#Spring Break at the Zoo
Explore tagged Tumblr posts
Text

Spring Break at the Zoo Day 4: Giraffes
Famous for their long necks, giraffes are one of the world’s tallest animals.
#Spring Break at the Zoo#giraffes#madagascar#madagascar escape 2 africa#dreamworks#zoo#animals#wildlife#africa#Savanna#spring break
8 notes
·
View notes
Text
i Need to go to the aquarium & also the zoo i think.
#it’d fix me#google search how to convince my parents to take me to the zoo in the middle of february#MAYBE we can go during spring break?? but thats So Many Months Away#theo.txt
2 notes
·
View notes
Text
Very, very fresh bison calf.
Months and months ago I promised y'all photos of the bison birth I was lucky enough to observe at the Cleveland Zoo last spring. As requested, they'll be under a cut, because unlike this lovely photo from the zoo announcement post, my photos are... goopy.

His name is Tighee, a name which the zoo said is "the name of a Shoshone chief."
We walked up just as things started to get going, and the story is below the cut...
This is Blue, a female bison who arrived at the Cleveland Metroparks Zoo in fall of 2022 already pregnant. When we got to the habitat, there were a ton of people gathered around, and it wasn't quite clear what was going on.
Then we noticed her full udder and the extra pair of feet.

She was dead-center in the (pretty large) habitat, which was nice - though there was a crowd, she had some good distance from everyone for most of it. The calf came pretty quickly, all things considered (something especially helpful when you're holding a heavy camera up on full manual zoom without a tripod). Because she was at a distance, my friend and I spent a bunch of time showing people near us photos on my camera screen so they could get a good view.
I was honestly really surprised at the number of people who asked why the zoo staff weren't in there with her, helping her give birth. So we explained to folk that zoo staff don't normally go in with bison on a normal day because they're so big and dangerous, and that during a birth (a time of potential stress for the whole herd, the rest of whom were off to the side of that habitat) it would be especially risky to do so. But you could see people in the zoo's uniform colors clustered around the fence, keeping a close eye on her.
And then there was a calf! For folk who haven't seen what a whole amniotic sac looks like, I'm including the next couple photos.
This one is still mid-birth, as you can see. The hooves come out first, with the calf's head laying parallel to them.

Blue immediately moves to break the amniotic sac and clear the calf's airways of mucus. Om nom nom.



We have open eyes and an awake baby! The amniotic sac is full of fluid that helps protect the baby while it's in the uterus, which means once it's broken, the baby is goopy. One of mom's first jobs is to lick all of it away to dry the calf off.

A first attempt at using legs!

Nope, being born was too hard and legs don't work yet. Time to rest and recover from the effort of thinking about standing up.

The first inquisitive member of the herd, another young female, comes to check out the newest addition.

More attempts at legs! Getting better but still not coordinated enough yet.


They're starting to help the baby stand up. In a non-captive setting it would be important for him to be able to walk pretty quickly after being born, and he has to stand up to be able to nurse!

Everyone comes to check him out, now.


We have legs! They work! He hadn't quite figured out where to nurse from yet, though.

And that's your bison birth for the day!
2K notes
·
View notes
Text
( a collection of fun and adventurous dialogue prompts. adjust phrasing as necessary.) feel free to make edits to better suit your muse, but please don’t edit or add on to the original post <𝟑 if you like, please consider supporting me through tips, it's highly appreciated.
"Want to try sneaking into the movie theater?"
"There's this exclusive sky bar on the top floor. I bet if we act confident enough, we could just walk right in. Ready to blend in with the high rollers?"
"You know the 'Staff Only' areas in aquariums always look so intriguing. I've got an idea involving lab coats and clipboards. Interested?"
"There's a secret passage in this art gallery that leads to a hidden exhibit. I overheard the curator talking about it. Shall we go exploring?"
"I've always wanted to see a movie from the theater's projection room. I've got a friend who works here – you get what I mean?"
"So, that exclusive restaurant is fully booked for months, but I may have 'borrowed' a couple of names from the reservation list. Feeling adventurous?"
"The old amusement park's been closed for years, but I know a way in. Imagine having all those rides to ourselves under the moonlight."
"I heard there's an underground speakeasy in this library. Apparently, you need to whisper a password to the librarian. Wanna try our luck?"
"Remember that fancy pool party we weren't invited to? I've got two waiter uniforms and a brilliant plan. You in?"
"There's a secret rooftop garden on top of that skyscraper. I bet we could talk our way past security if we pretend to be lost interns."
"I know this sounds crazy, but I found a hidden door behind the museum. Want to see where it leads after closing time?"
"The local TV station does live broadcasts from that studio. I bet with the right timing, we could sneak onto a set during a commercial break. Ready for your 15 seconds of fame?"
"I discovered a hidden hot spring in the woods just outside town. It's a bit of a hike, but imagine a midnight dip under the stars."
"There's a secret room in the library that's usually locked. I copied the key while volunteering. Want to see what forbidden books they're hiding?"
"Remember that fancy cooking class that was full? Well, I may have found a way for us to observe from the kitchen's back entrance. Hungry for some culinary espionage?"
"I know how to get onto the roof of the tallest building downtown. The view of the sunset from up there is incredible. Shall we?"
"There's a masquerade ball at the governor's mansion tonight. I've got two masks and a wild idea. Care to crash a high-society party?"
"My friend works at the zoo and says we could help feed the penguins after closing time. Interested in a secret animal encounter?"
"I heard this old theater is supposedly haunted. Want to sneak in after hours and do some ghost hunting?"
"There's a secret beach hidden behind those cliffs. The catch? We'll have to climb down a rope ladder to reach it. You up for it?"
"I found an old map of the city's underground tunnels. Fancy a subterranean adventure date?"
#uservolkova#dialogue prompts#romance prompts#dialogue prompt#writing prompts#rp prompts#drama prompts#fanfic prompts#prompts#meme starter#meme#writing meme#sentence starters#indie starter#rp sentence starters#otp ideas#character ideas#story ideas#writing idea#writing ideas#creative writing#writeblr#writers on tumblr#daily writing challenge#fanfic writing#writing blog#writing inspiration#writing prompt#writing snippet#writing resources
422 notes
·
View notes
Text
The Valley Song
Requested: nope, I just wanted to write this
TW: just Coriolanus’ being himself.
Pairing: possible Coriolanus x reader, Sejanus x reader, Lucy gray x platonic!reader
Authors note: Listen to this for the story. I imagine this is what the reader sounds like when singing <3, I’m also changing the lore a little to the reader wrote the valley song to fit the story :)
The Valley Song Series: Part 2 -> Part 3 -> Part 4
The Hob was filled with people as usual. The crowd of people made the heat even more unbearable, but everyone arrived to hear the Covey preform as always. The summer heat caused sweat to drip down everyone’s faces, but no one seemed to mind as they awaited the Covery to preform.
Drinks were being passed sound eagerly as the members of the district awaited the sound of the music and voices that allowed them to escape just for a few hours.
Coriolanus Snow stood towards the back of the Hob, Sejanus by his side as they spoke to his bunkmates, what were their names? Smiley and Bug. Such stupid names, Coriolanus thought he to himself as he leaned against the back, unsecured wall of the hob.
It wasn’t always his first idea of what to do in their night off, but then again they were in District Twelve…there wasn’t much to do to begin with.
Coriolanus’ attention was turned back to the stage as eager whoops and applause filled the Hob as Lucy Gray and the rest of the Covey made their way on stage.
With their clothes and make up, the girls had flowers entangled in their hair. It made it seem like they had rolled around in a field before coming up on stage. It was intriguing, but very much district, and it made Coriolanus internally scowl.
The covey continued to play for a few hours, rotating songs and singers. Giving each other a break, Maude Ivory sang for a while before Lucy Gray returned. Of course she held the audience in a captivated gaze at the sound of her voice.
Coriolanus and the other off duty peacekeepers were no exception as she twirled around the stage with her black guitar in hand. It was a sight, certainly one that would make her plenty of money if she came with him back to the capital. She would make a pretty capital girl, once she was cleaned up and better fed at least, Coriolanus thought.
The end of the night was winding down, and everyone was exhausted from the dancing over the last few hours. Lucy Gray panted softly before approaching the microphone once more.
“District Twelve ya’ll have been amazing as always,” she said with the biggest grin, like it was a privilege to be preforming at the Hob in the lowest district in Panem.
“And just before we go for the night we got a special treat. My cousin Y/N Rose Baird! She got an awful special song for y’all tonight to finish us off.. y/n!” Lucy gray turned and beckoned her cousin up front.
A girl, maybe not much older than Lucy Gray, maybe a year or two stepped up wearing a pink blouse and off white skirt, her hair was done half up, help of what looked like baby’s breath through her hair.
Coriolanus’ eyes widened a bit at the side of her, the soft rouge on her cheeks and pink on her lips. It was soft. Not harsh make up like Lucy gray had worn, but very little.
“Oh wow…” he heard Sejanus’ voice beside him, and for a moment he had completely forgotten he was there, “she’s beautiful,”
Sejanus was right though. This Y/N Rose was beautiful. Even from the way that she held the old brown guitar in her hands, everything about her intrigued him. The softness in her eyes and expression. Glancing around the room, he felt a hot jealously spring through him as he saw many of the other men looking at her the same way.
They didn’t deserve to look at you that way. You were too gentle, too soft and vulnerable. He could tell by just looking at you. The shy way you were glancing around the room. You preferred the background, and he liked that.
Lucy gray was always upfront, bold. Abrasive. But that wasn’t you. You weren’t like your cousin, who had killed in the games, you would never hurt anyone. And you needed protecting. He could do that.
“Thank y’all for comin’” Y/N’s voice rang into the microphone and he couldn’t help but stare. In the corner of his eye he could see Sejanus almost making heart eyes.
“This is a song I wrote a little while ago. Lost someone as we all have. Hope y’all like it,” she said nervously before she gently began to strum the guitar in her hands. One note after another. Then she began to sing.
“Down in the valley, valley so low,
Late in the evening, hear the train blow.
The train, love, hear the train blow.
Late in the evening, hear the train blow.”
Coriolanus felt like he was in a trance as she began to sing. Her voice was soft and airy, almost shy. It was so different to Lucy Gray. Though his mind snapped out of his thoughts as Lucy Gray found her way over to him with a grin.
“Hi! Good ain’t she?” She asked happily, rather proud of her cousin.
“Good isn’t the word for it,” Sejanus said, his cheek flushing a bit as he looked from Lucy Gray back to the stage.
Coriolanus cleared his throat, “yes, she’s quite good. But most of the Covey is,” he said, listening as Y/N continued.
“Go build me a mansion, build it so high,
So I can see my true love go by.
See him go by, love, see him go by.
So I can see my true love go by.”
“She was always shyer than most,” Lucy Gray said, “prefers the background. But I couldn’t let her not sing this one,” she said, and it make Coriolanus think….who was it about? Was this recent?
“Go write a letter, send it by mail.
Bake it and stamp it to the Capitol jail.
Capitol jail, love, to the Capitol jail.”
“Who is it about?” Coriolanus asked, he couldn’t help himself.
Lucy gray let out a small sigh, “someone she was with about a year ago. He was the bakers son. Honestly I never seen someone so smitten before,” she said fondly, remembering how Y/N was with the boy before shaking her head,
“but he got himself into some bad trouble with the peacekeepers. Attempted to bribe one of the commanders. They thought he was all involved with the rebels and then he was sent off to the capital jail. Never seen someone so heart broken before.” Lucy gray shook her head, her messy black curls moving as she did so.
“But anyway, she wrote this a while ago. But just finished coming up with the music. I think it’s a hit with the district. Many people lost a lot of loved ones. For things like stealing and illegal trading,” she finished explaining.
“Roses are red, love; violets are blue.
Birds in the heavens know I love you.
Know I love you, oh, know I love you,
Birds in the heavens know I love you.”
Coriolanus’ head snapped back as she continued to sing the last verses of her song. It reminded him of his mother, she would sing those same lines to him. And it made his stomach flutter. Nerves? Anxiety? He couldn’t tell.
Sejanus cleared his throat, “Lucy Gray….do you think you could introduce us?” He asked hopefully, and Lucy Gray gave a knowing grin.
“Why of course. Once the crowd clears,” Lucy Gray said.
Coriolanus couldn’t help but internally scoff at Sejanus. What could he do for a sweet shy girl like you? Sejanus was just as weak. You needed someone to protect you, who knew better. Sejanus couldn’t do that to you. But Coriolanus could. And he wouldn’t lose to someone like Sejanus.
His pale eyes moved from Sejanus as the crowd erupted into applause, and watched as Y/N gave a bashful smile and a cute little bow.
Yes.
He couldn’t lose you to anyone.
#onlybeeewrites#x reader#the hunger games#the ballad of songbirds and snakes#coriolanus snow#coriolanus x reader#Coriolanus snow x reader#sejanus plinth#sejanus x reader#sejanus plinth x reader#x fem!reader#coriolanus x you#coriolanus x fem!reader#Sejanus x fem!reader#reader insert#hunger games imagine#the covey#covey!reader#Spotify#lucy gray baird
668 notes
·
View notes
Text
Education Overhaul by A Deep Indigo
Overview
Some of you might already know how much I love a good ol' education system. & let's be real... EA did a sucky job at the ones that came with HSY and DU. So A Deep Indigo came through with this overhaul!
Am I disappointed in this? NO! Do I recommend it? Absolutely. It gives so much more gameplay and I'm a sucker for a good gameplay mod, hence why I play with so many mods!
So basically this mod revamps the education system and gives your teen sims a more 'School Experience' like the things that we all went through in school.
For example:
Detention - Sleeping in class, Goofing around, Disrupting the class or even getting caught doing homework during class can get you a detention!
Field Trips - Aquarium, Art Museum, Planetarium, Professional theatre production, Sim river conservatory, Zoo. As we all did in school!
In- School Events - Spelling bee's (grade school only), Student body elections (teens only), Science fair, Art showcase.
🎒BUT THAT'S NOT EVEN THE BEST PART! 🎒
Just like in real life we all looked forward to snow days! Because we all got to stay home and didn't have to pretend to be sick... So we could act normal and play on games. Well, this mod also gives our sims that experience!
Snow Days - Child/Teen sims don't have to attend school when it's heavily snowing!
❄️☀️ Summer/Winter Breaks!
☀️❄️
Child/Teen sims can also experience the joy of Summer Holiday & the Winter Holidays! I don't know about you guys but this actually makes me so happy! I hate the fact the Sims only get off Christmas, Harvestfest & New Years. Like WHAT ONE DAY? C'MON!
But this mod gives us the correct amount of school holidays so our kids can be kids! Holidays include:
Summer Holiday - Depending on how long your calendar is and your seasons (Environment Settings) kids will have the entire summer off!
Winter Holiday - Again depending on your settings your sims will go for winter break mid-late winter and return to school first week of Spring!
I believe there is a Fall/Autumn break from school too!
Dropping Out
Now school isn't for everyone. But you know if you drop out of school employment can be very difficult... But if Sims are persistent they can actually drop out. Now you're probably think "Okay? that's already in the game?" yeh, that's right. But that's not a feature of this mod. The fact that if your child/teen sim decide to leave school and then age up to YA and get a job... They might not be a promoted... BECAUSE THEY DON'T HAVE ANY EDUCATION!
Extra Events:
Parent/Teacher Conferences
Game Night
Theatre Performance
School Dances
School Picture Day
How to install
Download file, if needed unzip/extract file
Drag file(s) into your mods folder (Documents > EA Games > The Sims 4 > Mods)
Mods labelled 'DU_REQUIRED' DO NOT ADD IF YOU DO NOT HAVE *DISCOVER UNIVERSITY*
Mods labelled 'HSY' DO NOT ADD IF YOU DO NOT HAVE *HIGH SCHOOL YEARS*
DU & HSY are for the Education Career
Any previous versions need to be deleted!
There is 2 uniforms to choose from to download one requires Snow Escapes and one is Base Game so pick either one BUT ONLY DOWNLOAD 1.
Requirements
It's Base Game compatible. However, if you want the Education Career then you do need Discover University & High School Years.
Conflict
School Milestones by ADeepIndigo
Family & Youth by ADeepIndigo BUT if you're using this mod it just needs to be V2.9 or higher
Preschool by KawaiiStacie (one exception)
Career Overhaul by Kuttoe (one exception)
University, Degree Required by Zero's Sims 4 Mod
Mandatory School Uniforms by Zafire
Click Here to be redirected to the creators page to download!
Want more mod recommendations? Why not follow me?
Tiktok - For videos on the mods I post and more!
Youtube - For Full length videos and more!
#sims 4#sims 4 cc#the sims community#thesims4#ts4#my sims#sims4#the sims 4#sims 4 mods#the sims 2#tech#the sims#maxis match cc#ts4 maxis match#maxis mix#the sims 1#ea games#ts4 maxis cc#sims 4 maxis match#sims 1#ts1#sims 4 custom content#sims 4 mod#the sims 4 mods#download#modding#mod sterling#sims mods#sims mobile#ts4 gameplay
60 notes
·
View notes
Text
this winding labyrinth, chapter 15
chapter fifteen: deliverance
pairing: Hannibal Lecter/Reader (reader's race & gender are ambiguous; no physical descriptors or pronouns are used)
summary:
You wish you never met Hannibal Lecter. But you yearn for his presence. You want to forget him. But he never truly leaves your thoughts. Now, you’re left to pick up the pieces of a broken design. A battle of instinct rages on in your mind—one of bittersweet relief and cloying grief, fearless resolve and poignant regret; a clashing between affection and antipathy, pride and pain. What will win, in the end? Only time will tell.
this is chapter 15, act 2 of this broken design. if you haven't read act 1 or chapters 1-14, this won't make too much sense.
ao3 version | Spotify playlist
warnings: gore (typical stuff). panic attack, hyperventilation, suicidal ideation. mentions of child abuse, neglect, & abandonment.
author's notes: This is the second to last chapter of this fic. There will be one more that will serve as an ending. Ideally, I’m ending this chapter ambiguously so that, sometime in the future, I can add an alternate ending. For now, though, expect this to be Chapter 15 of 16.
I’ve had this chapter written for several weeks but I couldn’t seem to get myself to post it. I was scared I’m not going to live up to the vibe I’m cultivating. I also learned about a fun few grammar rules I’ve definitely been breaking this entire time, so that was a blow to the ego... BUT!!!!! I added the first part (up to the first divider) and I think that helped a lot. Now I'm very happy with it.
Anyways, in terms of this chapter… I made Francis Dolarhyde gay (or at least bisexual), because: a) he has internalized homophobia in the books and b) I wanted to. Got it? Cool. MWHAHAHHAHA 🤘

