, not me. so now, we’re gonna need a new understanding: apologies, punish-“

“kill me,” you interrupt with a tone that is both desperate and heartbreaking.

before speaking, negan moves closer to you than he was before, “what did you say?”

“if you have to kill someone, if there has to be punishments, then kill me… i’m serious,” you respond, your voice beginning to slightly crack.

“you wanna die?” negan asks with a slight smirk spread across his face.

“no i don’t,” you reply as you shake your head side to side, “but i will…. it’s gonna happen. if… if me dying could stop this, if it can make things different for us, for you, for all those other kids, it’d be worth it.”

“i mean.. was this the plan?” you ask after a couple seconds of silence, “was it supposed to be this way? is this who you wanted to be?”

with a lot of commotion in the background, negan looks away from you, giving you the chance to get away. just as you're climbing down the ladder, you hear negan’s voice, “son of a bitch, y/n! was that just a play? i thought we were having a moment, you little asshole! bombs away!”

“what the hell was that?” carl asks you as you drop down to the ground. you ignore his question and proceed to take gas bombs out of your bag, handing a couple to him. understanding that this is all part of your plan, carl follows your lead.

after deploying numerous gas bombs, you and carl find your visibility severely impaired. slowly, you both make your way to the sewers. upon climbing into the sewers, your body began to feel weak, which heightened your anxiety. stumbling over your own feet, carl swiftly came to your aid, helping you to regain your balance.

“just put me down here,” you uttered in a weakened voice. “y/n?” carl expresses with concern before assisting you to sit down on the ground. kneeling beside you, carl watches intently as you slowly lift your shirt to reveal the bite mark.

“no no no, what? why didn’t you tell me?” carl asks, his eyes remaining on the bite mark, unable to believe that this is truly happening. despite the pain, you managed to give carl the most reassuring smile you could before replying, “it was bound to happen, carl.”

“bullshit.”

“no, it… it should’ve been me,” he continues speaking as he takes a seat beside you. feeling pain coursing through your body, you begin to grow weaker and weaker. your vision starts to blur, and your breathing turns into wheezing.

clearly concerned for your well-being, carl carefully lifted you and managed to navigate out of the sewers. thankfully, the saviors had ceased their bombing, and despite the surrounding fires, carl successfully brought you to a safe haven — the church. as carl was laying you down, your condition deteriorated rapidly; it felt as though you had been thrown off a cliff and subsequently run over.

“hey…. i just wanted to let you know that i got the wrong impression of you,” you spoke with a weak voice, which shattered carl's heart. “i got the wrong impression of you, too,” he responds, his voice beginning to crack. “if i knew that getting to know you would’ve helped, i would’ve done it a lot sooner,” he continues, and his words provoke a shared chuckle before you start coughing up blood.

“carl, i need you to-“

“stop it,” he interrupts you, his gaze shifting downward. after a moment, he takes a deep breath before slowly drawing his gun. cries begin to fill the church as he slowly raises the gun to your head before he spoke in a soft voice, “i wish we had more time.”

“maybe in another universe. but in this one, it was just a bitter gift.”

and with that, the gunshot echoed through your mind, bringing the pain to a final end.

#carl grimes #carl grimes x reader #the walking dead #the walking dead x reader #writing #angst #the walking dead fanfiction #carl grimes fanfiction

149 notes · View notes

tmwcs · 7 months ago

Note

Hi Reina!!! <33 what would be Heethan reaction if they were to a mariage and when the it's time to throw the bouquet, reader caught the bouquet? (as you may know that if we catch the bouquet we are supposed to get married) I love you so much you're my favorite writer <33

🦝 anon

oooohohoho this is juicy! I’m gonna answer in great detail!

First off, he’d make sure you both attend a friends wedding with you dressed to the nines, despite you not being the bride. You’re the most beautiful girl in his eyes and even though he has you all to himself, he likes to show you off. ;)

He’d watch over you like a hawk the entire time. If anyone dares to approach and ask you to dance, they’re going to meet an unpleasant end after this wedding.

his eyes are going to watch you with an expression of desire and yearning. You look too good, and he’s going to stand off to the side leaned up against a wall in his tux, head tilted and smirking. he won’t ever be more than 3-5 feet away from you.

you stand among a group of friends, not really intending on participating in the traditional event. You stood off the side and watched all the other girls reaching up and yelling out to the bride, desperate to get their hands on that bouquet.

the bride turns around, her back facing the eager crowd and she closes her eyes and swings her hands over her head. Her lack of coordination and aim caused the bouquet to lapse over to the side and fly directly in your direction. you gently catch the bouquet with wide eyes and a surprise expression. 😲

The girls all pout and frown as they see you holding the large bouquet. It’s heavier than how it looks. You look up at the crowd with your lips stuttering, trying to find the words to calm them.

suddenly, you feel yourself being thrashed away. Pulled at the waist, you’ gasp out your breath and become shook by being taken away from the audience.

Dragged away, everyone stood with wide eyes, just as shocked as you when you slowly disappear. You only see his backside as he continues to pull you through the rows of parked cars, until he gets to his own.

his movements and level of force nearly had you convinced that he was angry. But for what? It wasn’t as if you intentionally tried to catch the bouquet.

he throws you into the seat, before getting in and starting the car. His eyes are stern, he displays no smile and doesn’t say a thing. To make matters even more frightening, he steered the wheel with one hand while he maintained a strong hold on your neck, slightly having you leaned in, facing him, over the center console. “Babe? Heeseung? Please….why won’t you talk to me?”

he keeps his eyes on the road. His silence wasn’t the only thing that was constant, he didn’t bother to look at you the entire drive, only staring dead at the road. Your body halfway twisted as he kept you in close proximity over the center, your rear bed barely touching the seat, you start to feel sore and uncomfortable. Why won’t he say anything? Was he angry that you caught the bouquet without his permission?

the drive finally ends and he quickly unbuckles his seatbelt and gets out, dragging you along with him. You’re in an unfamiliar setting and grow more fearful as he takes you inside a building.

A desk at the front is before you. There stands a lone woman who greets the both of you as you entered. “Hello, what can I help you with?”

“you have a a magistrate available?” His tone is deep and stern, just like his eyes.

“Why yes sir, are you seeking our walk in services?”

He quickly answers, ensuring that you stand behind either his hand gripped around your wrist. He fills out some documents, while the woman comes back to the lobby with the magistrate. “Hello there! What a lovely couple. My assistant has told me you are looking to seal your vows and need your marriage officiated, and that you’re in a hurry?”

Heeseung nods without looking at the minister, who willfully agrees to officiate your ‘wedding’ through a high level of kindness and understanding. “I’ll be happy to do that for you both. Do you have anyone to stand and bear witness to the ceremony?” Heeseung nods once more and just then, the door opens. Six young men enter, one of which was Jake.

“H-Heeseung….” You stutter as he drags you behind him, following the minister. “Heeseung!” You whisper desperately after experiencing his ignorant behavior once more.

He stands you across from him. The pastel beige colored dress served as your bridal gown as he joined his hands with yours, and the minister begins his introduction. “Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today…” Heeseung’s hands tighten around yours, and you stand confused and scared. Is he seriously going to make you marry him right now? In this way? What about his agreeing in letting you finish college? Why? All because you bc sight a bouquet?

The minister asks Heeseung to repeat the vows. When it came to your turn, he strategically tugs on your palms, causing you to hiccup an “I do.” Never allowing the minister to suspect the use of force that was present. “I hereby announce you as husband, and wife. You may now kiss the bride.”

The six young men all cheer and chant Heeseung’s name as he pulls you by the neck into a passionate kiss. Just as quickly as he brought you in, he took you right back out upon finalizing the rightful procedures and signing the marriage license. All of his friends continue their chant as they trailed behind and followed closely behind you both.

He pulls you back inside the car, holds you by the neck for the final time and pulls you into a kiss. Pausing, he whispers against your pout with a grin…

“Catching bouquets, are we?” He slaps another kiss on your lips. “I thought you wanted to wait until you finished college. Guess you couldn’t wait.”

You tried to object and set the record straight but he wouldn’t let you. He grips your mouth into a full make out. “You know what comes next after marriage baby?”

You shake your head. “Heeseung no…”

“Oh yes.”

His eyes couldn’t hide it. You knew better that this man, while carrying the potential of being a great father, merely only wanted to put his deed inside you to trap you for all eternity, ensuring that you could never leave even if you had wanted to. The thought of marrying him and having his baby was a dream that you wanted to experience the traditional way and I due time, but not like this. “Heeseung no…not like this.”

“It’s so damn cute that you—“ kissing you once again, he pauses as he tucks your hair behind an ear. “think you have a choice.”

Your eyes sting with the tears coming through. “You wouldn’t want to break the traditions of marriage, would you? After all…”

He leans closer. “You’re the one that caught the bouquet. And I’m a man that doesn’t like tie waste time, especially with my pretty wife.” Grabbing on to your thigh, he pulls you into the backseat and crawls onto of you. Grinning darkly, he looks down at you with a taunting smile that took pity on your helpless appearance. “Now, lay there and watch me fuck a baby inside you. I’ll make you into a mommy, make you quit school, and be my perfect stay at home wife and mother to our children. I’ll take care of everything else. You will stay safe and forever be near me. I’m going to watch my baby grow inside you. You’re going to be my perfect soulmate.”

He goes on and on. You see the insanity of his obsession and love for you, and it scares you to death. “I want you to always remember this y/n…you did this to me. You have this effect and made me crave you. This is all your fault and I’m going to remind you every single day.”

Your breath hitches. “Heeseung…it’s not my fault that I was born the way that I am. I never asked for this…for you to choose me. Please take it easy.”

He smirks again. “Oh pretty…maybe you shouldn’t have been born then? Maybe in the next life, you should remember that. But if you still come into the world, don’t worry, I’ll come find you and make you mine again.”

#heeseung x reader #heeseung scenarios #enha x reader #heeseung smut #heeseung hard hours #heeseung fanfic #heeseung hard thoughts #enhypen smut #enhypen hard hours #enha heeseung #yandere heeseung imagines #heeseung yandere

134 notes · View notes

choerypetal · 11 months ago

Text

Lost Souls / Sejanus Plinth

summary : You were Coriolanus's closest companion, much like Sejanus. While you and Coriolanus seemed to embody the ideal image of true love, the snowfall couldn't dispel the lingering shadow of a phantom, preventing anyone, including Snow, from witnessing the genuine happiness you sought. Consequently, you were implicated in Coriolanus's criminal act, coerced into playing a role in his misdeed alongside Sejanus, only to be betrayed. What if this entire ordeal was a meticulously crafted plan to make Coriolanus face the consequences of his actions and instill in him a yearning for a love that was forever out of reach? The roots of this scheme trace back to District 12, where Sejanus fled, ultimately reuniting with the one he truly loved—you. Two fractured souls, both attempting to escape a haunting past that seemed destined to linger.

ps: english isn't my first mother tongue language so i deeply appolagize for the small errors etc. (which will be corrected shortly) also this story was requested by @anonys-world! hope you will all enjoy. + pls do not copy my work without proper credit as it can be marked as flagged or being ban if doing the case, thank you!

