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netherfeildren · 1 year ago

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Pink : Part III : Two

Series Masterlist : Part I : Part II

Pairing: Joel Miller x F!Reader

Content Warnings: Heavy angst; DD/lg dynamics; Dom/sub undertones; Daddy Kink; Jealousy; Unprotected Sex; Creampie; Inappropriate shaving; Squirting; Belly bulge; Dirty talk; Orgasm delay/denial; Overstimulation; Face slapping; Spanking; Light degradation; Rough sex; Breeding kink; Divorce; Not safe to read if triggered by pregnancy; Use of misogynistic language; Discussions of mental and emotional abuse; Cliffhanger

A/N: All tags have been updated.

Word Count: 12.7K

Rating: Explicit 18+

Read on AO3

Ko-fi

3. Two

“You know that feeling of… of realizing you’re a good person? It’s like– yes, I know objectively that I probably am. That I try to be kind, I try to do things that are good and right, but you know those strangely self perceptive moments where another person makes you – forces you – to realize you’re good? And it brings your whole life, your whole self into clarity, and it’s like – I am good, and I deserve good things. I am good.

But he treated me so badly, for so long. He took away pieces of me, he took away that awareness of goodness. And how could I not believe him, when he constantly told me and showed me that I deserved so little, when it was what I accepted for myself? Constantly waiting for him to turn into a man he never was, never had been and never would be. I accepted those things for myself, I let them happen. Maybe I was weak or stupid or naive or all of them combined. Maybe I was just a girl. But I thought it was hope at the time. I thought I was being hopeful and good, and now I realize that was no true form of goodness. It was only the version of good he needed me to be, a subservient and silent type of goodness.”

“And you know, I had a neighbor who– her husband died last year at Christmas, and it was so sad. They were older, always together, it was… it has nothing to do with this, but I don’t know. It was like when a tragedy is soft and quiet, and it just folds into the rest of life unheeded. Such a strange thing for someone on the outside looking in. I lived next door to them, and I’d see them all the time living their lives together, and I barely knew them, but suddenly he was gone, and I was conscious of the fact that she was over there alone all the time now. Without him. When before he’d always been there. I don’t know what I'm trying to say. It’s just that it didn't happen to me, it affected me in no way, and yet, I felt her loss keenly. Afterwards, I helped her with her cat, an old skinny thing, Jazz. She started going out of town a lot after her husband died, getting out and away, you know, that sort of thing. And I’d cat sit for her, and he was so sweet. But he was old too, and a few months later, he died also. And I remember the week he was going to pass she’d texted me and said he’d go soon, and I told her I was praying for him, thinking of the both of them. I don’t even pray, but I needed to tell her I was with her in some way. And it was nothing, a few nights going over there to feed the old boy, a few text messages. It was the absolute bare minimum I could do, but a few weeks after the cat died, she wrote me the loveliest note. She told me that she appreciated me, that she thought of how kind I’d been during those days, when I’d told her I was thinking of them. She told me that I was a good person, and that she hoped my kindness was returned to me many times over.

And I’d forgotten, you see, I'd forgotten that I was good. That I had a capacity for goodness within me, and that I deserved to be reminded of it, like all soft creatures are. We all need reassurance and a kind word sometimes, and I’d forgotten that about myself.” You glance up at his eyes, the most tender look held in them. “Do you know what I mean, Joel?” You ask, voice very small, shy and afraid, for one moment, that he won’t understand you.

But he pets your hair, cradles your cheek, “Yeah, honey. I think I do know.”

It’s a terrifying ordeal, the way the two of you fold into each other in the weeks after that first night. And yet, unstoppable. You do try, and you’re sure he does, as well. The first few days, trying to stay away, not answering his calls, no texts because he says his fingers are too big, and he can’t work those tiny fuckin’ buttons, forcing yourself not to run back over there into his arms and his bed. But then he’s calling and calling and calling, begging, making it his turn to show up at your doorstep in the middle of the night, saying all the right things like, I haven’t been sleeping, and I need to see you, and I’m suffering, I’m suffering without you, touching you in all the right ways that should be wrong but aren’t. All baby, I hurt when I’m not inside this sweet pussy. He says you make him weak, and you tell him that the only weak thing here is you, and you don’t make it much of a struggle for him when you let him in your home, in your cunt, when all you can say is I miss you, I miss you, your cock, your hands, I can’t stop thinking about you. The two of you are one and the same in all the ways it counts. And he’s not your father-in-law anymore, a chameleon now in the form of the only man who’s ever understood you, wanted you, seen you as more, as a complexity.

He makes you wonder how you could have ever thought of yourself as anything like sexless when all he makes you is hungry and desperate and wet. Fucking everywhere you can, as often as you can, never being very careful, pulling out and counting your cycle and starting out with a condom but ripping it off halfway through because I just have to feel you – irresponsible bullshit. Not having your head screwed on tightly enough to even really care. He has you on his living room floor one afternoon, whole day gone away on his cock, and the two of you lay there for hours afterwards, bare limbs wrapped around each other, soft, wet cock tucked safely inside of you where he says it belongs. “How could you have not been angry?” You ask him because you can’t help yourself. Because you want him to teach you to be wise now that he’s shown you how to be good. “That he was kept from you? That you missed an entire lifetime of being a father? I never once saw you furious or resentful. How did you do it?”

“Don’t know,” he sighs. “Dunno… I– It was, kind of, the worst thing anyone’s ever done to me, truth be told, but I didn’t have a chance to compute, to sit in any sort of anger. He was right there all of a sudden, too full of anger to leave any left over for me, and he needed me so much. He needs me so much.” And you know he’s right, and there should be guilt now, gnawing at you, but there is really only jealousy. “And he– he…” A swallow, like you can read his mind, you know what he’ll say, already nodding. “And he hates me,” he whispers into the quiet of this lovely home he’s made for himself, his words mixing with the butter yellow ray of sunshine the two of you are lying in, slanting in through the big bay window. “He hates me, hates who I am. That it’s me he found when he came lookin’.” You have to cry for him then, maybe even for the both of them, maybe even for all three of you.

“Yes,” you choke, so full of sadness for the tragedy of it all. You can’t comfort him with a denial for you’re not a liar here with him. Protection like that isn’t necessary.

“Don’t cry, sweetheart.” He hugs you so tightly, “There’s no reason to cry.”

“I can’t help it,” And return the words he’d given you once when you’d so badly needed a kindness, “You deserve more.”

He’s quiet for a long time after that, and you know him well enough now that you can hear the gears of his mind working and turning, and that makes you even sadder, perhaps, the greatest tragedy of all, this knowing, and eventually he says: “And yet, he is the son I have.” And at the end of it all, you think you are all only yourselves, and nothing can really be done about that.

And you say you want to be wise like him, that it’s your next lesson, so perhaps you should hold your tongue instead of saying: “He only just got you back, and I’m taking you away from him again. Because that’s what I want – I want to take you away and keep you only for myself. I want you to be only mine and that makes me bad. I’m bad.” Your first lesson quashed beneath the fist of your greed for a man who isn’t for you, and who you shouldn’t want, and it’s wrong and maybe even sinful or disgusting or any and all the things that are always bad. None of that matters. He’s turned you into a real person now, none of the rest of it matters.

But he understands, because of course he does, because he always has. He grips your jaw in his hands, large, strong hands, hands made for taking care of things, and tells you, not so wise seeming anymore: “Sometimes I look at myself, and it’s like I'm two feet tall. Why didn’t I meet you sooner? First? How could I have been such a coward to not go out there and search for you? I should have known you were out there, I should have sensed it. How can a man be jealous of his own son?” He turns you over then, cock hard and thrusting again, kisses you full on the mouth, and it tastes like ownership, and says, “You could never be bad. No matter what you did. You’re only ever good. Haven’t I taught you that?”

“Joel, there’s someone at the door,” peeking into the restroom where he’s just stepped out of the shower, wet and steaming, shaking his head out like a dog, towel covering all the fun bits. He’d just had you too many times already, and still, you want more. You’re made of nothing but greed now; he’s taught you how to be good, but he’s also taught you how to be greedy. You’d been strewn across his couch, eating chips and wearing his clothes and leaking his come and waiting for him to finish in the shower and come out to make dinner. He was doing steaks on the grill and baked potatoes with all the fixings and roasted vegetables, and he’d even gotten a pie and ice cream, but he said he wasn’t telling you what the flavor was, only that it was your favorite, and you can’t think how he’d know you love rhubarb, but if that’s what he’s gotten, you were going to let him do anything to you. Literally anything he wanted. Not that you didn’t already… but still, it’s the sentiment that counts, you think. He’d also said you weren’t allowed to shower, that the rule tonight was that you weren’t allowed to wash him off, and you really didn’t mind that so much. So there you were, after he’d put on Stepmom for you, and you were just thinking that Julia Roberts was surely the most beautiful woman who’d ever been born, when someone had knocked on the door, a rhythmic, friendly: tap, tap, tap, that had your heart dropping down into your stomach, and you scurrying into the master bath to frantically tell him that someone is here while you’re here wearing him all over and inside of you and what are you going to do now? He gives you a calm smile, running the towel over his wet head, giving you an eyeful of the fun bits now, and you try and not peek, you really do, but it’s really just the most exciting part on him, you can’t help yourself. His smile turns knowing, that look in his eye, “S’alright, sweetheart. Don’t fret, I’ll get it.”

“But–” you try and protest, maybe he should just pretend not to be home. What if it’s– you can’t even think of it. But then no, he’d not come here. He hates coming to this house, the proof of everything he wasn’t all in his face like this was humiliating for your ex-husband.

His smile remains, but his eyes go a little stern, “No worryin’, I’ll take care of it.” He tugs on his jeans, the man literally never wears underwear, slut, and tugs on a shirt, pressing a kiss to your forehead as he passes you, hand dragging over your belly, smelling of soap and Joel and want, want, want. You follow him on tip toes down the hall, pausing at the mouth of the living room, chewing on your lip and your fingers, about to spit your heart out with nerves as he pulls the door open.

“Hi, Joel, honey. How’s it goin’?” Pretty, bubbly, overly friendly voice you were definitely not expecting. You take a small step forward, the mouth of the hall slightly to the left of the front door so that you can see her without her seeing you, watch his profile as he talks to her. Edie, he says, and that dishwasher givin’ you trouble again, and laughs at her reply, the sound of their conversation going out of your ears as you watch him, head falling sideways on your neck a little bit, the way he laughs at whatever the woman that’s come knocking on the door of his home all friendly and comfortable to interrupt his time with you is saying, loud, bellyfull, one arm braced against the doorframe so that you can see her eyes flit every few seconds to the thick bulge of muscle there. Your face goes hot, your insides green and bitter, but he’s laughing just handsomely enough that you know it’s not real. You know his real laugh, and it isn’t this one. The woman leans forward, blonde hair and big boobs and batting lashes, but Joel shifts backwards subtly, keeping a respectful distance, and your pulse throbs at the backs of your knees and the pit of your stomach. She likes him, she’s here because she likes him, asking him to look at her dishwasher or something, yeah, sure, sure that’s the only thing she wants looked at.

“I’ll come take a look at it tomorrow. How ‘bout that? I’m sure it’ll be another quick fix like last time, but you should probably think about just replacin’ the thing at this point,'' he tells her.

“Oh, can’t you now, Joel?” She pouts, “It’s just that–”

“I’m tied up tonight, Edie,” he cuts her off, an indulgent, too charming smile on his face, and oh, it pisses you off, that smile. You turn on your heel, stomping down the hall back to his bedroom. Huffing, gnashing your teeth. The sight of him with another woman, a more appropriate woman because of course she is, it makes you sick, angry, something terrible, so, so jealous your bones itch beneath the surface of your skin. It makes you small and slanted again, wrong place, wrong time, wrong girl. Not for him, never for him, and it’s so unfair, and he is so– so… Smiling at her like that, using that tone of voice, propping up his stupid huge arm like that so that his muscle’s all defined and put on display, and you hate him and the way he makes you feel and how much you want and need him. On the verge of tears or screaming or vomiting you scramble around his room, trying to collect your clothes and your strewn panties and where the fuck is your bra and your other shoe?

“What’re you doin’?” Comes his soft, steady voice a moment later. Entirely too even for the way you feel right now. You want to hiss at him or bite him or do something entirely uncivilized.

“I have to go home.”

“Why?”

“I have something to do. I forgot.”

“Something, what? What do you have to do?” But you ignore him, rifling through the strewn clothes on the armchair in the corner – where the hell is your goddamn bra? “Look at me–” he barks, now having stepped further into the bedroom.

“Oh, fuck off,” and there’s a part of you that knows that you’re being irrational, that he’s done nothing wrong, but you feel so provoked suddenly. In need of a fight or a thrashing or something, something to make this terrible feeling poisoning you on the inside go away.

“Watch your mouth, little girl,” and his voice is so calm and so quiet and so scary. It makes you lock up one second, spin around the next to spit and hiss at him like an angry cat. You will not watch your mouth. “She wants you.” You almost stomp your foot like a child throwing a fit, but he’s entirely still and silent, taking you in with the most unfathomable of looks. “Do you know that?” And this time you do stomp your foot. “Do you want her back?”

He blinks once, and then like a lightbulb turning on, even though you’re obvious as daylight, “You’re jealous.”

“Do you want her back?” You ask again, real tears in your voice this time.

And his gaze goes soft and tender and entirely understanding, “Never.” He shakes his head.

“She looked like a fucking idiot.” You pout, childish – how will he ever want you when you act like this?

