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thelastofhyde · 2 years ago

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the likeability paradox.

pairing. joel miller x fem!reader

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

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

word count. 12.9k

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

read on ao3. series masterlist. next chapter.

Distaste is not new in the life of Joel Miller.

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

If anything, he’s made himself more empty.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Frank is quick to shush him.

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

There you sit, parallel to him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

With you as its protector.

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

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

But I could keep you safe.

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

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

He never imagined her working in a bank.

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

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

But you weren’t smiling.

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

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

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

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

He almost chokes on his own breath.

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

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

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

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

“Your watch, it’s broken.”

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

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

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

“I don’t keep it for the time.”

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

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

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

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

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

Nature falls silent.

Skies grow dull.

You juggle sadness.

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

Joel wonders what the mutt’s practicing for.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-N’t tell me you’re a virgin.

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

A protest rings true in his head and his ears.

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

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

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

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

Neither of you make any acknowledgement of him.

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

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

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

“You’ve got to be shittin’ me.”

“It bores me!”

“It bores you!?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

He does so, regardless.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And you’re the one to blame.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The currents grow more violent whenever he closes his eyes.

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

You take up no space of this room.

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

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

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

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

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

I don’t like you, Joel.

Those words stop him from trying.

He tells himself it’s for the best.

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

The refrigerator.

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

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

She never lived long enough to get either.

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

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

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

He curses Tess for teaching you such a nickname.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I don’t like you, Joel.

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

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

I don’t like you, Joel.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He scoffs, “I don’t.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not one bit.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s his turn to respond with a hum.

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

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

Even upside down, your beauty is striking.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He doesn’t specify.

He doesn’t need to.

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

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

You say nothing. Joel pulls harder.

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

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

“Who said anything about an offer?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

You breathe in, you breathe out.

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

Inhale, exhale.

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

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

Where he expects protest, he receives more breathing.

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

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

In and out, shaky breathing comes from above.

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

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

His fist curls tighter, pulls higher.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So he does the same.

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

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

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

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

A tongue meets skin.

The knife clatters onto the counter.

You lurch forward.

His hand pulls you back.

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

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

‘Could keep ya satisfied.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Except, the oven door is made of glass.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He hears you before he sees you.

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

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

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

So instead, it sends you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So he tries again, louder.

“Why don’t ya like me?”

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

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

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

"Answer the damn question, girl.”

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

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

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

Joel says nothing.

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

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

“A dress.”

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

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

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

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

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

His feet remain glued to the ground.

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

“She ain’t my-”

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

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

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

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

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

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

I don’t like you, Joel.

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

Till then, he needs to find a dress.

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

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sprite-writes-fanfic · 3 months ago

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How the Killers from DBD would react to you slapping their ass.

Hey guys! Welcome to my silly DBD headcanons, this was just for fun, worked with a great buddy of mine @despacitobandito! <3 They helped me and we overall had a great time making this together so I hope you all get a good laugh out of this. Also! Apparently more killers have come out since Unknown’s release that I didn’t write down during the making of this, sorry for missing any new killers! Other than that, I hope you enjoy!

Word Count: 390

CW: Crack headcanons, nothing graphic, some reactions you’d expect from a slasher, contains killers up to Unknown!

Evan MacMillan - Trapper

• Insulted that you would ever touch his fine juicy ass.

Philip Ojomo - Wraith

• “Oh..!” You both are really awkward afterwards. Like just awkwardly staring at each other in silence.

Max Thompson Jr. - Hillbilly

• He’s genuinely startled by you slapping his ass, a little flattered probably.

Sally Smithson - Nurse

• Your hand phases through her and she slashes the shit out of you.

Michael Myers - Shape

• The thousand yard stare before he’d stab you in the face.

Lisa Sherwood - Hag

• *Minecraft skeleton noises.*

Herman Carter - Doctor

• *Farts electricity and electrocutes you.*

Anna - Huntress

• Stops humming. Run. Dude just run.

Bubba Sawyer - Cannibal

• Squeals and cries, you touched his no-no square.

Freddy Krueger - Nightmare

• Turns into literal dust because that’s what he deserves.

Amanda Young - Pig

• Instant bear trap, you don’t even get to find the key, as soon as it’s on, it snaps.

Jeffery Hawk - Clown

• Burp and fart combo.

Rin Yamaoka - Spirit

• You cut your hand since she has a glass shard sticking out of her ass cheek.

Frank, Julie, Susie and Joey - Legion

• They all gang up on you and kick you on the ground, JoJo style.

Adiris - Plague

• She pukes on you, like a baby.

Danny Johnson - Ghostface

• He liked it so much that he hunts you down for you to do it again.

Kazan Yamaoka - Oni

• Feels his masculinity being threatened and he hunts you every game to beat you violently.

Caleb Quinn - Deathslinger

• You traumatized the old man.

Pyramid Head - Executioner

• Execution via guillotine.

Talbot Grimes - Blight

• Immediately tries to vore you but he can’t as he doesn’t have movement in his lower jaw.

Charlotte Deshayes - Twins

• Victor shoots out of her chest and mauls you.

Ji-Woon Hak - Trickster

• Promoted to side hoe and discord kitten that manages his social media; you’re forced to listen to his music on loop on Spotify. There is no escape.

Nemesis

• “S.T.A.R.S.” *blows you up.*

Elliot Spencer - Cenobite

• “I came.”

Carmina Mora - Artist

• Screeches and crows swarm you.

Albert Wesker - Mastermind

• Look of pure disappointment before he hooks you. “Look but don’t touch.”

Tarhos Kovács - Knight

• “Oh good heavens!” *His and him gang mori you.*

Adriana Imai - Skull Merchant

• She cyberstalks you and cancels you on Twitter/X.

Charles Lee Ray/Chucky - Good Guy

• Punted across the whole damn map.

Unknown

• Snap, crackle, pop.

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scarletttries · 2 years ago

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Roman Roy x Age-Gap! Reader Headcanons:

Pairing: Roman Roy (Succession) x Reader

Word Count: 2k (warning: mention of Logany child abuse)

Author’s Note: Oh Roman Roy, you're really making me fall in love with your sad little face and your slightly softening heart this season. Thank you for this request, please enjoy these thoughts about Roman Roy with a younger, but still very much legal adult, reader. Also please fill my inbox with Kendall and Roman requests because I am thinking about little else! 😊

Update! Part two here 😀

- Roman Roy has always felt simultaneously like he's never really grown up, and that he was never allowed to be a child. Growing up as the youngest son of Logan Roy he wasn't allowed the chance to make the silly mistakes of childhood folly. Logan had been through that before and frankly he needed Roman to be a serious adult from the moment he could comprehend his father's disapproving glare. Naturally this was an impossible ask of a small, sensitive boy, and led to blows to back of the head when tears threatened to stain the silk shirt he'd been so uncomfortably forced into for another endless press event where he stood like a prop, just desperate not to get in any more trouble or let his dad down worse than he already had.

- As Roman entered adulthood he began to be left out of all the rooms where serious people met and talked about things he could never quite get right; he's wasn't self-interested enough, he didn't have those killer instincts, he couldn't rid his head of the thoughts of how many people would be affected by the company's every move. As Logan and Kendall started to tire of his quippy comments, relegating him to waiting outside for busy work, he could feel himself struggling to meet the thresholds of adulthood that Ken seemed to have carried with him for as long as Roman could remember. This dichotomy of boy and man left Roman feeling like he was never quite comfortable with his age, unsure what lense to see that number through. And then he met you.

- Getting a job at Waystar may have left you feeling a little morally uncomfortable, but you reminded yourself that ten years experience there and you'd be able to get any job in any industry you like, while also being able to pay for your own place. So you pushed that feeling down each day as you entered that office full of rich old white men. Given you'd actually had to earn your place there, rather than just knowing someone, it wasn't long until your work ethic, intelligence and ingenuity had you climbing the corporate ladder in your department and getting you noticed by some of the much higher-ups. Naturally they tried to just take credit for your work, but when the day came that Logan actually asked for an explanation of a report you'd produced, Frank had no choice but to put you in a room with the big boss face-to-face.

- You'd heard nothing but bad things about Logan Roy and as he stared at you in pure contempt while you answered his questions, wondering why his time was being wasted with this young thing from the bullpen, it took all your resolve to hold your nerve, giving short answers and trying not to give him anything to hold over you. Every so often you'd let your eyes flick over his shoulder to the man standing behind him, ten years older than you but pulling at the sleeves of his shirt like a little kid as he watched you face the interrogation, outwardly seeming far more nervous about the situation than you did. After fifteen minutes of watching you hold your head high and speak so confidently about your work, Roman was staring at you unashamedly in a mix of awe, intrigue and disbelief. Despite the age gap you seemed to have all the facets of a self-assured adult that he felt he'd never quite unlocked, while exuding the joyful exuberance of youth he'd never been allowed. He needed to know more about you, so when Logan shouted at Gerri to 'throw you in a dress and bring to this week's investor mixers' he could feel his heart pounding in his chest at the sheer hope and possibility of the answers you might hold.

- You weren't thrilled to spend your evenings surrounded by colleagues, stood to attention in case anyone needed a question answering, but you didn't hate the full railing of designer evening wear that had been sent to your apartment for the occasion. You found yourself trying to blend into the shadows of a corner, unsure of your place in this room and this crowd, wondering if any of the food on display was actually for eating, or if that would be seen as a massive faux pas. Luckily Roman had been keeping an interested eye on you all evening; who you'd spoken to, what you'd been dressed in, the frankly adorable face you'd pulled when Frank handed you a Whiskey twice your age and you took a very unwilling sip, feigning appreciation before slinking away to stick your tongue out at the burning taste. And finally he built up the nerve to approach you now that you were alone, trying to approach casually by picking up a grape from the ornate platter beside you, only to take a bite, realise it was plastic and having to hand it mortified to a waiter that had watched the whole thing from your side. He could feel the blood burning in his cheeks as he watched you try and stifle a laugh, both mortified that you already knew he was a fool and pleased that he'd been able to bring a smile to your face this evening.