Hannibal slips into the skin of another with the ease of someone who has always known camouflage.
It’s routine. Everyone has long been fascinated by his ability to remain calm, composed, unaffected in the face of unspeakable horrors. A calm heart rate as he rips through a nurse’s jaw; an unwavering brow as he stares down those who would stop at nothing to rip him apart.
He has no illusions about his safety here at the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane. As long as Hannibal eludes the administration’s attempts to psychoanalyze him, he will survive. But the moment they latch onto something—anything, even something of their own broken design—they will leave him to rot.
These glass walls are not as comforting as they once were. At first, they promised a freedom he wouldn’t otherwise have. Hannibal turned himself in to keep that semblance of freedom, as small as it seemed. A life on the run isn’t much of a life at all.
But this existence isn’t much more than that. He’s rendered a zoo animal, an exhibit at a museum. He is entertainment for onlookers. The prowling jaguar, bodily sweeping the entirety of its cage as it sends shivers down the spines of those foolish enough to get close. Hannibal has never been a person within these walls.
Personhood. He thought himself above it. As a psychiatrist, he often spoke with people who struggled with the concept. Hannibal was able to understand and comprehend their issues, but never was he truly able to relate. At least, not until now.
Truthfully, this captivity has been difficult—even for him. Those who deem him a monster look past the tiny, seemingly unnoticeable cracks in his mask. There’s a desperation to his movements as he grasps his fork, fighting off thoughts that any meal could be his last. There’s a relentless boredom gnawing at his heels, guiding him through the same medical texts again and again and again.
It all went according to plan, though. He set his trap, lying in wait for you to spring it. It took years for you to think about him again, even with Hannibal’s reminders—correspondence sent straight to your residence. You could never have hidden from him for very long.
Smooth. Seamless. Almost too much so.
Before captivity, Hannibal prided himself on being the charismatic and safely enigmatic individual. He drew the eye of countless admirers. But he relished in his own restraint: he never toed the line between security and danger. It was tiring, but it was exhilarating.
He never quite realized just how tight pretense’s hold on him was. Hannibal looks back on his life and wonders, with a detached, idle sense of curiosity, if he has ever truly been sincere. Has he ever been honest: with himself, with others?
…With you, perhaps.
There is something about you that stirs an unapologetic sense of honesty within him. It had unsettled him at first. Now, Hannibal has grown to expect it from you. He expects you to latch onto his lies and rip them apart; he anticipates your clever deductions and knowing gaze. When he stares into your eyes, he’s reminded of that kind of all-encompassing obsession only found between characters of fables and folklore.
His hand twists your ballpoint pen almost absentmindedly. Absentmindedly, he thinks to himself with irritated amusement. This solitude has changed him. Never would Hannibal have allowed himself a gesture devoid of purpose. Every word is imbued with meaning, every action calculated.
He’s sure you’ve noticed. Rarely does something escape your notice. Hannibal watched as you sat across from him when he prepared you a meal—taking in how your attention flitted from his hands to his eyes to the tense line of his shoulders. He’s sure you wondered if these signs were genuine. Hannibal isn’t quite sure himself—he lost himself to the act somewhere along the way. Maybe that should disquiet him, but it doesn’t. Authenticity has never particularly interested him.
Hannibal briefly wonders if you’ve grown disenchanted with him recently. This game between the two of you has been locked in a stalemate for a decent amount of time, after all. But that isn’t motivation for his escape from captivity. He doesn’t think about you as he wears a security guard’s face over his own; as he greets the open air for the first time in years; as he drives a nearby car along the forested roads to your residence.
And Hannibal certainly doesn’t study the interior of your new home with a keen eye. He doesn’t look for the traces of good and bad days scattered across the room, nor does he try to piece together echoes of your presence: a half-empty glass of water, a sweater thrown across the sofa.
Hannibal is not distracted or infatuated with such trivial details. He does not watch the mechanical hands of your clock make their languid journey across its face; he does not think about the ease with which he slips into the domesticity of it all.
Surely not.