Snow embodied the ethos of his era—a man rooted in tradition when deemed necessary, yet undeniably a shrewd egotist with a proclivity for favoring purity over squalor. In his aspirations for the presidency of Panem, he envisioned himself alongside a woman he once loved and now considered his closest confidante, Sejanus. Sejanus played the roles of both friend and foe in Snow's perception, especially when faced with the earnest plea for forgiveness. This plea stemmed from actions Sejanus himself had committed, contingent upon Snow's willingness to acknowledge his own transgressions. However, Snow staunchly denied any possibility of having erred, viewing Sejanus' contrition as nothing more than a theatrical display in his own eyes.

Fortuitously, Sejanus managed to elude capture, albeit not without difficulty, as he had been keenly aware of his vulnerability during Snow's attempt to eliminate another tribute. Subsequently, when he found himself compelled to take the life of his closest friend. The revelation of these events came to you, ensnared in the intricate web woven by Snow's devious plans. You, too, were drawn into the narrative when Coriolanus's name was invoked in a plea for release, a plea tinged with the assertion that the situation was a grave misunderstanding. Contemplating how this news would reach you, it was likely to be delivered abruptly, considering Snow's peculiar interest in your affairs. This was a certainty that Sejanus was intent on ensuring. And for Snow, it wasn’t enough.

On a rainy day, you discovered that Sejanus had managed to find his way back home, despite your exile and nomadic lifestyle. Luck favored him, when he had heard that a small group of familiar Peacekeepers aligned themselves to escort you from your current dwelling. This meant that Sejanus had to navigate through various deals and threats to pinpoint your new residence. However, even with his friend Snow's assistance, it was clear that no amount of persuasion could make Snow divulge the truth. Conversations with him only yielded a cascade of lies. Thus, Sejanus began his journey to find you– Find home.

While you held onto a glimmer of hope that Sejanus would come home, it wasn't because he sought to return to his District and face a father intent on shaming him as a distasteful and ignorant child. Sejanus's primary aim was to reunite directly with you. He longed to hear the soothing cadence of your voice, feel the delicate touch of your fingers in his curls, and share deep, comforting embraces, all while listening to your soft singing. However, this desire became complicated as Snow's intense animosity toward the Plinth escalated, leading him to harbor resentment towards you as well. Consequently, both of you became the targets in the crosshairs of a man driven solely by aspirations of wealth and power.

Before his departure, Sejanus had intended to pen a letter expressing the sentiments he had shared that night. The letter encapsulated his commitment to stand by you even before tending to the needs of his own people. He envisioned a future building a family with you, whether it meant establishing a life beyond the District or securing an apartment in the Capitol with you at his side. Regardless of the path chosen, Sejanus planned to formalize the relationship upon his return. Despite the vehement hatred from his best friend, Snow, Sejanus remained indifferent, embracing his own pride. The prospect of witnessing Snow's rage only fueled his determination, understanding that Snow would never comprehend a love as profound and meaningful as the one he sought with you.

It was in that same day, you received the letter, and read it as followed:

Dear, Y/N.

How I yearn to be in your presence. My comrades and I successfully completed our duties ahead of schedule, taking strategic measures in our actions. When our commander learned of my last name, suspicions arose, prompting him to curtail my Peacekeeper duties and training. At my father's urging to return home promptly, little does he know that I won't be heading to District 2 but to our shared sanctuary with you. Fear not; I've discovered through fellow Peacekeepers that they aided in your escort right after the Games. My love, please be patient as I make my way back to our home. I'll be reunited with you soon.

Love,

Sejanus.

The letter was a gift from Tigris, and as you held it, you couldn't shake the suspicion that it might not be Sejanus's handwriting, at first. Yet, as you read the words and felt the essence of his expression, it became clear that it was indeed his authentic account transcribed on paper. Unbeknownst to Snow, the spectacle of witnessing his best friend's hanging was merely a staged performance. Sejanus, genuinely fearful that any Peacekeeper might release the cord prematurely, managed to escape District 12 right after the act. Consequently, as long as Snow remained alive and well, both of you would need to conceal yourselves, disappearing from sight to avoid any further repercussions.

"I disclosed nothing to Snow." Tigris asserted during her visit to assist you in unpacking at your new home. "He's only kept tabs on your well-being and made sure to update you on Sejanus..." Despite recognizing Tigris as a friend, a twinge of sympathy welled up within you, understanding that she was acting only to bring joy to her cousin. With the realization that she still had some family left while you faced complete exile, survival instincts kicked in, overshadowing any sense of pride. "As long as he remains unaware that Sejanus is alive, I'm content with the information." You quietly expressed, hoping not to arouse suspicion when Tigris communicated with Coriolanus in the future.

Sejanus's journey appeared to be heading north. As he received updates about your whereabouts, he understood that in a short while, he would be left alone. The companions who had accompanied him would return to their respective Districts. However, for Sejanus, a compelling need drew him back to the person he cherished the most. This individual had once too, been broken by the actions of Snow, experiencing a sense of betrayal and utter brokenness that could only be healed by genuine love. Sejanus's plans centered around reuniting with the one thing he loved above all else—you.

Arriving home, he was aware of finding you peacefully asleep. Not far away, a cabin caught his eye, and a wave of relief washed over him as he noticed the subtle glow of light inside. It signaled that life had continued to thrive. Approaching, he made his way to the front door, eager to be the first to comfort you as you shed tears in your slumber. These were tears he would gently wipe away, planting a tender kiss on your cheek. After all, the two of you were nothing more than broken souls, central figures in Snow's machinations, destined to be reunited for a chance at living in undisturbed peace.

The knock on the door that evening caught your attention, and though you suspected it might be Tigris with her usual errands, Sejanus casually heard your voice, responding with a quick "Coming." A surge of relief and comfort washed over him, and excitement filled him at the prospect of seeing your beautiful and now rested face. As the door began to creak open, your face and entire body froze in place. Sejanus smiled at the sight of you, standing right in front of him. You wore your usual flowery dress that he adored, but this time, Sejanus's hair had been shaved into a style that brought out the depth and honesty in the color of his eyes. "Seja—" you began to speak his name, only for him to chuckle at your disbelief. "But Tigris told me you would only arrive later—" He cut you off, gently cupping your flushed cheeks with his hands. His face drew closer, his breath mingling with yours, and your lips almost brushed against each other as he spoke in his defense.

"That doesn't matter right now, Love. Did you receive my letter?" Sejanus inquired, and you nodded, exhaling a soft sigh of relief. "Snow doesn't know I'm here, and neither do my parents. Everyone believes I'm dead. I was planning on bringing you back to the Capitol with me, but father knew about our plan long ago." There was a hint of sadness in his voice as he attempted to spare you from further difficulty. However, in the grand scheme of things, the chaotic planning didn't matter as much to you in that moment. What truly mattered was seeing him here, alive and well.

"You can't imagine how long I waited for you, Sejanus." You confessed, your voice delicately threading through the words you had struggled to find. The vulnerability stemmed from Snow, who had taken great pleasure in exploiting it to your disadvantage. "At this moment, Snow couldn't care less about me, either." You finally expressed your feelings toward the situation. The emotions resurfaced not long ago, with Snow killing Mayfair and Sejanus being thrown under the bus. The plans were twisted, part of Snow's undoubtedly sadistic scheme, leading him to believe that his closest friend was now dead.

Sejanus’s features darkened at the mention of a friend he once trusted. “Does he know anything of your whereabouts?” He asked, a little serious this time, as you shook your head a confident ‘no’. “I made sure that Tigris would only use the “She is okay” or “Living in the Capitol safely.” He has no idea about your current status. You have no idea how scare I am, what if she has to accidently slip away our little secret. Little do we know he could become aware of it anytime soon.” You tried to make sure not to sound frightened yourself when in reality you were completely aware of what Snow was capable of and please what he favors in the moment. If only you had the audacity the object his actions but if you had done such things– who knew if you’d remain alive at the very least.

"Hush..." Sejanus's voice softened as he realized the tremble in your fingers, a manifestation of your grief. It wasn't just the fear of the plan's potential failure that shook you, but also the realization that, had things gone differently, Sejanus might not be by your side at this very moment. His hand gently caressed the back of your head as he allowed you to bury yourself in the comfort of his chest, absorbing the familiar scent you had longed for. "Snow acted recklessly for our benefit. If we maintain our resolve, he won't come close to us, let alone lay a finger on you. I promise." He reassured. Little did both of you know, Snow was already privy to your whereabouts. It was only a matter of time before he discerned his cousin's peculiar behavior while inquiring about your well-being, signaling an impending discovery. This time, however, Sejanus might not be in the equation.

However, in the current moment, the present took precedence. Being in Sejanus's company was all you desired, and he shared the sentiment. As you reluctantly broke away from the embrace, you noticed a piece of paper threatening to slip through Sejanus's uniform pants. Your curiosity piqued, and you furrowed your brows, prompting you to reach for it. Yet, Sejanus, with a swift reflex, intercepted your hand, his eyes pleading for you to refrain from picking it up. "Don't—" He uttered firmly, his gaze unwaveringly fixed on yours, his grip tightening as a silent plea to respect his request. It became evident that whatever the object was, it held significant meaning for Sejanus. "Quite amusing, isn't it?" He remarked with a touch of sarcasm as he retrieved the crumpled item from his pocket.

"And I used to believe that this moment would mark the beginning of a special friendship." His hands seemed almost compelled to crumple the already battered piece of paper, which once held a photo of Coriolanus and Sejanus together. It was a day etched vividly in your memory, a day when he had also taken a photo with you. Snow had envisioned celebrating the exceptional prowess of two extraordinary peers for the 10th Hunger Games. However, it turned out to be a complete disaster, a spectacle that Sejanus perceived as a grotesque display orchestrated by a man devoid of humane intentions. As you gazed at the photo, you noticed Sejanus's voice cracking on the last sentence. His tears were tainted with bitterness rather than sorrow. How could someone so heartless, someone who only considered his own interests, be the same person you once admired?

"Hey—" Your fingers gently cradled his face, echoing the comforting gesture he had extended to you just moments ago. It was a consoling touch you had inherited from Sejanus's mother, a gesture he had come to hold dear. His lips formed a strained yet hopeful smile, and he endeavored not to falter in your presence. "Snow manipulated both of us. He was the puppet master... But we won't let him control us any longer." you asserted, striving to convey confidence in your words. However, a lingering suspicion gnawed at you, especially as Snow's persistent quest to discover your exact whereabouts began to cast a shadow over your assurance.

Honestly, Snow eventually uncovered the location of your exile. However, uncertainty shrouded Sejanus's whereabouts, leaving room for the unsettling possibility that his old friend might still be alive but in a place where Snow could find him with nefarious intentions. Despite Sejanus hanging onto your every word, he found himself unable to restrain the tears he had been trying to hold back. While you continued to cradle his face, he leaned in to touch his forehead to yours, closing the gap until he could feel the tender brush of your lips against his own. In the paradox of the situation, love felt secure within each other's arms, leading both of you to share laughter through tears. Sejanus, in a spontaneous gesture, swiftly tossed a memory he once cherished directly into the fireplace.