"Yeah yeah fuck you." He laughed as he stopped just in front of you, all the words he'd planned to share failing him now that he was close enough to see the beauty in your sincere smile as you shook your head,

"Really I should thank you, now I'm one step closer to figuring out what's actually edible here." You replied with a warmth that almost made Roman recoil, so used to the icy chill he usually received from those around him.

"Well certainly not that whiskey." He nodded to the short crystal glass you'd been trying to put down since Frank handed it to you, tone sarcastic but without the cutting edge he was usually one to deliver. "Why is that the one thing these old fucks actually like to be their own age?" As you laughed again Roman felt a little victorious, he had set himself a pretty low bar but he was confident he was going to be the highlight of your evening.

- As you spent the next week being dragged to different events, you'd always find Roman slinking to your side before the night was through, as if you'd always been old friends, just counting down the hours of everyone else's company. You'd counter his one-liners and then ask him where he'd rather be on a Friday night and make him realise he didn't really know any other kind of night. So when you'd list off your weekend plans, and hobbies and interests, and tell him stories about your friends that had his hyena laugh echoing across the otherwise solemn room, he'd start to realise just how much he was missing out on, and how much he wanted to explore that with you as his guide.

- It stopped being enough, just finding you on odd evenings. Roman would start finding your desk at Waystar, pretending to just be wandering through a junior office coincidentally. He'd glance at his wrist, ignoring the fact he'd forgotten to put on a watch this morning, and comment that as 'technically kind of your boss' he needed to make sure his best employees were actually taking a lunch break, and also were you hungry? Sometimes during the day he'd just melt onto the floor beside your desk, chatting about nothing as you tried your best to type and pay him the attention he so desperately craved. He'd start having all of his meetings in the rooms on your floor so he could wave at you as he walked past the huge glass windows keeping your team contained, an apt metaphor for the walls up inside him he was worried you'd never cross.

- Poor insecure Roman, he'd really try and force himself to ask you out, but ultimately he'd be so afraid of the potential backlash of rejection, that it would be up to you to finally ask if he wanted to grab a drink after work, one Friday when he'd been particularly clingy. You'd take him to a fun, casual bar and watch his eye's light up at people playing darts or ordering fried food and generally the nice, relaxed atmosphere where he didn't feel he had to be the smartest person in the room. Occasionally a friend of yours would walk in a wave and ask how you were doing, and you'd introduce Roman as your friend with no shame or regret and he'd say something funny and get the same rush of pride at making you laugh that he did the first time, and he'd feel like maybe the more time he spent getting to know you, the better he could see himself, still young at heart but not the kid he once was. His lost childhood and misspent youth given a second chance as you offered to see him again next weekend.

- Once you open the affectionate floodgates Roman would be the clingiest koala you can imagine. He'd rarely be as direct as holding your hand, especially not in public, conscious of looking just like his father with a younger woman on his arm. But in the privacy of your little apartment, the one Roman fell in love with the moment he saw it, he'd take a slightly threadbare throw and toss it over the both of you as he all but crumbled into your lap when he wanted to talk about something he thought would make you run. Opening up about his father's wrath and his warped view of himself, glancing up periodically to check you hadn't ran away and left him behind, finding softness in your eyes instead of disappointment and sinking even more deeply into you.

- Roman would think you are an absolute fucking genius for everything you've done for yourself. Worked hard to be the best at your job? Genius. Manage your own bills and do your own laundry? Genius. Carry a water bottle around and make him drink some when he has a headache and somehow he feels better than he has in years? Genius.

- Roman would follow you to hell and back, but you'll have to forcibly remove him from your apartment when you want to go outside. He's never been somewhere that actually felt like home, every soft furnishing and mismatched bowl making him want to haunt your halls forever. If you ever make him a home cooked meal, he'll act like it's not a big deal, but honestly he's crying inside that anyone would go through the effort for him, and that he was the person they chose to be around. Cut to him going thrifting with you to buy five new dishes for you to cook in next time, plus anything else you like.

- Occasionally you'll successfully get him outside for a hike, or a walk, or even a day at a museum or arcade; and Roman will go full toddler on you. Pointing at everything excitedly, running around and shrieking, making sure he was your undivided attention and dragging you by the hand to look at everything. By the time you're home you're ready to collapse, only to notice Roman surreptitiously placing a little souvenir somewhere on your shelf, sneakily bought from a gift shop while you were in the bathroom, before pretending he has no idea how it got there.

- Roman is so enraptured by the incredible, rounded human-being that you are, that eventually some of your self-belief would start to rub off on him, making him feel more sure of himself than he ever has before. Thinking less about the approval of others (except you, he still desperately wants that), feeling confident in his ideas, and no longer feeling like he's stuck in Peter Pan mode - despite falling for someone ten years his junior, Roman would finally feel like he was becoming the man he was always supposed to be, thanks to you.

Let me know if you want a part two of this!

#writing #fanfiction #one shot #requests #roman roy angst #roman roy fluff #roman roy imagine #roman roy x reader #roman roy #succession imagine #succession hbo #succession #succession headcanons #roman roy headcanons #succession roman

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svnoofy · 11 months ago

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SYNOPSIS - your entire life has been measured by christmases, specifically– those spent with the lee household. every christmas, it was the same, and your feelings for the boy you grew up with during those christmases stayed the same too. however, as time passed, a few things changed and matters of the heart become a little more complex. could it be possible that there was more to look forward to this christmas than just your favorite hot cocoa?

PAIRING - lee heeseung x fem reader

GENRE - romance, slow burn, fluff, an attempt at crack, light angst, brother’s best friend trope-ish, “she fell first, he fell harder” trope

WARNINGS - profanity, minor references to sex and inappropriate topics, heeseung being very much conrad-coded

THIS STORY IS LOOSELY BASED OFF THE SERIES: THE SUMMER I TURNED PRETTY

christmas at the lee household was something you looked forward to each and every year. so much so that your entire life was measured by christmases.

you spent christmases with your mom, older brother, yeonjun and the lees, conveniently because your moms were best friends. mrs lee had a son– heeseung, who you basically spent your entire childhood with besides your brother.

while heeseung and yeonjun had a close relationship from the start, you and heeseung, didn’t always hit it off. at one point, he was hiding your christmas edition barbie dolls because he was embarassed to be seen with them! (you didn’t blame him though– he was two years older than you so he didn’t get the hype)

but eventually, both of you grew out of the silly trivial things that pulled you apart as young kids and you found yourself enjoying his company just as much as he did yours.

he’s seen you through all your phases and vice versa. he was there when you were wearing pink everyday, your emo era and even through your braces and dungarees phase (which was literally last year) and to be completely frank, somewhere along the lines: you fell for him.

oh, and as if news didn’t travel fast enough: the whole house knew! and it has become a tradition for everyone to tease the hell out of you when he’s around. no worries though, he made it painfully clear that he saw you just as his little sister (yikes)

every year it was the same: it always started off with a family dinner, followed by cocoa by the fire place with some fun games to accompany— which repeated until christmas day itself, which, you thought, when the fun really began.

“are you seriously not going to bring any sexy outfits? seriously?”, giselle raised an eyebrow from your bed– supposedly helping you pack.

you shot a confused look at her, “babes i’m going to celebrate christmas with my family not a honeymoon at bora-bora”

giselle rolled her eyes, “if you WANT heeseung to finally look at you, then—”, she dangles a red, slinky, dress towards you, notioning you to add it to your luggage.

“tis’ the season you get laid babes”, giselle winks.

your cheeks flush pink, “giselle!”, you smack her leg.

“HEY, I’M JUST TRYING TO HELP”, giselle yelped in defense.

giselle gets up from bed and drags you to your standing mirror— “you’ve changed a lot since last year, and you HAVE to embrace it babes! i promise, he’s going to regret ever sister-zoning you!”, she hugs your shoulders.

part of you knows she has a point, but realistically, how much could you have changed? giselle was probably just being nice.

“y/n are you ready? we have to go soon!”, your mom called from the bottom of the stairs.

you gave giselle one final hug and you intertwined your hands with her in a secret handshake.

“promise you’ll tell me whatever happens between you and heeseung?”, she prompts.

“duh, you have my word”, you wink before lugging your bags down the stairs.

the drive to the lee family house was long and with your brother driving, of course you two were arguing over the bluetooth connection. yeonjun had presented the lame excuse of “needing it for gps”, when really: you knew he wanted to blast anime music that you had no understanding of.

“come on jun, just let your sister play her music–”, your mother notioned to yeonjun, who pouted at the mirror and sighed.

“fine”, he pouted yet again, earning a scoff from your mother.

you rejoiced, finally!, you thought.

you put your christmas playlist on shuffle and stared out of the window, the familiar neighborhood coming into vision amidst the blanketing snow.

your heart swelled at the sight of the people putting up lights, garlands and decorations alike: christmas is here again, you fondly thought.

as you drove through the icy roads, with last christmas by wham! playing in the background, you felt as though you were in a scene from a christmas movie.

when you arrived at the drive way of the lee family house, you were hit with the nostalgic scent of rosemary. mrs lee must be baking her famous potato casserole again, you thought– eliciting a grumble from your stomach.