“I only want you.” But you don’t believe him. How could you? When there’s nowhere for this to go. When he deserves so much more than the options afforded to him here between the two of you. And you want to fight with him because there’s nothing to be done, no choices, no other recourse, and it’s not his fault and there’s no one to blame and no outlet for this terrible anger inside of you. You feel like you’re choking on it, being swallowed whole, that head breaking water feeling reversed so that now you’re deep at the bottom of the well of your own wanting. You turn back to the fruitless search for your bra. He’s hidden it from you, you’re sure, some evil old man ploy to keep you here trapped and braless with him. “Did you hear me? I only want you,” he says again, voice closer now.

And you think you’re mumbling or crying, something hysterical bubbling up inside of you, I have to go, I have to go, your movements manic and jerking. He grips your arm, jerking you around into his chest, face flushed with anger now, but voice still even, “You’re not fucking listening to me. I only want you,” and yanks your hand to feel the hard cock trapped beneath the confines of his jeans. This is only for you. But it’s not, not in any real way, not in a way that would let you keep him and that realization sets something off inside of you. You thrash in his hold, let me go, let me go, trying to kick him in the shins while he tries to wrap his arms around your struggling form, that rumbling chant constant in your ear, I only want you, I only want you, I am only for you. It feels like he’s burrowing beneath your skin, unzipping you, splaying your insides wide open for his gaze, taking hold of your bones, a puppet on his string. You manage to yank your arm out from beneath his grip and unthinking, a buzzing so high pitched it makes you dizzy and nauseous sounding in your ears, you slap him in the face. Not very hard, maybe, but enough that you hear the crack of your palm meeting the grizzled scruff of his cheek. The sound like a bone snapping, setting off something inside both of you even worse, more frenzied than before. He groans deep in his chest, big hand fisting in your hair and jerking it back so hard you yelp in pain. “Hit me again, do it again. I want you any way I can have you, even angry. Do it again,” he goads you on, but that mindless hand is fisted in his shirtfront now, pulling you closer to him, tear stained mouth seeking his, opening to receive his filthy kiss.

“I’m sorry,” you cry, but all he says is that he only wants you, again and again, grips you harder, makes it hurt more, and you whine and whimper and scratch and bite, a wild thing, the two of you caught up in some strange struggle of push and pull and want and fight. You can feel the hard length of his cock grinding against your belly, searching for something hot and wet to fuck into, and you hitch your knee around his hip, open yourself to him, listen to his groan in your ear, throaty and full.

“You just need a little remindin’? Don’t you, huh?” He tugs your head back, none too gentle, to look at your tear slicked face, his eyes on fire, almost a little manic. He spins you away from him, shoving you towards the bed, ignoring your whines and protests, shut up and bend over, pushing you over the edge of the bed and crouching down behind you. “You just need a little remindin’ of how to be a good girl. I know that’s all this fightin’ is. Right, baby?” No, you try and struggle, kicking your leg out uselessly to the side, but he pins you with your arms back behind you at the small of your waist, pushing his shirt up your back to expose the naked curve of your ass and the pussy you know he’ll find humiliatingly wet and hungry for him. “Just need remindin’ of how to be a good girl for me, right?” His fingers slide down to the apex of your thighs, finding you dripping and swollen from his earlier use and your current desire, all twisted up and compounded ten fold with your jealousy.

“So wet already for me, baby,” he coos at you.

And oh, he’s so annoying, and you’re so embarrassing and weak for him. “Shut up, old man,” you whine. A single finger enters you slowly, rubbing up against all the terribly sensitive and swollen places inside of you, then pulls his wet fingers from you to deliver a single stinging swat to the curve of your ass, sticky wet imprint of yourself left behind.

“Yeah, and this old man fucks you better than anyone else,” he slips his fingers gently back inside of you, “Remember that you little whore,” he says even more gently. The words make you twist and writhe, a terrible flush of lust burning through you. He feels you tighten around his fingers, groans appreciatively. “Oh, you like that, don’t you?” He twists his fingers inside of you, pressing hard against something that makes you feel like you’re about to wet yourself. You cry out, squeezing your eyes shut and shaking your head, refusing to answer. “No lyin’. You daddy’s little whore?”

“Nuh uh,” you shake your head, your hips moving with the rhythm of his thrusting fingers. He brushes his thumb slowly over your pulsing clit, plays you like a game.

“No?” His voice is so soft, so teasing.

“I’m not your whore–”

“You’re not? Then what are you, baby? Tell me.”

You’re right there, so close, about to come on his fingers. “I'm your baby. I'm your baby. I’m yours– I belong to you, daddy.” He pulls his fingers from your cunt, hand coming to grip your ass cheek so hard it hurts, fingernails digging into your soft skin, dragging down the smooth surface. You can hear him panting behind you, shaking, trying to control himself. He makes a gruff, rough sound in his throat, gentles his grip on you.

“You don’t think I don’t get fucking jealous?” he spits when he’s finally managed to control himself. “You think I don't think about you with my own son and want to die? That he got to have you in a way I never will, and even worse, wasted you? You don’t think it makes me sick with envy?” He brings his fingers back to play in your wet folds, feels the slick drip of you, thrums at your clit, opening you to him with a hand on your cheek and licking you from clit to asshole. Running the flat expanse of his tongue over the length of your sex and then sucking hard at the apex of nerves, hard enough that you can’t tell if it hurts or feels good or a little bit of both. He’s got you bent over the end of his bed facing the dresser so that you have a clear view of the two of you in the mirror above it. And the sight of him, massive frame crouched down behind you, huge and hulking, face buried in your cunt from behind, the curved slope of his nose, the long, thick lashes, eyes closed like he’s enjoying himself more than he’s ever enjoyed anything else in his entire life as he licks your ass and sucks on your clit. He pulls back, and you watch, almost in slow motion, as he shocks you by swatting your entire sex with his big hand, and then immediately brings his face back to lick and kiss your smarting skin. “But he didn’t fuck you the way you needed to be fucked,” he continues. “And I do. He didn’t understand you, but I do. At least I have that.” It sounds like he’s consoling himself, and you can’t help but find consolation in it as well. Your eyes move up to your own reflection, sweat slicked and tear stained, eyes glassy, wet fingers inside of your mouth because you need something to chew on to stand the terrible throbbing in your cunt on the verge of coming. He licks you again, presses his tongue to your asshole. “Did you ever get wet for him like this?” He pulls back, runs the pads of his fingers over your clit in fast, hard up and down motions, makes it feel so good it hurts, you’re right there, you’re right there, pulls away. “Were you ever desperate for him like this? Cunt all drippy and swollen and pathetic for him like you are for me, my sweet baby?”

Never, daddy. Never. Only you. You can’t lie to him when he’s got his tongue inside of you, it’s just not possible. Only me. Only mine. You press up on your tippy toes, roll back down onto the balls of your feet, “Yeah, rub that sweet pussy all over daddy’s face,” he mumbles into your skin, slurps at you. He wraps his lips around your clit once more, sucks and licks and sucks again, and your cunt goes so, so tight, I’m gonna come, I’m gonna come, daddy, and then just stops. Pulls away entirely, gets to his feet, leaves you to throb and shiver and beg, whole body flashing hot and cold on the precipice of orgasm. Still holding you pinned in place with your wrists at the small of your back, you watch his eyes roam along your draped form, he drags his hand down the wet length of his face, wiping the drippiness of your slick away. “Stay just like that for me,” and his eyes move to yours in the mirror, as if he’s known the entire time just how riveted on him you’d been. “What?” He asks with a crooked brow and a mean little smirk. “You think you get to come? After that little display?”

“Don’t be mean,” you whisper, staying exactly as he’d directed. Trying your best to be a good girl.

“Shoulda thought of that before, sweet girl.” He bends over the length of you so you’re eye to eye now, gets his face right up close to yours and presses a kiss to the tip of your nose. “You wanna pretend to fight, stand there like an indignant little girl stomping your foot and yellin’ about bein’ jealous while my come runs down your thighs still. Obviously, I’m not doin’ a good enough job of remindin’ you you’re mine, how much I want you. Gonna fix that now.” Presses another soft kiss to your mouth now.

“You’re trying to dominate me,” you whine, struggling to press against his mouth again even as he pulls back out of your reach, plants a big palm between your shoulders to keep you still.

“You bet your fuckin’ ass I am. You’re gonna do what I tell you to when you’re letting me fill you with my come the way you are. And you’re gonna like it too. You get me?”

“Yes, daddy.”

But then he goes serious, that teasing glint in his eyes flickering away suddenly. “You have nothing to be jealous of. Ever. I don’t want anyone but you. I don’t care about anything else but this.” And even though you’re sure it must be a lie, it sounds so lovely, you choose to believe him for now. You nod up at him, sniffling and crying again a little bit. “And no one takes care of you like I do,” he finally says, as if it’s a reminder, a consolation to the both of you once again.

And he’s right, as he tells you to stay put, be a good girl and not move, leaves you there bent over the bed, that chant sounds in your mind, no one takes care of you like he does, no one, no one, no one.

He steps back into his bedroom to the sight of you still draped over the bed, big eyes wet and slightly vacant, pussy red and swollen and bared to him like a wound with his name on it. You’d brought your fingers up to your mouth, chewing on your fingernails the way you did sometimes when you were anxious or overwhelmed, and when your eyes flit to him, taking in the bowl of warm water, the washcloth and shaving cream in his hold, they go wide, shocked. He arranges his things, gripping you by the hips to turn you over, pulling his shirt from you, leaving you entirely naked, and settling between your spread thighs. “Wh– what are you doing?” Voice all breathy and hitched, the thrum of your excited pulse in your throat.

“Gonna shave you bare. Then I’m gonna eat you ‘til you’re crying, ‘til you’re so swollen you can barely take my fingers. After that, I’m gonna wedge my cock inside you and fuck you ‘til you’re so full’a my come you’ll remember not to forget you ain’t got no reason to be jealous ever again.” He strokes your curls gently with the pad of his thumb, something like fondness in the gesture, clicks his tongue. “These’re so pretty. Gonna miss ‘em.”

“Oh my god,” you choke when he drapes the water warmed washcloth over your spread pussy.

“You wanna be a brat, you wanna fight and act like you don’t know I belong to you and you to me? That none of that other shit matters– I’m gonna remind you, don’t worry.”

You crane your neck, pushing up on your elbows to watch him remove the washcloth and cover the soft curls of your groin with shaving cream. When he opens the blade and brings it to your skin, the sight of the straight edged blade against you, the smooth cream as the steel reveals the bare, satin soft skin beneath, has your chest heaving, sweat pooling at the little notch of your throat – fucking gorgeous and his.

“You’re going to be so sensitive, baby,” he murmurs as he bends your leg back and opened wide, splitting you for his gaze. Delicate with the movements of his wrist as he shaves you. “All bare and slick down here, just for me. You’re so swollen already.”

You mumble something, moaning and letting yourself flop back against the mattress, he’s quick to pull the blade from you, pausing his movements while you settle, gives you a second to press the balls of your palms into the sockets of your eyes, whining Joel and daddy and please. And the trust in this moment between the two of you, that you’re letting him wield a blade so close to your fragile center, letting him do this to you as a way to remind the both of you of the power you cede and wield over and to one another, something that gives him the opportunity to inflict his will in a way that recenters you, reminds you that you’re his, his to do with you as he will, and it’s just the two of you in this space and you trust each other implicitly, it has a sense of control swelling inside of Joel, making his cock rock hard in his jeans, leak down his thigh. Control in a way there is none of in everything else between the two of you. Control in a way there cannot exist in any other aspect of your relationship. When he’s finished, he cleans you slowly with a new warm, damp cloth, then goes to put away his supplies, and when he returns, he looms over you, taking in the sight of your little bald cunt now.

Slowly, he starts to pull his clothes off, watching the quick panting of your breathing, the dip and swell of your belly, so aroused by the intimacy you’ve just shared that your pupils are blown wide and dark. “You’ve made such a mess, little girl,” he says, dragging a single finger through your overflowing slit, following the slick from your swollen clit to your asshole where it pools beneath. He fingers your folds gently, avoiding your swollen clit, your little hole winking at him wantonly. “Please–” you whisper so softly, almost gasping for breath you can barely get the words out.

“Oh, I know, sweetheart. I know you need to come so bad, don’t you?” He drags his palms up and down your thighs, up to your waist and then tugs you down over the edge of the bed and onto your knees in front of him, wide eyes riveted hungry on his cock. “How does it feel? So sensitive, isn’t it?” He’s so hard his erection stands straight up towards his belly, balls hanging heavy and full and aching. He gently drags his fingers along your scalp, feels the heat emanating from your skull. “Lick it all over, get it nice and wet so I can put it inside you.” He knows he needs to be careful now. The two of you are wide open to each other in this moment, so on edge he could come just at the look in your eyes, and you, something more than just vulnerable. He’d worried briefly, in the past weeks, if he should stop, send you away, take himself away, tell you it was too much. You were getting too attached, and although he knew it was too late for himself, that he was beyond salvaging when it came to you, he could imagine nothing worse than seeing you come out hurt from this. Could also imagine no scenario in which you wouldn’t anymore. He feeds you his cock, fisted tightly at the root to stave off his impending orgasm, slides all the way to the back of your throat until he feels his tip hit resistance, enjoying the sight of you choking on it for just a second. Good girl. “Fuck– fuck, yes. See, see how good you can be for me?” He tells you as you suck on his tip, hollowing your cheeks and running your tongue all around the wide head, tonguing his foreskin, making him hiss and bear his teeth at you while you look up at him with falsely innocent eyes. He yanks you up and against him, gives you a filthy, wet kiss, all tongue and teeth and false control, swallowing down the taste of his own precum. He’s never felt less in control of himself, of a situation, than he does right now. He has, in these past weeks, entirely lost sight of himself, of what this should and should not have been, blindly led by his cock and his heart. He’s lost all control, and Joel is nothing but weakness and want now.