It’s been a few days since your last visit with Hannibal, and you’re still agitated. Something about that particular visit is sticking with you. Well, all of it is: the tense air, the meal, the look in Hannibal’s eyes, your discourtesy. Yes, you were rather rude. You’ve been second-guessing your actions and participation in that conversation since the very moment you left the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane. You’ve run through the conversation countless times, scrutinizing each and every remark. Hannibal has always eluded you, and he will continue to do so. But there’s something particularly bothersome about this past exchange between the two of you.
You shake your head and unlock the door to your home, opening it and locking it behind you shortly after. Then you place your bag near the door, before taking a deep breath and attempting to keep yourself calm. The persistent feeling of wrongness still hasn’t gone away—if anything, it’s only amplified since you’ve entered your house. You’re rather stressed these days, but this kind of unrelenting suspicion is new for you. You’re often overtaken with the unshakeable conviction that someone’s watching you—or, even weirder, that someone’s been in your house. (Then again, this kind of feeling is normal for someone in your line of work. Right?)
Regardless of the irrationality of your feelings, you soon find yourself mechanically checking each of the nearby rooms, ensuring your hidden weapons are still there. Is it overkill to have a weapon hidden in each room, in case of an emergency? Maybe. Has that kind of preparation saved you before? Yes. You can’t bring yourself to scrutinize it. The only thing you can scrutinize right now is the almost frantic, hurried energy to your movements—and you’d rather not acknowledge that.
Upon first inspection, everything seems to be in order. None of your weapons were stolen. Neither were your valuables, which should placate your nerves. In reality, that fact only points to one of two conclusions: 1) you’re being paranoid and overthinking this entire situation, which is increasingly likely, or 2) this intruder—who is probably nonexistent—was not here to steal anything. You’re not sure which outcome is worse.
When you get to your bathroom, you pause in the doorway. The shower curtain is closed, like always. There is nothing out of the ordinary. Your knife rests at the back of the lowest drawer. You must be overthinking this. There was no intruder. You glance at yourself in the mirror, taking in your tired eyes and somewhat messy appearance. You’ve definitely looked better.
Something compels you to draw the curtain. You tear it away, half-expecting someone to jump out at you. Of course, there’s no one there. You shake your head in annoyance, embarrassed by your own behavior. You’re about to put the curtain back when something gives you pause. Unease thrums across your skin as you see water droplets scattered across the tiled floor. You haven’t been home since this morning and you take night showers. There is no reason for the water to be there.
Frowning, you exit the bathroom and move to check your bedroom. The comforter and sheets on your bed seem a bit more rumpled than you remember them being, but otherwise, nothing is out of order. You bend down and sneak your hand under your nightstand, blindly grasping at the knife you keep there. You don’t find it right away, which makes you frown and look around some more.
…You can’t find it. You rapidly run through your memories, attempting to remember if you had taken the weapon from here for any reason. But that knife isn’t the one you keep on you, nor is it standard issue for FBI agents. Panic strikes you; and when your phone lets out a shrill ring, it makes your heart jump. You glance at the caller ID and quickly respond when you realize it’s Jack Crawford.
“Agent,” Jack greets you, cutting right to the chase. “Hannibal escaped from prison. I’ll be at your house to fetch you and take you to a safehouse.” He’s hanging up before you can fully grasp his statements. You stare down at your phone in disbelief, every thought in your mind screeching to a sudden halt.
Hannibal has escaped. He’s out of prison. It hits you like a flash of lightning: the damn smirk on his face as you left his cell; the discrepancy you had been far too preoccupied to notice. There was a ballpoint pen sitting in your pocket, and it was deftly taken in his proximity.
It was just a pen. A pen shouldn’t have been enough for Hannibal to use to escape.
…But it was, and you know it.
Your stomach churns as you look under your bed for the knife you now know to be missing. It is far too easy to identify your mystery intruder; after all, there is only one person who would find their way around your home so masterfully—only one person who would be so careful, yet purposefully leave you a sign of his presence. You soon find yourself frantically looking around your house once more. Everything looks almost exactly the same. There’s virtually nothing that gives you an indication of another person’s presence. Hannibal wouldn’t still be here, you think. It would be foolish. He’s already gone.
But your paranoia doesn’t seem to care about that rationale. It has never bent to logic, and you soon find yourself fighting off morbid thoughts. Hannibal could’ve laid a trap for you. Hell, he could be waiting for you to walk past the closet in the hallway, the guest bedroom, the bathroom. A swift stab to the heart is all it would take. Hannibal is more than capable. You sink down the wall of your living room and to the floor, wrapping your arms around your legs and burying your head in your knees. Your harsh breaths reverberate through your ears as you try and fail to keep your composure.
This is what Hannibal wants, you think. He wanted to leave you signs of his presence, if only to unnerve you. And, unfortunately, it’s working. It doesn’t seem to matter that he just isn’t here, that you have a gun at your belt. None of that matters. All that matters… is the furious beat of your heart, crashing against your ribs and sending clattering noises down the halls of your mind palace.
You close your eyes and see Hannibal waiting for you in your kitchen. He holds a cloche and lifts it to reveal an elegant dinner plate, complete with your decapitated head—bloodied and rotting, flies swarming around it. You rub your eyes roughly, only to see him again: dragging you into the hall closet with a knife to your neck before swiftly slitting your throat; shattering the bathroom mirror and sinking the shards into your eyes; throwing you to the ground and cracking your head open.
When Jack arrives, he finds you curled in on yourself, tears slipping down your face as you struggle to breathe. He brings a hand to your shoulder and guides you through breathing once more. It takes far longer than it should, and your throat feels horribly dry when you finally manage to inhale slowly again. Your chest burns with the effort, and your hands tremble at your sides.
Jack looks worried. He probably should be. You’re not well; you haven’t been well in a while. You’ve been outrunning your feelings for a while, putting off your dread and angst in favor of pursuing the Red Dragon. But you entirely neglected an even bigger threat along the way. You stood across from that threat, you spoke to him, you ate the food he prepared for you. You sat down across from him and laughed and deluded yourself into thinking you were untouchable. It makes you sick to your stomach. How could you have been so foolish?
“We need to get moving,” Jack says at some point. That remark reminds you of what he said on the phone call—he wanted to take you to a safehouse. The thought is ironic. Your hands are far too bloody to deserve any semblance of safety or comfort. And moreover, it’s an unnecessary precaution.
“There’s no point,” you murmur quietly, shaking your head. Jack senses the defeated resignation in your voice and looks over to you. He’s sitting on the ground beside you still. You want to feel comforted by his presence, and you are. But you’re also frustrated, exhausted, and ashamed. You feel like you were flayed and left to rot in the afternoon sunlight. “Hannibal’s already been here.”
Silence. Jack’s head turns in what looks like slow motion. “What?”
���Water,” you just choke out, your knees still pulled to your chest. Your head hurts and you’re not sure why. “—in the shower. And my knife’s missing,” you explain thickly. It’s hard to move, to speak, to breathe.
“Jesus,” Jack sighs.
How long you two sit there in horrible silence, you’re not sure. All you know is the annoyed sound Jack lets out as he gets to his feet, muttering something about being too old to sit on the ground. There’s an added strength to his grip on your shoulder when you get up, as if he’s waiting for you to slip.
There is nothing to be said. There is everything to discuss. Nothing is real or tangible. You feel as if you just jolted awake from a year-long coma—forced to come to terms with decisions you don’t remember making. From the moment Hannibal turned himself in, you knew his captivity would be temporary. And, hell, he practically gave you years to prepare. But nothing could’ve readied you for the hollow ache in your chest, the residual sting of a betrayal you had expected and a longing you should absolutely not feel.
And to think, you have to go to work and pretend like everything is fine. Like Hannibal Lecter, the Chesapeake Ripper, hasn’t escaped from prison. Like the Red Dragon isn’t out there, waiting for you to slip up. Like the world isn’t filled to the brink with bad people like them and liars like you. Of one thing, you are abundantly certain: you are not an honest person. And while you thought you had come to peace with that particular conclusion, it seemed you were still hoping, somehow, that you would redeem yourself. That you wouldn’t fall into the same old habits—the dread gnawing at your very bones, the fear pushing you forward, the guilt dragging you back. You haven’t truly progressed in quite a while, have you? When was the last time you felt even a hint of happiness, triumph, or pride? Those sentiments have grown to fill the shadows in your closet.
You think you could sit in your office in Quantico and decay for another few hours as you contemplate these things, if not for the harsh sound of your phone ringing. You snap back to attention, frowning down at the unknown number displayed across the screen before answering. “Hello?” you ask, briefly saying your name and asking for a message. No one responds. You turn up your volume, only to hear breathing. It sends a shiver down your spine.
“Hello?” you ask again weakly.
Another measured inhale. It’s just breathing, but somehow, you know exactly who is calling you. This call was no accident.
“…Francis?” you murmur. Francis Dolarhyde, the Dragon, is calling you. Why exactly he’s reaching out, you have no idea. But you intend to find out. You’ve been chasing him for too long now, and you won’t let him slip through your fingers again. Not after last time. (You are forced to reckon with your failure each and every time you look in the mirror and find his teeth nearly imprinted on your shoulder.) Because you should be tracking him down, right? That’s your responsibility, isn’t it? And if Dolarhyde’s a particularly convenient distraction from Hannibal, then, oh well.
The Dragon’s breathing stills for a moment, as if being held in anticipation. Then it’s released in a breathy sigh, far too casual for your liking. Dolarhyde doesn’t utter a confirmation, instead stating an address. You just barely manage to get it written down, scrawled out with shaky penmanship as you try to breathe unimpeded. “Come alone,” he demands. A click signifies the end of the call and you stare down at your phone in disbelief.
You shouldn’t go. You should do the logical thing: tell Jack and get a team to come with you, ambushing the killer. But that’s risky, and the last thing you want is for the Dragon to slip away again. Damn it. You need to go. This is your only chance.
You’re not so deluded to think you’ll be able to have a rational conversation with the man, though. No, you will likely be faced with his sharpened claws and drooling maw once more. You’ll bring your gun, your dagger. Your adrenaline, your determination. It won’t be enough, but it will have to be.
But… does that really have to be enough? If you die, you die. You’ve been ruminating a lot recently—contemplating your life and the choices you’ve made. It hasn’t been very pleasant. You feel as if you’ve lost sight of the wide-eyed recruit you once were. And yes, to a certain extent, that was inevitable. But you’ve taken lives. Killing criminals still makes you a criminal.
You sigh and try to focus on your work. Predictably, it’s nearly impossible to do so—as the clock inches closer to your rendezvous with Dolarhyde. At the end of the work day, you’re quick to leave and get to your car, rubbing your eyes roughly and taking a few deep breaths. You feel extremely scattered. You have no fucking idea what you’re doing anymore. You’ve been blindly grasping at your next actions with nothing but fleeting memories and nostalgia to guide you. Your life has been governed by these killers: Hannibal Lecter, Francis Dolarhyde. And before them: Garret Jacob Hobbs, Abel Gideon.
Yes, you’ve survived this long. But do you even want to keep going? You’re not sure.
You stew in pessimistic and grim thoughts as you drive to the agreed meeting place. Within twenty minutes, you’re pulling up to a picturesque cliffside house. You’re immediately suspicious, but you suppress the feeling—you need to take Dolarhyde down. He’s been remarkably elusive for these past few years, and you’ve run out of patience. You may be rushing headlong into a trap, but you can’t find it in yourself to care. Shaking your head, you get out of your car and lock the doors.
You approach the house hesitantly, knocking on the front door. A few moments pass and no one answers; sighing, you double-check that your gun is secured to your belt before rounding the outside and heading to the backyard to find a sprawling terrace with elegant stonework. Standing in the center of the area is the man you’ve been looking for. His face is dimly illuminated with the surrounding lights, but it’s still a bit dark for your liking. From what you can tell, he’s tall and pale with short blond hair; he also has a cleft lip. His eyes are a strange mix of blue and green. But none of that is quite what strikes you. No, it has to be the look on his face: a perplexing mix of unadulterated fury and composure.
For a long moment, you just stare. You don’t realize your mistake until it’s much too late, until Dolarhyde’s turning to acknowledge you. He looks mildly irritated by the thought of you staring, before his gaze hardens. “You came,” he says, his voice an utter paradox: low and deep, light and unbothered.
“Yes,” you choke out, trying to control your nerves. This is dangerous—stupidly so. You’re staring into the eyes of a man who has killed entire families without remorse.
“Alone,” Dolarhyde punctuates, studying you intensely. He seems skeptical, his gaze wandering the surrounding area before settling on you once more. “Foolish.”
“Maybe,” you acquiesce.
“Your weapons,” he says guardedly, looking at the gun at your belt. You take the weapon and toss it to the ground between the two of you. You don't inform him of the knife in your boot. Dolarhyde nods unknowingly, his throat bobbing as he swallows. There’s pure fear running across your skin as you look at him. He’s tall, broad. And his cracked knuckles show that he is more than familiar with violence. It’s been a while since you’ve felt this kind of bone-chilling terror.
“I wanted to kill you,” Dolarhyde continues. You’re taken back to that night at the Brooklyn Museum, to the searing pain erupting through your shoulder when his teeth sank into you; the vertigo dragging you to the ground moments later as you watched him escape, powerless to stop him.
“I know,” you murmur.
“You don’t,” Dolarhyde argues. He’s a step closer to you now. “I had you on the ground. I sunk my teeth into you. I didn’t want to let go.” His eyes find your clothed shoulder before searching your face once more. You have no idea what he’s looking for.
“Why did you?” you manage to ask, your tongue feeling thick in your mouth.
Several emotions flicker across his face: anger, restraint, envy. “You’re not mine to kill,” Dolarhyde states, a bit of venom leaking into his voice. His fists are clenched at his sides. He’s nearly shaking with restraint. Your heart lurches unpleasantly in your chest. “You’re his,” he nearly spits.
“His?” you echo skeptically, despite having an unsettling idea of who he’s talking about.
“Lecter’s,” the Dragon nearly seethes. You can’t tell who his anger is directed at: you, Hannibal, the world around him, or himself.
“I’m not his,” you try to argue. The scar on your face almost seems to burn insistently, a reminder of the tangible mark Hannibal’s left on you. You still grit your teeth and hold onto your argument. “I’m not anyone’s,” you insist.
“You are your parents’, when you’re born,” Dolarhyde responds, clasping his hands behind his back for a brief moment. He seems so confident that you won’t hurt him. You’ve had several chances to do so—to pull your gun and send a bullet through his temple. But you haven’t, have you? “And you are the earth’s, when you die.”
“And his, right now?” you frown, still hung up on what he said about Hannibal. You know Dolarhyde had some sort of correspondence with Hannibal at least once—as Hannibal had received a letter from him while in prison. It hadn’t felt particularly significant at the time, as it was riddled with hero worship and frustratingly ambiguous language.
Dolarhyde’s expression darkens at your statement, tearing you out of your contemplation. He takes a step closer, and then another. He’s rendering the distance between you inconsequential with long and sprawling strides. Within a blink of an eye, the Dragon is standing before you. You choke on a breath.
He reaches out and you suppress a flinch. Soon he’s cradling your jaw. Dolarhyde’s hand is big, his fingers stretching across your face. Your heart is roaring in your chest. Every single ounce of logic you’ve ever possessed is telling you to back away, to push him away and run while you still have the chance. But you stay rooted to the spot, frozen under his grip.
“You’re…” Dolarhyde trails off, his brows furrowing. He tilts your head to the side, inspects you, turns you to the other side. His thumb drags across the scar Hannibal gave you, roughly but not enough to hurt. “Striking.”
You’re certain you’re hearing things now. But he leans closer, closer, closer. For a tense few seconds, you honestly think he’s going to kiss you—or bite your lips off. Instead, Dolarhyde only studies you with that dissecting gaze, as if looking for exactly what Hannibal sees in you.
This observation of his gives you a few moments to think, and you scrutinize his compliment in your mind. Striking. You think back to the video Dolarhyde filmed of Chilton’s abduction and eventual death. You think back to the look on Dolarhyde’s face as he stared down at his victim with a mix of desire, grief, and brutal envy. “Once upon a time, I would’ve killed to be like you.”
Dolarhyde didn’t have the easiest life—of that, you are overwhelmingly certain. Does that justify his murders? Absolutely not. But it certainly contextualizes them. After some digging, Jack and you found his childhood to be rather tumultuous: his mother left him to an orphanage until he was five years old, when his care was then handled by his grandmother who abused and assaulted him. He suffered mistreatment, neglect, and cruelty for years. It’s no wonder he turned out so vengeful, so volatile.
Your thoughts must show on your face. It’s a brief passing moment of empathy, the tiniest sliver of understanding. Dolarhyde senses it and strikes. Suddenly his hands wrap around your throat and he’s shoving you to the side, forcing you to stumble with him as he drags you towards the cliff. Your hands go to his wrists as you try to release his grip, but he’s far stronger than you. Before long, you’re backed up to the edge of the cliff. He’s exerting what feels like an impossible amount of pressure, ruthlessly tearing the breath from your lungs. You knee him in the gut, but it’s like he doesn't even feel it. You stomp on his foot, and it does nothing to shake his grasp. Your gun isn’t within reach, still resting on the pavement behind Dolarhyde. And at this point, your vision is greying at the corners. The Dragon’s only leaning closer to you, sending you to lean back precariously against the cliff’s edge. A choked plea falls from your lips, and you have no idea if it’s comprehensible, if Dolarhyde can even make it out over his own suffocating thoughts.
There are flashes, glimpses of moments and sensations. They’re far too quick, blurring before your eyes as tears crawl down your face. It’s one thing to embrace the idea of death—it’s another to genuinely experience it. Through your false bravado—cultivated through years of being in the field and staring down criminals with loaded guns and sharpened knives—you’re scared and afraid. Selfishly, you just wish something would happen, so you can be released from this awful limbo between life and death.
You only have a few more seconds. You weakly grasp at Dolarhyde’s forearms. He doesn’t even seem to notice. He’s practically pushing you off of the cliff now, sending your heels sliding back and ripping pebbles from the ground.
Then Dolarhyde stiffens and locks up, the color draining from his face. His grip slackens and your eyes find a knife impaled in his side. It happens all too quickly, but with painful lethargy. With the loss of Dolarhyde’s hold comes a shift in momentum. Suddenly, you’re lurching back and falling, falling, falling, falling—
A hand latches onto your wrist and yanks you forward with deceptive strength, until you’re safely on the cliffside once more. You choke on your breath, both because you’re free from Dolarhyde’s unrelenting grip and because you somehow survived. You’re coughing and sputtering, leaning down with a knee to the ground as you struggle to breathe past the tightness blooming across your throat and neck. There’s a hand on your back now, reassuring you.
When you can finally stand up again, you find Hannibal standing at your side. He looks nearly the same as he did before captivity. There’s a slight gauntness to his face, but nothing overly noticeable. He’s not wearing his prison clothing, but a dress shirt and slacks. You could almost confuse him for the person he used to be.
“Hello,” Hannibal says with a slight smile, as if this is nothing more than a casual interaction. As if he didn’t just save your life. You haven’t even seen him since your meal in his prison cell, since his escape. You have no idea what to say—what words can possibly speak for the disgustingly tangled mess of emotion running through you.
You’re spared from responding when Dolarhyde growls at you both, his hand pressed to his side as blood seeps from his skin. His balance is uneven, his gait unsteady; he seems to be breathing through rage and spite alone. But despite his wound, despite the odds, the Dragon is ferocious as ever. He is no man; he is a beast. A killer on the hunt, so similar yet so very different to the cannibal next to him. Hannibal and Francis are two different breeds. Hannibal stalks, Francis lunges; and for a moment, you’re just frozen in observation.
Then you come back to yourself and run for your gun, grabbing it from the ground while the two killers are distracted. You turn to them and your trigger finger twitches. In their current positioning, you can’t shoot Dolarhyde without hitting Hannibal too. And, for a moment, you consider it. You think about walking away from the wreckage they created and returning to your normal life. You think about everything you’ve missed. You think about peace, security, restfulness.
The thought is fleeting. You’ve been an FBI agent long enough to recognize the restlessness running through your blood, the need for answers that clings to your skin like a vice. A normal life was never in the cards for you. You groan in annoyance and join the fray, grabbing the knife you hid in your boot and catching Dolarhyde off guard with a hit to the ribs. He hisses and quickly turns on you, shoving you to the ground and pinning you there as if you weigh nothing. The gun clatters to the ground and he kicks it away. (A dragon only needs its claws, after all.) Dolarhyde glares at you, practically salivating before tipping his head down. You can’t get to your gun, but you can claw at his face and try to shove him off of you. But damn it, he’s got all of his weight against you, practically shoving you through the ground and into the soil. He’s too close to you, way too close—
A hand fisted in Dolarhyde’s collar yanks him off of you and you scramble out from under him, getting to your feet and aiming your gun at Dolarhyde. He’s focused on Hannibal now, the two of them circling one another. You’re taken for a moment, distracted by their strange dance. Hannibal strikes; Dolarhyde blocks. Dolarhyde lands a punch, then another. You’re not sure how long you’re rooted there. You only remember yourself when Dolarhyde shoves Hannibal down.
Before you can think any better of it, you’re snatching your gun—swiftly firing and sending a bullet careening through Dolarhyde’s head. He slumps onto Hannibal, the life evidently leaving his eyes as his body is left draped over the Ripper.
For what feels like far too long, there’s only the sound of the waves lapping against the shore far below—coupled with your harsh, labored breaths. You look over to find Hannibal pushing Dolarhyde off of him, the Dragon falling to rest on the pavement in a growing puddle of blood. His wings have been clipped. Tattered and destroyed.
You tear your eyes away from your latest victim and take a few steps towards Hannibal, offering him a hand. He stares at it, evidently catching on to the meaning behind the gesture. He is not one for vulnerability; he has never been one to accept weakness. But Hannibal still takes your hand, almost without hesitation, and allows you to pull him to his feet. Then, for a long moment, the two of you stare at each other.
If you had been asked to envision this final confrontation between Hannibal and you, you would have imagined the sun setting on the horizon, simultaneously signifying the end and promising the advent of another day, another future. But there is no sunset. It’s dark tonight. There are stars scattered about the shadowy void, but they are few and far between. The sky is losing its light.
An unspoken question lingers in the air between the two of you, as you attempt to regain your breath and stare down at Dolarhyde’s corpse. What now? Francis Dolarhyde—the Red Dragon, the Tooth Fairy—is dead. And you killed him.
Hannibal is looking at you expectantly. You pretend not to notice, instead weighing your options. You can join him, abandon everything you’ve been working so hard for; or you can continue chasing after him, as you always have. There’s an instinctual answer lingering heavily on the tip of your tongue, but it can’t seem to escape the prison of your lips.
You take a shuddering breath, meeting Hannibal’s expectant gaze, and give him his answer.