“y/n, come help me unload our bags”, she taps your shoulder from the backseat, to which you quickly unfastened your seat belt to assist your mom.

at this point, yeonjun had long disappeared into the warm embrace of the cabin while you helped your mother unload the bags.

“soojin?”, you heard a familiar voice call out.

it was mrs lee– she stood on her door step, arms wide open to give your mother a welcome hug.

your mother smiles back before coming into her embrace– the sight was warming your heart more than any fire could.

mrs lee’s eyes stray to you for a moment and she almost screeches.

“y/n! my dear you have grown so much! she’s gorgeous soojin!”, mrs lee praised.

she went towards you and placed her warm hand on your cheek, “you’re in bloom, my snowflake”

mrs lee had a way of saying things that almost made you believe her.

she then notices the bags on the driveway, left unattended, to which she gasped, “let me get the boys for this”

she goes up to the door to beckon the boys out, and as you stood, frozen on the driveway in anticipation, you saw him, struggling to get his gloves on.

he had his usual polo sweater on, but this time he was taller, his hair was longer and it fell a little over his eyes– which had always been your favorite feature of his.

as you stood frozen on the driveway, your eyes met with his as he walked towards you. you felt your heart beat a million times a minute.

there he was, the boy you’ve longed for your entire life.

you stood there, across from him, as he took the sight of you in.

“what happened to your glasses?”, he asked.

“i don’t wear them anymore”, you explained.

he went around you to get your bags, lifting them easily compared to you and your mom’s efforts combined.

“i liked your glasses”, he leaned over slightly causing you to stiffen up, “but welcome back, y/n”, he pinches your nose– another familiar tradition.

he lugs your bag into the house and right as he reached the doorstep, he looked back at you, hands motioning you to come in.

“come in, you’ll freeze out there”, he says. you run towards the door at his invitation, closing the door right behind you when the both of you enter.

“so, how was everyone’s year?”, mrs lee asks, wine glass in hand.

“it was great mrs lee— i got into our university’s dance team!”, yeonjun bragged earning exaggerated and sarcastic applauses from heeseung, to which yeonjun responded by tossing a potato in his direction.

your mother shot yeonjun an icy glare as a reminder to behave, and he cleared his throat in realization.

“oh yeah and mrs lee, your son is a HIT at campus, he’s being hit on by girls left and right, it’s sickening!”, yeonjun remarked.

you were somewhat in a state of disappointment yet you weren’t surprised.

you had to admit, you always found lee heeseung handsome— but somehow, this christmas, your heart catapulted more than it usually did.

heeseung fiddled with the potatoes on his plate using his fork, clearly uncomfortable of the topic that arose.

“i guess— it’s because he looks so much like me”, mrs lee commented with a wink, earning a chuckle from heeseung– who was clearly unsure how to react.

you pursed your lips, avoiding eye contact with the boy across you.

“how about you, my snowflake?”, mrs lee asks– all eyes darting towards you.

“uhm..”, you thought about what had happened this year that was remotely interesting to share.

off the top of your head, you shared: “i got my braces off”, you smiled flashing your pearly whites, eliciting laughs from mrs lee and heeseung.

“no shit, dumbass”, yeonjun remarked, earning a kick under the table from your mom.

“yeonjun, be nice”, to which he pouted to, “come on moomm, you always defend y/n”, he flashes his morbid puppy eyes at her, only to earn a distasteful roll of the eyes from your mom.

“my snowflake has grown so beautifully”, mrs lee remarked, causing you to blush.

“thanks mrs lee”, you smiled at the nickname she has always given you.

you didn’t even notice the eyes that lingered on you a little longer than they should– from the boy across from you.

as usual, cocoa by the fireplace followed suit after dinner— and you were so excited to finally taste the best hot cocoa you have ever had in your life again.

as you topped your cocoa with a pile of marshmallows in the kitchen, you couldn’t help but overhear the boys chatting with each other.

“is that girl from school still texting you?”, yeonjun asked.

“uh i guess, there are a few of them”, heeseung replies, doubtfully.

“bro– don’t tell me you’re still hung up over wonyoung– come on man, that was monthsss agooo”, yeonjun drawled, earning a half-hearted sigh from heeseung.

oh, he’s had a girl friend before this, you thought– the familiar dreadful feeling arising in your tummy.

“i guess, but i don’t know– i feel like i still like her”, heeseung says, very much in the same doubtful tone he started with.

you don’t know why you were all sad about what you heard, it’s not like he was your boyfriend after all– but you couldn’t deny that it stung a little to witness the boy you like missing someone that wasn’t you.

you stayed up all night thinking about the conversation between heeseung and your brother – the name in the conversation repeating itself in your head like a mantra.

wonyoung, she sounds beautiful – you thought as you brushed your teeth.

after washing up, you sleepily make your way down to the kitchen, where everybody was. heeseung was with your mom, solving a crossword puzzle while yeonjun helped mrs lee with the pancakes for breakfast.

when mrs lee noticed your presence, she set her spatula down and rushed in to give you a hug.

“good morning sweetie, did you sleep good?”, she asks only for you to lie: “slept great, mrs lee”

you took a seat at the bar table, eyes wandering for the oat milk carton. before you could even stand up to look for it, heeseung comes up from right behind you and places a tall glass of oat milk right beside you.

“i know you hate cold milk”, he says with a smile– before walking over to yeonjun, who was trying his best to salvage his pancakes.

your heart fluttered at heeseung’s gesture, this was one of the many reasons you had fallen for him.

FLASHBACK

“which flavor should we get heeseung?”, a young yeonjun asks with a mischievous grin on his face.

the whole family was spending the day at the market– and although the boys were warned far earlier to stay away from the candy cart, yeonjun and heeseung had been saving up to splurge on candy the whole year! and with a little bit of will power, they managed to slip away from their moms– who at the time, were distracted by the attractive holiday candles for sale.

“i want peppermint and licorice!”, yeonjun exclaims, grabbing a fistful of each candy he wanted.

unlike yeonjun, heeseung was carefully contemplating his choices— but, before all, he reached in for the pink berry blast candy, which shocked yeonjun to say the least.

“ewwwwwww, you’re choosing pink candy?”, yeonjun gags earning an annoyed eye roll from heeseung.

“it’s for y/n, not me”, heeseung explains before continuing to carefully select his own choice of candy.

when they returned to their mothers, who were, to no shock, still at the candle stand– you stood idly by, noticing how the boys managed to slip away and come back unnoticed.

you weren’t one to snitch though, fortunately.

as you sucked on your thumb, waiting for your mom to finish indulging in the various holiday scented candles, heeseung taps your shoulder.

“i know you like this candy”, he hands the bright-pink candy over to you, a smile plastered in his face.

you were too young to understand what was happening right then and there but even little you, didn’t fail to blush at the kind gesture that was presented to you.

END OF FLASHBACK

the day moved rather slowly— the weather in the neighborhood switched between being gloomy and snowy, which made it hard to plan activities around.

you were laying in your room, folding your laundry, when you heard a knock on your door.

“hey loser”, it was yeonjun.

you rolled your eyes– “no, i am NOT going to fold your stupid underwear again”, you say almost predictably.

“what– no, i just wanted to say– heeseung and i are heading to a party tonight, and you have to keep it shut to mrs lee and mom, got it?”, yeonjun commands.

“what the hell, you guys are sneaking out?”, you ask.

“duhhh, do you think we stay in EVERYTIME for cocoa and game night? obviously heeseung and i are cooler than that”, he explains earning a gasp from your end.

“you’ve BEEN sneaking out this WHOLE time?”, you were exasperated to say the least.

“jealous, loser?”, he teases with a wink, causing your face to contort to a distasteful look.

“whatever it is, we’ll be back midnight, see ya loser!”, he storms out confidently.

what he doesn’t know is, you found out which party he was going to (the only party in town, which giselle took the very kind initiative of finding out) and there is no way in hell, you would miss the opportunity to rebel for once.

when yeonjun and heeseung arrived, the sight they saw was nothing extraordinary.

there were drinks, people making out, and music blaring from every corner.

“heyyy boys!”, the host, jake sim, greeted– giving each of them a dap in the process.

“great to have you back here this year”, jake roughly places his hand on yeonjun’s shoulder– simultaneously handing him a shot of tequila.

“i feeel aliveeee”, yeonjun exclaims after downing the tequila that was handed to him.

jake notions heeseung to take a sip, but he refuses.

“i don’t drink tequila”, he confesses– to which jake nods in understanding with an “ah ok”.

before heeseung could even decide what to do, yeonjun was off on the dance floor, girls surrounding him as if he were a magnet.

heeseung laughs at the sight before moving himself to one of the lounges, grabbibg a can of beer to pop open and enjoy.

unexpectedly, he sees a familiar face wrapped around someone.

wonyoung?

“girl, why are you dressing like a saint– how is heeseung gonna notice you when you’re wearing a literal nun-fit”, giselle remarked when she saw your quote-unquote “overly covering” outfit.

you were rummaging your bag at this point, before you found a rather intriguing piece of clothing– which you definitely never owned.

“is this yours?”, you dangle the red, slinky, dress towards the camera.

“YES! THANK GOD YOU FOUND IT”, giselle cheers in victory.

“yes bitch wear that– hello, there’s a reason i packed it in”, giselle commands, to which you hesitantly oblige.

after you slipped into the dress, giselle’s eyes almost pop out of her skull.

“OH MY GOD Y/N? YOU LOOK STUNNING?? I AM DEAD”, she jokingly motions– earning a shy giggle from your end.

the dress was indeed beautiful, you were just unsure if it looked good on you– it seemed way different than what you would usually reach for.

“if you’re even SECOND-THINKING right now i will smack you from my phone”, giselle suddenly says, as if reading your mind.