"We'll face this together." He uttered in that moment, fervently desiring that the two of you could navigate through whatever challenges lay ahead, even if it meant making sacrifices to cherish every precious second and moment together.

“Together.”

#sejanus x reader #sejanus x coriolanus #sejanus plinth #sejanus plinth x reader #sejanus plinth x coriolanus snow #coriolanus snow x reader #coriolanus snow #the hunger games #the ballad of songbirds and snakes #the hunger games x y/n #president snow x reader #coriolanus x you #sejanus x you #coriolanus imagines #sejanus imagines #hunger games imagines #sejanus my beloved #coriolanus snow imagines

165 notes · View notes

raayllum · 5 months ago

Text

The Celestial Elves & Aaravos' Plans

Going into s6, there's been two big questions at the forefront of my mind: what can we expect from the Celestial elves, and what exactly is Aaravos' plan?

I've speculated briefly on the former, so I want to clarify further what I mean when I say the latter.

Aaravos' plans, seemingly, have at least two pretty clear steps, if you will:

To be freed from his pearl prison

To get revenge on the Startouch elves for his banishment / some other wound

This was as much spelled out to us in TDP's short story, Patience, before S4's release:

I have not seen the stars in centuries. But when I see them again—when the stars are forced to look upon me, their dark brother—they will know how I have waited. And when everything they have built lies shattered, I will savor their fall from the sky. For I have been patient.

I don't think Aaravos has much of a plan beyond revenge, as the Cycle is thematically and literally unsustainable in comparison to rebuilding and the Narrative of Love. What would be left for him, after all, besides seeing his 'family' (and Xadia) suffer further for what they've done to him? And I'm not here to say that there's a secret third step or anything (though there might be).

What I want to talk about is Aaravos' Plan timeline in regards to getting what he wants.

We know that around 1,000 years ago, humans were exiled from Xadia for dark magic use. It isn't clear if Aaravos was banished before or after this event, but given that Ziard saying "one of the Great Ones" doesn't seem to immediately give away Aaravos' identity, there seem to have been a few still kicking around, although this contradicts the Midnight Star poem, which clearly indicates the Stars leaving ("Elarion, unworthy whelp, / Wept as the stars turned black the sky, / They donned their masks / They turned their backs, / And left Elarion to die") and then humans receiving dark magic ("‘till the last star / Reached from afar / His touch: a blaze, a gift, a spark / [...] Elarion, black-eyed child, / her twisted roots spread deep and far, / The humans’ might").

It is possible, of course, that the Startouch elves could've left but hadn't actually expelled / cut contact with Aaravos directly, but that gets even dicier timeline wise.

Either way, to stay on topic: there's roughly a 700-1000 years, if not more, between Aaravos' banishment from the First Elves and achieving his final aims (which we'll likely see the beginning of in late S6).

Why?

Why does this period of time in between Banishment and Revenge exist? If Aaravos is so powerful...

Even after [Zubeia] and Avizandum allied ourselves with the other Archdragons, we could not risk a direct confrontation. We had to beat Aaravos as his own game. [...] We had to conspire and plot, and deceive this deceiver so that at the exact right moment, he would lower his guard, and we could imprison him forever.

then what could've possibly existed that he couldn't just take outright? Why even make nice with the Archdragons at all, and not stay focused on using his human mages in the west? And what, why, was he using them in the first place pre-imprisonment?

A young human girl uncovered a great secret of history. A dangerous deceiver was revealed: it was one of the Great Ones, the Startouch elf, Aaravos. For a thousand years, Aaravos had been pulling invisible strings like a puppet master. Every great crisis the world faced had seemed the work of some ingenious and powerful leader, but in each case, it was secretly Aaravos, whispering in their ear.

Now, of course Aaravos just could be a sadistic bastard who enjoys messing with people (and I'm sure there's spades of that) as well as ideas of being "elegant and efficient" in that why take things by force when you can convince other people to do stuff (and take the fall) for you. But in my mind, there's one main reason to maintain secrecy around people you're trying to use or convince: you want to maintain their trust, and you want their trust because you want their Knowledge.

Additionally, the more I've thought about it, the more sure I am that Aaravos was ingredient collecting for Something before his imprisonment (300 years ago, and still a thousand years at least into his grand plan). We see two powerful figures disappear close together — Luna Tenebris, who "mysteriously died" and Queen Aditi, who vanished — and we already know Aaravos "swallowed" the latter.

We know from Viren and Claudia that dragons, particularly archdragons, are incredibly powerful. Zym, just as a baby and with the staff as a conduit, would've been enough for Viren to "transcend his moral form" and presumably let Aaravos out of the mirror permanently by... taking over Viren's body, maybe? The details are fuzzy, but the intentions and initial endgame stage (freedom) was probably plain.

Moreover, if Aaravos did need a Powerful Sun Object and a powerful Archdragon (moon? sky?) Object to get things underway, it'd also explain the choice to go to Lux Aurea to get the Sun staff and corrupt it, as that choice inadvertently led to another 'downfall' (if he and Viren hadn't gotten the staff, their army probably would've had enough time to take the Storm Spire before the dragons even arrived; they were only held off so long because the Sunfire elves were there).

Like before, with Aditi, there's also a potentially powerful Sun source in both the sun seed itself and in Sol Regem, particularly if either or both become corrupted. Zym still exists as a possible source of energy to exploit, and there could be something Moon wise with Luna Tenebris' unsuitable heir or even Rayla.

I'm also not going to pretend to have definitive answers. That said, given that everyone else has been on a perpetual chase for knowledge throughout arc S4 and S5 ("I don't even know if she's alive" / "How do you know?" / "Having knowledge isn't the same as knowing it" / "If Akiyu knows helped make it, then she must know where it is" / "To love is simply to know this...") it wouldn't surprise me if the Mystery of Aaravos is about him, yes, but also one he's been trying to 'solve' all this time.

And on the one hand, this has also already been sort of true, given that despite his powers, Aaravos genuinely seems to 1) have no clue of where he was imprisoned or 2) in what (the pearl). The idea that his powers and foresight as a Fallen Startouch elf weren't extended far enough for him to be able to go back to the 'Heavens' whenever he wanted, that the Startouch elves are somewhere currently beyond his reach... That would kind of track and explain the 1,200-1,000 year interim and Why it's taken him so long to figure certain stuff out.

If he doesn't need Objects (which might play into the lack of coercion or construction, perhaps?) or at least not entirely, then Knowledge of something he's missing may be partially the clue needed to go back Home and wreck shit up. Not needing objects per se could also explain why things that may be useful to him — like the Nova Blade, if he wants to kill his own kind; or potentially the cube (but who knows) — weren't confiscated as it were before his permanent Fall to earth.

This is where we get to the Celestial Elves.

The Celestial Elves, in spite of being a late stage addition to TDP's lore in comparison to most other elements, have always felt very purposeful. As laid out in my post above, there's some very particular choices made about them that seem Obviously intentional in a way that say, other design choices regarding the elves aren't necessarily.

For example, original concept of Aaravos featured him bald, in robes, and blindfolded, but were scrapped for being "too obvious" / on the nose, leading to a very different final design. While blindfolds in TDP don't have much of a negative association largely thanks to Lady Justice and Harrow, the idea of not being able to see clearly (hi Viren!) is absolutely a motif the series returns to over and over until it reaches fruition: "I finally see the truth."

As mentioned in my linked post, the fact that all the Celestial elves are Skywing elves feels intentional as well. Sky (freedom) in the series is the opposite to Star ('destiny') if we're just going by primals and not looping in dark magic. The choice to make the Celestial elves Skywing specifically, when they could've been any kind of elf or even a grouping of different kinds of elves living together (which we haven't seen before) is probably because their understanding of the Sky arcanum and the concept of Star magic is going to be radically different than Callum's; I wouldn't be surprised if they've partially turned their back on the idea of "nothing is pre-determined" by instead saying everything is, which is his ongoing worst fear with the possession plot line.

Then there's the fact that they are devoted to Stars, and Startouch elves have had (as far as we know) little to no contact with anyone since they all left a thousand plus years ago... except for Aaravos, who would have an interest in the Nova Blade at the very least (and maybe the Corona of the Heavens belonged to him, too). The way they're called "an ancient sect" of Skywing elves is also not a point in their favour given that outside of Ancient Draconic, everything else that's been labelled that way has been negative ("the relic staff" / "the cube is an ancient relic" / "wounds from an ancient and disturbing practice" / "Infantis sanguine. It's one of the old spells").

Furthermore, the true sight serum Viren poured in his eyes in 2x02 is also what inspired the bulk of today's thinking meta, as the season two novelization states:

He held the last of an unusual liquid that he had inherited from Kpp'Ar. The liquid was a rare serum that the Oracles of Ophidia were said to have used long before the fall of Elarion in order to see through the illusions of the world. They would harvest venom from the fangs of eyeless vipers; and it was said that the venom had to be extracted on a moonless night. All it took was a single stray beam of moonlight to taint the serum and bring out its most dangerous qualities. Instead of clearing one's illusions, a dose of tainted serum would drive a person into a permanent, irrevocable madness.

Oracles are fortune tellers, which is already very Star arcanum-y adjacent. Ophidian is derived from the Grecian root for snake, which is very dark magic-y accordingly. We know that the Oracles were ancient if they predate Elarion, and we don't know whether they were humans, elves, or both. The fact that this lore is 1) here and 2) connected to Kpp'Ar, who it seems Viren likewise 'inherited' the staff from AND who had a perfect twin box that matched the one Aaravos has in his mirror... None of it bodes well, and I think there's reasonable speculation that the Oracles had some connection to a Startouch elf at least, once upon a time, and possibly ties to the Celestial elves as well.

All of this to say is that whatever the Celestial Elves stance on Aaravos is will inform their practical role in the story, yes, but will also inform what he's been Waiting patiently for all this time, I think.

If the Celestial elves are largely against Aaravos, then them hiding themselves and hiding these powerful and dangerous objects makes sense; cloaking themselves from him would take time and effort and if he's not willing to go back to 'Heaven' without being able to kill people, then maybe he's been waiting all this time to locate the Nova Blade (which Callum is now taking him directly to; great!) or one of the quasar diamonds is his missing piece, or whatever.

This would give me more pause as 1) said info was found in like one afternoon of searching in the Great Bookery, which Aaravos presumably would've had access to and 2) the Starscraper is probably the Star Nexus if there is still one, so I'd imagine Startouch elves would know where it is. That said, Callum and Zubeia never made the mirror connection (Callum had no reason to think it was stolen, and Zubeia had no reason to think that if Viren still had it Callum wouldn't have noticed upon inheriting the mage study right away, so wires got crossed) so who knows. Sometimes story's gotta story so reality's gotta bend a bit!