The last I saw of Count Dracula was his kissing his hand to me; with a red light of triumph in his eyes, and with a smile that Judas in hell might be proud of.
Dracula by Bram Stoker
next chapter
©2025, @defectivevillain | @defectivehero, All Rights Reserved. Reblogs are greatly appreciated—just don't steal or share outside of Tumblr, please.
author's notes: The bedsheets were rumpled… If you want to interpret that as evidence that Hannibal slept in the reader’s bed, I am absolutely not stopping you 😏 He’s such a slut.
Main ending is next!!! Woop woop. One more chapter... so crazy.
hannibal after breaking into your home, taking a shower, snagging some of your food, and stealing your gun: it’s not much but it’s honest work.
thanks for reading! <3
check out my other works, sorted by fandom.
friendly reminder that i don't give permission for my writing to be shared to other sites, stolen, copied, translated, or used in any way. thanks!
hannibal taglist: @its-ares @tobbotobbs @xrisdoesntexist @gr1mmac3 @tiredstarcerberuslamb @yourlocalratwriter @kahuunknown @atlas-king1 @pendragon-writes @slipknotcentury @cryinersaved @the-ultimate-librarian @starre-eyes @pendragon-writes @peterparkeeperer @gayschlatt69 @flow33didontsmoke @mrgatotortuga @house-of-1000-corpses-fan @faggotboulevard @hottskull
#defectivevillain#hannibal x reader#hannibal x male reader#hannibal x gn reader#gn reader#male reader#transmasc reader#nb reader#hannibal lecter x reader#hannibal lecter#hannibal nbc#hannibal lecter x male reader
50 notes
·
View notes
Text
Obey Me and Lonely MC
How I imagine the very few moments before MC was summoned to the Devildom
Gender neutral reader (please correct me If I'm wrong)
Masterlist
CW: angst, panicking and body pain, nothing explicit, college student MC sharing apartment, shitty college experience, lonely MC but the sad type of lonely, they're kinda depressed. Diavolo, Barbatos and Lucifer welcome MC, but they're barely there
Please enjoy!
.
You only had time to close the door before the floor under your feet started sinking like quicksand, bending in waves and violently shaking your body.
Everything beyond the entrance seemed completely normal: the wood was as hard as it could be and the tiles shone as they always did, yellow and cheap thanks to the faded lights in the apartment.
Still, nothing there was brighter than whatever the fuck was illuminating your body from underneath. Where exactly you weren't sure, but it came from below.
It was weird.
It was too much.
You threw your backpack away from you, your computer possibly breaking with the fall under the weight of multiple books, before rummaging through all your pockets in search of your phone.
There had to be someone you could call. Someone. Anyone.
The blood pumped in you ears and your fingers struggled to unlock the screen while you screamed your roommates' names with a trembling voice.
You were alone.
How in fucking hell could you be alone?
Maybe you were dreaming or hallucinating! Stress could do that to you, right? Exams had been hectic those days and your sleeping habits had been disastrous for weeks, often leaving you empty at best and anhedonic at worst. That had to be it! Your brain was malfunctioning due to sleep depravation and high cortisol levels, also causing a decrease in balance and a permanent state of alert.
You were unnecessaryly panicking because your body was tired. It was as simple as that.
You. Were. Fine.
So you let your knees give up, wincing a little when they hit the floor. Your coat, always your favourite, was warm as a blanket and taking it off felt like a herculean task.
Your body followed its own weight, leaning forward until your hands touched the wood and kneaded like it was some kind of weird bread dough before you fully laid down. You felt as if it was absorbing your energy, draining it completely and making you lose your vision.
You thought you saw red surrounding your siluette in a circle, but your mind was too far gone by then, too tired to process anything that catched your brain's attention.
It could've been seconds or hours until you opened your eyes again. The possibility of being days was also there, but how could you be sure?
Flesh hard under your skin and blood slow through your veins, there was nothing you could feel but pain and the faint smell of sulfur.
Was there a leakage in the building?
And since when did your apartment have such high ceilings? Made of stone with stained glass... You'd never seen them, haven't you? You'd remember if you did.
Someone was talking to you. Not any of your roommates, of that you were sure. The voice was too deep.
You sat like a spring, dizzy and too aware of your surroundings, adrenaline kicking in. It did smell like sulfur, but it was going away, letting your nose catch instead what was probably a really expensive cologne.
There were men around you, you realized, all staring at your perplexed expression with amusement, as if you were a new addition to the zoo. And they were tall. Like... tall tall.
One of them, dressed in red, spoke to you again, but your ears were clogged. You weren't intentionally ignoring him, you just couldn't hear a single shit. You could barely hear your own heartbeat.
Were you still alive?
"Hey... Ah!"
Your voice sounded like a whisper for only one second, but it was enough to pop your ears and make you scream and grab the sides of your head in anguish. Someone, not the one in red, spoke again in a tongue you didn't recognize and made the pain disappear like mist.
"... where you are?"
"Human"
"Human! Answer the prince!"
What fucking prince?
"What?" you finally asked in a creaky voice.
"Do you know where you are?"
The redhead spoke one final time. He seemed to be the nicest one, but you couldn't fully trust the tallest dude you'd ever seen who also had yellow eyes.
Not light brown. Yellow. Bright yellow.
"I don't know, man... Hell?"
You were being sarcastic, but the smile in his face told you something completely unexpected.
"You see, Lucifer? Barbatos? They seem to be aware of their surroundings!"
"I'm not sure that's the case, my Lord"
Hell.
You were in hell? Of course you were.
It did make sense once you thought about it. Come on! Floor sinking under your feet? And your dumbass believed it was due to stress! How could it be stress, dummy? Hell was the obvious answer!
Although conscious, you became too foggy to coherently answer any of their following questions. It sounded like they already knew what they wanted to hear and they were just making sure you also knew it.
Name, age, gender, nationality... Not even your rommates knew half of that, so how did they?
Maybe you were schizophrenic. How far could schizophrenia go?
"So, do you agree?"
The redhead with yellow eyes... A demon? Lord Diavolo. The Prince of Hell.
He looked at you with childish eagerness. Lucifer and Barbatos, if those were their actual names, didn't seem as happy.
Diavolo wasn't asking for your permission. If he actually wanted your permission, he would've sent you a letter or even waited for you in your own apartment like a creep. But you were already there. Asking that was just courtesy. Politeness.
You stayed in silence for a couple of minutes, maintaining direct eye contact with him.
You remembered your backpack, computer surely broken and library books all wrinkled and smelly, reeking of mold. The two roommates that never came to your rescue and your inability to think of someone that would come in a second just because you needed help.
You'd be an unsolved crime. A YouTube clickbait.
That seemed better than letting college steal your money and will to live before throwing you to the wolves.
"Sure, man, why not?"
.
.
#obey me#obey me! shall we date?#om! shall we date#om! swd#obey me mc#obey me reader#obey me diavolo#obey me lucifer#obey me barbatos#obey me angst#obey me fic#obey me oneshot#obey me gn!reader#obey me gn!mc#obey me gender neutral mc#obey me x gender neutral reader
389 notes
·
View notes
Note
if the mc went on a date with the bro’s (separately ofc) what kind of date would it be with which? (Ex: Amusement park, aquarium, movie date, etc) :3?
kinda spoilers for a lobro quiz i have in my drafts, but i don't think a lot of readers go on my tumblr anyway so I'll answer this
Tomohiro:
ideally watching a martial arts match live. whether it be judo, boxing, or ufc in general. loves finding niche sports like chess-boxing or carjitsu
if tickets are sold out/too expensive, he would just invite you to watch a match on tv at home
he'd love to geek out on the fights, break down the techniques, and demo the moves with you
or you could explore trial classes at different martial arts schools together. He likes learning new styles
Kotose:
the classic fancy restaurant. or a romantic boat ride over a lake
he has money to spend so i think he'd love to attend a classical music concert or a theatrical performance
he likes museum dates. the more obscure, the better. he'd probably rant about the absurdity of modern art and shitty performance pieces until you calm him down by bringing him to the space exhibit or something
if he's feeling more casual, maybe a simple coffee shop date or a walk through the city as you explore the urban stores and try on clothes together
Satsuma:
cat cafe, pet store, anywhere with cute animals. Maybe a petting zoo
the animals are usually kinda scared of him though
i could see him going on a hike or fishing and being one of those guys who has a pic of himself holding a giant dead fish he caught
he's rowed you out to the middle of the lake and you're afraid he's gonna kill and toss your body in the water, but he actually wants to teach you how to fish
if it's a regular day, he'll invite you to join him in his workout
prefers to avoid crowded locations
Yumeki:
a painting or sculpture class, or one of those bento-making or cake-decorating classes
he'd like to try drawing you. he's the corny type of guy who brings you on a picnic in the spring/summer and asks you to pose for him
or go for long walks on the beach at night or a day at the park
he likes amusement parks and winning cute prizes, as well as sweets. the haunted house is nice because he gets to cling to you
he's pretty basic, so a movie date would be good, or watching a horror movie alone together in your room with the lights off, even though he gets scared easily.
Yanagi:
are missions not enough of a date?
if not playing (raging at) videogames together at his base, you guys would be out in the city
maybe on a night drive on his motorcycle after a mission, listening to music through the fancy helmets he got
exploring street foods around bullet city, or checking out the nice cafes/diners in springtime of love
going to an arcade and trying to keep yanagi from rigging the games for more tokens
chasing after the street animals together and trying to feed a stray cat
#quotev#losers bromance#lobro#asks#osana tomohiro#umiuta kotose#kyoukou satsuma#shirayuki yumeki#fujikage yanagi#male reader insert#isekai#dating sim
58 notes
·
View notes
Text
🌱 Subtle Freyr Worship 🐗
Take a hike/walk out in nature
Meditate in nature; ground yourself
Take frequent breaks from technology to get some fresh air or go outside
Take care of yourself physically; exercise, if able
Have a candle that reminds you of him (no altar needed)
Wear jewelry that reminds you of him
Keep a picture of him in your wallet
Start a garden; tend to plants
Grow your own herbs, fruits, or vegetables
Pick flowers (not from someone's garden!!!)
Make flower crowns
Have a stuffed animal horse or boar
Have imagery of plants, fruits, sailboats/Viking ships, or antlers
Dance to music that makes you feel lively and free
Allow yourself to romanticize life
Be open to love; be compassionate towards others and yourself
Be kind to young children; play with them if offered
Keep a self-care/self-love journal
At the beginning of the harvest or spring season, cook a hardy, good meal for yourself; cook a feast for your loved ones
Spend time with loved ones
Spend time with pets; play with or walk them
Support animal shelters or environmental preservation organizations
Volunteer at an animal shelter
Visit a zoo or wildlife refuge/sanctuary
Learn about nature; watch nature documentaries, learn about animals, etc.
Learn how to forage safely; picking berries, mushrooms, etc.
Eat three meals a day
Learn how to cook or bake
Drink herbal teas, vegetable juice, or fruit juice, especially if it's homemade
Feed neighborhood dogs, cats, or birds
Wear naturally scented perfumes/colognes
Pick up trash in the environment
Focus on self improvement
Lead a project, group, etc.
Engage in activities that you feel passionate about
Drink water; stay hydrated
Play in the rain
Ground yourself regularly; focus on healthy coping skills
Cook a warm meal for someone in need
-
I might add more to this later on! For the time being, this is my list of discreet ways to worship Freyr. I hope you enjoy this, and take care! 💚
Link to my Subtle Worship Master list
#norse paganism#norse pagan#norse deities#paganblr#freyr deity#freyr worship#freyr#deity worship#pagan tips#norse heathenry
164 notes
·
View notes
Text