“please y/n you look stunning, like santa’s mistress but innocent and hot at the same time– damn, i suck at explaining but you look HOT”, she comments, giggling at parts, almost fangirling.

“now put on that red lipstick you bought and bam, femme fatale who?”, she winks at you with her suggestion.

you apply the red lipstick as instructed and when giselle saw your final look, she almost fainted.

she gave you her final best wishes and told you to put on your best heels– which in true y/n fashion – you forgot.

so, you just slip on your converses and carefully sneak out of the house, careful not to wake your moms.

now you just have to hope, yeonjun is too drunk to notice you were ever there.

when you arrived at the driveway, everyone had their eyes on you.

you felt a little insecure, walking in your dress and parka, into this completely new environment. before you could even make a step further, a guy stops you in your tracks.

“hi beautiful, welcome to my party”, he had a smug look on his face and you just smiled back and thanked him in response.

“have i seen you before? you look new”, he asked– technically you’ve gone to this neighborhood your whole life, it was just your first party.

“yeah, it’s my first party—”, before you could even say anything else— the guy yells: “WE HAVE A NEW PARTY COMER EVERYONE!”

heeseung had his eyes on wonyoung, who was enjoying herself with her new boy accessory.

he wanted to approach her, liquid confidence in hand.

but before he could even take a step towards her, he hears jake’s voice echo to the living room he was in.

“WE HAVE A NEW PARTY COMER EVERYONE!”

from there on, a good majority of the crowd’s eyes diverted to the door– where jake was escorting the new guest, arms linked.

heeseung couldn’t believe his eyes. you were absolutely gorgeous.

crowds cheered and whistled at your entrance, and heeseung stepped closer to where you were walking.

it can’t be her, can it? , he doubted himself.

he confirmed it was you when he saw your stained converses, what is she doing here?

you stood at the kitchen, unsure of what to do. there were so many people, yet you couldn’t find the courage to get along with any of them.

“i love your dress”, you heard a voice from beside you.

you turned to the direction of the voice, to see an angel-like girl next to you.

“oh my god, that means a lot coming from you”, you say with a smile.

“what’s your name, pretty?”, she asks with a smile, before taking a sip from her cup.

“y/n— choi y/n, nice to meet you..”, you prompt for her name in return.

“wonyoung, jang wonyoung”, she smiles.

wonyoung?, you thought– could it be that wonyoung?

before you could ponder a moment longer, the guy who greeted you returned.

“i’m so honored to have the most beautiful girls in town at my party—”, he slurs, earning a scoff from wonyoung.

“grow up jake, i have a boyfriend”, wonyoung rolls her eyes– did they get back together?, you thought

“i didn’t want you anyway.. it’s her i want”, he slurs, smirking at you.

you gulp, unsure what to say or do.

“don’t let him get to your head y/n, he’s just pussy deprived”, wonyoung said.

jake slips his arm around your waist, finishing the last drop of his drink. at this point, you were more than uncomfortable.

“what the hell?”, you hear an agitated voice say.

you look back to see heeseung, infuriated.

heeseung marches up to the both of you and right as you expect him to drag wonyoung away, he drags you away instead.

“heeseung, let go!”, you command. heeseung was fuming.

“what the hell are you even doing with jake? are you trying to fuck yourself over?”, he was angry.

this was the angriest you’ve ever seem him, which brewed similar feelings in you.

“why do you care, heeseung? i want to have fun too!”, you retaliate– attempting to walk away from heeseung to enjoy the party.

he pulls you by your wrist, “no you aren’t, i’m calling a cab– we’re going home”

he drags you with him into the sea on the dance floor, fishing yeonjun out of it, his grip still firm on your wrist.

when he successfully got yeonjun off the dance floor, he was wasted.

after successfully calling a cab, he drags yeonjun in and asks you to sit in the back while he sat at the passenger seat. the whole car-ride was silent. heeseung must’ve been really mad.

you admit you felt bad for ruining their night but: why was he so mad?

seeing you and his ex at the party wasn’t exactly what he expected.

however, what blew him up was seeing jake wrap his arms around you, sickeningly intertwined like lovers. when he saw what ensued, he lost all his cool.

he could barely register that his ex, whom he tried to approach the whole night, was right there.

the next morning comes quickly, and as he laid in his bed, he kept asking himself: why he was as mad as he was seeing you with jake?

it was confusing, he still liked wonyoung– he was certain of it– but even after seeing wonyoung and her new boyfriend smooch around for minutes on end, he barely lifted a finger.

however, when he saw you standing there, a little too close to jake, he lost every ounce of cool in his body and gained a new confidence that he never thought he could have.

you’re not crazy heeseung, it’s different because she’s like your little sister— it’s natural you reacted the way you did: his subconscious self tried to justify his thoughts, with the very same excuse its been using for years.

just like that one time you came to support him during his first talent show at university, and how you proudly cheered for him. his heart fluttered at that but his psyche silenced his heart with that very excuse: “it’s normal for her to support you– she’s like your little sister”

or that one time he felt butterflies in his stomach when you helped patch up an injury on his leg with your barbie first aid kit, before proceeding to make him a cup of hot cocoa– when his heart fluttered yet again, but his subconscious self convinced him: “siblings care for each other, this is nothing”

or even that time he saw you for the first time in a year, and when he saw you standing there, so beautifully in your dress at the party. again, “she’s just like your little sister”

he didn’t understand what was happening to him– could it be denial? maybe, but whatever it was, he wasn’t ready to face it.

at that point, it was a few days until christmas. the house was busy, with cleaners and workers running left and right–hanging decorations and dusting off ornaments.

you decided to help as well, helping the workers hang stockings and garlands around the house.

heeseung stood by the door frame, watching you help the workers decorate the house– a smile unintentionally creeping up on his face.

he observed how your hair was neatly tied back with a ribbon, and how your reindeer knit sweater, which he knew you got from his mom, ran a little too big for you.

you were laughing along with the workers, at a slanted ornament you hung.

a tap on his shoulder snaps him out of his haze, “yo, mom and mrs lee needs us to go to the grocery store to pick up a turkey for the christmas eve dinner so let’s go”, yeonjun announces– dragging heeseung away from the scene.

you barely even noticed his presence, too busy trying to fix the decorations you accidentally ruined.

on the car ride to grocery store, heeseung clears his throat to speak.

“wonyoung’s got a new boyfriend”, he speaks up, eyes on the road.

yeonjun’s eyes widen, “what? SERIOUSLY? i thought she only brought that guy at the party to make you jealous–”, yeonjun says.

“what? no–”, heeseung tries to explain only to be cut off by yeonjun again.

“i think so though! heard you had a new girl during the party– red dress and all! i heard everyone thought she was a hot take– too bad i was too drunk to notice her because we all know, she would’ve come home with me”, yeonjun smirks causing heeseung to cringe.

this guy would regret saying that if he knew it was his sister, he thought.

but hey, since yeonjun already ingrained that scenario in his head– heeseung might as well play along with it. plus, he could use some advice.

“yeah, i had a new girl but i don’t think i can like her”, he confesses.

“awww man, why not? you’re hot, kind of–”, yeonjun giggles, heeseung snorting in response.

“well, being with her is complicated– she’s beautiful, but i’m afraid i would hurt her”, heeseung admits, earning a scoff from yeonjun.

“you say that as if you didn’t date the dean of our university’s daughter but okay– come on heeseung, stop over thinking for once, if you like her, then make your move! don’t let your mind cock block”, yeonjun advises, hitting heeseung with a playful punch.

“alright then”, heeseung says, really hoping yeonjun won’t regret what he said.

“now let’s get this dang turkey”

the night of the christmas eve dinner came quicker than you expected.

the house was filling up with friends and family members, and it was finally beginning to look a lot like christmas.

you went down the stairs, dressed and ready to greet all the faces you hadn’t seen in a year.

you were surprised to see some of the faces from the party too– one of them being, wonyoung, which you assumed was invited by heeseung.

you waved at her, and the other people that were around.

“nice to see you again bub”, she greets, with a hug.

you’re not surprised why heeseung would date someone like her– she was so warm and kind.

when the dinner began, the adults were sat at the dining room, while the kids were sprawled out in the living room.

“i’m sooo bored”, jake complains after the dinner, earning an eye roll from yeonjun.

“you’re always bored when you’re not drunk, jake”, he retaliates.

wonyoung sat across from heeseung, which seemed strange for a couple.

“do you guys want to play spin the bottle?”, jake smirks.

everyone cheered in unison, approving his idea.

yeonjun grabs a bottle from the kitchen, and everyone forms a circle on the floor.

the first few spins were uneventful, the kisses being short pecks rather than long, deep, kisses– which earned boos from everyone.

however, when the bottle landed on heeseung and wonyoung, the air tensed up.

heeseung sat still, wonyoung the same.

“are we getting a kiss or no– OUCH”, jake groaned, when yeonjun kicked his foot– intentionally.

the air was so thick with tension– you began shifting in your seat uncomfortably.

“fine, let’s change the course— heeseung do you like anyone?”, wonyoung suddenly asks and his eyes widen.

his eyes land on yours before he could say anything.

however, right as he was about to answer, your mom called out to you.

“y/n can you please get something from aunt mijoo’s car”

when everyone left, it was late in the night.

you had trouble falling asleep, so you headed to the kitchen to make some hot cocoa.

you were shocked to see heeseung, still in his sweater, staring out the window.

“heeseung– oh my god you scared me”, you gasped.

he looked at you, his body slightly slumped.

“are you hungry?”, he asks, observing your actions.

“nope– i just need some cocoa to help me sleep”, you reply, earning a chuckle from the boy.