If Aaravos has been looking for information and/or an object outside of the Starscraper's walls (a spell? the cube?) then the Celestial elves pivoting to being a more antagonistic force makes more sense to me. If they have no reason to hide from him, then they have significantly less reason to be narratively Opposed to him. That doesn't necessarily mean they're exclusively evil or anything (though they could be!), but I could see internal fracturing and having our one named Celestial elf, Astrid, be a contrarian force for good as things go to shit (much like how Ethari is our one Silvergrove villager because he breaks the Ghosting spell, or we spend more time with N'than because he's willing to go against drake rider traditions).

We know regardless of anything else Callum and Rayla can't just waltz in and have everything they want immediately handed to them on a silver platter without a hitch, so at best there might be a trial or two to pass (which speaks to some ambiguity about the danger Aaravos poses) and at worst, they might lure the two in with a false offer of help and security / trials only to actually just rip the floor out from under them.

Conclusion sort of

The good news is that by the end of S6 we will probably know most of these answers, excitedly enough! Given that the Merciful One has their stardust quote to Aaravos in 6x01, and that 6x09 is called Stardust, Aaravos referencing that line while he gets some of his vengeance would track accordingly (especially because know he says it at one point, thanks to the first teaser trailer).

Additionally, it's likely that since the end of S6 is the most 11th hour "worst possible things ever are happening" moment, Aaravos getting to have some of his revenge is I think a fair expectation to close out the season, and give us lots of high stakes for S7. Whatever he's been patient over, his waiting will finally be over, and the apocalypse of sorts will start, for the Stars that he's finally strong enough to 1) return to and 2) wreck havoc upon but also for everyone else, too.

But yeah - this was definitely a more rambling meta than most and I hope it got you thinking! It's hard to believe that in under two months we'll have answers to some of these questions we've been asking for so long, and I can't wait to find out what they are!

#tdp #the dragon prince #predictions #analysis series #analysis #worldbuilding #celestial elves #tdp aaravos #aaravos #pre series #deep lore dive #tdp meta

54 notes · View notes

the-nysh · 1 year ago

Text

Oh Meryl.....:') This will be a longpost commentary on the events of Trimax vol5 & 6 primarily from her perspective, so let's get into it!

Alright, so remember the foreshadowing in Meryl's line about seeing Vash's 'entire enigmatic past' from Trimax vol3?!

Well in Trimax vol5 all that becomes true! When getting 'touched by an angel' directly connects her to Vash's memories through contact with his feathers, she gets a front row seat to personally SEE, feel, and experience ALL the worst pain and trauma Vash has endured over his functionally immortal lifetime of horrors!!! Bearing witness to just how heavy a burden of sorrow and torment he's suffered carried with him that she's always wondered about; now she knows the full context of everything.

From witnessing his lone struggles as a younger child first learning how to use a gun, grinding through all his bloody mistakes, losses, and failures, to the worst calamity that he, as a transformed nonhuman 'gun' himself, became capable of unleashing on the planet: the terrifying destruction of July itself.

As Vash regains his lost memories of July through a meltdown of grief, regrets and revelations of his own (how firing his power inadvertently killed everyone he knew and loved), all at once, his pain while reliving those horrors of the past resonates to become her pain. (Remember this for vol6!)

And just to grab a mic to reiterate, Meryl is only a normal human woman here, with no special powers or superhuman training to prepare her how to handle any of this! (This disaster exceeds her realm of expertise!) She’s also the only one who gets to see, understand, and resonate with the entirety of Vash’s pain and feelings on such a direct, private, and literally mind-melding intimate level of connection. (Linking the human with the inhuman/monstrous.) So of course she’s terrified! Being thrust into such an unprecedented dangerous situation, witnessing inescapable horrors beyond human comprehension, AND by getting a very real demonstration of Vash’s power (on the verge of exploding out of control) and his transformed inhumanity RIGHT UP CLOSE AND PERSONAL!

So it’s truly a testament to her mental fortitude and resilience that she didn’t just break from the information overload or succumb to the level of despair and terror right there--no, she bravely keeps her wits about her, and despite everything she remains on Vash’s side, shooting first to defend him (aiming right for Legato using the gun she picked up from Zazie's corpse) as the one who breaks the multiple-way stalemate between all their enemies instead! GO MERYL!!!!

(It's why this moment's probably one of my top favorites in the whole manga!!! ;o;) Cause the entire time, even while under severe mental distress, crawling through the rubble with his powers and feathers surging everywhere, Vash had kept her safe and physically unharmed within his wings, and then her first action upon surfacing was to take charge to protect him in turn!! I love it; cause even during such a dire emergency and all the mental stress she's put under while in the heat of the moment, her faith and dedication (to fight without hesitation at his side) still aim true~

And even after Legato critically pushes the crisis from bad to worse, to the point Vash is provoked into almost firing his Angel Arm in feral-retaliation to stop him (holy foreshadowing of their future duel!) with Meryl literally stuck in the middle of all this chaos (while shocked, powerless, and terrified--bless her heart) as Vash struggles to regain control of himself...

(Note: even Wolfwood was blown back by the surging energy, but with Meryl literally RIGHT THERE under Vash, it's amazing she didn't get hit being that close to him.) ...she STILL doesn't run away from him once the dust settles, and is in fact the first one to approach him in concern to ask if he's ok after...

(So whew, a relieved round of applause for Meryl remaining strong in the active face of so much strife!!) The immediate aftermath of this whole experience gives her the tangible proof and perspective from Vash to understand and fear that Knives--as his twin in power but having the actual intent to destroy the world behind it, is fully capable of ending humanity's future.

Of course, the experience doesn't also leave her unscathed without any lasting mental scars to cope with...as Trimax vol6 so graciously shows us how things will always Get Worse before they can get better...

Where sure enough, she's already having difficultly sleeping with night terrors and loss of appetite--it's honestly no surprise the terrible experience has given her symptoms of ptsd she'd be made of something unbelievably superhuman if she weren't affected, and consulting with Wolfwood unfortunately doesn't offer her anything (helpful) she doesn't already know...(cause at this point, she's literally seen more of Vash, especially the amount suddenly exposed to all at once, than Wolfwood could possibly know how to advise her on. He's still struggling with plenty of his own fears vs loyalties towards Vash himself.)

Only that he stresses the importance she weighs her options now to make the decision to quit her job while she still can (a choice and the freedom to 'get out' that Wolfwood comparatively doesn't have under direct orders from Knives) to remove herself and Milly from getting further involved with Vash--specifically the life-threatening danger he poses as a living weapon (despite his best intentions and character as a person!) set to explode with the firepower to raze the world--if Meryl values her life.

But truly, how does Meryl feel about that? What does she value and care for more, that'd be most important to her--her life or her job? Is following Vash (surveilling him for 'risk management') more than just a job to her at this point? What about her feelings towards him as a person--the man she already knows, vs her need to reconcile with the truth (that he's not even human!) that she didn't know until just recently. Is the level of imminent danger and risk she's putting herself into, now that she fully understands how dire, truly worth it (for him) this time? And if she still truly cares for him, does it even matter what he is? Despite any pros or cons and conflicting feelings about it, which will ultimately remain the stronger reason compelling her choice to stay?

Whew! She has many things to evaluate and consider going forward, especially if she wants to continue at his side. (And as Wolfwood stresses, continuing puts Milly at risk too, so that's even more weight/responsibility to balance on Meryl's shoulders.) Including processing the very nature of her fears--to identify what it is that truly terrifies her (is it truly Vash or something else?) before she can hope to face or overcome them. Before this biggest hurdle tips the scales to debilitate her resolve or outright prevents her from continuing her job at all. For now, she thinks and relates back to the firepower she gained when she first fired a gun...

And ah, HERE IT IS, she recalls what's scared her the most from her own past memories: "I gained the power of death at my fingertips. It was terrifying." Cause the first time she ever shot a person and realized the weight of the power she holds, she hated it. Shocked, collapsed, paralyzed, coming undone in the streets, closing herself off from others, regretting her action terribly... It was all too much. (Sound...familiar to the guilt and regrets of someone else we know? Meryl's shooting style is also notably non-lethal...because she too doesn't like to kill! When her first time wielding 'death' with her Derringers upset her this badly that she needed to adjust to be able to continue her job that required arming herself with this type of power...)

So remember when she resonated with the pain of Vash's memories? Seeing when he first struggled learning how to use a gun too, and all the blood and loss that accompanied it? However...his experiences didn't just end there, with only his first time shooting a person.....cause the first time he shot his real power (without him knowing what would happen) he caused the destruction of an entire city, killing everyone he loved in it! He didn't just 'gain the power of death at his fingertips,' he literally BECAME it, armed with the power to end the world. Hating and regretting his action so terribly, the catastrophe traumatized him with amnesia and led to a full-blown meltdown in grief and despair once he finally remembered. With Meryl there, witnessing and feeling all of it along with him. (His pain became her pain; his trauma became hers...)

That the sheer magnitude of wielding that kind of terror, as an intrinsic, inseparable part of himself (unlike a handheld gun you can choose to put down; he can't), let alone carrying the fear of it going out of control again if he's not careful, is indescribable. And if Meryl can now understand the gravity of that in relation to her own gun experiences (when the memory of firing her Derringers was already enough crushing weight for her to fear) then as the peace-loving person she knows him to be, who's always tried his hardest not to kill anyone, the crushing multitudes she knows he must feel now upon recovering his memories filled with so much death unleashed by his own hands must be unbearable. Feeling precisely just how much MORE terrifying and overwhelming the burden must be for him. It makes her wonder HOW can he still even bring himself to pull the trigger?!

Just look at Meryl's collapsed posture, it's the same she felt in her own past experiences...only this time it's directed in relation towards him--almost expressed in his place for the crushing weight he must feel. She's outright screaming/crying/bawling for him in empathy for the pain he must feel every time he's forced to fight and shoot someone with so much baggage behind it. Oh Meryl....:') (This is probably the strongest we've seen her cry for him...and it certainly won't be the last she cries in concern to relieve the pain of his burden.)

And Meryl, watching him fight on regardless, becomes struck and speechless for another reason, as she realizes how much his incredible strength and fortitude allow him to push past his unbearable pain to continue his job: "I felt...his determination is even stronger than the regret he carries."

Which is true, for the same stronger feeling that compelled him to stop at nothing, despite being on the verge of total collapse bearing his regrets of July, when he grit and forced himself to continue on his mission to save her from the Dragon's Nest. :') This is how he does it; how he continues to fight for what's important. (And yes she was that important, as the thought of losing her like his loved ones at July, is what fueled his determination back then to keep going.)

However, the struggle is never easy, as Vash, for his own part, masked behind his new goggle-edged glasses and kind Rem-like smiles 'as usual,' has not been coping well behind closed doors at all. (That Meryl could even sense an air of unusually 'off' distant/detached/avoidant behavior from him that she asks Milly about it.) We see him immersing himself in thousands of rounds of (non-lethal) target practice til his hand bleeds, and when drilling that level of focus + exposure isn't enough to take the edge off, he visits a church during service to hear a sermon on forgiveness...only for him to deem it hopeless there's no possible release from his sins when he can't even forgive himself, and there's even evidence he'd been drinking in not-quite-so savory (healthy or responsible) ways--unsettling even Wolfwood that something's uncannily off with him. (All being different attempted coping methods to drown out and escape the pain of his past regrets, but even Vash knows it's impossible now to forget...)