Turning you in his arms, he sits at the edge of the bed, thighs spread wide and pulls you onto his lap, impaling you back onto his spit-slick cock so swiftly he doesn't even think you’re expecting it until he’s bumping against your womb, your knees hooked and spread wide over his own. Too desperate to lick your cunt again the way he’d planned. You let out a long, shocked keen, back arching, trying to escape the too big cock suddenly shoved inside of your tiny hole. Joel has to grit his teeth, take deep breaths through his nose and out through his mouth before he can speak at the feel of you fluttering and pulsing around him, “The more you whine, the harder I’ll fuck you, got it?” There’s nothing even close to a coherent response coming out of your mouth, and he was right, shaved bare like this, you’re so much more sensitive. He pulls the lips of your sex gently apart around where he’s impaling you, takes in the sight of your little hole stretched obscenely around his fat cock in the mirror’s reflection and slowly starts to seesaw his hips back and forth, watching his glossy length disappear in and out of you. “How does it feel, baby? You’re so pretty, look at yourself.” He whispers into the small shell of your ear, presses a soft kiss to the lobe, tugs on it with his teeth. He slides in all the way, pulling your hips down so that his balls press against the curve of your ass. “Look, see where daddy’s so deep inside you – can see it in your belly.” Your head lolls back on his shoulder, gaze hooded and delirious, but your hand moves down to the soft skin of your stomach, gently cupping the outline of his cock inside of you. “I’m so deep inside of your tiny cunt, baby. Look at how you’re all mine–” He starts to move again, flicking at your clit, interchanging between fast and hard and slow and so soft you can barely feel it, and your face looks like you want to say something, tell him something, scream, but can’t. And there’s so much he’d like to tell you too, all the things you deserve and probably need to hear from him, but can’t either. He feels you start to tighten up on him, the heat in your body suddenly seeming to flush higher and brighter, almost to boiling, your cunt going so, so tight it almost pushes him out. He presses inside harder, holds you in place with one hand, and thrums fast and hard at your clit with the other, focusing the tip of his cock at the front wall of your pussy, “You’re gonna come–” he grunts, holds you in place and hammers into that swollen place inside of you he’d kill to own for the rest of his life. “Fuck– fuck, you’re gonna squirt all over my cock, aren’t you? Can feel it–” Your face spasms, your belly clenching hard and tight, and you gush, letting out a pained, animal sound, voice broken and breathless, wetting both of your thighs with your come, the bed covers beneath soaked dark. Joel doesn’t stop. He wants more, again, all of you, thrums again at your clit with the pads of his fingers, changes the angle of your hips to roll you fast and hard onto his come-slicked length, pinches your clit hard, watches you squirt all over him again. Something like the sound of his name leaves your mouth in a broken cry, your chewed raw nails trying to claw at him ineffectively. “Dirty fucking girl – creamin’ all over your daddy’s cock,” his voice is gruff, not entirely his own. There’s something here – you’d told him once you’d always felt out of control. In your relationship with Sam, aware of what he was, always, of what you were and were not, and that there was something about control that was so necessary to you now. And there is something here like control, your control over him, taking hold of him entirely so he’s unsure of what it is he should and should not be, here and now, with you. He should not be delusional, he should be aware. He is not adhering to either very well.

He goes to his feet with you still impaled on his throbbing length, erection so hard it hurts, can barely stand up straight, blood pounding on rhythm to the chant of your name. He pulls you from him, watches the slick slide of your cunt walls dragging along his length, the cream of your slick left as a reminder all over his skin. He presses you onto the bed, rolls you this way and that too look at you all over, bends to drag his tongue through that drippy cunt of yours that squirts and comes so prettily for him, then back up and kneeling above you, between your glossy thighs, and thrusting into that tight cunt, grunting as you clench around him. So hard he feels the screaming tip of his cock punch against your cervix, listens to you make a hurt, hiccupy sound when his balls slap against you.

He should be gentle. He should be careful. He should be aware, not delusional, himself. He should reach back and take hold of that man he always thought himself to be, hard and cold but never cruel. Maybe not good, but always aware and never weak. He’s none of those things now here with you. Joel is now only himself. You’ve made me into a real person, you’d whispered onto his tongue. What he’d not told you was that you’d done the same to him.

You’re a gift, a gift, a gift, a gift. A gift in the way his son never was. A gift in the way that a whole lifetime lost and returned to him never was, and Joel is weak and two feet tall and made of paper, but for you. Anyways, or despite it all, still made only for you.

“Fuck me like you’re in love with me,” you say, read his mind, take hold of the beating mass in his chest. Fuck me like you’re in love with me. And maybe you don’t mean it. Maybe you’re too far gone. It doesn’t matter.

He does it anyway. Pulls back, wedges back inside the too swollen, too sensitive, too tiny cunt that belongs to him. He bears his teeth at you, grabs hold of your face so hard you’ll bruise, and fucks you like he’s in love with you. It comes to him so easily, after all.

Shoving his knees high up beneath your thighs, he brings your ankles to his shoulders, little feet knocking against his ears, he wishes for sense, he finds none, only a deeper, sharper angle. The sounds of your cries and the things you whisper in his ear he knows you should not say and he should not listen to that fill him full of things he should not feel like I was made for you and daddy, there’s no one like you and come inside me, please, please, I need it. He pulls his hips back, swings them forward, listens to the sound of his balls slap, and you beg for harder, savors the fire that pools in his belly and the base of his spine. And he thinks that he should pull out, he’s been so fucking careless with you and your future and your vulnerability, but he’s like a monster full of greed, intent on nothing but staking his claim, leaving a claim, desperate for a way to be remembered or never forgotten or never left behind. “We have to be careful,” he begs you, and feels scared and terrible for a moment, not to be trusted with a gift like this in his hands. “I’m going to get you fucking pregnant, God.”

But you’re like some siren, something taking him away from himself, and you tell him, “I don’t care, I don’t care,” voice gone so far away from yourself too, all hazy, full of bubbles and too cock drunk to be true or sane, but it lands like a gut punch anyway. And Joel tries to hold onto himself he does, he swears he does, tries to remain rational, and aware of what this was supposed to be and not supposed to be. Tells you to please, “Shut up, shut up. Please, don’t say those things to me, I’m begging you.” But eventually that siren song wins out, the feel of your cunt sucking him deeper, milking him dry, your small damp hands pulling at his hair, stubby nails dragging down the skin of his cheeks, over his back, and Joel’s weak now. Weak and full of want and greed and delusion so that all that’s left is capitulation and: “You want daddy to fuck his babies into you? You want me to fill you up and keep you forever?” But something of himself must remain because he covers your mouth, big hand wrapped around your sweaty little face before you can answer, forcing the words silent inside of your mouth, the truth you both know you’d spit out otherwise. Yes, yes, I do. And as if the idea of you carrying his child held a direct like to your orgasm, you start to come around him, overwhelmed cunt, split in two and carved in the shape of his name now, clenching around him, going so wet and hot and tight Joel’s sure he’ll never be able to leave it ever again. You reach down between the two of you, grasp the half of his cock outside of your wet clutch, shiny with your slick and jack him off with sharp little tugs, make sure he fills you with his spend full to the brim. He spills over and out, dribbles down the slope of your ass to leave you lying in a little puddle of his semen, and when he pulls out, careful to not ask you to hold all of his weight over you, he brings your fingers to your gaping cunt, “Feel where daddy’s been,” lets you play in the imprint of himself he’s left behind.

He lays beside you, steaming hot little thing worming up against him, nuzzling beneath his chin, pressing tiny kisses that tell him all the things the both of you need to hear and say, and he feels himself go cool and dry inside and out. Something terrible suddenly swelling within him. Something that reeks of truth, and you must smell it in the air as well because you share a piece of your own painful honesty with him, force him to confront it. “Sometimes I think I’m impossible to love,” in the smallest voice he’s surely ever heard.

“Haven’t I shown you how untrue that is?” Because if there’s one thing he’ll never do with you, it’s lie.

You tuck your hand beneath your cheek, and you glow, and he feels blinded by it for a moment, eyes wide and so vulnerably tender, something afraid that makes something equally vulnerable inside of him rage and beat its chest. “Is that what this is? Are we in love, Joel?”

He thinks you must see the fear in his eyes, because yours suddenly go calm, fathomless, something steady for him to hold on to, and that stench of honesty chokes him. “Yeah–” he nods, swallows, thinks of his son, hates himself. “I think so, baby.”

What can remain the same after honesty like that? After splitting yourself open and showing each other your insides in such a way? What could possibly remain the same? Nothing. The truth is laid bare, and all that’s left now. And instead of setting you free, the truth never really sets you free, it makes everything terribly fraught and frightened and fragile.

When he moves to stand, the sound of your desperation for him to make you his in an irreversible way rings like exploding shrapnel in your ears, “Do you think we’re bad?” You ask because you’ve only ever wanted to be good, but his eyes are so haunted, large and round and fathomless. His face, taking on a sudden sort of gauntness as he thinks of what to say to you after the worst has already been said. You watch the line of his throat ripple as he swallows several times, reading the real truth in his eyes before he shakes his head slowly, incongruous like a lie, “Never you,” and he does not include himself, “Never you.” It’s devastating. Devastating that the only thing that’s ever mattered, the thing that has finally made you good, is bad in his eyes.

You sit at the kitchen table, watching him while he makes dinner for you. Cold and shivery and wet between your legs in a way that’s not comfortable anymore. In a way that feels like an essential part of you is slowly dripping out, leaving you grossly empty inside. The beautiful dinner he’d bought and made for you tastes like ash wrapped in all the honesty surrounding the two of you, and you stare at each other and there's no need for more words because the truth is all right here in front of the two of you to see with your own two eyes. You want to go get dressed, but you don’t want to call attention to the seed of wrongness that’s been planted now. Are we in love? When the answer had so obviously been yes for so long already. Naive, silly girl. And you want to be angry with him. Ask him why he’d done this to you, made you fall in love with him when he’d said before that you couldn’t, when it was all so hopeless. You also want to hear him say it, say the words out loud with teeth and tongue and sound, you want to taste the words in your mouth because seeing them in his eyes wrapped in all that hopelessness isn’t nearly enough to satiate this hunger he’s stoked inside of you. You want to ask him to hold you, to crawl into his lap and have him cradle you like a child protected in the embrace of stronger, wiser arms. You want to have never been put on this path, to have never met his son, never have married him, never have met him. You want the whole terrible ordeal to be wiped from mind and mouth and memory. You want to have not had to accept it all, not have moved on, not be grateful in ways you can’t even understand for the lesson it’d all posed. You want it all to have never happened. To never have experienced the entire convoluted mess of feelings this ordeal of tearing down your entire life to make yourself anew had caused. To have never fallen in love with your ex-husbands father.

He sits in his chair, hands cupping his chin for so long, silent and staring, probably wondering what to do with you, and when he finally stands, nothing but a long, pained sigh to interrupt the terrible silence, you finally muster the strength to go find that missing bra. Crawl home, once again a ghoul in the night in need of wound licking. And it must be that very same terrible silence, the even more terrible look in his eyes that has something pressurized, set to burst, bottled inside of you because when a knock on the door sounds once again, you don’t even stop for half a thought, exploding suddenly. In his clothes and come, ripping the door open, the words on your tongue ready to spit at her that he’s already got one desperate woman on his hands that needs taking care of, and no, he will not be fixing her dishwasher or her pussy or anything else she thinks she might need him for.

But it’s not the neighbor. And you have nothing but fear lodged in your throat to spit out when you meet his eyes.

Eyes like his father’s, colder, crueler, furious and humiliated, take you in. Just fucked hair and a flannel that’s not your own, mis-buttoned, come-dryed thighs. And worst of all, his voice, like he isn’t even that surprised, like he’d come here just to find this, “You fucking whore.”

“Sam–” you’re not sure if you actually say his name, but the intention is held there, on the tip of your tongue. A plea for mercy or a shout for help or protection or something.

“You fucking whore,” and you flinch at the scream in his throat, scuffle back into the safety of the house of the man you love who is the father of the man you were married to, the man who broke you, the betrayed son. He’s shocked still for a single second, before he’s charging at you, fist not entirely raised but definitely held with consideration. And, “I knew it, I always fucking knew it,” before Joel is there, stepping between you and your ex-husuband, his son, blocking you with his body, big hand wrapping entirely around your forearm to hold you close to himself, to hold you in his protection.

“You better put your fucking arm down before I break it, son.” That moment, Joel’s voice, the utter betrayal in his son’s eyes. The sound of you breaking something that you should have never ever gotten in between. It is worse than all the rest. You take him in, the sight of this man who you used to be married to, he’d always seemed so large in your eyes before, so unattainable. Something never to be fully touched, only gazed upon. Always apart, always cold. Sam’s eyes fall to the place where his father holds you, and his face spasms, something terrible. Broken and alone, a child cast out into the cold. And you want to say that he seems so different now, haggard and gaunt and whittled down to bare bones, but it isn’t the truth. You always knew what he was, your most terrible bit of honesty. You always knew, you’d just not cared before. There was never any separation, no space for you to take a breath and want better for yourself. To be under his scrutiny, something that at one time felt like admiration, but was never anything even close, it was like nothing else, like everything, a great lie. But he was too aware of it, of himself, of that power he held over you, and unlike his father, he was cruel with it. Your eyes move up to the back of Joel’s head, the hard edge of his jaw, the muscle that spasms furiously there. What would it do to you now to be under that same sort of attention, influence, admiration, but from a kinder, gentler, honest source? What had it done to you? Dangerous to risk yourself again, impossible to stop now.