Spring Break at the Zoo Day 8: Snakes
Some snakes except for this green tree python, can be venomous.
#Spring Break at the Zoo#Snakes#green tree python#central park zoo#zoo#animals#wildlife#spring break
5 notes
·
View notes
Text

honeysuckle’s & huckleberry’s
Cowboy!Joel (41) X F!Reader (25) | 42.1k words | wip | explicit | 18+ minors dni | enemies to lovers | slow burn | au: no cordyceps outbreak | oral (f receiving) | (semi) public sex | vaginal fingering
masterlist | ao3 | spotify playlist
“In just—“ His eyes slip closed when his mouth connect with the inside of your wrist. His lips are warm and so tender you fight down a soft whimper at the intoxicating sensation. When they open again, dangerous amber irises peer back at you like you’re their salvation. “-my cowboy hat.”
Oh—fuck.
a/n: this chapter was so fun to write, I accidentally made it 9.5k words lol, but it was such a relief (ish) to write. Some new warning apply to this chapter, so please be advised of those. We get to see a whole new side to Joel this chapter and we’ll get to see some “in the making of” this chapter in the following one. A little bit of context on why Joel changes so abruptly and the reasoning behind his decisions. I hope you all know how much i love love love you guys for being here for me while i struggle to find time to write. I’m working on getting back on my feet every day and this is the one safe place I have to escape and indulge in my favorite coping mechanism. Much love, H 🤍
Chapter 7–You Don’t Want That Smoke
Your birthday falls on Friday this year, (lucky you) but it also means the First Friday dance falls on your birthday this year as well. It’s the first community event after the cold winter months and by that time, most people are itching to get out of their snow-buried homes. The town usually puts on the event to celebrate the coming spring, hosting venders of all sorts and games for the families. Growing up, your parents would take you to the petting zoo and let you ride the ponies, like you didn’t have a horse at home, like there wasn’t a whole ranch to attend to, animals to raise up and sell, like you could just for a moment, be a normal little girl from a quiet street who’d never sat in a saddle in her life.
If only that had been the case, ever. If only you’d had parents who pursued safe, reliable careers, where they had pensions and retirement, insurance and benefits, instead of breaking their backs for a ranch that had been dying long before it was left to your mother by her parents. Was it obligation that kept them here, or was it something else? Was it the same thing that got you through years of college, all in an attempt to keep your parents' dream alive for a little while longer?
It’s Wednesday, which means you have two more days before your birthday and Melly’s plane lands in a few hours from Colorado, but so far your morning has taken you five rounds in the octagon and is currently coming back for more.
“—No! The statements I just got in the mail yesterday said we have ninety days to come up with three months worth of the mortgage before the property faces foreclosure.”
The woman on the other end of the phone sighs at you and you can hear the way her hands hit her keyboard. “I know that, ma’am, but that was a month and a half ago and we still have not received any payments. The bank sent another letter, requesting that the entire six month worth of back payments be received by the end of the ninety days or the property will be foreclosed on.”
The routinely scripted response feels like an open handed slap to the face, white hot pain snapping through your veins like lightning on the Wyoming plains. You sink down into the dining room chair and let it soak in all the way.
“How many days do we have left?” You hear yourself whisper into the phone but it’s not you speaking, not really—its a absent reflex like blinking or breathing.
“That's…51 days, ma’am. We’ll contact you again in thirty days if we have not received the entire amount by that time.”
Your eyes burn and blur, tears for the years of your life wasted on a useless education, until they surge past the dam and plummet to the paper below. When you look down at the document, your tears are stained red by the ink on the foreclosure notice. “How much will it be, again?” Defeated, Inadequate and Doomed.
“Fourteen thousand, three hundred and forty dollars, for six months worth of the Mortgage and late fees accumulated.” She sounds annoyed when she reads off the obscene number, like she isn’t sealing the fate of your family home, the dream your parents have worked their whole lives for to pass down to you—all wasted on a backed mortgage that your parents took out on the farm when you were born.
The full circle indicates that losing your family’s livelihood was your fault, from start to finish. You didn’t make it in time. All your hard work, and you’re still going to lose it.
“Is that everything, ma’am?”
Click
You drop the phone and sob into your arms, your whole body shaking and heaving with every sharp inhale. In your best attempt to keep quiet, you attract the attention of the one person you long to keep this from, your sweet, well meaning mom.
She’s soft spoken when she soothes you, rubs your back while you dry up your tears against her chest and she doesn’t ask why, just kisses your forehead and smiles one of those sweet sweet smiles at you and says, “We’ll get through this, Honey, don’t you worry about that. We’ll figure this out together.”
And you believe her, enough to reel in your hiccups, enough to ease your searing tears. “Why don’t you take a break from work, Melly gets here soon, yeah? You got everything you girls need?”
You smile at her, thankful for her ability to distract you from the things that keep you up at night. She knows you better than anyone, she’s your best friend. “Maybe we can stop at the store after we get her, but we gotta leave soon—“ you check the time, one hour until her plane touches down in Jackson and it takes forty five minutes to get there alone.
“Actually Honey, about that…I can't go with you. I’m not feeling up to it and I thought I would whip up dinner for you girls. But I got someone to go with you,”
You stand up from the chair and put the papers back into the envelope. “Mom, I really can go alone, I drove all the way here—“ she stops you with a quiet scuff. “You got stuck in the snow and Joel had to pull you out.” Joel, that son of a bitch…that big, sexy cowboy son of a bitch who left you in the snow. Who huffs and puffs and walks around like the sweatiest, filthiest, most delicious version of every nasty fantasy you’ve ever had. Of course she would drag him into this, maybe she’s the one who’s after the help.
“Speak of the devil,” she has this knowing look when her gaze travels past you to the doorway of the dining room. You glance over your shoulder to find yourself smack dab in the middle of one of those filthy dreams, dressed in green plaid and his brown Carhartt jacket, his black cowboy hat resting atop his head with curls peeking out of the sides, kissing the tips of his ears. His beard has grown out a tad too, making him look soft all over, scruffy and curly with a dimpled smile. The sight of him comes with a sudden rush of soothing comfort, warm eyes that make you feel safe, hidden in the shadows of his hat.
“Heard I was takin’ you somewhere?” He’s broad and sturdy, with a slight sheen of sweat on the peaks of his collarbones under his shirt. Under his beard, his neck is taught and his muscles are strained, his pulse visible beneath his skin despite his cool composure. If you know Joel, he did a days worth of work this morning to clear his schedule for the rest of the afternoon. He probably smells like sweat and dirt, like horses and leather under all that damn southern charm he possesses.
Actually, you can take me anywhere. On the couch, in my room, hell—in the glow of a fridge light.
You sink your teeth into your bottom lip to bite off your involuntary groan, shooting your mom a sharp look. She may play coy, might act like she's this innocent and sweet, cookie baking, laundry folding, house making mom who knows no better, but you see what she’s really up to. How she hides behind her little false oblivion, a facade she usually only uses for good. This doesn’t feel like it was for the greater good.
“You—“ you sneer at her quietly and she smiles with a “Not sure what you mean dear, but you better get a move on. I have to get dinner in the oven!” She scurries out of the room and into the next, letting the door swing closed behind her. Joel remains in the same spot, one shoulder pressed against the white wood frame of the old door, his muddy boots on the dark hardwood floors. Your eyes drag up the rest of him, his pants are tight in the middle, hugging his hips and probably just barely restraining what lays below the dark blue denim. There's a soft curve to his belly, made apparent when his arms cross over his chest and pull his shirt tight against his front.
His belly looks so damn soft. So fucking round and bite-able. A few more clicks up, his chest nearly bulging out of the buttons of the flannel. The buttons hang on for dear life, but you’re afraid if he flexes, they will scatter to the floor with your resolve.
He clears his throat and you finally meet his eyes. “Doin’ alright there, darlin’?” If his presence wasn’t enough, the bourbony southern drawl and the way he cocks his hip makes your thighs squeeze together involuntarily. “Yeah—Yep, just need to get dressed and I’ll be ready.” You’re still in a big sleep shirt, have been all morning because work for you doesn’t require pants half of the time. When you start to breeze past, his eyes drop to the exposed skin of your thighs.
“Been wonderin’…” he stops you with a big hand, pressed against your sternum when you try to pass by his solid form. He’s still faced the opposite direction than your body, only his head turns to look down at you, gone still beneath his stern fingertips. “If you always walk around naked under these shirts, or if you’re wearin’ somethin’ under there when mom and dad are ‘round?”
His eyes flick back to the door leading into the kitchen, where your mother is currently hiding from your scowl, then back down to the hem of your oversized shirt. The hand on your ribs shifts when you haul in a deep, stuttering breath. It slips a few inches lower, the tips of his thick fingers dipping into the flesh of your stomach, just below your belly button. He’s so close and so fucking firm where he holds you in place.
“Why don’t you have a look for yourself, Cowboy?”
You challenge him back and you swear he stops breathing beside you. He meets your dare with a low growl, reverberating inside his rib cage like a shout in a vast canyon. What the hell is happening right now, did he hit his head or something? Is he finally getting the fucking hint? How desperately you want him to have his way with you? Then again, the last time he saw you dressed like this, you were bent over, knowingly showing off everything you had to offer, the place you wanted him most, while you listened to the guttural sounds leaving the unsuspecting man behind you. You aren’t going to complain about the sudden shift in his attention, hell no—you’ll soak in what you can get from the leery cowboy.
You hardly register the way he moves until he leans forward and warm fingertips graze the skin just under your ass. He’s looking when he lifts the shirt all the way up to your tailbone slowly, covered by smooth black satin, a thong that hugs your hips but leaves your cheeks exposed to his greedy sight. His eyes are everywhere, your thighs and the curve of your bare behind. His fingers dip just under the black satin band on your hip, his expression is just shy of a devoted man as he drinks in the contrasting sensation of your smooth skin and the silky material.
“Fuck,” he murmurs under his breath, letting his hand slip from your panties to travel back down, unsure fingers tracing along the crease of your ass, curling under your cheek when he gets to the bottom. It’s the softest touch you’ve ever felt, full of admiration and barely restrained desire. It sets your skin on fire, radiating behind your eyelids. “Those are…damn pretty, sugar…but you better go get yourself ready, before you’re late.” His hands slip away from you completely and he turns in the direction of the door, already on his way out before you even fully process what just happened. What flipped inside of Joel on a random Wednesday afternoon in late February?
He leaves with a satisfied smirk with intentions of starting the truck while you stammer against the doorway and remind yourself to breathe. When the front door closes behind him, you lean against the wood he was just propped against, hoping his heat will still linger there. He instigated something, a secret whisper of want, the thought makes a grin break out from one side of your face to the other, pulling your cheeks tight. He wants you.
You get dressed with that same stupid grin plastered on your face. You shift through your closet a few times, but you keep falling back on the same outfit. A pair of flared jeans, light in color with stitch work on the sides. With a pair of boots, they make your ass look like a dream—just what you are going for, just so you can rile Joel further. You find a tight top and a thick wool flannel to throw over it, before tracking back down the stairs to the front door.
It’s the rush of adrenaline that shocks the agony from your brain, but the moment you bound down the front steps to his waiting truck, the door already propped open, you pause.
You stop at the foot of the stairs and turn, looking up the steps you’ve known your entire life, the screen door you’ve spent numerous summers swinging in and out of. The porch you’ve watched storms roll in from, the porch swing where you had your first kiss. All this and…your heart sinks. When you turn back towards the running chevy, Joel is staring back at you, his once knowing smirk traded in for a furrow of concern on his handsome features.
You climb into the passenger seat and fasten your seatbelt while Joel puts the truck in gear and pulls away from the house.
There’s a long stretch of road that passes in near silence, before it’s you who just can’t take it anymore. Joel, sweet fucking Joel sat beside you, respecting your emotions and your boundaries once again. “Ranch is ‘bout to be foreclosed.” You tell him. Once it’s spoken aloud, you realize just how imminent your family’s demise really is. How quickly you are going to lose everything, watch your parents walk away with no retirement and nothing to show for themselves, for generations of hard work.
You expect something, questions about how you know, how long you have, if there's anything he can do to help you, but the questions never come. Instead, Joel reaches over and presses his fingers into the latch on your buckle, pulling it off of you with one click.
“C’mere, sweet girl.” His tone is low, soft enough to not interrupt your thoughts, but enough to have you drawing across the bench seat and slipping under his sturdy arm while he drives. He keeps you tucked in close beside him, his hand trailing up and down your arm to ease out the pain residing in your veins. He takes one glance down at you and leans forward, his lips connecting with the crown of your head. “We’ll get through it. We ain’t goin’ down without a hell of a fight.”
We
We
Because after the years you’ve spent away from this place, Joel has come to think of the Rising Sun ranch as his home just as much as it is yours. He’d raised every one of the cattle on that ranch, he’s worked day and night to ensure its survival, he’s lost sleep and nearly limbs fighting to keep them afloat while you were gone. This is his home, his fight right alongside yours. Finally, the weight seems to ease up, shouldered by Joel's sense of responsibility for your family’s livelihood.
Beside you, he’s solid and warm, he’s alive and overflowing with strength, enough to spare, for something to cling to. You turn your head and bury your face in his shoulder, covering yourself in the shield of protection he has to offer, sturdy, devoted support that makes you feel lightheaded with security. He doesn’t push you further, doesn’t prod you for details. He just hangs on, keeps your body tucked in close to his while he drives into town. At some point, the rattling of the old truck along patchy highway roads lulls you into sleep with your head against his shoulder and one leg across his lap.
Joel, with all the strength he can muster—holds on tight.
“Hey,” your senses come rushing back when the truck comes to a stop and your warm pillow jostles under your head. You lift up off his weight a little and glance at him through a sleepy gaze, a soft smile present on his lips. “As much as I like you droolin’ all over me…” he gestures to wet stain on his flannel. “Think your friends plane lands soon, don’t want you to miss it.”
You get yourself together enough to look out the window. Joel parked right outside of baggage claim at Jacksons little airport and his arm still sits tightly around your shoulders. A deep sigh sets in to your bones and you lean against him for just a moment longer to soak in the warmth. “Hey, look at me, darlin’,” his hand wraps around your chin gently, coaxing your eyes up to his. “Don’t think about the ranch, at least till the week is over. Ain’t nothin’ you can do right now, so don’t let it ruin your birthday. Everythin’s gonna be alright.” His words trail off when a broad thumb swipes across the underside of your bottom lip, his gaze caught in yours so tightly you’re half sure the jaws of life couldn’t draw you apart. He breaks out into a grin and heaves a shallow laugh. “Had a little drool there.”
The little laugh that bubbles up in you breaks the eye contact and Joel shuts off the truck, untucking you from his arm. You check the time for safe measures, there's still a few more minutes before the plane lands and she still has to make it out the gates.
“Joel?” He’s fiddling with his key chain, adjusting a few backwards keys. “Hmm?” He barely makes eye contact—is he embarrassed? From holding you while you slept? “Thank you. For everything you’ve done for me—for my family while I’ve been gone. I can't think of a way to…repay you for everything.”
Joel glances over at you and something flashes in his brown eyes, something that looks like discomfort and shame. He takes a sharp breath in and squeezes his knuckles around the keys. “I didn’t do it all selflessly…please don’t take this wrong. I haven’t felt a sense of belonging in years. Me and Tommy have been drifting since I was twenty eight, working on one ranch after another. We’d stick around a town for six months and he’d get antsy, stir up trouble and we’d have to hit the road again.”
He brings his hand up to his mouth and chews on the corner of his thumb. He’s anxious, you can tell by the way his eyes flitter to you then away quickly. “I’ve covered his ass more times than I can count because I don’t know if I’ll be the same if I have to leave here. It feels fuckin—selfish, like I’m usin’ your folks. M’gettin’ old, my bones are tired and all I want is to…stop. Slow down for once in my life. I’ve never been more at peace than I am here, with your parents and the ranch. I was doin’ so good, gettin’ my mind right, hatin’ myself a little less and then—“ he trails off with a distant look in his eyes.
And then…what? What’s caused Joel to lose that sense of peace and stability? “What happened?” You sink back in the bench seat, run your fingers along the stitched pattern of color adorning the warn padding. “S’big snow storm came in…I was comin’ back from town because I took Tommy to pick up flowers. He’d been a real asshole to a sweet lady who didn’t deserve it. Was pissed off he was smokin’ in the truck, pissed he was jeopardizin’ our home again, when we see this little car stuck in the embankment, met this—real pretty girl, and she…” he sneaks a glance over at you, but he’s doing his best to find anywhere, anything else to look at. Cars passing by, the sun reflecting off the bright white paint on the cross walk. The older woman in-front of you, helping what looks like her daughter, load her luggage into the trunk.
“She got under my skin and I was flustered for the first time in a really long time. Kinda freaked me out—and then I left here there—‘cuz I was scared shitless and nothin’s ever been the same since. Sorta think she hates my guts half the time for it.”
There's this unsettling silence in the cab, Joel's nerves and his admission hanging in the air between you. He’s never ever been this vulnerable and honest with you before. You’ve talked to him more times than you can count now, a meaningless little conversation where you found everything you needed to change your mind about him. But he’s never opened himself up like he was right now, in the damn pick up line of the Jackson airport.
“Joel I…I already forgave you for that.” You forgave him for that when he gave you your necklace for Christmas. You forgave him when he carried a newborn calf half a mile through a snowstorm for you. You forgave him when you came down the stairs to him in that damn cowboy hat.
You forgave him when he came back for you and looked at you with those pretty brown eyes.
“What?” He looks over at you and you hold onto the eye contact for as long as you possibly can. “I don’t hate you. Furthest thing from it actually—I do hate how much you avoid me. Like I’m going to bite your head off any second—“ he snorts, cracks a white smile at you and his eyes crinkle at the sides, making your stomach flutter, little blue butterflies soaring through your abdomen. “You do bite my head off—often.”
Okay—maybe he’s a little right, maybe you let it get too far a few times, spent too many afternoons angry at his distaste for you, when all you wanted was a taste of him. “Well, I’m sorry…for all the things I’ve said to you, the things I’ve called you. But I’m not upset about that anymore. I forgave you for that a long time ago. You’ve already made up for it a million times, Joel.”
He’s grinning at you like you just told him he won the fucking lottery, his nervous hands drumming a absent tune against the steering wheel. He’s looking at you like it’s the first time you’ve ever met him, his eyes shining with mirth and admiration. “Think…you could give this ol’ cowboy another shot?” That nervous little shake of his jaw, the tick in his voice and the hopefulness in his eyes is enough to break anyone, but you? You’re so lost on him you never want to find your way back. Throw away the maps, toss the keys somewhere you’ll never find them again—you never want to go anywhere else in the world. Another shot? You’d give him all of them.
“Pretend you’ve never met me before.”
He blinks, cocks an eyebrow and makes a face of confusion at you. “I’ve never met you?” You nod, turn your whole body to face him on the bench seat of his old beat up chevy. “Like it’s the first time we’ve met. I’m Hank's daughter and you’re picking me up from the airport to take me home for the first time in years. We’ve never met. Try again, shoot your shot, cowboy.”
You’d like to imagine that's how it went—your mom and dad were too busy to come get you and you decided to fly because you knew your little car wouldn’t make it. They send Joel, because he’s trustworthy and punctual. They know he’ll treat their daughter with respect, they trust that he’ll use his better judgment, because they know he’s a good man. You know that under that rough, hard exterior is an anxious man searching for belonging, a good man.
Joel takes a deep breath, lets his mind drift out the window before he turns it back to you with a charming smile, one you’ve never been on the receiving end of. It’s smoldering, flirtatious—everything you imagined Joel to be after all those years of pinning after a man you’ve never laid eyes on. A Joel you’ve never met and desperately need to get to know better. “Prodigy daughter finally returns,” his drawl is thick and his eyes rake over you once, twice, before settling on your own. “I’m Joel.”
You giggle—rightfully so, because this Joel? This Joel is all quick wit and chivalry. You fake introduce yourself back, your grin mirroring his own. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Joel.”
“Pleasure is…all mine, darlin’.”
You could stare at him forever with that damn goofy smile on his face. “Anyone ever tell you—you look good in this?” You tell him, reaching up to flick the brim of his hat, but it stays firmly in place despite your efforts. He snorts and snaps up to catch your wrist, holding onto it tightly in his big hand. “S’funny, I was just thinkin’ about how good you’d look in my hat.” His thumb circles the inside of your wrist slowly,’ pushing down the fabric of your sleeve with the effort. Slowly, he draws your appendage closer, till his mouth hovers just above your skin. His eyes are like witnessing something tragic, so devastating you can't bring yourself to look away.
“In just—“ His eyes slip closed when his lips connect with the inside of your wrist. His lips are warm and so tender you fight down a soft whimper at the intoxicating sensation. When they open again, dangerous amber irises peer back at you like you’re their salvation. “-my cowboy hat.”
Oh—fuck. There’s an image you’ll never get out of your mind—your hands on his sweaty chest, the brim of his hat falling in front of your eyes while you try to keep it in place, despite the way you ride him—
“Joel—Jesus, you can’t just—“
He breaks out into a chest filled laugh, his eyes slip close and his head falls back. His whole body responds to the way he laughs, his legs kick up, his chest heaves and his belly bounces. He’s a menace, a damn trouble starter—he makes you see hearts around his head and a sparkle in his eyes you’re sure you’re imagining. He calms his laugh down with a few deep breaths, a grin still plastered on his handsome face. “What can I say? I’m really bad at first impressions.”
He is, but it doesn’t bother you like it used to. Joel isn’t and never will be the perfect man you’d envisioned. He’ll never be the Joel you’d made up in your head for so long, because that Joel was made solely for you, from your interpretation of a man who’s perfect for you in every way. But that Joel and the one in front of you are two vastly different people—this Joel is gruff at times, opinionated and flawed. He wasn’t made perfect for you, but you find that the things that make him the least like the Joel in your mind—are the things that you like most about him. He’s gruff, but he’s punctual and takes no shit. He’s opinionated, but he’s wise about life, he’s earned the right to voice his beliefs. He’s flawed—he has crows feet by his kind eyes, graying curls and weathered hands—but it’s his flaws that entice you to learn more about him. They make him real in front of you instead of a made up, faceless man in your dreams.
Your phone chimes in your pocket and it sucks you from the void in the cab of this old truck, away from Joel's charming smile and his burning hand on your wrist. He pulls away and the moment dissipates into dust on the dashboard.
Melly: I just got my bag, headed out now!
“Be right back,” you slip out the door with a firm shut and try your hardest not to glance back at the man in the cab of that blue and white truck.
Finding Melly is easy, she sticks out like a sore thumb with her blonde hair and too-blessed chest. What did she do in a past life for tits like that, anyways?
She comes out the double doors and jogs to you with a grin your wearing on your own face. “Oh my gosh!” She squeals, finally getting close enough to throw your arms around each other. It’s been months since you’ve seen each other after spending everyday together for the last two years. You tumble around together in your hug for a few minutes before she pulls back to look you over, in a pair of flared jeans and boots. “Oh man, the country got you.” She jokes, faking a deflated sigh. “Would you fuck off?” She laughs menacingly, slinging her bag over her shoulder for more security. “Let me guess, you’re still trying to drive that cowboy crazy, right?”