“you’re the first person i know who uses sugar to fall asleep”, he walks up to you and pats your head.

at that point, it was nearing midnight.

you opened the cupboard, searching for the cocoa powder.

great, you thought, it’s waayy on the top shelf

you sighed in defeat, your head hung low.

heeseung notices this, and he easily reaches for the cocoa.

“need some help?”, he offers the cocoa powder in his hand, a smirk plastered on his face.

you roll your eyes, “thanks, i guess”

he giggles, leaning back on the kitchen island– watching your every move.

you whip up your concoction, preparing an extra mug for heeseung– as he stood by, watching you.

“wonyoung is so pretty”, you suddenly say– causing him to choke on some air.

“suddenly?”, he remarked.

“she is though, i understand why you froze around her”, you giggled, eyes focused on the hot cocoa you were making.

heeseung was speechless, he wasn’t sure where exactly you were going with this.

“i mean i wouldn’t expect less from the lee heeseung’s girlfriend”, you bitterly applauded, which causes the boy to choke on his spit.

“girlfriend? where’d you hear that?”, he asks confusedly.

“she’s your girlfriend.. right?”, you tilt your head, twice as confused as he was.

“uh– first off, sure i guess she’s pretty but when i froze– that wasn’t the reason, second– she’s not my girlfriend, well, not anymore at least”, he explains.

when you heard this, you somehow felt a sense of relief – relief at the fact that wonyoung and heeseung weren’t together.

“what!”, you let out, sounding a little too happy. you cleared your throat and ask him again: “heeseung, why did you get mad at me during.. the party?”, you hesitated a little towards the end, flashbacks of heeseung’s anger replaying in your head like a broken tape.

“well..”

oh shit, he thought. he hasn’t quite figured out the reason himself– so, he’ll stick to his brain’s text book answer.

“because, you’re like my little sister, y/n”, he lies– he knows that, of all reasons, was not the one.

there it was, the very thing you dreaded to hear.

“oh..”, was the only thing you could respond with.

good thing your hot cocoa was ready! you poured two servings, one for him and one for yourself.

you took out all the toppings, and proceeded to add marshmallows to your hearts content.

“did you want some?”, you asked heeseung– but he shook his head no.

“but i’d like some whipped cream please”, he asks, extending his mug of cocoa to you.

you nod, prepping the can of whipped cream for him, skillfully giving him a swirl before you got a mischievous idea.

you took some whip cream on your finger, stood on your tippy toes, and smeared it on his face, “your wish is my command”, you smirk.

he gasps, taking some cream to do the same with you.

“hey! i just removed my make up!”, you shielded yourself from his attack.

“you started it!”, he exclaimed– chasing you around the kitchen, determined to get some cream in your hair too.

before you knew it, the clock bells rang as it hit 12 am, it was finally christmas.

the both of you stood face-to-face, looking at each other’s cream smeared faces for a moment.

“merry christmas, heeseung”, you greet, earning a giggle from him.

“merry christmas, y/n”

when you left the kitchen, hot cocoa in hand, heeseung’s heart beat raced more than he ever thought it could.

he had been trying so hard to deny it, but now he thinks he can finally accept it: you were more than just a little sister to him.

the wholesome scene in the kitchen replayed itself in your head until the next morning.

you even texted giselle at the crack of dawn to tell her what happened– to which she could only fangirl in response.

everyone was gathered at the living room, sat around in their pajamas.

“merry christmas everyone”, you say– kind of sleepy.

you joined your mom and mrs lee on the couch, giving them a big hug.

“don’t forget, later we have secret santa with everyone coming so, perk up kids!”, mrs lee reminded before she left to go to the kitchen with your mom, to which all of you responded with an enthusiastic smile.

“did you guys manage to get anything for secret santa?”, yeonjun asks you and heeseung.

you and heeseung nod in approval, “yeah, why? did you get anything?”, heeseung asks yeonjun.

“uh yeah– totally, i – yeah fuck it, i forgot”, he finally admits.

“it’s okay i can get a bag of cheetos, i don’t know– what do girls even like”, he sighed in frustration.

you laughed at his defeat, causing him to shoot a glare your direction.

“shut up, loser”

heeseung giggles beside you, causing you to shoot a glare at him. “ok, i’m sorry”

guests poured into the house, one by one, soon enough— all the kids and adults were sprawled out in the living room, getting ready to play secret santa.

unlike the night before, the circle of people who attended that afternoon was a more intimate group of people.

“ok, heeseung, it’s your turn– who are you secret santa for this year?”, mrs lee prompted.

heeseung smiles a little, shyly picking up the small red bag beside him, standing up to head to his designated person.

without you realizing, he made his way towards you.

“merry christmas, y/n”, he greets again, in his gentle voice, to which you shyly accept the red bag whispering a shy “thank you”– all eyes were on you at the time, observing the chemistry.

to be frank, everyone in that room knew how you felt about heeseung, and how much you wanted him to be your secret santa, time and time again.

this time you got what you wanted, and as you caressed the small red bag in your hands, your cheeks warmed up– heeseung’s gentle voice repeating itself in your head.

the day passed quickly and you didn’t get a chance to open the gift yet.

it was only when you had gone back up to your room that you had the chance. you undid the ribbon delicately, as if the bag itself was more precious than what it contained.

you took out the tissue paper that protected the small velvet box which sat in the centre of the bag. you caressed the velvet box with your fingers, your stomach brimming with butterflies and anticipation.

when you open the box, you gasp in surprise and adoration.

it was a necklace, but not just a random charm necklace.

it was a snowflake, each crevice covered in crystals, which sparkled brightly under the moon light which shone through your bedroom window.

you took a moment to read the card it came with, which left you smiling wider than you thought you could:

i saw this necklace at the store a few days ago and it made think of you– because you’re our little snowflake:) i hope you like it.

merry christmas, y/n

you admired the necklace in your hands, a smile creeping up on your face once again. it was beautiful, just like him.

you picked up your phone, typing up a quick text message.

you: thanks for the gift, heeseung. i love it c:

heeseung: no problem, i’m just glad you like it :)

heeseung: hey, it’s snowing out, wanna go build a snowman? ;)

you giggle at his sudden invitation. you put on the necklace, wrap yourself in your warm scarves and puffer jacket before heading downstairs.

you quietly snuck out through the back door of the kitchen, eyes looking left and right for heeseung.

your search didn’t last long when you felt a snowball hit your back.when you turn to the back, you see heeseung hiding behind a bush, gloves messy from the snow ball.

you scoff, rolling up a snow ball and hitting him in return– just like you used to do when you were younger.

“hey! ouch! stop!”, he squirmed, the cold impacting him more than he thought. you laughed at his defenselessness.

again, you stood across him, face to face– admiring his face, just like you did when you first arrived.

the snow was falling from the sky, gently trickling your jackets and hair.

his eyes locked with yours, and you swore time stopped.

“i think there’s something you should know..”, he took a step closer to you, anticipation brewing in your stomach as you looked up at him.

“hmm?”

“i’m sorry i got mad at you during jake’s party and brushed it off as me being protective because “you’re like my sister”–”, he apologized.

“truth is.. that wasn’t even close to the real reason–”, he begun, your eyes glued intently on him.

“thing is.. i never understood why or how i felt about you— and, my subconscious mind would consistently tell me it was because you were just my little sister”, he looked down briefly before meeting your eyes again.

“but, when i found myself missing you, thinking about you and your silly laugh when i crack my terrible jokes– and when i found myself infuriated at the idea that another guy could make you laugh like that, i knew that you were more than what i tried so hard to convince myself you were..”, he took your hands in his, eyes still locked on yours.

“how could i have been so blind to the one person who’s always been there for me.. from the time you patched up my little injury with your precious barbie band aids or even the time you stood front row during my first talent show— it has always been you”, he grips your hand tighter.

“so i was hoping i could be the one for you too..”, he nervously says.

“what do you mean heeseung?”, you ask suddenly, pulling your hands away from his.

at this point he was expecting his heart to be shattered– until you cut off his train of thought.

“you have always been the one for me”, you say suddenly– flashing him with the smile he loved so much.

before he could say anything further, you leapt up onto him, the warmth of your lips embracing his.

he smiled into the kiss, “i love you, my little snowflake”

you giggled, “i love you too”, you say briefly before he engulfs your lips in his again, twirling you in his embrace.

you have always loved christmas, but now, he’s given you a million reasons to love it more.

[ hera’s note ] – hello loves! merry (ADVANCED) christmas! 🎄 here’s an advanced heeseung christmas piece that i wrote while listening to taylor swift and sabrina carpenter’s new christmas EP HAHAHA i hope you all enjoyed this piece 🤍 please let me know what you thought about this one-shot and reblog it if you enjoyed it! i wanted to upload this early because i may be offline for a few days to celebrate this festive season :) anyways, i hope everyone will have a wonderful christmas, hera loves you! <3

[ taglist ] – @ja4hyvn | send an ask/dm to be added!

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queenshelby · 8 months ago

Text

Our Little Secret (Part 33)

Pairing: Cillian Murphy x Reader

Warning: Infidelity, Age-Gap,

"Alright, let's eat," Cillian's father announced, bringing everyone back to reality but Frank shook his head.

"You cannot possibly pretend that you are okay with this, dad!" he said, looking at his father with anger. "How can you sit here and pretend that this is okay? This is my stepdaughter for Christ's sake!" he spat, gesturing to you and Cillian before dropping another insult.

"But hey, bravo, Y/N! Your slutty behavior got you a sugar and a baby daddy, all in one, so I am sure you are proud of yourself," Frank went on, causing Cillian's face to grow dark with anger.