“I always knew it,” he says again, “I always knew you wanted him. What? You let him fuck you?” The words in his mouth are a terrible thing, Joel says something, tells him to hold his tongue, to get the fuck out, but your eyes are riveted on the sight of his face, this man you used to be married to who’d broken you so completely, who’d stolen your very memory of yourself. He seems wholly unrecognizable now, and in a way, it frightens you, that someone you’d known for what seemed like so long could be such a stranger now. Joel’s hand is an anchor, such a comfort wrapped around your arm. “You barely let me touch you for two years, but you’ll bend over like a whore for my fucking Dad?” His voice breaks and it makes you want to laugh a little bit.

Joel shoves him backward, jerking you forward still in his hold. “Say that word one more time in my house, and I won’t be held responsible for what I do to you. And don’t fucking look at her,” he snaps, reaching up to give him a quick two tapped slap on the cheek to focus his gaze on himself. “Get out, Sam. I’ll call you later. We can–”

But unheeded or too far gone, like he needs to hear the sound of the words as a comfort to himself in this moment, Sam looks back at you, “You’re a fucking whore. I wish I’d never met you, I hate you.” Joel shoves him backwards again, harder this time so that his leg slams into the side table, overturning the lamp there into a crashing heap on the floor, so hard that when he pulls you with him it feels as if he’ll wrench your shoulder from its socket with the force of his anger. You yelp in pain, but cling to him anyways, refusing to let him go either, hiding behind the hill of his shoulder. Pushing his son away, not letting you go. It’s wrong, it’s wrong and you’d told him that you wanted to keep him, to take him away from his own son, that you were made of nothing but greed, but there’s something wrong here, inherently not right, bad.

And even yet, you can’t help the look on your face that must surely be nothing short of humiliating to Sam for the way he reddens, the little muscles in his face jerking uncontrollably. You’re done here, Sam. Get the fuck out, Joel says again, taking a step forward to herd him out, pulling you along, keeping you close. You taunt him with your gaze, can’t help yourself, “I thought I was a prude?” You say from behind the protection of his father’s body. “Isn’t that what you called me for all those years? Thought I was frigid, unfuckable, unlovable? Am I not anymore?” You ask in a small, breathy voice, falsely guileless, entirely provoking. “Have you changed your mind now that I’ve taken your Daddy from you?” False pout and mocking eyebrow.

Joel’s head snaps over his shoulder, incredulous look on his face, and Sam flinches as if struck, splintered glass in the shape of his son’s gaze, it fractures, falls back to where Joel holds you.“I wanted to talk to you,” He says to his father, “I wanted to– You’re really choosing her over me?” It costs Sam something to say this, and you weren’t expecting it either because suddenly, the game changes. His voice is child-like in its hurt, that son who longed for his father for all those years. “After everything that was stolen from us, you’re not going to choose me?” You know in that moment, he’s won.

“This isn’t about choice, son,” Joel tells him, but you hear it for the lie it is. “This isn’t about you versus her.”

“But it is,” and his eyes flash to yours, victory held in them. “She was my wife. And you’re my father, and you have to make a choice now. This is fucking sick.” There’d always been an intelligence to his cruelty, and he wields it now. The sound of his son’s name is a choked thing in Joel’s mouth. He goes rigid, a painful stillness, muscles vibrating with warring emotions. You hold your breath for it. He looks down at where he holds you, tightens his grip painfully, and then slowly, so that the three of you are sure to take in the whole procession of it, he lets go of your arm. One finger at a time, the heat of his palm leaving you, and you’re alone.

“It isn’t about choice,” he says again, and yet, one has already been made. You stand still, head bent, gaze riveted on the place where he’d let you go. He takes a step away from you, towards his son, and his voice is low and gentle and soothing now, and you’re still staring at the barrenness of your arm.

I had such potential to be good, you think. He just never saw it. But you don’t know who you mean. And you don’t think it matters anymore.

They say more to each other. Joel’s hand on his son’s arm now, pushing him towards the door, but still, still comforting for the thing it symbolizes, a benediction of choice, and you turn around to face the other side of the room. You can’t look – wrapping your arms around yourself. You don’t think you’ll run this time. Face it head on, let it be over now in full. Sam’s voice rings shrill, the sound of your name and curses and accusations, fighting a futile fight against his father’s even baritone, the sound of the slamming door, and then silence. When you turn back over your shoulder, they’ve stepped outside together, leaving you alone inside the house.

He’d asked you once what you wanted, and you can’t fathom what the point of it had been. What does it matter what I want? That’s the least significant thing here. It always was.

When he finally comes back inside, you’re dressed, lost bra retrieved, your bag packed and sitting at your feet. You’d gone into the kitchen just before, taken a peek at the pie, and you were right, and you don’t know how he could have possibly known, but he’d gotten you rhubarb. Your face is dry now, no tears and no will to cry. There’s nothing to speak of in his gaze when he leans back against the door to look at you, swallowing down words you’re sure will mean nothing in the face of all of this. And you look at him and you love him and you think, I was married to a man once and now I’m not and now I’m with his father and I love him in the way I never loved the son; and so now, I must ask myself, am I merely looking for the love of lesser man, who could have never given me what I needed, in the eyes of a man who seems to have all the answers?

You don’t think so. And yet, there are still no answers to be had, and no questions left to ask.

“I’m going this time,” In case he has designs to force you to stay, and even though there’s a light of acceptance in his eyes, he still shakes his head. Swallows and gathers his seams about himself before he says, “You aren’t leaving me,” gaze churning from warry to flinty to resolved.

“I was never supposed to stay at all. I was never supposed to be for you. You said so yourself– you said we couldn’t fall in love. That I wasn't for you.” You get to your feet, pulling your purse over your shoulder, and he rushes towards you, pushing the bag back down to the floor, taking your face in his hands hard, something like panic in his eyes and in the air and in the vibration of his voice.

“It doesn’t matter, none of that matters– Whatever was before, whatever was in the past doesn’t mean shit when it’s just you and me here together–” And you’re crying now, real, great sobs of grief.

“You were the one that said we couldn’t fall in love,” you cry again, try and pull away, but he holds you to himself, squeezes you against him, shivers like he too is crying, burying his face in your shoulder.

“I was a fucking idiot, a damn liar. There was never any other option, baby.” Most terrible of terrible truths, you’d both known if for the lie it was the moment he’d said it, even before, probably. You stand limply in the circle of his embrace. He’d said once that he’d been a coward not to go out and look for you, but you know the opposite is true. No one is more of a coward than you were for not having waited for him. For having been so desperate for love, you’d been willing to settle for the wrong kind. You’ll never be able to settle for false comfort like that again, and it’s all his fault. “You’ve ruined me now. I’m ruined.”

He pulls back to take your face in his hands again, and you were right, he is crying. “I’m ruined! And I need you to give me another chance. I demand another chance– to… to fix this. To–”

But another chance for what? To change what? “He’s your son, and I only want you to be happy.” And you know he couldn’t ever be happy, truly happy, estranged from his only child. After all, like he’d said, the theft of him had been the worst thing ever done. You wouldn’t commit a crime like that against Joel also, never.

“Baby, please, I think… I– I love–”

“Please–” You press the tips of your fingers to his mouth, silencing him. “Please, don’t do this to me now.” It makes you angry, this intent of his to trap you here with his love when there’s no room for you to stay. You turn away, picking up your bag again, but he snatches you back into himself, wrapping his big arms around your waist, crushing you against his chest. And you’d struggle if you could, but there’s so little fight left in you. “You’re the one that said – you said we couldn’t!”

“I know what I fucking said,” he spits, voice so angry it almost frightens you. “But there’s still– We have to talk, we have to–”

“What can you possibly imagine there’s left to say?”

“Everything.”

“Or nothing.”

“Look at me. Look at me–” He pulls your head back and to the side by your chin. There’s a bright flush sitting high on his cheekbones, and his eyes shift quickly back and forth between yours, searching for a way to fix this. To fix the good thing that’s now been broken. His thumb strokes the point of your chin softly, and he presses his mouth slowly to yours, eyes open to watch for your reaction. “This wasn’t a mistake,” he tells you, “We weren’t a mistake.” Weren’t. The final nail in the coffin. “I know, I know that there are so many things– that we can’t… but just– just stand here with me for one minute, please. Just give me one more second, and I’ll–”

He doesn’t finish the thought, and you let him kiss you one last time. And when he pulls back, because it doesn’t feel like it really matters, and because you just want to hear the sound of it coming out of your mouth, because you wish it was true and not the complete opposite, because you want to be as cruel and ugly outside as you feel on the inside, you whisper, “I hate you,” a full bodied lie.

His eyes shutter and flicker for a moment, a wash of hurt suffusing them. But because he’s never been a weak man and because he’s always been honest, and he’s always, always above everything else, been good, he says, “And I love you,” and there it is. You’d thought you wanted to hear the sound of that too, but now that you have, it’s more terrible than you could have ever possibly imagined. And after that, there really is nothing left to say.

Joel goes to see his brother afterwards because it’s what he always does and who he always goes to when he’s lost. When a son in the shape of a man made of nothing but childish fear and anger and hurt, had appeared one day, dropped out of the blue sky, onto his front porch, when he realized he wanted his daughter-in-law in a way no good man should. And now, that he’s admitted, because the realization had already been there, swift and uncompromising, the admittance had been all that was left, the hard going part, that he was in love with you – in love with the woman who had been married to his son, here he finds himself again. Lost and weak and two feet tall, made of nothing but hollow bones. “I’m not myself,” he tells Tommy, and then amends the lie because he’s not come here to tell lies. “She’s made me into someone I don’t recognize and wish I could be forever.” How would he get his old self back now? Impossible. You’d taken him away with you, he was only half made now, half man, half strength. And Tommy is understanding because it has always only been the two of them, and he’s always seen Joel for exactly who he is without judgement. The most honest eyes in the whole world, his brother. “I'm afraid that she’s the love of my life. I’m afraid that I’m not really so afraid at all. And she won’t even talk to me.” You’d left his house a week and a day ago, and Joel was going out of his mind, losing pieces of himself along the way, his sanity, his sense of right and wrong, his self restraint, self possession. He was about to do something crazy, he felt it gnawing and itching at his bones. He could barely remember the look of betrayal in his own son’s eyes amidst the madness of the memory of the hurt in yours, the sight of you walking away from him. “And my son. My son, my child, Tommy, he hates me. And I’m in love with the woman he used to be married to, who he hurt. And he’s a cruel and small man, and he needs me. He needs my help, and I have a responsibility to him. But Tommy– Tommy, I love her. She’s mine. And what am I going to do? What am I going to say to him? How will I ever face him again? She’s mine, and I– I can’t explain it, I can’t excuse it. But she’s mine– she’s my woman. She belongs to me. I know this as well as I know my own name, my own face.”

And his brother, his brother, his brother who always understands him, who always stands beside him, he claps him on the shoulder and says, “If anyone can find a way, Joel, it’s you. I know you can. You’re stronger and smarter than anyone I’ve ever known. And you don’t abandon yours.” And so Joel must believe him because Tommy is his brother, and he knows him, and he knows that even though he’s weak now, even if he must let himself be weak now, in the face of all of this, Joel is not truly a weak man where it counts.

You and Sam had only ever spoken once on the topic of children. It was, from the first moment broached, a non possibility, not even half of an option. Devastating, but now, all this time later, almost like a grace from God. You’d wanted a baby so badly, more than anything in the whole world, and he would not give you one. He’d said your desire for a child was incongruous with your cold nature, how frigid you were.

And you’d been so long, caught in the who am I, in the what am I doing. You never stopped to ask why. Molded into a bad shape, but mute and deaf to the intricacies of what had carved you so. You’d needed to destroy yourself entirely, tear down everything around yourself, and then recreate yourself and everything else in your life in a new image. Perhaps, then, you’d finally have the chance to be good.

Your husband’s father had given you this. Joel had given you this.

And Joel, Joel, Joel, Joel. How to tell him that you’re sorry? That you’re vile and cruel and yes, even cold sometimes, but for him, for him you can find it in yourself to be soft, something to be forgiven, you hope. His son had called you a prude, and then, his father’s whore. Did it matter what the truth was? You weren’t so sure. Did you want Joel because you were a whore? Because your own father had never loved you, and you were thus desperate to fill that void left by lesser, crueler men? Did it matter? You hated the idea that this desire for him had to have been born by consequence of another man. What about what you wanted? What about the fact that it felt good when he was inside of you? When he gave it to you rough and hard and when he told you that you belonged to him because you did, because it was the truth. What about the fact that you were in love with him? That should have counted more because you said it counted more. And then that was it, nothing more to the thing of it. So what if he was the father of the man who’d been your husband? The man who’d stolen all of your surety, your passion, yourself. Sometimes, retribution feels fucking good. So what about it? And then, and after all, you were in love with him. So what did it all matter after that?

People liked to say that sometimes a bad thing is worth it if it feels good enough. But what if you didn't think it was bad at all, and what if it didn’t just feel good enough? What if it’s actually everything, the best thing you’d ever had in your whole life? And what if it is simply and solely, or maybe even also, who cares, who cares, what if it is simply because it’s Joel? Joel who is beautiful and strong and good. Maybe even perfect in a way that you need.