So all it takes is one slip-up when he's depressed off his game for everything to tumble into a trainwreck... Where Meryl seeing him block a bullet with his powers (instead of his usual self-aware dodging?) triggers all that terror to come flooding back into a panic attack.

Where it's truly unfortunate (and oh it hurts...) as an accident, something involuntary--a messy, instinctual reaction completely beyond either of their control. Cause Meryl didn't anticipate her ptsd to manifest and incapacitate her like this! that a single flash of his feathers would remind her of Everything--of all the worst horrors those powers are capable of when unleashed, the weaponized death and terror it represents, and the very moment she felt and experienced all of it while trapped powerless and panicked to do anything... No no no, returning to that headspace is horrible; it's all still too fresh to relive and TOO MUCH trauma for a human like her to bear; she couldn't help coming undone in the streets in a far worse way than she's ever had before (and I don't blame her.)

And Vash didn't mean to publically out himself as a nonhuman 'monster' to everyone either, when tensions were already high following Knives' mass murders for them to link the same culpability towards him, while he's still struggling to get a handle on his newly awakened powers too--ohshit indeed when they suddenly manifest and the truth breaches containment freaking everybody out in a witch-hunting mob of scorn, fear, misunderstandings, and hatred. (Ouch...)

What's more, Vash probably didn't even know Meryl had seen his memories, or had been affected by his trauma to such an overwhelming degree--since the transfer happened more as an autonomous side effect of his powers activating rather than anything he purposely intended....(once again, unintended consequences beyond his control; he never meant to cause any of this harm!!) So from his perspective he probably doesn't fully understand how to interpret her distress (apart from the crowd's?!) or know what to do to help. Cause reactions from strangers are one thing to bear, but if he sees her reaction to him--and his nonhuman display, as anything like theirs...then it's so much worse cause it's Meryl, who's known and been with him since the beginning. She's someone important he cares for...and now she's hurt and visibly scared from yet again another mistake he can't undo. ohno ohno he knows he messed up...

(Plus poor Milly has no context to understand what's wrong, or why Meryl's so upset either, since she'd been knocked out during the later parts of the Dragon's Nest to know what happened. So now she's alarmed and concerned trying to process why everything's suddenly gone to shit, anchoring Meryl the best she can, while shaken by the pain and cruelty Vash endures in such a situation masked with a smile...)

Despite the stones thrown by the crowd (nooo~) Vash's first priority concern is to run straight over to check on Meryl...

*And here's where I scream bloody murder* Cause that single flinch--from reaching towards her with that arm too, probably hurts him more than any of those stones thrown at him in hatred and revulsion that he's a monster. Cause to him it probably reads as a perceived rejection from Meryl (noooo~), and the amount he's hurt from realizing he's the one who hurt her this way....ohhhhh his crushing guilt must be heart-shattering...;A;

But there's no time, as before Meryl's even ready to speak or clarify how she feels, the choice she previously had on whether she wants to leave or stay is taken from her as Vash is the one who's forced to leave her instead. :')) The only thing Vash can do is repeatedly apologize as he runs away he can't even say goodbye--Wolfwood has to say that for him...and admit to Wolfwood how much he 'really feels like crying.'

(And once again poor Milly, left with no other explanations, can only read how much his pained empty mask of a smile has broken...)

What sucks even more, is knowing how much Meryl had already empathized with his pain (she could already feel that strongly for him!) and being in no condition to explain herself or her fears to him, once her panic subsides, she's bound to feel that much more terrible with guilt from realizing how her reaction (especially her flinch) had unintentionally hurt and pushed him away....leading towards a bad result she simply couldn't help and had no power to change...what a disaster.

But is someone as usually brave and tenacious like Meryl going to let that be the end of it? Broken on a disastrous parting and painful misunderstanding (she never meant to 'reject' him!!!) she literally had no say over? What of her brand of determination--especially towards what she feels (and decides) is most important, becoming stronger than the pain and regrets she carries? (Just like Vash! Can she find it within her to continue, or start over, inspired just as he does?)

Her struggle now becomes finding that strength (even a driving belief) to tentatively (re)build that trust and acceptance between them towards recovery. To endure, fight, and conquer those horrors to bridge (reconnect) the gap between the human and monstrous that separates them. (Especially if she truly cares and wants to do it--for the sake of what Matters, for what'll make the effort Worth it.) It'll be huge and seemingly insurmountable for any other person bearing the same strife she carries, but you can do it Meryl, I believe in you~~

#trigun #trigunbookclub #commentary #vashmeryl #long text post #aaaaaaAAAAAA well I Tried :'D #wanted to do this in vol5's week but didn't feel it'd be complete without covering the aftermath in vol6 #and WHEW the repeated 9999 critical hits of emotional damage made this Difficult

244 notes · View notes

da-birb-writes-sometimes · 1 year ago

Note

hi hi :D i saw identity's request with floyd so for the event, id like to request...

stargazing - jade - mainly fluffy romance (preferably tooth rotting stuff)

hope you have a great day!

Stargazing; Jade Leech

Content; Fluff, gender-neutral reader, romance (aiming for cardiac arrest)

Word Count; 650+

AN; The second of three Jade requests, which I am more than happy to write. Much like with Identity, consider this as a wedding present ^v^ As a reminder, do not put my work — or others for that matter — into AI as it steals. Link to Masterlist

The waves crashed against the cliffs. The wind weaved between the blades of grass that covered the dunes. The waning crescent moon hung low in the sky, mirrored in the dark sea. And above you were stars and nebulas, foreign yet holding an air of familiarity. Of home. But you weren’t alone. Beside you, sitting in the shallow water just deep enough to cover his gills, was Jade, sitting in the pale moonlight in his mer-form, glowing faintly. And you sat beside him in the water, looking up to the sky with wonder in your eyes.

“It’s stunning,” you whisper, trying to decide on what to focus on. “Thank you for inviting me, Jade.”

Jade shifted in the water, turning so he was closer to you. “Truly it is my pleasure, Prefect,” he chuckled.

It was always Prefect, and never your name. After months of friendship you thought he would have dropped the title in favour of your name. “Why do you call me Prefect,” you ask, turning to look at him.

You always thought Jade was beautiful, both inside and out despite what others say, but now, he looked ethereal. Features highlighted in the pale silver light of the moon and the blue from his own bioluminescence. It really wasn’t fair, especially since your feelings have shifted from merely platonic months ago. If a crush lasts more than four months, it’s not a crush; it’s love. The puppy crush had shifted from that, a mere crush, to a soul shattering love. But you had not wanted to push your luck

Jade hummed to himself, “Well, what would you like me to call you then?” You could tell from the way his eyes glimmered that he was teasing you. Plus there was the ever faint smile he only had when he was subtly poking fun, of when he was trying to push your buttons.

You groaned and splashed him with water. “You’re awful. I thought Floyd would be the most troublesome, but you are so much worse,” you teased back.

A star shot across the sky. Was this a sign? To wish for something more? That your — what you believed — one-sided crush was reciprocated?

“Did you make a wish?” Jade was now brushing shoulders with you and looking at you with an intensity that you’ve only seen a handful of times. “Do you think it will come true?”

You leaned into him, “Mhm, but if I told you, then it wouldn’t come true. Bad luck and all.”

He looked at you from the corner of his eye, “May I tell you my wish then?”

Was this a sign?

“But if you tell me, it won’t come true,” you give him a confused look.

Jade hummed to himself, eyes tracing your face before locking in on your eyes. Gazing so deeply, as if he was looking directly into your soul. “But what if it does?” But what if it does, my dear? “I would be willing to test the fates to see it come to fruition.”

You sighed, prompting him to go on. So he did. He took your hand in his and place it over his chest, where his heart resided.

“My wish,” he breathed out gently, “is to be with you, my dear Prefect. If you will have me.”

His heartbeat was steady, and he was looking at you with such tenderness, with such love, that you could have sworn that your heart stopped. That this was some cruel prank. But no, this was sincere. This was real. Jade felt the same as you, and subjected himself to vulnerability for you. There was no ulterior motive. No sharp smiles. Nothing else but truth in his olive and gold eyes.

You placed his hand over your own heart, which was beating as fast as a hummingbird’s wings. “I will always have you… if you will have me,” you said. Reflected in his eyes was another shooting star.

Make a wish.

Steeling yourself you placed a small kiss to his lips, but before you could retreat, Jade gave you one in return. “Was that your wish, my dearest?”

184 notes · View notes

redflagshipwriter · 5 months ago

Text

WRITING GAME: sentence request Saturday

I'm listing the WIPs I have open for today. Send me a request with the name of one of the WIPs and I'll write up at least 3 sentences on that one and post it for you. I'm posting excerpts from the ones I have open to get things started.

Check Yes To Go On A Date With a Dead Guy Ch 6

“Have you experienced events that could be described as fatal?” Danny read from his notebook. Before Jason could answer he continued, “Do you know the name and species of all your progenitors? Have you ever wondered if you are-”

Jason held a hand up to ask for silence. He was in the zone on a training module that Barbie had sent to the whole team. He was not going to get any more shit from fucking Tim and Stephanie about being an out of touch old man like Bruce who ran code directly from the 90s.

Hot Ghouls In Your Area ch 10 part 2

Jazz’s roommate Tiffany was fine and all that, but Danny didn’t feel that he was missing out on much when he phased from the stairwell directly into the little ensuite bathroom that connected to Jazz’s bedroom. He could hear quiet conversation from the living room– the TV, maybe?

But Jazz had clearly locked her bedroom door before she left. Danny made a note that Tiffany definitely wouldn’t be finding him and then he starfished on his sister’s bed. He set an alarm for 1 am with a smidge of guilt. It probably wouldn’t wake her up. Maybe she wouldn’t even stay home for the night, she had a boyfriend, right? Or was she the one with the girlfriend who worked downtown?

Whatever. Danny slept like the dead. In fact, he slept through his alarm and woke up to see 7 messages from Jazz. The one showing on the screen was “DANIEL FENTON Tiffany thinks my bedroom is HAUNTED because someone is snoring in there.”

Halfa Cass Ch 6 Part 2

‘Ouch,’ Tim thought gleefully as Bruce got his constipated expression. Damian was definitely pretending he thought it was admirable to frighten hapless Justice League niceguys. Damian knew better now. Damian even liked Jon Kent, who was basically like a tiny Captain Marvel.

Bruce really should know that. Tim could see the calculations whirring in his mind, weighing the odds of Damian being genuine.

He knew that Damian was a lot better now. That Damian had promised not to stab anyone unless it was absolutely necessary. That Damian had made friends and was less hostile to outsiders.

Bruce wasn’t confident enough that Damian knew better. He gave in. “I will be careful with my tone around him,” Bruce said sullenly. He stabbed at his breakfast.

‘You just got played by a ten year old.’

“Thank you Daddy,” Cass chirped.

Ah well, that’s it then. Game, set, and match. Bruce lifted his face enough to aim his watery i love my kids eyes at her.