"Shut up, Frank," Cillian ground out, his fists clenched tightly at his sides. "This is the mother of my child who you are talking about," he snapped, before turning to you and placing a gentle hand on your shoulder and you couldn't help but feel your heart sink at Frank's harsh words. You had never intended to cause any problems or hurt anyone's feelings, especially not Cillian's family. But it seemed that no matter what you did, you couldn't escape the judgment and criticism.

"Yes, she is because, clearly, she is too young and naive to use birth control," Frank sneered, not holding back any punches.

You could feel the tension in the room growing as Cillian's grip on your shoulder tightened.

"Please, Frank, enough," Cillian said, his voice strained but Frank was not listening.

"No, Cillian! You slept with a fucking child and don't see anything wrong with it," Frank shouted, unable to control his anger.

Cillian's grip on my shoulder tightened further, his body rigid with fury as he glared at his brother. "Frank, I said enough," he growled, his voice dangerously low.

But Frank was not deterred. He pointed a finger at you, his eyes filled with disgust and contempt. "And you, Y/N. You think this is all just a game, don't you?" he asked while even your mother tried to hold him back.

"No Frank, I don't think that this is a game at all and I am no child. I am adult and have been for quite some time. I never asked for anything from you and mum and I never asked for anything from Cillian either. I was going to have an abortion and get on with my life, but you know what?" you suddenly stood up, causing the entire room to fall silent as you took a deep breath, wiping away a stray tear that had escaped down your cheek. "I am glad that Cillian stopped me from being so selfish. He wanted me to keep the baby and I am glad that I did as we both love her unconditionally, which is not something that seems to be the norm when it comes to my own upbringing," you stated, holding Mara tighter as she snuggled herself comfortably against your chest. "Nobody has ever wanted me for who I am. First my mother sent me overseas, then my father sent me back and then the two of you kicked me out because I fell for a man I shouldn't have. But you know what - I thank for it now because I am happy for once, with your brother, so there is that. You can keep on ranting all you want Frank, but nothing is going to change," you continued, speaking your mind before taking a deep breath, leaving everyone else in the room speechless.

"I am sorry for ruining your birthday," you then finally said to Cillian's mother, knowing that all this trouble and rage was the result of your presence.

"Don't be silly," Cillian's mother replied with a smile, patting your hand comfortingly. "Family is always messy. Always will be. Family drama is nothing new for me. Besides, I am glad that you and Mara are here. She's quite something," she said fondly, admiring a sleeping Mara while Frank rolled his eyes.

"Whatever," Frank muttered, pushing his chair back and standing up abruptly. "I can't handle this crap anymore." he asked angrily, gesturing toward you with a flick of his wrist before walking off. He clearly needed to calm down and collect himself before returning to the table but, honestly, you couldn't care less about his feelings in that moment.

You were fed up with his constant judgement and criticism. Fed up with him acting like he had some sort of authority over you. Fed up with being treated like a child instead of the adult that you were. You deserved respect and dignity, just like everyone else.

"Let's just enjoy the rest of our breakfast," Cillian's father suggested, trying to diffuse the tension but your heart was still racing with anger and frustration.

You barely touched your food as you couldn't help but feel a sense of guilt and sadness wash over you. This wasn't how you wanted things to go. You didn't want to cause a scene or upset anyone, but sometimes the truth can be hurtful.

After breakfast, your mother excused herself to check on Frank, leaving you and Cillian alone with his parents at the table.

You could feel the tension radiating from Cillian's body as his grip on his coffee cup grew tighter and tighter.

"I'm sorry," you whispered softly, reaching out to take his hand in yours. "I didn't mean to make things any worse by speaking up," you told him but he turned to you, his eyes filled with sadness and regret.

"No, you did the right thing," he said, squeezing your hand. "You did well," Cillian assured you, leaning over to press a soft kiss to your temple. But you couldn't shake off the guilt and sadness.

"I just wish things could be different," you said quietly, staring down at your untouched plate.

"Hey," Cillian said, lifting your chin with his finger to look at him. "Things are different. We are different. And that's okay because we are together. We have each other and we have Mara," he reassured you, his gaze steady while his mother looked on with awe.

"Thank you," you whispered, leaning into his touch as you took a deep breath, trying to calm yourself down.

The rest of the day passed by in a blur as everyone tried their best to avoid any further confrontations. Your mother and you were careful to avoid any topics that might trigger Frank and Cillian's parents were equally cautious not to upset anyone as you celebrated Cillian's mother's birthday.

As the day drew to a close, you found yourself lying in bed next to Cillian, your bodies entwined as you tried to drift off to sleep.

Mara was fast asleep in her crib, her soft breathsicle lullaby that filled the air.

You couldn't help but feel a sense of contentment wash over you as you listened to Cillian's steady heartbeat, your bodies pressed close together. You trailed your fingers gently up and down his chest, marveling at the warmth of his skin beneath your fingertips.

Despite everything that had happened earlier in the day, you couldn't help but feel grateful for Cillian's presence in your life. You wouldn't have changed anything, not even the mistakes you had made.

Because they had led you to Cillian, and he was worth it all. You shifted closer to him, your breasts brushing against his chest, your nipples hardening at the contact. Cillian's grip on you tightened, and you felt him stirring against your hips.

You had been brave today, louder and stronger than you ever thought possible, and now it was time to let go.

"I love you Y/N," Cillian murmured, caressing your face gently as he traced your lips with his thumb, and you couldn't help but feel a thrill run down your spine.

"I want you so bad," you whispered in response, your eyes glazing over with desire.

"I want you too babe, but you know we can't. You haven't healed yet," Cillian reminded you, his voice heavy with restraint.

"Yes, I do know that. But it doesn't mean I can't still pleasure you," you murmured suggestively, pressing a soft kiss to his chest and causing Cillian to groan.

"No, please. I want to wait until I can be inside you again," Cillian pleaded, but you could hear the desire in his voice, the longing.

You traced your fingers up his chest, teasingly, before resting your hand on his crotch. You could feel his erection, hard and straining against his boxers, and you couldn't help but feel a thrill of power.

"Fuck Y/N, you are not playing a fair game," Cillian gasped as you traced your fingers over his length, feeling him twitch beneath your touch.

"Why should I? You are the one denying me something I want so badly," you replied, keeping your voice low and seductive.

You could hear the struggle in Cillian's voice as he tried to resist your touch.

"Mara," he gasped, reminding you of your daughter sleeping soundly in her crib.

You glanced over at your baby, but saw that she was still fast asleep, her breathing deep and steady.

"She's asleep. You just have to be quiet," you told him. You wanted him, needed him, and you were determined to have him.

Slowly, you pulled down his boxers, exposing his erect cock to the cool air.

Cillian hissed at the contact, his hips jerking slightly as you wrapped your hand around his shaft.

"Fuck, Y/N," he groaned, his voice low and deep.

You smirked at him, your hand moving slowly up and down his length, feeling him grow harder and harder in your grasp.

"Sshh," you murmured, your lips brushing against his ear.

Cillian's breathing grew labored, his fingers tightening in the sheets as you continued to stroke him.

"I don't know if I can keep quiet," he admitted, his voice strained.

You chuckled softly in response, your hand continuing to move up and down his length.

"Well, you better find a way," you whispered, leaning in to brush a kiss against his lips.

Cillian groaned as you deepened the kiss, his hands coming up to tangle in your hair. You could feel his hips thrusting upwards, seeking more friction as you continued to stroke him.

Breaking the kiss, you trailed your lips down his chest, your tongue flicking out to taste his skin.

"I need you to cum down my throat so that we don't stain your parents' sheets," you whispered hoarsely, your hand still working its magic on his cock as you adjusted your position.

Cillian hissed at your words, his hips bucking upwards as you took him into your mouth.

You sucked him deep, your tongue swirling around his tip as you tasted his arousal.

"Yes, just like that," Cillian groaned, his fingers tightening in your hair as you took him deeper into your mouth.

You hollowed out your cheeks, creating a vacuum as you sucked him harder and faster.

"Fuck, Y/N," Cillian hissed, "I am close."

You moaned in response, your hand still working its magic on his base as you sucked him deeper.

Cillian couldn't hold back any longer. With a strangled cry, he came down your throat, his cum filling your mouth as you swallowed every last drop.

You released him with a pop, licking your lips clean as you looked up at him with a satisfied grin.

Cillian's chest was heaving as he looked down at you, a mixture of lust and admiration in his eyes.

"You are unbelievable," he said, his voice husky with pleasure.

You grinned up at him, feeling empowered by your ability to make him lose control like that. "I'm glad you enjoyed it," you teased, running your fingers along his thighs.

Cillian's hands were still gripping the sheets tightly, and you could see that he was still partially hard. "Do you want more?" you asked, raising an eyebrow seductively.

"No," he replied, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "But I want to return the favor when we get back home tomorrow," he told you, ensuring to place emphasis on those words.

"I am still bleeding Cillian," you told him as you leaned your head against his shoulder.

"I know," Cillian assured you before planting a kiss on your forehead. "But I've got an idea," he said, a mischievous look in his eye before pulling you closer into his arms.

The two of you lay there for a few moments, enjoying each other's warmth and comfort before the sound of a door opening caught your attention followed by two familiar voices, arguing with one another.

"I am so sick of this, Frank," your mother said, her voice strained. "You cannot keep behaving like this. It's not fair. She is still my daughter," she went on, her voice cracking as she tried to hold back tears.

"She might be your daughter but she is clearly out of line, whoring around with my brother, a 46-year old man," Frank retorted harshly, causing you to flinch at his cruel words.

"Enough," Cillian barked, his voice firm as he got out of bed abruptly before walking towards the door to address your mother and Frank who smelled of alcohol.