He’d told you once that he’d never had the chance to be angry, that it had been stolen from him, the worst thing ever done to me, he’d said. You know that you could never do that to him. Never hurt him in that way. And there might be so many options. Choices. Truths. Yourself. Finally, you are only yourself. Good in the way he’d shown you to be. In a way that did not bow to anything but the sort of goodness you needed. But Joel; above all else, Joel. He is the first choice, and everything else seems inconsequential after that. What is goodness worth in the face of all he’s given you?

So, you sit now, within the basin of your empty bathtub, no more leaky kitchen sink echoing through your empty apartment, he’d fixed it weeks ago, and peer over the lip of the tub. And there, blinking up at you from the face of the skinny pink and white stick, is your answer to goodness. It had always been within yourself. And you think, if it must be just the two of us now, then let it. After all, your father has finally taught me how to be good.

End.

Netherfeildren's Masterlist

Updates Blog!

#pink fic #Joel miller #Joel Miller x reader #Joel Miller x you #Joel Miller/ reader #Joel Miller/ you #Joel Miller smut #Joel Miller fic #joel miller fanfiction #the last of us au #Joel Miller au #joel miller imagine #pedro pascal #pedro pascal characters

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room-surprise · 2 months ago

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PSA: Mithrun doesn't run a noodle shop after the end of the manga!

(WARNING FOR SPOILERS)

Awhile back I posted a PSA about how Mickbell and Kuro don't run a noodle shop in the canon, they run an "everything store." In this post I mentioned that "Mithrun running a noodle shop" was also not canon, and that I'd get around to talking about it later.

Both of these fanons are the result of some mistranslation and information getting passed through multiple people, resulting in a very popular fanon that some people think is canon, that Mithrun is running an Asian-style noodle shop in Merini, and that he's in competition with Mickbell and Kuro.

Please note, I'm not saying there's anything wrong with Mithrun (or Mickbell and Kuro) running a noodle shop! If you like the idea and want to write or draw things about that, it's fine! It's just not canon.

SO WHAT IS CANON?

Unfortunately a lot of the information we have about what happens to Mithrun after the end of the manga comes from the still untranslated second version of the Adventurer's Bible, a Chinese Q&A posted by Kui's Chinese publisher, and autograph sessions where Kui answered fan questions, and fans posted about it on Twitter and Reddit.

You can understand why the last one, fans self-reporting what Kui told them, is extremely unreliable and shouldn't be considered the same level of "canon" as something that Kui had printed and published, or that was recorded in an official capacity.

A fan at the Korean signing described it like this (paraphrasing for clarity):

A group of about 100 fans gathered in big room with a screen, where they were playing the anime. The publisher called us up one by one, and we were guided to a smaller room, where Kui was sitting with 5-6 people from the publisher and a translator. We were not allowed to use our phones to take pictures or video.

I don't know if all of the signing events were like this, but we know that Kui and many other manga artists want to preserve their personal privacy, so I'd assume most of these events are run this way.

This makes information from autograph sessions really unreliable, since anyone could post anything online and claim Kui said it, and even other fans who were at the event wouldn't be able to prove that it wasn't true.

I have heard that sometimes fans "overheard" answers that other fans got, which doesn't fit with the above description, so some signings may have not been that private... Or maybe after a fan got their autograph, they talked with other fans at the event and shared information that way? Or maybe they talked about it online afterwards? I can't say for certain.

Anyway, moving on!

IF HE'S NOT RUNNING A NOODLE SHOP, WHAT IS MITHRUN DOING?

Here's Mithrun's updated biography page from the World Guide:

"島の迷宮が消失した後は、女王の命を受けメリニに駐在する。"

"After the island labyrinth disappears, he is stationed in Merini under the orders of the Queen."

The confusing part here is that another comic says Mithrun is retiring, and that he'll no longer be part of the Canaries.

MITHRUN: 何の用だフレキ (What do you want, Fleki?) FLEKI: 実は隊長が隊をやめられると耳にしまして･･…. (I actually heard that the captain is leaving the squad…) MITHRUN: 事実だ (It's true.) FLEKI: おおっ第二の人生を歩まれる (Oh, you're starting a second life.)

Cithis also confirms that Mithrun is leaving the Canaries:

"それで隊をやめたあと何をされるご予定で? (So what are you planning to do after you leave the corps?)"

This seems like it would be a contradiction with "he is stationed in Merini under the orders of the Queen." If he's retired, why is he still taking orders? Why is he stationed there, a term normally used for military duty?

I think what Kui is telling us is that even though Mithrun isn't a Canary anymore, he's still nobility, and as a noble he has to obey the elf queen, and even if he isn't actively a Canary, he's considered a military asset - one of the duties of nobility is to always be ready to perform military service for their monarch.

Since the elf queen is an absolute monarch, anything Mithrun does is "with the Queen's permission/under her orders," since she owns her subjects.

(This is fun because it hints at potential future conflict. Will the Queen ever command Mithrun to do something he doesn't want to do? What happens if he refuses? Will he defect, and swear allegiance to his new home in Merini instead?)

Ok, Mithrun's retired from the Canaries, but what is he going to do in Merini?

"メリニに残り悪魔の監視を続けるはびこ魔物の蔓延る場所を巡り活動を記録する魔物とは迷宮とはなんだったのか生涯をかけて追い続ける (I'll remain in Merini, and continue to watch out for demons. I'll travel to places where monsters gather and record their activities. I'll spend the rest of my life seeking to understand monsters, and the labyrinth.)"

(Why does the translation call it a labyrinth, not a dungeon? PSA on this here.)

As you can see, there's no mention of noodles here. Mithrun has something he seriously, passionately wants to do, and he plans to do it for the rest of his life. Fleki's reaction, by the way, is complete and utter horror (she was hoping Mithrun would return to his family's wealthy estate and she could mooch off of him):

"残る･･･魔物のこんな未開拓地に? 蘇生術なし (Remaining here… in such a primitive country that's full of monsters? Without resurrection magic?)"

This tells us that the elves probably consider the Eastern Continent an uncivilized and primitive place, where an elf wouldn't want to stay longer than necessary. Fleki seems to think living there would be worse than going back to prison in the elven lands.

Here is where some of the confusion probably starts:

CITHIS: 蕎麦打ちは? (What about making noodles?) MITHRUN: それもやる (I'll do that too.)

Note that Cithis does not say running a noodle shop, she just says "making noodles."

Obviously a person can make noodles for themselves, or for the people around them, without getting into the huge enterprise of opening a restaurant. It's illogical to assume "I'll make noodles" actually means "I'll open a restaurant that serves noodles."

Also, Mithrun is smirking when he answers Cithis, which implies that he's joking, or being sarcastic. This makes sense because "what about making noodles?" is part of a running joke in the manga about ramen noodles and how their presence in the primarily European-style setting of Dungeon Meshi doesn't make sense.

THE RUNNING GAG ABOUT RAMEN

The word Cithis uses, soba (蕎麦), literally means "buckwheat." The full name for buckwheat noodles is soba-kiri (蕎麦切り "buckwheat slices"), but soba is commonly used alone.

Historically, soba noodles were called Nihon-soba, Wa-soba, or Yamato-soba, all of which mean "Japanese noodle." This was meant to distinguish Japanese buckwheat noodles from wheat noodles of Chinese origin, such as ramen, sōmen, or udon.

In the modern era, soba is the word used to refer to noodles in general, regardless of origin or composition. So Italian noodles can be described as a type of soba.

The loan word パスタ (pasuta) is what is normally used to talk about Italian noodles, but the confusion between soba (Japanese buckwheat noodles) and soba (any other type of noodle) is the core of Kui's joke.

In Chapter 81, Laios and his party try to make food for Marcille that will remind her of her home and childhood (which is clearly supposed to be someplace like Italy) but they end up making Japanese-style pork ramen instead. The punchline is that Izutsumi, the only Japanese member of the party, can tell that they've made the wrong type of noodles, but the rest of the party doesn't understand what she's talking about to a comical and ridiculous extent.

In Chapter 94, when Kabru and the Canaries are trying to encourage Mithrun to keep on living, Fleki and Lycion go off on a comical tangent about making noodles:

The punchline of this joke is that Kui is depicting Mithrun servingJapanese-style noodles, which makes no sense because the elves aren't Japanese... Something we know for a fact because there are actual explicitly Japanese characters in Dungeon Meshi. Laios thinks "That's like Marcille's (local cuisine)..." in reference to the joke in Chapter 81.

The panel on the left shows Mithrun looking like a stereotypical ramen stand operator: gruff, covered in sweat, proudly presenting his finished work.

(Sorry for using your thumbnail, random furry youtuber.)

The headband, black tunic and white apron that Mithrun is wearing, and even the crossed arms in Laios' imagination is part of the look of your stereotypical Japanese chef.

So it's understandable that people look at all this, and think "Mithrun will run a Japanese-style ramen stand!" because it's a very cute, very funny idea.

But canonically it's an idea that only exists in Laios' imagination, as something that is meant to be comically outlandish, because the things Lycion and Fleki are saying are also presented as being pretty silly. A bit of levity in an otherwise very melancholy chapter.

I'll also note that when Lycion talks about Mithrun making soup bowls to serve his noodles in, he says "He could enjoy his handmade cuisine in his own bowls!"

There's no mention of serving the noodles to anyone else, just that Mithrun could enjoy the satisfaction of being self-sufficient, making his food and tableware from scratch. This is something which actually aligns very well with the themes of Dungeon Meshi.

DIDN'T KUI SAY MITHRUN IS MAKING NOODLES IN A Q&A?

During the post-manga publicity tour Kui went on, she did several signings where she answered short questions from fans while giving out autographs and drawings.

Remember, these questions and answers are being collected by fans from random tweets and other posts online, translated into English by amateurs, and there is no way to prove their veracity.

Q. Did Mithrun get to live a happy life after ending? A. He is doing work and hobby, living a happy and fulfilled life, although he is not that friendly so he will not be doing diplomat for a long time.

Taking this information at face value and assuming it's true, it sounds like Kui differentiated between "work" and "hobby" - So Mithrun has something he is doing seriously, like a job, and something he is doing for fun, as a hobby.

This makes sense with what we've seen in the official materials: monitoring the monsters and keeping watch for the return of the demon is Mithrun's "job", and making noodles (and doing other things, probably, since the noodles were a joke) are Mithrun's hobbies.

WHAT ABOUT THE WRITTEN WEIBO Q&A?

These Chinese fan questions were answered by Kui in written form, and posted online by her Chinese publisher in both Chinese and Japanese, so in my opinion, these answers should be taken more seriously than things that were solely reported by fans.

However, the question and answer about noodles here is clearly a light-hearted joke:

Q: 米斯伦会做出什么样的荞麦面？(What kind of soba will Mithrun make?) A: おいしい蕎麦だといいですね。(I hope they're delicious soba.)

As with many other answers, you can see that Kui answers in a vague, polite, and gently joking way. "What kind of noodles will Mithrun make?" "Tasty ones, hopefully!"

It's similar to how she answered questions about if Falin's lifespan is longer because she's a chimera or if Thistle is still alive with "That would be nice!" or "I hope so!"

This is clearly a sort of non-answer, but even if you take it to mean "Mithrun is 100% for sure making noodles," there is still zero indication that Mithrun is canonically running a restaurant.

In closing: if you want him to run a noodle restaurant in your heart, in your fanfics, in your fanart, that is perfectly fine! Japanese fans love this idea (they use pasta emojis to represent Mithrun!) and there's tons of artwork about Mithrun being a ramen chef. I think that would be a lovely thing for him to do! I bet he'd have a lot of fun!

But it's not canon.

What is canon is that he's living in Merini, going to group therapy, learning to appreciate the people around him, enjoying himself, and both his work and his hobbies are going well 💕

#dungeon meshi #delicious in dungeon #spoilers #dungeon meshi spoilers #mithrun #mithrun of the house of kerensil #dunmeshi #PSA

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cityof2morrow · 7 months ago

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CO2 Skills: Custom Skill Tokens

Published: 7-17-2024 | Updated: 2-1-2025

SUMMARY I use mods to make more diverse sims in terms of personality traits, body types, and lifetime wants. They’ve made my sims more complex and interesting to play overall. Still, the skill-building system feels limited alongside these mods. Being a decent pianist shouldn’t automatically make it easier to paint, spy, DJ, garden, become a career slacker, work as an architect, and play every other instrument in-game. Being clean certainly benefits barbers and pet owners, but shouldn’t they also be good at cutting hair and animal care?

By default, sims can develop at least 40 skills - 4 toddler skills, 7 basic skills, 4 hidden skills, 6 life skills (AL/FT), and 11 talent badges (OFB). This custom skills pack expands the existing skill-hobby system in Sims 2 in the following ways:

60+ new skills taken from other games in the simsverse (Sims 3, Sims 4, console titles, etc.)

100+ new skills related to university majors, career tracks, and popular mods from the simsverse

New skills are linked to certain objects, interactions, and career levels

All TS2 content creators are welcome to link these skills to your creations if they choose. These will be linked to some of my custom careers, majors, and objects in the future.

VERSION 2 UPDATES (REDOWNLOAD RECOMMENDED):

Revised the original post for clarity.

Sorted package files into subfolders based on primary skill group (body, logic, charisma, etc.).

Name Changes (same GUIDs): cosmic cuisine (0x000D324F, cooking) to gastromancy (supernatural/occult foods). country cooking (0x004EDA6E, cooking) to soul food (Afrodiaspora foods). selvadoradian culture (0x0084C734, logic) to memory. simology (0x0084C734, body) to psychology. traditional dance (0X00C87F1F, dance) to ritual dance. vampire lore (0x00680121, supernatural) to mythlore (supernatural history/folklore).