With a deep eye roll, you finally look back at the truck. He’s looking right back at you, an easy smile on his lips when your eyes connect. You look back to your best friend and make a face. “He uhm…he actually drove me…to come get you. He’s in the truck, please be nice to him, okay?” She sneers and you know she means trouble when you help her with her things on her way to the truck.
“Please don’t fucking embarrass me, I swear dude—“ Mel gives you a little shove and huffs a laugh when you put her suitcase in the bed of the pickup. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to ruin your shot with the old dude.” She looks around you, eyeing him from outside of the truck without his knowledge. “Holy shit, dude he’s hot. He’s like, stupid hot.”
You look over at him too and like he can feel your eyes on him, he looks over his shoulder, smiles warmly and you know it—
Know you’re fucked.
“Not a word.” Mel throws her hands up innocently and follows your lead when you open the door of the truck and climb in the middle, sliding in right beside Joel, reclaiming the space you’d taken up on your way here.
The whole drive back to the ranch, your body is on fire along the parts that connect to Joel, pressed so close you’re afraid you might melt into him.
Two days pass in a blur.
You spend a lot of time with Mel, catching up on how she's been doing since graduating, how she likes work—she’s a wildlife biologist in Colorado, who’s still learning the ropes of the job but she’s never been more excited to be a part of something. You don’t tell her about the ranch for a good reason, but she still asks and doesn’t say anything if she notices the look on your face when you lie to her.
We’ll get through it
You love spending time with her, but you don’t see a lot of Joel besides meals. He’s pleasant and soft, smiling at you like he’s never worn a frown on that handsome face. He sits too close at dinner, draws your gaze in far too many times for it to be an accident. It’s not anymore but it’s still so damn hard to make yourself believe that this isn’t just a fleeting moment—temptation breathing life into you for the first time in years, teasing you with possibilities.
He makes you burn but he doesn’t push further, doesn’t chase that desire down its narrowing path. It’s so close—you’re so close to finally making him yours.
When your birthday rolls around, he’s nowhere to be seen at breakfast. When you head out to the stables, the horses have already been fed and there's no trace of the man who plagues your every waking moment. The truck is gone and the tire-tracks in the driveway look old, like he’s been gone for hours. It’s not that he’s required to see you on your birthday, but you thought things were going to change. You thought that re-meeting him in the truck at the airport would restart everything, he’d realize you want him around more than the ranch hand who got under your skin and made you desperate for his attention. It feels naive, to watch out the window for his truck for most of the morning, pining after that faded powder blue and rust.
“This is depressing to watch from the outside, you know that right?” Comes Mel’s voice from the other side of your room when you check the window for the first time in the last half hour. She's painting her nails on the chair in your room while you peer through the blinds like he might appear out of thin air without you hearing the rumble of his old chevy. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” You do your best to defend yourself, stepping away and crossing your arms as you trudge to your bed.
“Don’t play dumb with me, I know you. You’re pacing your room wondering when you’ll see him. You know everyone can see the way you guys look at each other right? When are you guys going to like…kick it up a notch, get in his pants?”
You toss yourself on the fluffy sheets and close your eyes tight, letting your mind wander for a moment. “I don’t know…” what are you going to do, if you cant even see him long enough to get him alone? Tonight is the dance and you were hoping he’d be there, maybe he’d ask you for a dance. You’ve never told a boy in your hometown yes to a dance at this thing, but you’d change that for Joel. If he asked, you’d let him spin you around all night long.
Only problem is, he can’t do that if he’s still avoiding you like you're an illness he can’t afford to catch. “He’s so confusing. One second he acts like…he wants me, the next he’s hiding from me, probably—ugh, I just wish I could get him out of my head if he wants nothing to do with me!”
The room is silent, still for all of five glorious seconds before Mel breaks it. “Does he still run away to jerk off?” You snap your eyes over to her with a sharp glare. “Yes! And he drives me up the fucking wall, dude! All I want is to get my hands on that delicious man and he runs away every time. How am I ever supposed to accomplish anything if I can't even get him alone for five minutes. And every time I do, something happens and ruins it all.”
You can't seem to get a second with him no matter how hard you try. The last two days, he hasn’t been around aside from his work in the morning, a few meals he makes it to in between. If you’re being honest, it's painful to think about the way he’d smiled at you a few days ago and the way he doesn’t have the time of day now.
“If he shows up at that dance tonight, I’m making sure you get your second alone. Now come on, let me help you pick out your dress. He won't know what he’s missing out on.”
By the time you’re headed out the door for town, Joel is still nowhere in sight. You thought you’d heard his truck for a moment earlier, but when you’d peered out the window a few minutes later, there was no blue chevy in the driveway. No cowboy waiting out front for you.
You trudged to the car in your black dress, two slits up the sides where your thighs peak out and a back so low your half afraid your ass is going to fall out of the damn thing. You do your best to hold it up when you walk through the dirt, a pair of knee high red cowgirl boots are the only thing saving you from the mud right now.
Melly isn’t far behind, but she's not dressed in anything nearly as revealing as you. She’s making friends with Tommy who surprisingly hasn’t tried to flirt yet and claims to have no idea where his older brother has disappeared to. He’s endearing, but you know he’s playing for both sides here, hiding something for his brother.
On the drive into town, your parents take your dads truck, leaving you, Mel and Tommy in your car. When you get about half way, you finally break and ask if Tommy has seen Joel, if he knows if he’s coming. Tommy shrugs in the rearview mirror with a smile.
“I’m sure we’ll see ‘em.” Is the only answer you get.
It doesn’t happen for hours.
Hours of forcing a smile through mind numbing conversation with people you haven’t seen in years. The same old how have you been in the big city? and you tell them it was hard work and commitment. They ask no plans for the future? like you’re doomed without a ring on your hand at your age. You keep your head up through every comment, back handed compliment and pick up line that passes you by for a whole fucking hour on the dance floor alone.
“I think I want to go home soon. I’m having the worst fucking time, my feet are killing me and I think my eyelash is falling off.” Your whining and limping, faking distress and discomfort for any shot to get the fuck out of here, go home and maybe you can chance a run in with Joel.
Maybe he’s coming in from the north pasture where he’s probably been hiding all day. He’d be covered in muck and sweat, dirt clinging to the creases in his face. He’d be tired and worn out, vulnerable to the way you’d take advantage of his weakened restraint. “You sure you don’t want to stay a few minutes longer?” Melly muses beside you sipping on a tall glass of tequila on ice, watching the small town’s people converse and dance, laugh and gather together under the low string lighting.
You take a long drag of the drink in your own hand, your third of the night that's finally starting to warm your insides. It’s not enough to ease the ache of wishing Joel would appear. You know he won't, there's only a few hours left and people are starting to get tipsy. “I think you might want to rethink that…the devil himself just walked in, twelve o’clock.”
You look up at her, in a pretty green dress with curly hair framing her face. She’s smirking over your shoulder at something—or someone behind you. You turn the rest of the way around and swear you’re in the middle of one of those movie scenes.
The ones where the love interest walks in and sexy rock plays while they walk in slow motion. With wind blowing this hair back even though they are inside. Joel fucking Miller was doing exactly that at this very minute, striding through the hall in his cowboy hat and a black button down, dark wash jeans and his boots. He looks like a wet dream standing there, looking a little bit lost and so damn handsome. Under his hat, you can see that his hair is slicked back and he looks clean like he’d gone home and gotten ready.
He’s here.
“Oh he looks…if you don’t ask him to dance, I will. He’s hot.” You wish you could explain to her that Joel is more than that, that he’s funny and endearing, that he’s honorable and loyal to a fault. He’s so many more things than just hot. You swivel around as he makes his way through the crowd, he’s bound to find you and you don’t want him to spot you gawking at him. “Do I look okay? Fuck he looks so good—is my hair alright?” You try to do a quick pat down but Melly grabs your hand with a smile. “You look fine. He’s not going to know what hit him, I promise—but he’s coming this way so whatever you do, chill out.”
She sets her drink on the tall table, the ones that adorn the outside of the dance floor for people who want to mingle. You take a long drink of yours and move to set it down when someone clears their throat behind you. The drink hits the table and you turn slowly, till you rotate around to face him completely. He’s even more devastating up close with pearl snap buttons on his shirt, his arms nearly bulging out of the damn thing. His facial hair looks shorter, his eyes shimmering with reflected light.
“What’s a pretty thing like you doin’, standin’ here all by herself on her birthday?” He grins at you and takes another step forward. “Guess I’m just waiting for the right cowboy to ask me for a dance.” You tease back, reaching out for him once he’s close enough for you to touch. You start at his stomach, soft under his dress shirt. When your hands make contact, a visible shiver runs through Joel.
There’s suddenly two more hands to join the party, one high up on your waist while the other curves around low on your hip, his digits digging into the top of your ass. “I’ll be real’ honest with you here, doll—askin’ you for a dance is the only reason I came tonight.” He smells good for once, usually you catch a hint of his shower under the smell of dirt and manure, a faintness of his once clean skin. Now, it’s all you can focus on—how he’d taste like his soap, smooth and clean, every part of him reachable by your watering mouth. “Well, Cowboy…go on.” Your hands slip up his chest and over his broad shoulders, like you’ve imagined yourself doing a thousand times. He’s responsive, lowers his shoulders so you fit along him perfectly.
“Would ya make this old man's day, let me have a dance?” His hand drops lower, along the side of your thigh until he can dig them into the curve under your ass. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think he was trying to hoist you up, drag you into that vice-like grip you want to be at the mercy of every day of your life. “Can’t get me any closer, Joel.” You giggle, hiding your face against his neck. He smells like after shave and a little like whiskey. “I thought you were giving up drinking?” You nip at his jaw lightly, just to listen to the way he rumbles against you.
“I’m—tryin’ to keep my cool here, but you look fucking incredible tonight. Needed a little courage to walk up to you, s’all.” He leans back slightly, looking down at the way your dress squeezes your tits together, nearly pouring out of the black satin. “Fucking…gorgeous in this thing, you know that? You knew how sexy this little thing was, didn’t you?” He pulls at the slit that exposes your thighs, raking it up a little higher, until he can get a handful of bare skin. He’s not wrong—you’d put the dress on and thought about all the ways it would drive Joel crazy if he saw you in it.
“You better take me dancing before you take this off of me.” The dance around you has started to fade away. Melly took her cue to go and has started to make conversation elsewhere. “With pleasure, darlin’.”
Joel all but carries you to the middle of the dance floor before you notice his obvious nervous ticks, the shake of his hands and the way he’s fighting the urge to gnaw on his thumb. He’s anxious despite his obvious attempt at faking composure. When you wrap your arms around his shoulders again, he stammers. “Need to tell you somethin’.” His voice is a little shaky on the inhale when his hands find your waist again. “I went into town last week, there’s this dance studio on sixth street and I thought, maybe I could trade work for someone to…teach me how to use my damn feet.” For added flair, he reels away from you and spins you once before drawing you back into his chest as he moves. “So, I take it someone taught you?”
The song changes, something slow, romantic and sweet that couples join in around you, swaying together around the dance floor. “Lady said she’d been lookin’ for someone to replace the dance floor. Told her I just wanted to learn to dance, so I’d stand a chance against the other schmucks askin’ you.” He dances you around for a few more moments, pulling out all the stops—every new move he learned. Was that why he was gone so much, disappearing every time you turned around? He was replacing a damn floor and learning how to dance, all for you?
“Joel—“ you start, trying to grab ahold of him for long enough to make him still. “There's somethin’ else,” he dips you back and your insides flutter, looking up at him with those big brown hopeful eyes. He stands you up right again and the dancing slows to a stop, right there in the middle of the dance hall. You’re sure the towns eyes are on you, your mom and dad, friends from high school, older people you’ve been around your entire life. “She wouldn’t let me leave without payin’ me for it, said dancin’ lessons don’t cost that much after all.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a envelope, sealed tight with a number written on the front.
“Ranch needs it a whole hell of a lot more than I do. S’just two grand, but I’ve found a few other odd jobs, so there will be more comin’, but it’s a start—“ your hand clasps over his clutching the envelope. You push his hand down, stepping forward until you're nearly standing on his own feet. “Joel Miller…are you going to stand there all night running your mouth, or are you going to kiss me?” This endearing man, this big, expressive cowboy who can’t seem to get anything right in his own eyes, but everything right in yours.
He chuckles, the hand not holding the envelope finds the side of your face, sliding his thumb along the apple of your cheek. He’s not the one to make the first move after all—after all the leading him towards it, the teasing and the showmanship. It’s you that stands up high on your tiptoes and drags him the rest of the way in, until his mouth finds yours in the lull of the dance hall, surrounded by swaying bodies and sweet music.
He sucks in a breath through his nose and his mouth opens, slots your lips between his when he finally, fucking finally gives all the way in. It’s sweet, chaste while you stand there, smack dab in the middle of the floor. Joel stuffs the envelope back into his pocket and his other hand finds your body again, yanking until you're flushed against him, digging your hands into his shoulders when his tongue licks along the seam of your mouth, begging to be let into the slick heat. What was slow and steady, soon becomes frantic, hot and needy. Your fingers tug at the buttons of his shirt and someone shoots off a whistle from across the room, enough to have you reeling apart. Joel's mouth is red, his lips swollen and shiny from your spit.
“You want to get out of here?”
Yes. Fucking hell yes you wanted to, you’ve wanted to all damn night, but with Joel standing in front of you, a strained tent in his dark jeans, it’s all you can think about. Instead of a response, you grab him by his hand and all but drag him out the back doors towards the parking lot. It's quiet, dark—the dance isn’t even close to being over so there’s next to no one in the parking lot.
You never stood a chance, looking back on this moment right here. You never would have stood a chance, with Joel’s ragged breathing behind you when he closes the door tight behind him.
One look at his wild eyes and parted lips, you should have known how this night was going to end.
Joel was desperate. He needed you, needed to touch you every second of his day. He thought about you every second he spent awake and he dreamt of you all night long. When he’d heard about the dance, he wanted to kick himself for not learning sooner. Finding the dance studio was a fluke, learning to dance was a damn nightmare and the floor wasn’t much better, but he’d do it all again for another opportunity to press you up against the brick wall with your thighs pressed apart and his hips slotted between them while he all but devoured your mouth.
He’s ruthless, relentless as he drags your bottom lip between his teeth. You—you can't keep your sounds to yourself, hiking your legs up higher around his waist when he presses in closer. He can feel himself straining through his jeans, can feel the heat of your core against his painfully hard cock. He’d take you right fucking here if you let him. “Joel—Joel,” your hips roll down to meet his uncontrollable press forward. “I know—fuck, baby, I know.” His movements are hurried and frantic, like this might be the only shot he has to get his hands on you. His mouth finds your jaw and he bites down on your flesh, relishing in the salty taste of sweat from dancing, the tang of your perfume and the sweet taste of your skin. It’s your sharp whine that gets him in motion again, his stilled teeth still hanging on to your delicate jaw. “Touch me, please—please, touch me.”
In a scurry, he drops his hand between your bodies, pushing the fabric of your dress to the side so his fingertips can work under the elastic of your panties, past the soaked material to the place he’s always longed to touch, always wondered what it would feel like.
And you are fucking drenched under his exploring digits. He slips them through your lips, your slick already dripping down his knuckles when he finds your clit and presses the pad of his thumb to it, swirling it around in a swift motion. Your head falls back and your mouth hangs open, a silent scream on your parted lips.
“There it is, huh? S’what finally gets you quiet? Just needed me to touch your pussy, didn’t you?” He groans when your thighs tremble against him, trying to tighten up around his waist where he has you pinned to the cold wall. His thumb keeps its rhythm while his fingers dip lower, making him breathless at how easily your body draws those fingers in. You come apart like you were meant to do just that, your body rapidly chasing him towards the brink. If he hadn’t gotten himself off twice today, he’s sure he’d already have cum in his pants from just this. “Yes-Yes, Joel—make me cum, please!” Your voice is wrecked.
Your eyes rolled back in your head, your chest heaving in that pretty little dress—your tits are about to bust out of the damn thing. He picks up the pace, slams his fingers into your heat and curls them while his thumb makes quick work of your clit. It’s been so long since he touched a woman, but he’ll never forget the signs.
You are dangerously, furiously close in mere minutes alone. “That’s it, pretty girl—cum on these fingers, let me feel her squeeze me.” You cry out sharply and he nearly covers your mouth with his other hand, but he doesn’t move. Instead, he revels in the pulse of your pussy on his fingers, the way you grind down against him while your body grasps for release. It comes to you with a whole body shake, a ragged gasp of his name and his tongue on your jugular.
When he pulls his hand free, it’s with a wet sound that makes his gut tighten and his knees weak. He has to get you somewhere more secluded, away from the prying eyes of the town folks. “Wunna taste you,” he growls lowly, dragging you away from the building despite the way you stumble, the lightheadedness from cuming on his fingers.
His truck is parked in the back for lack of a better spot, due to his tardiness. He’ll thank his lucky stars for it later, if he can remind himself of it. Now, he slings the door open and nearly throws you down on the bench seat. “C’mere, girl.” He’s running out of will power and common sense, the only thing driving his mind right now is sheer want, carnal desire to get his mouth all over what he’s already ruined. He’s lucky for the part of his brain that slips off his hat and sets it on the dashboard. “Lemme see that fuckin’ pussy.”
His hands find the backs of your knees and he yanks you to the edge of the seat. At this angle, he can spread you out and kneel beside the truck, let you use the door jam to rest your foot on. When your eyes find him, he thinks you’re just as far gone as he is, blinded to the world unfolding around you, to rubber hitting asphalt nearby.
“I’m going to fucking ruin you, babygirl. Only word you’ll know is my name when I’m finished with you.” He pushes your dress up with your hurried help, both of you desperately trying to rid you of your clothes as quickly as possible. The second he has your panties dangling between his finger tips, he pushes his head between your spread legs and buries himself under your dress.
The thing about Joel is, he’s always been too good at this. Half the time, it's the only reason women stick around. It must have been the only reason he got his ex wife to marry him.
He’s abandoned his shame and better judgment. He’s starved, famished for a taste of you. This man, this unhinged version of Joel eats pussy like he’s going to die without it. From the very second his mouth finds your center, he’s lost to your immodest cries, your mindless begging for him to keep going, never stop, never stop, Joel—please. He opens his mouth wide, slops his tongue through your folds like he’s trying to lick every drop from your sensitive skin. He pulls away for a breath and his eyes bounce up to meet yours, transfixed on his relentless attack. “Wunna split this little pussy open on me,” he says, muffled against your soft mound. He takes another long lap and moans at the heady taste of you on his greedy tongue.
“I’ve been practicing—I got, oh, fuck Joel, like that,” your head tips back and he pulls his mouth away completely. “You got what, baby, use your words.”
Your body clenches on nothing and his eyes track the movement with a low rumble. “Got a toy that’s as big as you so I could practice. So I'd be able to take you.”
You’d thought about this, about him. You’d thought about him while fucking yourself on a toy you’d bought to train yourself.
He doesn’t have the words to express the way it makes his chest tighten, so he presses his face between your thighs again and gets back to work, drawing out every secret you can no longer hold onto, how good he makes you feel, how hot and devastating his tongue is—how the sound of a car pulling up doesn’t even register until—
“Jackson Police department, step away from the vehicle!”
You should have known.
#joel miller#joel miller fanfiction#pedro pascal#joel miller x reader#the last of us#joel the last of us#archive of our own#joel tlou#cowboy joel miller#dbf!joel#joel miller smut#joel miller fanfic#joel miller x female reader#joel miller x f!reader#joel miller story#joel miller angst#joel miller hurt/comfort#joel miller fluff#joel miller romance#joel miller pedro pascal#joel miller au#joel miller age gap#joel miller x you#joel miller moodboard
303 notes
·
View notes
Note
I worked out that timeline for the Haunted Mansion Au. I tried to include everyone but let me know if I missed anyone.
Trigger warning cause uuuhhh, there is obviously a lot of death and these could be considered graphic, especially with the teens.
1800s: If Creed! Reader is ther, they freeze to death first. Laura goes insane from grief and eventually passes due to a fever. Logan nearly drinks himself to death after his daughter and nibling are gone, but a snake beats him to it. Victor Creed goes insane after losing everyone and spends over half the family fortune on seances, fortune tellers, mystics, anything to try and bring back his family. Eventually, he dies of old age. Ororo, a family friend, inherits the house but is fatally struck by lightning only 7 months after. After that, the mansion is constantly switching owners.
1870s: Kurt and Rogue die at the Circus they both work at. Kurt's trapeze breaks mid show and he dies as soon as he hits the ground. Rogue's trickshot act goes horribly wrong and she bleeds out in less than an hour. There were some rumors of sabotage, but nothing was ever proven.
1900s: Tragic house fire takes the life of young Roberto, who was trying to save his family, not knowing they already got out.
1910s: Bobby Drake goes missing from home in the dead of winter, presumably running away after a fight with his family. His body is found after the lake thawed the following spring.
1930s: A heist goes wrong for the thief "Gambit", who is shot fatally by the police after being sold out by his cohorts. They never did find where he hid all his stolen money.
19540s: Charles Xavier returns home from war, paralyzed from the waist down but alive. When going to see his "good friend" Erik, a jewish refugee, he is mugged and dies from the injuries. Everything he owns is given to Erik.
1950s: The Summers family is in plane accident that takes the life of their oldest son, Scott. A year later, Scott's girlfriend Jean quietly in her sleep. Doctors report she had a brain aneurysm in her sleep.
1970s: The chandlier of the mansion falls and stabs the master of the house Erik, who inherited it from Charles. His two children inherit it from him. His son, Peter dies two years later in a car crash due to his speeding. His daughter, Wanda, dies 6 months after that from a laced drug during a protest.
1980s: Town Troublemaker Lance is crushed during an earthquake after it destabilized part of the school. Later reports say he could have still been alive for a few hours after he was buried by the rubble.
1990s: Local Scientist, Teacher, and former high school wrestling champ Dr. Hank "Beast" McCoy passes away during an failed chemistry experiment that shuts down the school for a month. Three weeks later, one of his students, Todd, dies after touching a poisonous frog previously owned by McCoy. Six years after, Up and coming actor Kevin "Morph" Sydney dies unexpectedly after a severe allergic reaction to special SFX make-up used when making a film about the Mysterious Creed-Howlett family. A year after that Evan Daniels is attacked by a porcupine that escaped from the local zoo and animal hospital. He was a descendent of one of the town founders, Ororo Munroe.
2003: A young girl by the name of Jubilation Lee passes away when her and her friends mess with illegal fireworks one night and one gets stuck on her coat. Two weeks later, her classmate Kitty Pryde is dared to spend the night in the supposedly haunted mansion by her friends. While exploring, the rotting wood in the attic couldn't support her weight, and she fell through down to the first floor.
XXXX: The mansion hires a new groundskeeper, who looks awfully familar...
That is perfect. Just- it's perfect.
This is now the official timeline of the Haunted Mansion AU.
(Wait until Reader see ls the old family portrait of young Creed Reader... or finds Kitty's body... or a snake...)
#honeycomb thoughts#platonic yandere marvel#yandere platonic marvel#platonic yandere xmen#yandere x-men#platonic yandere marvel x reader#platonic yandere xmen evolution#platonic yandere xmen evolution au#👻haunted mansion🔮 au
53 notes
·
View notes
Text
not proship related but proshippers need a break from discourse every once in awhile alright...