"Frank, I don't know what your problem is, but I am tired of this bullshit," Cillian said as his face twisted in anger, which is when Frank leashed out towards Cillian without warning, swinging his fist towards his jaw.

The yelling woke up Mara, causing her to start crying at the top of her lungs just as, suddenly, you heard a loud thud.

"Oh my god Frank, what did you do?" you then heard your mother shout as Mara's cries filled the house and you quickly picked her up before racing out of the room to see the damage that had been done.

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from-the-owls-nest · 21 days ago

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Intro

Hi, uh, I'm Noa. Nice to meet you. I'm new in here and my cabinmates said to do this??

(ooc: this is basically a me camp half-blood version to interact with other rp blogs and the fandom beyond my other rp blog @flipflops-n-bones whose character is a toddler as of now.)

I'm 15, usually - when my brain glitches or when I want, it can be anywhere from toddler to teen (ooc: IRL I'm a young adult as far as ID goes!).

I'm nonbinary, aro-ace or something? Generally some kind of confused queer. I use they/them or she/her as pronouns, default is they.

Uhm. I look like the little picture I put - on the smaller side, dark curls, blue eyes, headphones and hoodie.

I like: stories, books, music, stars, rainbows, owls, cats, hugs, hot chocolate, helping people understand things, windy days at the lake... in general I'm more of a quiet and cozy person, but with my friends I can be quite silly!

I don't like: loud noises, spiders, darkness, pain, social issues, thunderstorms and crowds.

I read a lot, and listen to music, and I like doing crafts like crochet, sewing, embroidery... Also I got some experience with medical stuff if you need any volunteers.

As far as weapons go I'm okay, I think? Learning Archery, and before coming here I was already learning some Karate and Kobudo (basically quarterstaff work) which is really fun!

My Godly Parent is Athena. At least an owl appeared over my head when I came here (before I passed out)... So I guess I'm good with thinking and concepts and like noticing stuff, and "putting the pieces together". At least when my brain cooperates.

Update: I can change into an owl and fly!! And with practice I'll be able to change just body parts into their owl versions (hearing, vision, claws, even beak i guess? - not wings though that's not how physics works). Athenas symbol or something.

And my age and bodily appearance can change based on mood / unconsciously or when I want it to, from like small child to teenager. We're not really sure why. If I find out, I'll tell you.

And since I got adopted by Jack I can change into a cat too!!

My mortal family... um. No. No thank you. No. I'll be here year-round, please. I miss my little siblings, but... let's say there's reasons I left.

I'm dealing with some issues body and brain wise - autism, disability, silly brain - but it's usually not too much of a problem. Like, i get dizzy and walking hurts so I'll sometimes use mobility aids like a cane, crutches or a wheelchair. And I'm confused sometimes and have a really bad memory, or talk weirdly, but yea. Just some chaos all around.

Uh. Oh yea. Please don't be weird or mean, this is for fun.

People I know:

Jack @demigod-jack-hearth My adoptive mum, Daughter of Hestia, Champion of a whole bunch of gods, gives great hugs and cookies!

Nico @nico-sees-dead-people Son of Hades, needs some sleep

Will @dr-flipflops Head Medic, Nicos Boyfriend, Son of Apollo, also needs some sleep

Aria @flipflops-n-bones their kid, reminds me of my brother, Daughter of Demeter?, (my other rp blog)

Crescent - @the-eclipse-is-in-me Nicos sister, Daughter of Hades

Quinn - @quinn-is-victory Crescents partner, Child of Nike

Annabeth - @not-annabeth head counselor of my cabin and i guess half sibling?, Daughter of Athena

Percy - @seewead-brian Annabeths Boyfriend, Son of Poseidon

Grover - @proud-tree-hugger a Satyr. also something with Pan?

Bianca - @the-one-who-returned Nicos Sister who died, Daughter of Hades (link broken?)

Thalia - @thalia-grace1248 was a tree?, now a Hunter, Daughter of Zeus

Kayla - @sun-girl-offical Wills sister, archery instructor, Daughter of Apollo

Hazel - @the-gem-girl-from-the-argoii a roman demigod and Nicos halfsister, Daughter of Hades Pluto

Jason - @demi-gods-blonde-superman a roman demigod, Son of Zeus Jupiter

Piper - @theghostsaredancing Daughter of Aphrodite

Frank - @zankfrang23 a roman demigod, Son of Ares Mars, can shapeshift into Animals

Leo and Harley - @mrmcshizzleandh-meister Sons of Hephaestus

Selena - @hexpect-the-worst Daughter of Hekate

Reyna - @praetorofthebestlegion Daughter of Bellona, now a Hunter

Rachel - @rackel-mackerel-dare Mortal, Oracle

Silena - @silena-beauregard-xxx , Daughter of Aphrodite

Connor - @connorstollslays (link broken?), Son of Hermes

Calypso - @calypsoontheisland former immortal

Magnus - @dont-call-me-beantown Annabeths Cousin, Norse, Son of Frey, Healer

Alex - @alexf1erroo Magnus' Partner

Cleo - @cleoreadsbooks from Egypt

Apollo - @no-longer-lester Apollo. God of Poetry, Music, Healing, ...

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fuckyeahisawthat · 7 months ago

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While this article does not answer my #1 burning question of how you dismount from a speeding sandworm, there are a lot of great pull quotes, including:

On Paul and Chani:

"...I wanted to make sure the audience will understand that Paul becomes a dark figure, that his choices are exactly what Chani was afraid of. He becomes the colonizers the Fremen were fighting against.... He betrayed her in many ways. But the big thing for Chani is that it’s not about love. It’s about the fact that he becomes the figure that will keep the Fremen in their mental jail. A leader that is not there to free the Fremen, but to control them."

On the duel between Paul and Feyd-Rautha:

"...we approached their fight at the end like some kind of symbolic union. The way their bodies get close to one another, there’s something animalistic, an intimacy, I was looking for."

On the infamous popcorn bucket:

"I’m at peace with the bucket."

Full article text under the cut, including Fremen sex lives, murder toddler adaptation choices, and the teeny tiniest of teasers for Dune Messiah:

Denis Villeneuve Answers All Your Questions About ‘Dune: Part Two’

He explains why Lady Jessica’s face is so heavily tattooed, whether Paul considers himself the Messiah and what he thinks of those Javier Bardem memes.

By Amy Nicholson

April 17, 2024

This weekend, “Dune: Part Two” muscles back into IMAX theaters with the verve of Timothée Chalamet rodeo-riding a giant sandworm. After nearly two months in theaters, the film is the current champion of this year’s box office race, with a total take of more than $680 million. (It’s also available to rent or buy on some streaming platforms.) The film’s success is thanks in part to audiences that have returned over and over to get lost in the rocky warrens and spiritual reckonings of the planet Arrakis. One admirer reports he’s seen the movie 25 times to date.

That there’s so much to explore in “Dune: Part Two” is a credit to its writer and director, Denis Villeneuve, who boldly reshaped Frank Herbert’s complex and cerebral 1965 novel “Dune.” Villeneuve split the book and its themes into two films: “Dune: Part One,” released in 2021, focused on the political struggles between two families, the Atreides and the Harkonnens. “Part Two” delves into religious fervor as the two surviving Atreides, young Paul (Chalamet) and his mother, Lady Jessica (Rebecca Ferguson), ingratiate themselves with Arrakis’s Indigenous desert tribe, the Fremen, by allowing the locals to believe that Paul is their Messiah — a prophecy that, if it comes to pass, will mean the slaughter of billions of victims across the galaxy.

Villeneuve has yearned to tell this story since he was a teenager in Quebec. His devotion is palpable; every frame feels steeped in monkish contemplation. Yet, he’s also a visual dramatist who doesn’t want audiences to get tripped up by too much exposition. His scripts give only passing mention to core concepts like spice, a psychedelic dust that powers everything from space travel to Paul’s clairvoyant hallucinations.

Though Villeneuve doesn’t want to overexplain, he was willing to provide some answers in an interview via video where every question about the film — even silly questions! — was on the table.

Does Chalamet’s Paul Atreides actually believe he’s the Messiah? What’s the meaning of Jessica’s face tattoos? Villeneuve also got into the erotic lives of his desert dwellers and the extra narrative weight he threw behind Paul’s Fremen love interest, Chani, played by Zendaya. As Villeneuve said with a grin, “Chani is my secret weapon.”

Here are edited excerpts from our conversation.

The last time we spoke, you weren’t sure what to make of the sandworm-shaped “Dune” popcorn bucket. It went on to be so popular that it sold out in cities before opening day and is being resold online for around $175. What do you think of it now?

I thought that the bucket was an insane marketing idea. I laughed so much. It is so out there. I don’t know who designed it, but they’re a bit of a genius. I’m at peace with the bucket.

In this film, Javier Bardem’s character Stilgar is reduced to a guileless follower of Paul Atreides, who Stilgar believes is the new Messiah. His conversion is tragic. But also, Bardem’s awe-face has become a funny meme, and the second time I saw the movie, people laughed at almost every line he spoke. Did that reaction surprise you?

No. I am very happy when you say that he is a tragic figure. For me, he is the most tragic figure of all. The idea to bring humor to Stilgar was to make him lovable, to feel the humanity in that character. He’s not an austere figure, he has a big heart. But his beliefs, his faith, his reactions bring humor — and that is something I love about making a sci-fi film, because I can talk about that without offending people because it’s a fake religion. I designed all the prayers myself, so I know it’s fake. I find Stilgar very funny. And when people laugh, I’m happy because that was the intention.

Someone makes a dig that Stilgar has found a savior again. This is not even his first time?