New skills added: animal care (0x00B7128A, cleaning), not to be confused with animal training (0x00002CEF, cleaning) or veterinarian (0x00891E5A, logic), choreography (0x00AD0E5B, dance), formal dance (0x0019579F, dance), and more!

DETAILS Basegame Compatible – but skill-related objects and mods may require expansions.

Skills are invisible tokens activated by certain interactions in-game.

Sims can’t develop the same skill twice and they can’t sell or gift them to others.

Skills do not appear in inventories or the UI.

Some repetitive and animal-specific skills were excluded.

These are TOKENS ONLY - custom objects, mods, majors and career tracks which use these skills will be published on this site under the #co2skills, #co2careers, and/or #co2edu tags. Modders, feel free to implement these and if you do – please share! DOWNLOAD (choose one) from SFS | from MEGA SKILL GROUPS AT A GLANCE

BODY skill is already linked to tai chi and the restocking badge, but the skill is named differently across games (athleticism, fitness, health/sanity, etc.). Build physical and mental strengths for hunting, surfing, romance, street fighting, ballet, etc.

CHARISMA connects to the sales badge while a range of hobby-related interests fall under film and literature. Branch off and concentrate on related skill areas such as acting, deception, coaching, fame and more.

CLEANING skill is linked to three badges (cosmetology, gardening, and fishing) and enthusiasm for animals and the environment. Specialize in animal training, barbering, skin care, conservation and related skills.

COOKING skills open up new worlds of taste…time to make some magic in the kitchen! Skills include baking, soul food, gastromancy (occult foods!), mixology, alchemy and more.

CREATIVITY makes earning badges in flower arranging, pottery, and sewing easier. New artistic pursuits include advanced painting, jewelry making, storytelling, knitting, and street art.

DANCE skills such as dirty dancing, formal dancing, breakdancing, casual dancing, and more have been moved to their own folder.

LOGIC contributes to the register/cashiering badge and the hidden study/homework skill. Now, sims can master gemology, first aid, history, crypto-zoology and over a dozen other things. Sims will need to learn theory and technical skills to advance in certain majors/careers.

MECHANICAL sims can more easily earn a robotics badge and now, they can also unlock a host of new mechanical/tech-related pursuits – wood working, electrical, photography, fabrication, and so on.

SUPERNATURAL sims and those with supernatural abilities can enhance their craft by building a range of new skills. Try curse magic, reaping, earth bending, or flying! Other sims have limited access to these skill areas.

CREDITS Thanks: Echo, Ch4rmful, Gummi, ChocolateCitySim, Sufficeittisay, WHoward, JellyMeduza and the rest of the Sims 2 modding community. Sources: Beyno (Korn via BBFonts), EA/Maxis, Magic Skill (Echo, 2006), Offuturistic Infographic (Freepik).

#ts2downloads #ts2cc #sims2cc #co2skills #co2careers #co2edu

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rachaelthemes · 1 year ago

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Ocular — Version 3

Preview // User Guide // More Info & Install

your favorite sidebar theme just got an upgrade, babeyyy

I went to update Ocular to make it NPF post-compliant and then my hand slipped and I redesigned the whole thing lmao. here's a brief update about Ocular 3; if you're looking for a full list of changes between versions 2 and 3, click the "Read More" below)

Ocular comes with the following features:

Colors: easily change the color scheme of your sidebar and posts using any colors you want

Post sizes: 400px, 500px, 540px, 600px, 700px

Sidebar: can be on the left, right, or above the posts. pick from a list of sidebar sizes, header image heights, and avatar shapes

Fonts: 20 different fonts, sizes 13px to 18px

Background: solid, gradient, full-size image or repeating image

Links: choose either regular navigation or drop-down navigation. unlimited custom links (visit the help desk FAQ for a tutorial) and ability to rename home, ask, submit, and archive links

Endless scroll, custom ask box text, Tumblr's full-width controls and search bar, optional header, avatar, and favicon images

if you already have Ocular installed, version 3 should be coming at you as soon as the update passes the theme garden. if you installed this theme with GitHub, you'll have to re-install manually.

now let's get to the fun stuff. what's new in version 3?

wow, do I have some updates for you!

1. goodbye color schemes, hello post background and text colors

you can now directly control the color of the posts rather than relying on color schemes to do it. want your posts to be a very specific shade of navy? all yours, buddy. go wild (make sure it's readable tho)

2. hello, color schemes! wait I thought we got rid of that guy

a lot of the color schemes I made became redundant now that the new post background/text color options exist. if you were married to the old color schemes, all of them can be recreated using those options. so the new color scheme options are as follows:

"My colors" — uses the colors you picked for post background/text

"Light preset" and "dark preset" — sets the posts to white with black text, or off-black with white text

"Translucent" — uses the colors you choose for post background/text, but makes the post backgrounds semi-transparent. there are NINE different translucent color schemes, ranging from 90% (only slightly see-through) to 10% (VERY see through)

3. navigation dropdown option

you can either use the sidebar links like they were before, or you can turn them into a cute little dropdown (helpful if you have lots of links or links with long titles!) you can enable this using the "use dropdown navigation" setting. you can also customize the label for the dropdown using the "dropdown menu label" setting. for instance, the dropdown on my blog currently says "oooh you wanna click me"

4. RIP google fonts I always hated your load times

decided to stop using Google Fonts and instead I'm providing the font files directly in the code. this will help speed up load times drastically when using custom fonts, plus I don't have to use Google. win-win! there's quite a bit of coverage overlap with the old fonts, but some of them that were too similar to each other got the ax. I also added all of the system fonts as options (hit classics like Arial, Georgia, and Comic Sans MS are now available TO YOU!)

5. more layout, sizing, and spacing options

the sidebar used to be either on the center-left, center-right, or above the posts; now it can go in the top-left or top-right! you can now control the border radius on the posts and sidebar. the header height, sidebar width, and post spacing all have additional options.

6. some options have been renamed for additional clarity

"background color 1" -> "background color"

"background color 2" -> "gradient background color"

"background" -> "background style"

"font override" -> "use body font everywhere"

"title" -> "sidebar title"

"description" -> "sidebar description"

"ask box text" -> "custom HTML above ask box"

7. removed some options

you win some, you lose some. I removed the uppercase sidebar links, theme credit, and inline media spacing options, mostly for redundancy reasons or because they produced unclear results.

8. as previously stated, now NPF-compliant

Ocular was ALMOST compliant with Tumblr's new post format, but had a few tweaks that needed to be ironed out. they're now ironed.

9: now user-friendly right out of the box

I updated the default color and content options, so new users installing this theme will have a much easier time using and customizing it immediately. no more ugly ass green background!

10. and finally, new JS

I had to rewrite some of the javascript for this theme, which turned into me rewriting ALL of the javascript. doing so meant that I could eliminate dependencies on third-party JS libraries and run the whole thing on plain JS. that should improve load times!!

bonus: custom CSS can do some nifty stuff now

want to change the size of your avatar? you can do that now! just do this to your Advanced > Add custom CSS section

super helpful if you're using the Avatar shape: Uncropped setting and you need your image to be a specific size (like a pixelated GIF)

for more info, check out the Ocular user guide. thanks for reading my updates!! hope you all have a fantastic start to your 2024 ❤️

#tumblr theme #tumblr themes #themes by rachael #codingcabin #ocular #blog #you should've seen me writing the JS for the audio posts lmfao I was on my hands and knees begging it to work

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hwaightme · 1 year ago

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ateez as signs of love (relationship hcs)

(masterlist) (perma-taglist)

8️⃣ pairing: bf!ateez x gn!reader 8️⃣ genre: headcanons, fluff, established long-term relationships 8️⃣ summary: the lessons, the comfort that love teaches and gives you, in a series of 8 headcanons with each of these beautiful souls 8️⃣ wordcount: 2.4k total 8️⃣ warnings/tags:��not edited, drabble-style hcs, enamoured simping activated, soft and focused on subtle signs of love, energies that people give 8️⃣ taglist: at the bottom of the hcs 8️⃣ a/n: this anniversary holds a lot of significance to me, and i want to celebrate ateez together. i am forever grateful that they are in my life, and are a source of joy and hope. happy ateez day everyone. much love~

hongjoong

matching outfits, both in subtle and in louder ways - sharing accessories like earrings and rings, or colour coordinating for events you are attending together - a quiet signal that even if you are not loud about it, you two belong together and are on the same wavelength

lyrics dedicated to you and to what you have been through as a couple - how you have evolved and what you have seen and experienced; evolution through musical genre and through musical complexity - nods to travels, movies, conversations…

adoring glances across the room, wide smiles and hearty laughter at the silliest jokes simply because they are inside jokes in the language you two invented

challenging one another, proposing new viewpoints and debating on creative projects and ways forward in a healthy manner, while being each other’s number one fans and supporters; you can count on one another’s honest opinion, open arms and mind

late night calls, or calls that run through the entire night where you two either work remotely, or first connect under the pretense of sharing something but end up updating, chatting away, calming your hearts

becoming the second voice of reason, counting on the other to support and be the clarity when one is feeling distressed or unable to make a quick call of judgement or decision

encouraging freedom - two people with their own dreams and goals, respectful of space and time and working to maintain this even in a relationship; a powerful dynamic where the sky's the limit, and even then, you find a way to go above and beyond

having clear priorities and plans that span years, facing the future side by side and mapping it out against both individual and couple variables

seonghwa

feeling comfortable and safe to discuss feelings, fears, hopes, dreams, curled up on the couch together, drama left frozen on the television screen; bodies intertwined, hearts beating steadily, calmly, in a world built for two; deep conversations turning into pivotal moments, not being afraid to reveal and expose yourself to the other, being accepted and facing inner turmoil no longer alone

exploring and introducing each other to your interests and passions, learning and growing together, and in turn forming an even stronger connection through shared references, media, jokes; knowing each other's preferences and orders by heart, wordlessly sharing any meal with smiles on your faces and knowing what to send to one another when physically apart

order in a comfortable silence when doing chores or walking side by side in places you both love and cherish, wonderful chaos when both of you let go and play like kids again; reconnecting with all versions of yourselves and finding each one precious

encouraging each other to accept yourselves but also to expand horizons and to love both the world and the small things - operating by the “no harm in trying” principle

seeing each person as a universe, and other people, things, interests and events in their life as stars that form beautiful constellations - linking what is previously seen as disparate and making a new direction to develop into

making playlists for different moods, activities to suit the season, planning evenings days and mornings and then living through them with a serene enjoyment; reevaluating and rebuilding habits, finding fun in frustrations

returning home be it to an actual house or through the phone, talking about everything and nothing, and encouraging one another to try your best while maintaining a healthy balance

a safe space, because you are each other's home and no matter what you will be there to listen, to speak, to write the next lines in the poem of life together

yunho

reading each other's emotions and wordlessly showing support, be it through a touch of the hand or through the offering of a favourite snack or a kind word

playful competition, racing one another to the front door of your home, laughter ringing in the air; seeing the brighter side of the world together, and reminding one another that it exists when the going gets tough

spontaneous getaway to a beloved holiday destination, healing and relaxing together away from commotion and chaos - finding peace in quiet conversation and taking flights or drives as an opportunity to reflect, to free oneself and to simply focus on the journey itself

walking in nature, holding hands and listening to birdsong and shrill cries of cicadas - valuing the process of grounding oneself and listening to inner thoughts, beliefs and feelings

road trips and long walks, exploring new sights and making every place a shared new memory and a precious moment; moving beyond a set “base” when it comes to home, and treating the world like your home to find the place that you both truly belong to

remembering even the smallest events and details from years ago and holding them as invaluable, celebrating anniversaries by revisiting representations of said memories

quoting your favourite lines from films or video games, re-enacting scenes together and crafting impromptu performances in the living room before collapsing in adorable giggles

finding the world in one another’s eyes, catching each other off guard in the best way with sweet comments and with absent-minded touches of the hand, reassurance that even when your mind is elsewhere, you have an anchor, you have a person who you are racing… not against, but with

yeosang

perseverance - in times where you face trouble, a hurdle, a tumble downwards, you reach out to help the other to stand up again, and take pride in having gone through so much and now having that special someone with whom nothing is as scary

surrounding yourselves with kindness and positive energy - having a home that is safe, secure and reflects both of you perfectly; gradually and subtly learning about each other’s hidden parts, adoring them all the same

learning to accept help, and leaning on one another when difficulties arise; openly communicating and being able to voice concerns and questions - feeling comfortable to do so

playful banter and witticisms, knowing when to humble one another but also when to lift one another up; being able to non-verbally communicate when in larger groups

appreciating one another’s efforts and valuing improvements, hard work, acts of service that have been done discreetly

walking huddled under a large umbrella to your favourite cafe, ordering ice cream and drifting to the seats that have become yours and his; speaking quietly, recollecting the happenings of the day, calmly making puzzle pieces connect into a bigger picture

finding comfort in routine; one that starts as a schedule and slowly becomes automatic; you two moving in one space like in a fluid dance, clockwork from one task to another

playing not to win but for the sake of spending time together - becoming an unbeatable duo in matches and subconsciously knowing each other’s style and approach when it comes to both communication and video games

san

reading excerpts from books and poetry aloud to one another in the late evening, bundled up together in a warm throw blanket

learning your favourite songs, humming or singing them to you as you slow dance in the kitchen - monologues and confessions said through music and little gestures of affection, though in a private space, the words spill and you are wrapped in reassurance

hand on the small of your back, a subtle reminder of how even in the busiest spaces, in places where you feel like you are fading away, there is always someone beside you, ready to support you and someone who cares