#dp x dc #dc x dp #dead on main #red hot ghouls #red halfa cass #red check yes #red sentence saturday

31 notes · View notes

eluxcastar · 2 years ago

Note

*slaps my brain* this bad boy can churn out so much angst. Greetings, i arrive with pantalone x male reader : -- reader + a group of agents are sent on a mission. They're ambushed by the enemies (some rebellion group against the fatui) and everyone is killed except the reader. -- reader begs for their life and agrees to join their side and give out info about the fatui (But in their head, reader just comes up with an improvised plan to use this opportunity to lie and double cross the enemies) -- (un)fortunately, one agent survives... and delivers the news that reader has betrayed the fatui... to both Pantalone and Arlecchino. -- Poor banker man has a short breakdown before realizing that the Knave would be sent out to hunt down the traitor. (ouch) -- Perhaps it was just a few crumbs left of his love and trust for you, that convinced him to take over the duty of hunting you down. Perhaps he just wanted to see you one last time. -- He faces the brunt of Arlecchino's mockery and amused pity when he tells her that he's gonna kill you himself. -- Reader thankfully succeeds in escaping the enemy's headquarters. So imagine their panic and surprise when halfway into returning, pantalone pulls up and aims a gun at their head and demands an explanation (congratulations! both of them have trauma now! Reader is now paranoid in every way to never disappoint Pants every again! Pantalone now has paranoia for betrayal!) -- for roughly a month, reader moves out from their shared bedroom and occupies a guest room(fun!)

Super (un)happy (un)fun times with Pantalone ❤️

── ୨୧：pantalone x reader

୨୧﹑synopsis :: an expedition gone wrong as you are attacked by a group of rebels who win only by catching you off guard, they wipe almost your squad out, at least so you thought, and will little other option you decide it's best to choose the humiliating one and get on your knees to grovel and beg for your life like some poor dog

୨୧﹑genre :: angst

୨୧﹑content :: masc reader, mentions of blood, injury, death, reader does technically get kidnapped, the root of their problems is a lack of communication fml

୨୧﹑words :: 7.2k

nom nom nom this THIS this has eaten my brain since it was sent to me, this little thought that I wanted to do right away but was in the middle of Capitano and didn't wanna make that anon wait longer than the like two months they already had which was like two months BUT I SAID IN THAT ARLECCHINO POST that it was coming directly after Capitano so now I am LEGALLY obligated to do it (I have literally put off the Pierro request I said I would do since December) (I just want an excuse)

there may not be a post tomorrow because I'm tired and in pain so if that's the case the requests will resume either Monday or Tuesday

I also just liked that this request was like "These events, this order" cause it's so easy hmu anytime this literally ended up my longest post. also this kinda seems like it could even be the predecessor of the events of the previous post if only for a few details which tbh is an interesting thought

Somewhere along the road, you got to the point where you were surrounded by corpses; those used to be your comrades. You stare through bleary eyes at your weapon tossed aside on the ground. If only you could move freely, you could reach it. You might be ok if that was possible, but it's not. You lay surrounded by enemies who kicked at your comrades' feet to finish off whichever of them wasn't already dead. Quickly you have to think, lest you become the next one to get a sword to the back of the neck.

Ignoring a nasty knock to the head and some shallow scrapes, your health is the least of your worries. You have a splitting headache and a bit of trouble focusing. You can make out your weapon enough to reach for it; it's close enough if you're not mistaken, but if you're wrong, you'll likely end up as a red stain in the snow.

Your hand finds the hilt of your blade as a boot crushes the backs of your knuckles, barely able to cry out when the weight leaves your head. There's a relentless kick to your ribs, wedging a foot under and flicking you onto your back. The tip of a sword finds your throat, sharp like a prick against your skin; the wielder is clearly not worried about making you bleed as you are.

"Do you believe you've achieved something?" You ask, slowly smiling up at the man who looms over you. His foot rests on your stomach just enough that it doesn't hurt, though you suspect it will change quickly. "Killing only grunts, you're so impressive."

He knows you're mocking him; you can tell he knows as he presses his foot down until you grimace from the pain and then some.

Your ribs still hurt, and they'll probably bruise later.

You just aren't thinking about that because you don't want to die.

You don't understand why you're, for some reason, not as willing to die as you promised you would be. When you set out on this mission, you were prepared for the idea that you would be happy to go out in the name of the Tsaritsa, but...it felt much different when faced with the situation.

It would be the end. Never again would you see anything you love in this world. You would never see your lover or your family. You'd never get to train another new squad of rookies and never go home to eat a warm meal, to feel how stupidly soft Pantalone's hair is, or get to kiss him. You already know you won't see your squadmates again, and they wouldn't see you no matter how shameful you become for the sake of your life.

If nothing else, you would escape, and with all hope of saving everyone else long gone, that much is all you could ask for.

Your dignity isn't worth dying for.

"Wait," you speak out, placing your aching hand around the blade of the sword to stop any sudden movements, not fully registering the choice as strange. "If you spare my life, I'll give you information about the Fatui." You're relieved to feel the sword pull away ever so slightly, though the sting doesn't subside.

The man looks sceptical of you, rightfully so, considering your actual plan. "How do I know your information will be worth sparing you?"

"I'm the captain of this team, I'm very useful."

He appears to consider your offer for a moment before abruptly snatching the sword away, running a shallow cut across your palm, making you once again cry out as that poor hand has seen much better treatment. Immediately it blooms with fresh blood that pours down your hand as you roll yourself over to clutch it with your good hand.

Tears prick at your eyes, your vision blurring, no doubt the result of the cold making your wound hurt like hell.

"I'm not convinced you're really so dedicated to living since you seem to be able to run your mouth so much." Now he's taken to mocking you, wearing a smug smirk like he came here to see a fatuu on his knees kissing his boots for a chance at redemption. He wants to watch while his comrades just watch him pull the poor little fatuu's strings. "Get on your knees and beg for it."

In your mind, you know this is what survival demands, but you resist solely because of your stubborn pride, which tells you that it is not something you are willing to do. You tell yourself this is necessary for your plan to work, for Pantalone to not receive the news that you've been killed in an ambush attack on your squad. If you can prevent even just that, you will gladly get down on your knees in the snow to prove a false promise that you will supply information to them, if only to buy time to find an escape plan.

You push yourself onto your knees, crawling a few feet ahead before placing your forehead to the snow and trying to ignore the burning pain in your palm that tells you to move it now. You can't, so you must endure it with a shaky voice.

"Please spare me… I don't want to die. I'll do anything you ask if you spare me, I swear, I'll betray the Fatui, give you any information you want! Please just spare my life."

someone grabs you by your hair, and when you're jerked up to see who it is, a different person from the man who was previously hurting you, this time a woman. You doubt she's eager to let the chance to beat a poor little fatuu slip away, either. How she smiles down at you so tenderly yet so sadistic tells you so. At the very least, you seemed to please her, and what more could you ask for? If even just one wanted to, they would likely spare you.

"He's so eager to please…." She lets go, and her hand travels down to stroke your cheek, making you fight the urge to pull away. "Let's keep him."

Those weren't exactly the words you aspired to hear when you joined the Fatui; you won't complain now that they're saving your life.

It was only supposed to be a simple mission. Many hours of silence proved that to be incorrect. Some time since your team set out, only one fatuu returns to Pantalone's awful habit of pacing like the floor owes him money. Worse still, that fatuu isn't you. It's not exactly a sight you see every day, Pantalone stuck in discontented thought as he stares blankly through everyone he looks at. You're supposed to be working under him. Why is nobody telling him anything? He doubts that it's as simple as not knowing.

Everyone must be aware of the undeniable fact that, right now, your life is in grave danger. The second thing everyone must know is that you will remain in danger for as long as he is not given the route you took when you set out to—

"Pantalone, a skirmisher from the expedition team has returned." Pantalone startles, his thoughts interrupted as Arlecchino approaches. She is tailed by a slow and trembling man, freshly home and the victim of severe frostbite. Blood still clings to his clothes from the wounds he bears. She brought him so quickly that he didn't even get a chance to have his condition treated. "He says that the news he came back for is important, so I've spared ending his life for desertion. It still doesn't explain why he chose not to die along with the others."

"Is that important?" a part of him is filled with dread as he knows you would never allow yourself or anyone else to turn tail and run away, meaning it does matter. it's a sign that on the other side of all the chaos, he will likely arrive at the site where this man last saw you all to your bloodied corpse. "Where did your Captain go? He was supposed to be leading this team."

"H-He…" clearly hesitant to explain, Pantalone assumes he's about to say you had died in the heat of battle. "He betrayed the Fatui so the enemy would spare him, and agreed to give up important information in exchange for his life."

Something about that strikes him cold. However, he turns searing hot as the worry sets in like dread, and he realises everything will end here. the Knave will be sent to kill the traitor, and in the end, he will never hear your sweet voice again like music to his ears. It was for nothing to have held out hope you were alive because he was right. In the worst way possible, Pantalone was right. As he stands here pacing in worry, you probably don't care. Rather, you are spilling every secret Pantalone has slipped you about the Fatui he wasn't supposed to. Somewhere out there, you're betraying every ounce of trust he ever put in you as you take advantage of whatever you have to save your skin.

if only he could go back and be there, you probably never would've had to do such a thing, but what if this is the Tsaritsa's gift? To know that you would be willing to betray all that the Fatui stand for? that is a cruel way of thinking. He can't force Arlecchino to unhear that, meaning he can't keep it a secret. Pantalone certainly can't stop this information from getting out as he might've liked to. You will be hunted by the Knave to the edges of Teyvat for your crimes.

"Pantalone." he looks up to Arlecchino's stone-cold glare like she knows the deliberations going on in his head as the more significant part of him questions your innocence. "He's a traitor. Don't spare your thoughts on him, just pretend that he died and I'll bring his corpse back and call him a hero."

"No--" At that moment, Pantalone's voice sounds so strained. he thinks he's on the verge of tears even if it doesn't feel like he is. Pantalone speaks without thinking, and he can't tell if it's because he wants you to come home or to ask you why. maybe he just doesn't want you to die, even knowing you probably betrayed them. "No, I'll go. I'll go, and I'll--" he hesitates momentarily, "kill him."

he can't even believe he just spoke those words out loud. Something about the entire situation is surreal, though he feels like someone has wrenched his heart from his chest and run off with it. That 'someone' would probably be you, off to present it to a new master on a silver platter. you took a piece of him and stole it, and now only an aching lingers. something in that aching longed for you to pay for your actions, but it also demanded an explanation. that part of him wants to hold you down and wring the life out of you with his bare hands so you can feel the pain he wants you to. it wouldn't be enough to let the Knave kill you, no matter if it was slow, drawn-out torture. he wants to see your face as you die, to watch the life drain from your eyes, and see if you hold any remorse as you see the point you've driven him to.

worry fades away into anger, frustration too, but mostly anger.

Pantalone is angry about many things, angry at you. He's angry that you made him fear for your safety. He isn't sure he can ever forgive that you had so carelessly become a traitor. He can't forgive that you would even betray him.