All his life he has been raised with that dream. So I suggest that every time a guy comes from outside with a lot of charisma, he hopes he’s found him. Like in the Bible, we have tons of prophets before Jesus came.

The arc of “Dune: Part Two” is Paul accepting that he must become the Messiah — and get billions of people killed. Does he truly believe that he is the Messiah? Or does he just decide to let the Fremen believe that he is?

I don’t think he believes that he is the Messiah. I think he feels the burden of the heritage that the Bene Gesserit [the mystical sisterhood that Jessica belongs to] have laid among the Fremen, and he sees the potential to use that religious power to survive.

Paul is warned that no man can survive drinking the spiritual water of life. But as that’s part of the lore of a planet seeded with manipulative propaganda by his own mother, I have to ask: Have other men actually been drinking the water and dying? Have they been scared off from trying? Is the warning just a setup for a magic trick?

There are people that have tried it in the past and died. In Frank Herbert’s world, femininity is a power. I think Herbert was fascinated by motherhood, by the power of creation. I love this idea that the power is held by women. It’s something that was ahead of his time when he wrote it and I tried to put the focus on it.

You say so much with Jessica’s costuming. In the first film, her look is immaculate and baroque. This film begins with her in rags, but she finds another path to being dressed and treated like royalty. And she gets a lot of tattoos on her face. Why did she get so many more face tattoos than the outgoing reverend mother?

She’s trying to play on the symbolism that was put in the prophecy. She’s supposed to be the mother of the Messiah, so I wanted to bring the idea that she was like the pope of the reverend mothers on Arrakis. There’s some kind of madness in writing elements of the prophecies on her face. Frankly, I think when you drink the worm poison, it affects your sanity — and the same with Paul. I like the idea that we feel she’s going too far.

Jessica is already pregnant when the first movie ends, and she’s still pregnant at the end of this film. Which means you had to condense this massive story into less than nine months because her body is a time clock.

The idea was to compress the book so that Paul will feel the pressure to get the Fremens’ trust, to start gearing up — but not to succeed, not to have the time to create a real war. Time is against him.

Because in the book, this takes years. Long enough for Jessica to give birth to a very unnerving daughter, Alia. We glimpse Alia as an adult — she’s played by Anya Taylor-Joy — but you skipped over seeing her murder people as a toddler. Was it hard to decide no “murder toddler”?

I think pregnant women look tremendously powerful. To use that power was very exciting. And usually when you see a pregnant woman onscreen, she’s always giving birth. To avoid that moment, to stay in the state of being pregnant, I thought was very Frank Herbert-like. I was going away from the killer toddler, but I thought that was more fresh and original. Honestly, it’s one of the things that I’m proudest of in the adaptation.

Speaking of female power, let’s talk about Chani.

Chani is my secret weapon. Frank Herbert was sad to realize that people saw the book as a celebration of Paul Atreides. He wanted to do a cautionary tale against messianic figures, a warning against blending religion and politics. I wrote the second movie trying to be more faithful to Frank Herbert’s intentions than to the book. In the book, Chani is just a follower. I came up with the idea of her being reluctant. She gives us the critical distance and perspective on Paul’s journey. I wanted to make sure the audience will understand that Paul becomes a dark figure, that his choices are exactly what Chani was afraid of. He becomes the colonizers the Fremen were fighting against. And then the movie becomes the cautionary tale Frank Herbert was wishing for.

Paul makes a choice at the end that will go on to kill billions of people. That’s so large and theoretical that it’s hard to grasp. But you structure your climax so that in that moment of betrayal, he’s also betraying the love of his life — a betrayal we understand.

He betrayed her in many ways. But the big thing for Chani is that it’s not about love. It’s about the fact that he becomes the figure that will keep the Fremen in their mental jail. A leader that is not there to free the Fremen, but to control them. That’s the tragedy of all tragedies. Like the Michael Corleone of sci-fi, he becomes what he wanted to avoid. And he will try to find a way to save his soul in the third part.

But “Dune Messiah,” the book your third film is based on, picks up 12 years later with a reunited Paul and Chani. How far did you feel you could push her anger? Because at some point, she’s going to have to forgive him.

That anger is tremendous. I don’t want to reveal what I’m going to do with the third movie. I know exactly what to do. I’m writing it right now. But there’s a lot of firepower there and I’m very excited about that decision.

In the spirit of no dumb questions, Chani says that Paul sand-walks like a drunk lizard. Which means Arrakis has booze?

Actually, there is spice beer. In the book, there are Fremen parties, even some orgies involving spice. I didn’t bring that into the movies because it’s PG-13.

Body fluids have significance to the Fremen. Spitting is the giving of water, a sign of respect. But tears and vomit are a waste. So what is kissing?

As long as you don’t lose your humidity, you can kiss. It’s an exchange of fluids — an act of love, when you think about it. Fremens love to kiss.

What about the, um, other romantic fluids?

You cannot have sex outside, for sure. But they are very sexual. I suspect that all sexual intercourse happens in environments that are protected from losing moisture. When they are in their sietches [or caves] underground, those are sealed. You don’t need to wear stillsuits inside them. We can deduce from that there is no problem to have sex in a sietch.

By the way, who decided that Fremen was pronounced Freh-men and not Free-men?

All the pronunciations, I took them from recordings of Frank Herbert’s voice. Frank Herbert used “Freh-men,” which I love. It makes it less on-the-nose.

You kept two major characters out of the first movie and only introduced them now: the princess Irulan, played by Florence Pugh, and the Baron Harkonnen’s nephew Feyd-Rautha, played by Austin Butler. The princess is the first voice in the books, the first face onscreen in David Lynch’s “Dune” [1984]. What made you sure holding them back was the right move, despite three years of fans asking, “Hey, where are they?”

When people ask me what was the biggest challenge in making those movies, it’s writing them. In order to make this adaptation, we have to make big, bold decisions. One was that the first movie should be seen from Paul’s perspective. I wasn’t able to do that entirely because I had to go to the Harkonnens’ side to introduce them so that the story will be clear, but I tried to find an elegant simplicity in the story structure. And I wanted, frankly, to keep some firepower for the second movie.

Why is Feyd-Rautha’s gladiator scene in black and white? And what are the splats in the sky above the dome?

Frank Herbert explores the impact of ecosystems on cultures, on humans. How it influences the way we evolve — our biology, culture, technology, mythology, religion. The psychology of a tribe is linked with their environment. If you want to know things about the Fremen, you observe the desert. I wanted to have the same approach to the Harkonnens. They killed nature. It’s a plastic planet. One thing left was sunlight, but instead of a sun that reveals color, it kills colors. When you are outside, it’s all black and white. It gives us ideas about how these people perceive reality, politics, violence in a binary world — it brings the idea of fascism. It also gave me the opportunity to bring images that remind us in our memories of World War II and the Nazi regime. So it’s an idea that I had as I was writing. Then I had the idea to have strange fireworks in the sky that will look like Rorschach drawings. It’s a nightmarish celebration. The perception of a dome is not accurate. It’s just that the fireworks reach a certain altitude and then they explode. But it’s true that it looks like a liquid that falls from the sky.

Forgive me if I am not being fair to sadistic, psychopathic Feyd-Rautha. But all of the gladiators were supposed to be drugged for his happy birthday massacre. The one who secretly isn’t puts up a worthy battle. So I assumed that Feyd-Rautha isn’t that great of a fighter. But at the end, he’s the only warrior who is Paul’s equal?

It’s a show. You see that the Harkonnens are very cruel and their society is very paranoiac. His opponent is known in the books as one of the great fighters, Lieutenant Lanville. I tried to show that Feyd is excited to have a real opponent. He has a code of honor, he respects the effort, and he has fun with it. That’s the idea I tried to convey — he’s not a coward.

Audiences might remember that the Bene Gesserit wanted Jessica’s child to be a girl, that Timothée Chalamet’s Paul Atreides was supposed to be female. And they specifically bred Feyd-Rautha to be a male. Were they hoping these youngsters would mate?

Yeah. They are trying to increase the potential of humanity by breeding the best specimen of each tribe or family. A baby between Feyd-Rautha and an Atreides daughter would have brought peace between Harkonnens and the Atreides, and created an über being.

Will you read any of the internet fan fiction spawned by the idea of Timothée and Austin hooking up?

[Laughs] But you know, we approached their fight at the end like some kind of symbolic union. The way their bodies get close to one another, there’s something animalistic, an intimacy, I was looking for.

I rewatched the first film again recently. It opens with a quote in another language: “Dreams are messages from the deep.” I love that quote. It feels like how a film resonates, too. But it wasn’t until I had subtitles on at home that I realized who said it. Of all the important characters and cultures to establish, you gave that major moment — the very beginning of your franchise — to an anonymous Sardaukar from the murderous imperial army that we’re cheering to see get killed. Why?

I love your question. The Sardaukar are the dark side of the Fremen. I thought it would be interesting to have a tiny bit of insight that they are not just tremendous warriors, but they have spirituality, philosophical thought. They have substance. Also, their sound was designed by Hans Zimmer. I absolutely loved how it feels like it’s coming from the deep, from the ancient world. Frank Herbert said beginnings are very delicate times. By starting with a Sardaukar priest, I was indicating to the fans that I was taking absolute freedom with this adaptation, that I was hijacking the book.

But you also deeply love the book. So when you make these bold changes, do you feel like asking Frank Herbert for forgiveness?

Yes. There’s so many darlings that you kill. An adaptation is an act of violence.

#dune #dune part two #denis villeneuve #paul atreides #chani kynes #as usual i think he gives frank herbert way too much credit when it comes to writing female characters #agree to disagree on that one denis

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