recounting stories from childhood, talking about home together and building a new one, first through conversation, then in reality; seeing the picture of you and him as clear as day

headpats, nuzzling, ruffling of the hair, sleepy embraces in the early morning that transition into a hand on the thigh, a soft brush of the upper arm, a move of a strand of hair from your face, a stolen kiss, or simply sitting so close that you almost become one

learning to set up healthy boundaries, barriers and principles, and respecting each other’s - having unspoken unbreakable rules that lead to healthy communication and mutual support, and supporting one another in finding limits externally and enforcing them for the wellbeing of oneself

living passionately, and taking each day into the heart to experience it fully; taking the time to evaluate all of its elements and taking what serves you best while still appreciating things that might not be as valuable

remembering your roots and loving your origins, being proud of your individuality and of what an who you represent; finding or strengthening the connections with who you are and who you want to be, separately and together

mingi

waiting to watch a movie or a show together - watching it twice because you were analysing every moment and chatted away, intrigued by one another’s minds

dispelling each other’s concerns and worries when it comes to perception, communication and achievement - being able to whittle down to exact doubts and unravelling them until a smile forms on your beloved’s face

checking in on each other’s emotional capacity and learning to ask for signs when the other might overflow - encouraging minimising the bottling up of emotions and dedicating time to talk things through

spending time getting lost in history and in innovation, expanding intellectual horizons by visiting events, exhibitions, talks to see all that the creatives and innovators of the world are conjuring - pondering all you have witnessed together

giving each other courage, hyping each other up and loving every colour - inventing cheers and chants, secret handshakes, signals, making up songs about random things on the spot and their recital becoming a tradition

admiring differences, and studying them with a beautiful curiosity; not fearing to ask the ‘why’, the ‘how’ continuously because there is no limit to wonder

comfort in introspection and self-discovery; encouraging exploration of the self and of own interests, but always reconnecting, forming a network of possibility between thought, learnings, ideas

going with the flow, and bringing the flow to each other - sometimes, transition into a new landscape or environment is easy, other times, you need a helping hand; both of you are ready to lead the other into a new world and will wait for as long as necessary

wooyoung

family, the feeling of belonging - “you are my person and I will fight for you”; strong circle of trusted people, a network that you can rely on and of course, the strong bond between you

even when alone, you are not lonely; the feeling that even when you have to be apart for some time, you are still there with and for one another, one call away; even though you would be playful, you are always emotionally available, and past the teasing is boundless love

adventures to places far away, still home because it is the two of you travelling; exploring with an open mind and daring one another to step outside of comfort zones, to take the leap, to bloom

candlelit dinners after a cooking turned jam session - dancing with spatulas in hand, yelling out the lyrics to any and all songs, learning them on the fly; long stares and cheeky jokes exchanged across the table, dressing up for no reason except to impress each other

love that expands past the two of you - your friend groups, your families, pets… the social landscape is boundless and you trust each other to navigate it smoothly - permanent plus one, double trouble, partners in crime, the best team

gentle scolding to take care of yourselves, prioritising each other’s health and wellbeing, keeping each other out of harm’s way while retaining a fiery spirit

healing from past insecurities through words and actions - nurturing beauty that is both internal and external, and giving each other hope in every tomorrow through warm smiles and even warmer hugs

not being afraid to stand up for one another, for what you believe in, for the greater good - lover and fighter do go hand in hand after all, and lead to a respectful relationship where adventure and a blazing passion are still very much alive

jongho

evenings spent at a noraebang you now frequent, singing songs that have grown to describe your relationship, the months, years you have known one another; serenades you dedicate, classics you belt in a duet

retaining the air of pleasant mystery until both of you break into a grin and melt into a soft laughter; knowing glint in the eyes, you do not need to say much, for your actions speak volumes

being considerate, making space and in this way, turning home into an ideal, stable equilibrium where company feels natural, essential, even if all you do during the day is sit in different rooms - there is bliss in knowing that in that other room is the one you love and the one who loves you

walks in the park, stopping to sit on a bench in a particularly scenic spot overlooking a pond, under the trees - reminding each other to pause and to look around you, enjoying the moment and appreciating how much has changed, and for the better

beauty and love in order - from how you like your coffee, to what you prefer to wear and how, to how you carry yourself and to what side of your loved one you prefer to walk, these small points all make you who you are and are details that make your story

praising and joining in a little bit of mischief - you know you have to act a certain way, but sometimes, nothing feels better than letting go and playing a cute prank or a game

noticing the tiniest changes in one another, and either raising them as a question, or complimenting them depending on what it is - well-attuned, responsive, kind, attentive

sometimes, you might support different teams, or do so simply for harmless fun, but at the end of the day you find the same goals to score, the same game to place, and will always back each other up and assist towards great successes

8️⃣ taglist: @acciocriativity @justhere4kpop @byuntrash101 @shakalakaboomboo @starillusion13 @hongthoven @cqndiedcherries @uwuheeseungie @cheollipop @frankenstein852 @charreddonuts @miriamxsworld @mingigoo @michel-angelhoe @innsomniacshinestar @foxinnie8 @preciouswoozi @wooyoungjpg @nebulousbookshelf @wowie-hockey @hongjoongs-patience @ssaboala @jaehunnyy @kitten4sannie @maddkitt @lightinyreads @ren-junwrld @pyeonghongrie-main @marsstarxhwa @pocketjoong-reads @alyszaen @archivesummer @little-angel-k @yeooclock @yeonjunnie @asjkdk @lucky-cat-cafe @northerngalxy

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twelfthdoctorwho · 7 months ago

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(updated version of an old poll)

updated for clarity: what was the year irl when you actually started watching

#doctor who #classic who #nuwho #dw #my polls

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ghost-proofbaby · 2 years ago

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twenty four hours (modern!eddie munson x fem!reader)

HOUR SEVEN

in which you come to a few realizations while remembering the very first night you'd met eddie. a phone call with steve leaves you with more questions than answers.

→ tropes: enemies to lovers, forced proximity, slow burn

→ warnings: strong language, eventual smut, heavier angst this chapter but all will be well soon, two uses of y/n, upside down does not exist, minors dni

→ word count: 4.4k+

→ a/n: shorter chapter today but the focus here is the memory! finally making some progress haha. also trying out something new with formatting/the summary situation. if i hate it, i'll probably change it. <3 also, italicized portion is a memory.

masterlist.

spotify playlist.

◁ previous part, next part▷

7:00 ────ㅇ────────────── 24:00

DINGUS: [image attachment]

DINGUS: y/n just texted me this. we’re not getting an update this hour.

BIRDIE: what the hell happened?

DINGUS: she hasn’t said yet, as you can see in the photo, robs.

ARGYLE 😎: what do we THINK happened?

BIRDIE: my best bet is fighting?

ARGYLE 😎: lover’s quarrel? Makes sense.

BIRDIE: i’m adding nance back into the chat

BIRDIE added NANCE to the groupchat.

BIRDIE: @NANCE explain what you meant earlier please. we’re having a code red. the bad kind.

DINGUS: there’s a good kind of code red?

NANCE: Oh God, what happened?

DINGUS: y/n texted me saying she fucked up, and we’re assuming either she’s finally murdered eddie, or they’re fighting again.

NANCE: I can call Eddie, if you guys want?

JOHNNY: So does this mean we’re all $500 richer?

BIRDIE: @JOHNNY if you still think this is about the money, you’re a fucking idiot

—

HOUR SEVEN - 10:00 PM

There had been a time in your life where you believed you didn’t hold a single mean bone in your body. A time where you were soft-spoken, a time where you overflowed with kindness and dotted out compliments to random strangers. There was once a version of you in this lifetime that worked so fervently to be the type of person people liked and enjoyed the company of. You always swore to always treat others with the same grace as you would prefer to receive as well.

A year ago, that version of you had been sidetracked.

You stare at the wooden frame of Eddie’s door with blank eyes. He wasn’t going to open it any time soon. You’d tried knocking multiple times, calling out to him in a soft voice, begging and pleading and begging and pleading. His response continued to be silence.

“All I’ve ever done is hurt you.”

With the haze clearing, in the midst of the aftermath and sour clarity, you wish you would have corrected him. Eddie and you had surely hurt each other countless times, but it is not all he’s ever done.

You can remember the better moments clearly now. The time you’d tripped walking up the steps of one of the bars on Main Street, and Eddie had been the only person in your friend group to stop completely, reflectively reaching out to catch you from embarrassing yourself. The night of your birthday, in which he hadn’t come to the party due to “work” as Steve had explained, but had sent a card along with your friends that contained a gift card to your favorite coffee shop. You hadn’t even realized he knew your favorite coffee shop, and you’d come to find out that he didn’t even ask a single one of your mutual friends for it. You’d brushed it off as a lucky guess. And there was the time you’d forgotten your wallet during a brunch with the group, and he hadn’t hesitated to pick up your bill with his own. He didn’t even give Robin the chance to argue; he’d simply snatched your bill from across the table when you’d paled as you dug through your bag, and didn’t say a word about you paying him back.

Small moments. Glimpses of kindness, bandages on wounds that you’d been ignoring to keep up a war between the two of you that you’d always assumed he’d started.

Eddie Munson wasn’t the enemy, and the first night you two met was never a red herring; it was a glimpse into who he actually was. A clear look past the armor he hadn’t formed yet when it came to you.

—

A YEAR AGO

“They’re going to love you!” Robin insists as she continues to shove you from behind through the entrance of the bar. Steve is ahead of you, guiding you through the rough crowd to the table the rest of the group had already snagged.

You turn your head over your shoulder, reaching up and grabbing the hand that Robin rested on you, “You don't know that. What if they hate me? What if they think I’m the worst person they’ve ever met?”

Even as you wore a smile, there was a truth to the fear in your words. You were petrified that these strangers, strangers who meant so much to your only friends on campus, would turn their noses to you. There was nothing Robin or Steve could do to extinguish the fear. It was already a terrible knot in the pit of your stomach, tying and untying itself like a nuisance as Steve started to wave at a brunette who had been scanning the bar as if waiting for someone.

She’s pretty. Wavy hair barely brushing her shoulders, sharp features accentuated in the shadows of the busy location. The moment her blue eyes locked on Steve, all the concentration on her face faded to be replaced with an excited smile.

She returns the wave, and the boys surrounding her at the table all glance in your direction.

You’re still half-hidden behind Steve as the three of you approach the group. Robin bounds out from behind you, scooping the woman you assumed was the famous Nancy into a barrelling hug. Your eyes flickered to the boy sat to Nancy’s right, shaggy hair flopping against his forehead and smile creases exposed as he nods to Steve and holds up his drink in greeting. Beside him, another man sits, long and shiny hair flowing over an outrageous Hawaiian print shirt and topped off with a baseball cap that looked to be the merchandise of a pizza shop. His smile is welcoming – something comforting in the relaxation of it.

You’re almost completely captivated by the warmth that bled from the group when Steve and Robin are suddenly taking their seats. Robin sits beside Nancy, while Steve takes the seat across from the man with long hair.

The only seat left open was between Steve and a man who’s back was turned to you.

His hair is in a loose bun, unraveling against the nape of his neck. You could see each and every defined curl. His broad shoulders stiffen beneath a leather jacket and denim vest, and his ring-clad hand cradles a short glass of something dark, something fizzy.

“Alright, everyone!” Steve announces, turning and beckoning you to take this seat. Your stomach twists again, realizing you’d be sitting beside a stranger. One who had yet to even spare you a glance, “This is Y/N.”

There’s rounds of greetings and introductions as you brush shoulders with the stranger to take your seat, and try as you might to keep up, all you can focus on is not looking at him.

You’re guess was correct – the pretty girl that Robin had hugged was Nancy. The boy with floppy hair at her side was Jonathan, and the man with long hair told you his name is Argyle. His tone of casualty matches the comfort of his smile as he holds a hand out to you across the table, both your elbow and his brushing against empty baskets once filled with bar food as you shake.

Finally, you turn to look at the stranger beside you, Steve reaching around to clasp his shoulder.

“And mister oh-so-welcoming here is Eddie.”

Eddie. He finally turns to look at you, with doleful eyes and a tight-lipped grin, and you almost forget how to breathe.

He was intimidating. All broodish glances and stand-offish energy. But then Argyle cracks a joke, and suddenly, it all fades. The air in the room crackles frantically as you watch him chuckle slowly at first, until he finally descends into cackles with Steve and Jonathan alike.��

That’s when the first vine sprouts.

The second one does when the conversation becomes overwhelming, and you find yourself lost amongst the sea of new friends. They’re nothing but friendly, trying to learn more about you but easily falling into well-established inside jokes at times. When you descend into silence as you watch them recount a story of a time that Argyle snuck them into his job after hours, you suddenly feel Eddie lean in closer to you.

“I think they tell this story every time they get drunk,” he whispers, tilting his head so that the words only reach your ears, “I’ve probably heard it a hundred times by now.”

You bite back a smile, “Just tonight, or the entire time you’ve known them?”

“Both.”

You have to fight hard to swallow down giggles, Eddie hiding his with a sip of his drink. A waiter who had taken your order nearly ten minutes ago arrives with your own drink. An amaretto sour.

“I’m Eddie, by the way,” he says as you taste the drink. Its citrus bursts across your tongue and you nod.

“So Steve mentioned.”

“Yeah, but I felt bad for not introducing myself,” he shrugs. You were facing him fully now, no longer trying to stick vehemently to Steve’s side. “I didn’t want to seem like a dick, just… had a long week.”

You knew all about long weeks.

“I get it,” you assure him, “Are you in school, too?”