unknown (maybe) mammals of the day are sand cats!
The sand cat (Felis margarita) is a small wild cat that inhabits sandy and stony deserts far from water sources. With its sandy to light grey fur, it is well camouflaged in a desert environment. Its head-and-body length ranges from 39–52 cm (15–20 in) with a 23–31 cm (9.1–12.2 in) long tail. Its 5–7 cm (2.0–2.8 in) short ears are set low on the sides of the head, aiding detection of prey moving underground. The long hair covering the soles of its paws insulates its pads against the extreme temperatures found in deserts.
The first sand cat known to scientists was discovered in the Algerian Sahara and described in 1858. To date, it has been recorded in several disjunct locations in Western Sahara, Morocco, Algeria, Niger, Chad, Egypt, the Arabian Peninsula and the Middle East. In Central Asia, it was first recorded in the Karakum Desert in 1925. The large gap between these two regions of its global range was partially closed in 1948, when a sand cat skin was found in an oasis of the Rub' al Khali in Oman. It is discontinuously distributed in the deserts of the Arabian Peninsula and the Middle East. In the early 1970s, sand cats were caught in southwestern Pakistan and exported to zoos worldwide. Due to its wide distribution and large population, it is listed as Least Concern on the IUCN Red List.
The sand cat usually rests in underground dens during the day and hunts at night. It moves 5.4 km (3.4 mi) on average at night in search of small rodents and birds. It also kills and consumes venomous snakes. In spring, the female gives birth to two to three kittens, which become sexually mature around the age of one year. The sand cat's ecological requirements are still poorly understood, as only a few in-depth studies targeting wild sand cat populations have been conducted.