"Will you really kill your own loverboy?" He's angered that Arlecchino would say such a thing. The lilt in her voice makes it painfully obvious she isn't extending her greatest sympathies. "I thought menial work was below you."

he opens his mouth to retort but decides not to dignify that with a response.

it's cold out. it would be far too hard for you to survive without help. Pantalone is accompanied only by the skirmisher who returned from your squad with the news of your betrayal, though unbeknownst to him, he is taking his last steps as he has orders to kill the man once he has fulfilled all of his use. he also betrayed the mantra of loyalty, but perhaps he hasn't realised such a thing yet.

he and Pantalone arrive at the remnants of your last squad, the last place where you were seen alive and where enough blood was spilled to dye the snow red. he sees almost the entirety of your team strewn about and abandoned, only one of the attackers amongst them having succumbed to his injuries as he lay face down and lifeless.

this is far enough. he can die amongst his comrades.

"Lord Harbinger, they went in this direction." Though he has already begun to draw a blade, he turns his attention to see what the skirmisher is crouched before, noticing vague impressions left behind. It's been a little over half a day since he returned alone, meaning these would be your last traces. however, no matter how far you've gotten, he should tend to the bodies first. by the time he attempts to follow those tracks, they'll be covered in a new layer of snow. for now, he must deal with this skirmisher who decided that his fleeing was not a disgrace to the Tsaritsa's name.

Pantalone draws the knife he had tucked away out of sight. In the second it takes to turn around, a deep slash is carved into the fatuu's throats. He topples over himself to the ground, where he lands atop his slain comrades, struck by the shock more than anything.

"Tsk tsk, and to think this was a mere decoration piece."

Already another day and a half out, he stumbles upon the camp of rebels, as dead as your squad. They are all just as carelessly tossed aside as the last corpses he found, and much like the last group, only one is missing. it seemed to be the same one missing each time as suspiciously, you're nowhere to be found amongst the people you were betraying him for. gone with the wind just as you were the first time you hadn't come home. moreover, this certainly is not their primary base of operations as it lacks any semblance of permanence. It was put together in a hurry to survive the night without succumbing to exhaustion, not for a long-term stay. there's a freshly lit fire still burning by their sides, surrounded by the people who had likely been sitting by it for warmth before their lives were snuffed out by the sole survivor he knew of.

the cherry on top is that the bodies are still barely warm — you're nearby. You can't get far in that amount of time, and the snow gives you away quickly, even with the night falling. you're so close it's as if he can see you already, as the memory of your presence is left behind In the form of footsteps. most noticeably, however…droplets of blood trail beside those footsteps.

in the place of your footsteps, Pantalone begins to walk along the trail you make for him, following behind you like a dog that chases the scent of blood to find its master amidst danger. stepping directly into the divots left behind is the only way to feasibly track you in the dark, with no source of light yet coming into view. the wind is picking up, however, and as he focuses closely on the direction he walks, he begins to hear the faint sound of life at last. the singular life who managed to escape certain death not once but twice and who will not be so lucky the third time.

the glow of a lantern appears in the distance.

somewhere out there, the light ahead of Pantalone glows brighter as the distance between you grows shorter, and the silhouette of a man enters his view.

it's you, carrying a lantern you had likely stolen, bloodied bandages crudely wrapped around your hand, dripping bright red into the snow. more than anything, you seem ready to collapse from exhaustion from how slowly you move.

"Is someone there?" You must hear Pantalone as you turn back, hands shaking audible in the clattering of the lantern, a cut across your cheek.

You make eye contact with the gun he points at you. You are trapped in the middle of nowhere with no backup, little food, and barely any water, but you know it's him. if not for the gun, you might not worry, yet something about it sends chills up your spine just from the coldness of his eyes. You're not used to such a gaze on you. It's like steel and raw feelings cloud together into one terrifying man who feels the most profound form of betrayal a person could know. Even in the line of work of the Fatui, this is something different. Not due to circumstance but because he is a Harbinger. some shivers dance across you, spiking goosebumps into your skin, and you feel like you could collapse, but you know that if you do, all will have been for nothing.

"Pantalone--"

"I want to hear a thorough explanation for the things you've done."

You want to provide one, but…but how do you tell him you still betrayed the Tsaritsa's trust in you to die for her cause when the time came? Every lie that spilled from your lips, masked as information you provided, was shared out of self-preservation, not loyalty. That alone was enough to get you hunted and killed, especially in your position.

Now you stand small and weakened by circumstance before a man burning with rage, only a lantern slowly draining away as the minutes pass. You can't blame him, only able to imagine how he could've possibly heard that you hadn't returned and what it must've looked like to see you gone so many times from places you should've died. Does he think you killed your squad to desert the Fatui? Or was there someone who told him you had betrayed him? Maybe he just decided that for himself upon seeing the very place where you had thrown away your dignity for him thinking you could do it all alone.

"I wanted to see you…" you try to say, throat rough and voice quieter than you'd like. "I didn't want to die so I lied. I was just coming back, everyone else is dead! Everyone was killed, but there was a way…a way that I could live and come home." Without meaning to, you begin to tear up, met with only unwavering disbelief, not of shock but of an unwillingness to believe you aren't a filthy liar. "I didn't want you to hear the news that I had died." You choke the last part out on the verge of breaking down.

"Was it me you lied to or them? How am I supposed to trust you're being honest now when everyone you've come into contact with has died?" You didn't think you'd ever hear such venom in his voice, but more than that, he was hurt more than you could be by his words alone. You just can't think of a way to prove to him you're being honest, not when you're so tired and worn down and working against what is likely an order to kill you for your actions.

How are you supposed to tell a man overcome with grief and emotion that he's wrong? There's no way he'll see reason.

"You can observe the wounds," you say slowly, unsure if he would buy such a story, "they weren't made by a weapon like mine, and you know what I'm like — hopeless with other weapons."

will he wait that long? you doubt that, but you can make him wait even a moment for you to explain yourself.

"They were a hopeless rebel group who thought of me like a dog. why would I be loyal to them?"

"You were supposed to be loyal to me!" like a rubber band pulled to its limit, it's as if something snaps, the boiling anger bubbling over. "I thought we were trying to stop lying all the time; I thought we agreed not to run off and try to do things on our own. Maybe only I had agreed to those things because you seem to be fine doing both of them."

His words anger you, but you know that denying them will only anger him instead. You have spent the past few days lying to him whether you meant to or not, the past few days have been hell, and yet he has experienced greater suffering in the form of overwhelming grief. for the past few days, Pantalone has believed you were dead, then that you had betrayed him in your most excellent schemes. it was what people told him. it was what the evidence pointed to.

But your body, appearing so small and trembling from how cold you are, wrapped in the now tattered clothes you had departed in, tells a different story. Blood spilled over your collar, the furs of your overcoat matted, your hair tangled, and your skin bruised. The sight brings pity to Pantalone for you, such a pathetic little thing still begging for only his forgiveness, not even your own life.

Pity reasons with the side of him that, even now, holds his love for you close. You are closer to his heart than anything else has ever been. He finally asks what should've been an obvious question that whole time: when did he start believing Arlecchino over you?

With the possibility considered, more questions flood his mind: why were you walking closer to where the Fatui gather most if you were betraying them? What use would you find in killing them if they were your accomplices? there would be far more benefit in allowing them to cart you out to the edge of Snezhnaya then betraying them. even you would know that and which direction you were walking before he caught you — back to where you came from. when your shaking form is back in focus, he realises his gun shakes with the faint clang of metals like the bullet rattles in the chamber.

You are returning to Snezhnaya, he realises, you are coming home.

Slowly, he forces his hand to lower alongside his gun. The tension in his body runs high; he's surprised to hear the gun slip and fall to the ground, landing somewhere in the snow with a dull sound that he ignores. there are more important things. Pantalone moves, forcing his feet to comply with what he wants — you are cold and need a warm coat wrapped around you tightly.

Pantalone freezes in place rather quickly, however. He realises you are shaking violently, and not just from the cold. the look on your face spells sheer terror as if you're a little child face with the big scary monster in the dark. you don't know. Unable to hear his thoughts, you have no idea his intentions. Inching back to put some more distance between the two of you for your safety, your sense of self-preservation acting for you. would you believe a word he says if he tries to reassure you? or would you suspect his habit of using flattery to get the things he wants? either is a reasonable assumption on your part.

There is a silence that spells nothing but decisions for both of you, thoughts running wild with possibilities. It drags on for so long that it feels like an eternity before you move. Both of you impossibly still, too afraid to do anything lest you provoke the other with even the slightest wrong move.

the first to act so happens to be you, lips quivering and eyes watering as they sting with tears you've been holding back far too long. The lantern is lost to the snow. You crash into Pantalone's chest, almost toppling the both of you. You finally break, your emotions overflowing before you get a chance to catch up with them. you're terribly upset and worn down, exhausted, anxious and, most of all, more afraid than ever. Still, you are so happy to finally have a single taste of home back in your arms, even if he's gone stiff as a board, and you're scared he'll toss you aside. just a moment, and you'll be satisfied to have your love end then and there in a single gunshot because of your stupid decisions.

However, as soon as the action registers, your embrace is returned awkwardly at first. you soon both relax enough to hug so tightly you might suffocate before you make it home. you would be more than glad to spend your last moments that way, but thankfully that isn't the case. you will go home safe again tonight.

the guest room is a lonely place, even in your own home, but once your wounds were carefully bandaged and placed in front of the fire to warm up, you had more time to think than you should've. each time Pantalone approaches, even just to offer you warm tea and an extra blanket, you would flinch so violently it was as if he still held a gun to your head.

you tried so hard to spend the first night back in your shared room, but even with all the warmth and assurance you could ask for, you found yourself on edge. you've spent every night of the past three weeks sleeping in the guest room by yourself. can your relationship ever be repaired? from something like that, you're not sure. you desperately want to believe there is something that can be salvaged, even when you have seldom spoken to each other since your return. The two of you exchange little more than curt greetings before Pantalone leaves to carry on his work. Still unfit for active duty, you remain alone in the silence of your shared home. you thought the silence might make it better and give you time to think, but you know at heart that you would much rather be distracted.

You doubt in this state that you could convince even the ever battle-hungry Tartaglia to agree to spar with you and that plants you firmly in bed, unwilling to get up. If you got on your knees and begged, you might be given some paperwork to complete. You choose to ignore the helping of papers on the desk in the corner of your room, blank if not for your name. you were supposed to write a report of everything that happened during your stint as a rebel. spending several days AWOL isn't something the Fatui looks past, even when it's a Harbinger's lover doing it, though it certainly helps to have that kind of reputation.

In your mind, you've had thousands of interactions with Pantalone where you tell him anything and everything. In her fantasy, you say everything you want him to hear and spill all your thoughts and worries. However, when you come face to face with him, you freeze up and choke on your words until he's gone. Pantalone leaves the house earlier than he used to and doesn't return until later. Maybe he's shutting you out to think, or perhaps he's shutting himself away from you to let your physical wounds heal before thinking of your psychological ones. Clearly, only one of you wants to talk, and Pantalone's sudden turn to pulling away only worsens that.