“Night classes,” he supplies with a wave of his hand, “Midterms are a bitch, especially after working all day.”

“Tell me about it. I think I’m about ten seconds away from getting fired at my current gig,” you joke, and Eddie laughs. It occurs to you that you’d probably do just about anything to hear his laugh more, and already begin to conjure up terrible jokes to pull that sound from him once more. It’s even more comforting than Argyle’s friendly cadence, than Steve’s elbow knocking yours to remind you he’s still there.

“Why would you think that?” Eddie’s nose scrunches, more curls falling against his cheek. Your drink is immediately forgotten.

“He caught me talking shit,” another laugh falls from Eddie’s lips at your deadpan, more reserved than the previous but just as melodic, “I give it a week. He was already looking for a reason to send me to the chopping block. Says I talk too much to customers.”

“Is that even possible?”

“Apparently.”

For a moment, in the smoky bar, it’s just you and Eddie. All knotting nerves have been replaced by the weight of the vines that surge higher and higher in your chest, growing at impossible rates. They don’t strangle you like your fears of the night had; their weight is a comforting hold, something solid to reach out for in the unfamiliar territory of new socialization. Without the mask of intimidation, Eddie feels like an old friend.

You assume that everyone else is distracted by their own conversation, but Robin catches the way you lean into him as the two of you joke. She nudges Nancy subtly, and they both share a look when Eddie blushes at you being impressed as he tells you that his battle vest is hand-sewn.

Your vines are not as hidden as you assume they are, certainly not when the first bud of hopefulness begins to grow.

“So how long have you known Steve?” you ask him quietly, still under the guise of the two of you having created your own small bubble of a moment.

Eddie downs the last of his Jack & Coke, something you caught onto by smelling it on his breath when he had gotten particularly close to you during conversation, “Too long. We all met in high school, actually.”

“Oh, don’t tell me that,” you groan, and your forehead dramatically falls into his shoulder without second-thought. He stiffens beneath the connection, “I’m infiltrating a friend group that’s stood the test of times? I’m doomed.”

You nearly lift your head from his still stiff shoulder, afraid to make him uncomfortable, when he brings a hesitant hand to pat your back jokingly, “There, there. I think you’re fitting in fine.”

“Just fine? Ouch,” you finally lift your head as you had planned to, just as Eddie had begun to relax into your touch. His hand doesn’t fall too far from your back, resting on the back of your chair. His shy grin is impossibly charming, “You could have just said I’m crashing and burning, you know?”

The night carries on like that, you and Eddie lost in private conversations only to be occasionally dragged back in on whatever debate the group is having. It’s a spring reaction; once one or both of you have given your two cents, you return to one another, finding solitude in joking and Eddie updating you on the group’s ‘lore’, as he puts it. Steve shoots several glances in your direction, always prepared to offer comfort in what should be an overwhelming situation, but he never has to. Every time he glances at you, Eddie is already taking the lead of entertaining you, qualming all your anxieties into non-existence.

Your vines decorate with buds of hope. Every laugh you pull from Eddie, every fleeting touch that passes between the two of you, every new inside joke he decides to make with you rather than indulging in ones set in stone already with old friends - they all whisper of new friendship. They whisper in potential, in new beginnings and coming home after long weeks.

By the time Nancy announces she has to go to the restroom and invites you and Robin, you’re in full bloom. You’re convinced that Eddie is a friend. And you can see it in his eyes – he’s convinced of it too, looking nervous when you stand and agree to go with Nancy. He looks like a child about to lose their social crutch, and it has potential to be devastating.

It’s almost enough to make you ignore your bladder, but you need to pee, and you need to socialize with more than just Eddie tonight.

You’re not sure what happens at the table during your trip to the bathroom. But something surely does happen as you giggle with the girls under the humming lights of the restroom, as you all stand in the mirror side by side and fiddle with your hair and makeup and Robin makes a comment about how terribly cliche the moment is. Nancy slaps her on the arm, mutters something about the importance of girls bonding, and when you return to the table, you see it immediately – Eddie’s mask of indifference has returned.

His cheeks are flushed, and all the boys are sharing nervous glances between one another as you all sit down again.

There’s no more fleeting touches. You sip on your now watered down drink, and you try and pull Eddie out from wherever he’s ventured in your absence, but it’s no use. A conversation was had while you girls had been in the restroom, and it left Eddie in his head, out of reach. The buds of hopefulness quiver on their vines, and you try to reassure yourself that it’s nothing personal. It’s nothing personal when he clearly holds back any laughs at your jokes you lean into his space to whisper to only him, it’s nothing personal when his arm never rests on the back of your chair again, it’s nothing personal when he won’t meet your eyes the rest of the night.

It’s nothing personal, but it’s sorely disappointing.

You end the night, everyone splitting up, Eddie heading off towards his motorcycle. He hadn’t even mentioned driving a motorcycle during the night, and you curse the way you watch him straddle the seat as he secures his helmet over his tied-back hair. You desperately wish to know what was said while you were in the bathroom, what had happened to make him retreat so far from you after spending the entirety of the night tending to the greenery that had grown attached to your ribcage.

“You like him, don’t you?” Robin teases at your side, bumping shoulders.

Something aches in you. The thrill of meeting someone new, of getting along, of finding them cute and endearing, is beyond your grasp.

He didn’t even say goodbye.

“I did,” you whisper softly. A reverberation of past-tense, an exhale of worry.

You did. But he didn’t even say goodbye.

—

Eddie still hasn’t opened the door. But to his defense, you haven’t tried knocking again.

That ache from that night, the feeling of a delicate rush of possibility taunting you from a distance, still remains. Even amongst now rotted vines, even as petals fall from your hopeful buds. It never really went away. With each group hangout that followed, it echoed louder and louder, demanding to be heard and demanding to be felt as Eddie grew colder. You were an idiot the first few times; you’d still gravitated to him, falling right into his orbit and begging for his attention. You’d still seek him out in every room, craving to find the warmth that had once sparked in his eyes only to find them averted from you entirely. And when you couldn’t take the hint, when you wouldn’t leave him alone when Steve and Robin left you to your own devices at the hangouts, he became mean.

You took it as a joke at first, but six months ago, something inside of you finally wisened up – it wasn’t a joke. Eddie Munson hated you. Somehow, he hated you, and yet he also swore to protect you. He hated you, and yet he would still pay for you without you asking him to. He hated you, and yet he still remembered your birthday. He hated you, and yet, he still knew your favorite coffee shop.

He hated you and yet.

You stand, unable to take your racing thoughts anymore, moving to pound on the door again, “Eddie. Open the door.”

You’re not asking anymore.

You don’t care for answers any more. In this moment, you truly believe you could let it all be water under the bridge. Right this second, if you looked into honey brown eyes and goddamn dimples, you’d forgive him.

“Eddie,” your voice cracks, and you scorn yourself.

All I ever do is hurt you.

Even in locking himself away, he’s hurting you. Putting that distance, choosing to not work this out like adults, is hurting you.

“Can you- I don’t know, at least let me know that… that…” you trail off, huffing in frustration and finally smacking a flat palm against wood, watching the door shake on its hinges from your force, “Just let me know you’re alive, Jesus Christ, Eddie. We still have to take the stupid fucking photo for this hour, and we-”

Mid-tirade, the door swings open to reveal Eddie. He doesn’t look irritated, he doesn’t look mad. He looks tired.

The war between you two has weighed heavy on him, too. He doesn’t look like the same person you met a year ago. The battles raged, the fights lost, the victories celebrated through bloody teeth – they all show on the shadows of his face, a clear mirror image to your own.

“Take the photo,” he says in monotone, hardly leaving the door cracked enough to catch a proper glimpse of him.

“What?”

“The photo. Take it. For the chat, so you can get your money when it’s all over.”

You’re stunned for a second. The money hadn’t even crossed your mind; you had just been rambling, hoping to find the right thing to say to get him to unlock the barrier between you two.

Who the fuck even cares about the money anymore?

You do. You’re supposed to. And so is he.

You sigh and pull your phone from your back pocket, and turn your back to him before lifting the camera to capture the two of you. The door creaks open an inch more.

There’s no fun pose. There’s no smiles. There’s nothing. It’s even more lifeless than the first photo taken. You can’t stand to look at it longer than necessary as you send it off to the group.

Just as you turn around to face him again, to try and talk to him, the door shuts again. You can hear the soft click of a lock. The ache is heard, the ache is felt, as you refuse to look back at the wood that still separates you physically, at the emotions that separate you mentally.

You don’t really know why you do it. But you walk out to the living room, deciding against sitting outside the door any longer and continuing to make yourself miserable. Your feet carry you straight to the sliding door of his balcony, and you press outside into the cooler night air, shutting the door behind you.

What happened when I was in the bathroom that night?

The thought haunts you, a new ghost that had been lingering and gathering dust since that night. You never asked anyone, certainly not Eddie, and refuse to overthink it until now. But after tonight, after practically reliving your first encounter with Eddie all over again, the deja vu and the curiosity are winning over.

You dial Steve’s number.

“Hell-”

“Why do me and Eddie hate each other?” you blurt out, cutting off Steve’s greeting.

“I- What?” Steve’s confused, understandably so, “How should I know? I don’t keep a list of every time you rant about him to me.”

“What about him?”

“Okay, you know I love you, but I’m not a mind-read-”

“What about a list of every time he rants about me?”

Silence buzzes through the line, and you glance up at the night sky. It’s a cloudy black. The city pollution hides most of the stars, and from Eddie’s balcony, you can’t locate the moon.

“I also don’t have one of those.”

“Why not? Because, Jesus Christ, Harrington, I have questions-”

“Because he doesn’t rant about you. Especially not to me, but Nancy says he never talks about you usually either,” Steve explains in an even tone, still not sure how his answer should be helping you. You are the one, afterall, with Eddie right now.

Even if he is locked away in his room right now, refusing to speak to you.

“That makes no sense,” you sigh, exasperation creeping its way into your bones, “I rant about him all the time. I’ve bitched to you and Robin more times than I can count about him. He should be doing the same.”

Steve says your name softly, “Why are you asking me this?”

You laugh humorlessly and shake your head, even knowing Steve can’t see you, “It’s stupid. Forget it,” It’s not stupid to you, and you can’t forget it, but this doesn’t concern Steve, “Can I ask you one last question, though?”

“Shoot, babydoll,” you can’t help but grin at that nickname. Steve pulls it out at random, every time he’s trying to make you feel bad. He knows that neither of you can take it seriously.

“Um, that night you introduced me to everyone,” you begin, stepping up to wrap your free hand around the iron railing of Eddie’s balcony, letting the cold seep into your palm, “At the bar, you know?”

“Right…” he encourages, “What about it?”

“Me and Eddie got along,” you spit it out, letting it tear from your chest and score your throat on its way out, “We… we were getting along at first, and then I went to the bathroom, and when I came back, he…. He…”

He was gone. The Eddie I’d first met had vanished. Where’d he go? Why’d he go?

“Shit, your memory is way better than mine,” Steve chuckles, sounding nervous, “But, I mean, I kind of remember that. You two getting along, at least. Guess that’s why we all were really confused when you started hating each other. But I’m still not understanding the question - are you asking if I remember the night? Or if he’s ever talked about it? I was a jock, you’re gonna have to spell it out for my pea brain.”

“Stop insinuating you’re stupid,” you scold on instinct, scowl settling along your features as you lean onto the railing and glance down. It’s only two stories, but the ground feels impossibly far as you ask, “What happened when all us girls went to the bathroom? When we came back, he acted differently. Did he mention hating me that night? Did I leave a bad first impression? Was it all just a joke to hi-”

“Woah, woah, woah. Slow down. One question, remember?” you’re sure Steve can hear the panting in your breath over the line, the way your chest heaves in the memory, “I’ve gotta be honest - I don’t remember. I know that’s probably not the answer you’re looking for, and I don’t know what’s going on with you two right now, but I was already well on my way to drunk. I think Jonathan and Argyle poked some fun at Eddie, maybe teased him about something, but I really can’t recall what it was about. Maybe his hair? Who knows?”

The answer isn’t helpful. It’s only more confusing, more hurtful.

He stopped joking with you because someone made fun of his hair? You lost access to the warmth buried beneath his surface because his friends teased him?

“Okay,” you sound defeated. You feel defeated – defeated by the weight of still feeling like an outsider, defeated by the barrier of some measly wooden door, defeated by the hurt in Eddie’s eyes as you admitted that he only ever hurts you, “Okay, thanks, Steve.”

You hang up before either of you say goodbye. When you pull your phone down from your cheek and ear, you see your phone still open to the photo of Eddie and you that you’d sent to the group.

You were wrong. There wasn’t only nothing. Your face may have been void of all emotions, but now looking at it, you can see Eddie’s isn’t.

He’s looking at you and not the camera during the shot, face crestfallen, eyes nearly teary as the corners of his mouth tucked downward.

He’s looking at you with regret, with sadness. He’s looking at you as if he can see the vines he’d planted in you, all rotted and dusting away, and he’s mourning them just as you had.

It’s bullshit, or your imagination, or your innate need for Eddie to bleed the same way as you have over your entire situation with each other. You lock your phone and don’t bother to look at the photo again as you enter the living room, as you toss your phone onto the loveseat, as you curl up on the couch and don’t even bother to go to ask for a pillow or blanket. He probably wouldn’t answer the door, anyway.

You don’t say goodnight to Eddie, just as he never said goodbye to you the first night, and wonder if he notices the absence of your salutation.

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#eddie munson #twenty four hours #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson fic #eddie munson x y/n #feels so short of a chapter haha #angsty babes

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