You want to tell him that, but even that conversation gets stuck to the confines of your mind when you can barely say a quiet good morning to him.

All at once, it seems you've lost everything. First, your team and now your husband; next will probably be your job, and your life will follow suit if that happens. The Tsaritsa's benevolence must include letting those under even harsh scrutiny for their actions get medical care before they die. Otherwise, you're sure you would've heard something horrible about the verdict on that investigation Arlecchino threatened you with. Supposedly you would receive a letter including the conclusion, though you were warned it may take months to conclude. If a letter arrived, you certainly don't know about it.

You're not entirely sure what possesses you to check Pantalone's office. There's a sinking feeling in your stomach like he may have hidden it or innocently collected it and has yet to read the mail from this morning. Both options have you looking through the mail in search of the letter. Is it even there? Probably not. You simply convinced yourself that is it, and now you must find evidence to prove or disprove that idea.

You sort through the stack of envelopes left aside on his desk. You started with the unopened ones, but, finding nothing, you forced yourself to move on to the letters he had most definitely already read. You can tell by the way the ends have been cleanly sliced with a letter opener.

In no particular order, you restack them as you go, thinking there are too many envelopes for him to memorise their order.

Before you know it, you're staring down at the seal used in official — mostly only important — letters from high-ranking officers of the Fatui. You want to open that letter to be a request from the Jester. You'd also settle for a nag for funding from the Doctor or a written apology from Tartaglia for blowing an exorbitant amount of the Fatui's funding during his stay in Liyue.

However, you know that seal too well; it is used only by the Knave. Harbingers have customised variations of the official seal; some you've memorised more than others, as the differences can be slight.

Forget your words. Your breath catches in your throat as you reach into the opening to pull the neatly folded paper out. Please don't be a verdict. Your mind races with dozens of possibilities. As you read through the words as quickly as possible, the worst of your thoughts seems to be coming true. First, details of the investigation, including the validity of your initial testimony being validated by the evidence. Your men were killed by the blades carried by the enemy. Arlecchino then goes on to discuss the logic of your actions and the order the events took place. She mentions the physical state you were found in and examples of your injuries, noting many couldn't have been self-inflicted. She does not entirely dismiss the idea you may have had help, but you can probably work with that mindset.

Finally, however, she notes that, in all likelihood, your version of events is correct.

Arlecchino won't release the final verdict until she's sure, not one to put half-baked conclusions on official paper, but the fact Pantalone didn't even mention this much to you fills you with a rage you didn't expect. How could he hide the most crucial thing since you returned from you? He knows how much you've been fretting over this, even in the absence of proper conversation between you — the few words you managed around him were to ask about it.

You're unsure if your hands shake from weakness or a new influx of emotion you're not ready to handle. It's tiring being shut out; you're sick of being shut out. Even if you did move to the guest room, you still live in the same damn house. You still share everything but the bed you slept in, so why? Why is Pantalone keeping so much from you? Why did he suddenly stop speaking to you? he was the one going on about you lying, so what about—

"What are you doing in here?"

a voice from the doorway catches you so off guard that you jump at the sound, looking up to find Pantalone with a nasty look on his face. Judging by the state of your emotions, you imagine the look you're giving him to be equally rotten, pissed off, maybe. You didn't hear him come in; he must've done so quietly.

"The hell's wrong with you?!" Without meaning to, you raise your voice, half due to frustration and half the fault of that pent-up desire to communicate, spilling over in the heat of your breaking point. This is it. This is all you can take. This is where your patience and ability to keep your emotions in stops. "Three weeks! Three whole weeks I have waited for any sign that maybe, just maybe, I won't have my head sliced off my shoulder, and for—" you glance down at the letter to find the date, knowing Arlecchino marks the date of everything she sends as a precaution, "oh, about four days now— guess who has had an idea of how that investigation into his own husband is going?"

You barely even noticed you had blown a gasket until you were done, stood from the chair Pantalone should be sitting at, hands resting on the table. Your palms hurt; you must've slammed them down at some point, as the sting is dull but still there. More than anything, your breath is laboured, and you might start to cry again if you don't get a hold of yourself. You're so mad it makes you feel dizzy, like you might lose your footing if you're not careful.

Ah. That's not your anger. The realisation hits you hard as you lose your balance and topple back into Pantalone's chair. You got so tense and behaved carelessly, worsening your health. You're not used to being so fragile.

"Don't get yourself too wound up—" Pantalone made his way to your side at some point— "you'll make it worse."

You don't care if you make it worse. You really don't, but you know that throwing a tantrum is childish and solves nothing but making Pantalone worry for you more. It only pushes him further away from you and helps no one.

But Archons, you're just so irritated, your emotions at an all-time high. You've spent three weeks forcing them into a tiny box they don't fit in. You've spoken to nobody about it, said nothing of the kind of thoughts you had stranded out there alone, the only survivor of your squad. An overwhelming abundance of guilt tells you that you should've died along with them; you were a coward for how you acted following their deaths. You're just a filthy coward, aren't you? Cowards are of no use to anyone, let alone the Tsaritsa. Maybe it would be best if it was declared you weren't fit for duty. Arlecchino should just decide you've tarnished Her Lady's honour.

At last, you understand. You understand why Pantalone has avoided you for three straight weeks — you are not the man he married. You are some imposter of that man who would brave even the strongest foes without an inkling of a thought he might lose. You are a cowardly and pathetic excuse for that man. You bury your face in your hands, rubbing harshly at your face in some attempt to outlet that frustration. It seems so stupid you didn't realise it before. It's terrible to divorce an injured man, so he must be waiting for you to recover enough for him to leave you—

"I'm sorry."

Out of all the anticipated responses, that wasn't high on your list. You bite your lip, waiting to hear what comes next, chewing at it nervously.

"I thought if I kept that from you…" he trails off suddenly like there is more. Maybe he lost the words to say it, or maybe he didn't have very nice things to say in the first place. "I thought it would be easier to focus on your recovery if you weren't aware of how far Arlecchino was delving into your private life. I didn't—"

When you look up, you see a man with a look in his eyes like a kicked puppy, the visible distress you're in like a kick to his gut. He realises everything he's done to contribute to you ending up this way. You need him, truly, more than anything right now.

"You want to divorce me now, don't you?"

What possessed you to say that is far beyond both of you, but it's not any kind of accusation. It's just a question.

"No?" Still, he seems to think that's absurd; the look on his face is nothing short of pure confusion, like you just said the most ridiculous thing he's heard, and you had. "Why would I— No, I don't want a divorce."

"Then why are you avoiding me so much?" You shrink in your place, making yourself small as you were that night, and it raises the same pity in him that he felt then. "Why won't you talk to me? Why aren't you ever home?"

He is terrified. He is terrified to be close to you, even when he knows you need him.

A voice in his head asks what if you're still tricking him? What if this is only an act to gain his sympathy? He knows it's not, but the feeling, the paranoia, rings so clearly in his head he struggles to see you on the verge of tears. He doesn't want to trust you yet, even though he knows any comrades you had on either side are long dead. Even Arlecchino corroborated your story to some degree; she had yet to confirm the rest. So far, however, you were being liberated of any fault piece by piece. So why? Why does he feel so anxious about allowing you back into his home?

You live there; your entire life is in that house. He has built his everything up here, you by his side. It was hard to imagine that a singular mission gone south could cause this amount of damage. Yet, you are curled up in his chair while he stands beside it, taking your bandaged hand to squeeze it tightly and reassure you. He wants so desperately to believe that you told the truth. The nagging voice in the back of his mind constantly pushes the idea that you lied, trying to convince him your words didn't make sense. Everything makes sense. Arlecchino would not lie about that.

On the other hand, you've got such horrible anxiety, unlike the silly little thoughts you had before. It's not about whether Pantalone likes the flowers you get him or prefers silver jewellery or gold. It is about whether or not he secretly plans to divorce you. Your failure and the worry you caused him weigh heavy on your mind, all boiling down into one conclusion. You have caused him nothing but grief for what? A month now? Probably more than that. Who's to say you weren't a bother to him before the mission? What if you've always been a bother, and this is just his excuse to justify it?

That would explain why he pulled away so suddenly. Maybe it is about the flowers and the jewellery, perhaps he preferred flowers your money couldn't buy. You know he's not that materialistic, but it's the only way you can make sense of it. Maybe, for a Harbinger, you will never be enough. Perhaps he expected you would have taken Tartaglia's place as Eleventh before he got the chance. You were content and happy as a measly Captain under Pantalone's sector and never seemed to strive for more. You thought that would take your time away from him, but you also didn't want more than you needed. Were you meant to strive for more than that? Is that it?

Your deliberations are only working you up more, the opposite of what he warned you not to do. The tears start rolling down your cheeks again, warm and unable to be stopped by simply wiping them away as more only take their place. Maybe Pantalone doesn't want a crybaby for a husband. Then what? You would still be failing him even now.

You hiccup your sobs out for a moment, trying to force yourself to breathe so that you'll calm down. "I want you to tell me why you've been avoiding me and why you keep leaving so early and coming home so late." You quickly wipe your tears once again, the roughness of the bandages binding your hand quite unpleasant against your eyes. "Can we just talk? A-And be honest with each other like we promised we would."

Your pleas do not fall on deaf ears. Pantalone wants to listen to everything you have to say and tell you everything as long as you're willing to be as honest as you say you will be. He has faith you will, even with the voice that tells him you won't. If Pantalone never hears you out, then it doesn't matter how much truth you speak, as nothing will save your marriage from him refusing to believe it. If he wants to mend this as you seem to, he has to do his part. It should've been obvious it would be difficult after the heights of emotions you both experienced in a few days.

The two of you must work through this eventually, preferably sooner rather than later.

"We'll talk for as long as necessary, my darling, and be as honest as possible with each other." Pantalone takes your other hand and brings it to his hands, warm and soft against your skin — just that much puts you at ease. One of his hands brushes your hair from your face and wipes your cheeks, a gentle, affectionate motion that is not lost on you.

A man that did not want to be married to you would not be so tender toward you, would he? He would be cruel and taunting in your weakest moments. Pantalone is not sympathetic towards those he does not care about, and his idea of feigning it is vaguely veiled mocking. This is different — it's genuine. You nod in agreement.

"I don't want it to end," your words mumbles as you try to keep yourself together, "I don't want to break up over this."

"We won't," his reassurance comes hastily but is not insincere in the slightest, "we'll work through this. I promise we'll talk about it."

With confidence, you can't say everything you both have to say will be said, but you know that you intend to try to get as much as possible out. If that's all you can manage for a day, then that amount of progress is better than none. It's better than pushing and pulling forever; that is enough for you to know it will be alright.

CROSSPOSTED ON AO3

#♡ — ruu.#✎ — good old-fashioned lover boy.#✦ — scenarios.#✦ — angst.#pantalone #genshin pantalone #pantalone x reader #pantalone x male reader #genshin impact #genshin #genshin impact x reader #genshin x reader #genshin x male reader

357 notes · View notes