#proship#darkship#op is a proshipper#profic#anti anti#antis dni#proshipper safe#proshippers please interact#NOTE: I AM AWARE THAT THE RAINBOW GIF DIVDER ALL OF THE SUDDEN STOPPED WORKING.. I am too lazy to fix it..
44 notes
·
View notes
Text
Hey all, little life update! I’ve been super busy lately but it’s been a good thing! Irl has been picking up in a good way! I’ve been working at an exotic zoo/ rescue! And spring break has been busy with customers.
Next month I am graduating from college!! A lot has been happening! Crossing frogs in the rain too!
I love you all and plan to catch up with my moots and their amazing fics and content eventually!









#ravenwind shares#life update#my screen time has gone down 51% from last week lol#it’s amazing but gosh was I really on that much
24 notes
·
View notes
Note
Luis has a pet and it’s a big ass crocodile
@rebelwithoutaclock This has been sitting in the back of my head for a while and I love it 💯
As soon as the sermon ended and the villagers departed from the church, Luis immediately rushed back to his grandfather's cabin, ignoring his peers' calls to him about Bible study. He'd already made right with the Lord today—and that was enough. Or so he told himself, grinning as he swung the door to the residence wide open. He had more important things to tend to than some invisible man in the sky.
He gasped when the thought came and went, did a few Hail Marys, muttered an apology under his breath, and quickly made his way to the back porch.
There, Luis gathered a bundle of spoiled meat his grandfather had obtained from a neighbor—a deer carcass that had come down with some sickness. Nothing terrible, but the neighbor, being superstitious and paranoid, wanted nothing to do with it. It was going to be turned into chum anyway, so Luis figured getting rid of it wouldn't be a problem, especially since the new friend he'd made the other day seemed hungry.
Using a clothespin to clamp his nose shut, Luis marched through the woods with a sack of meat slung over his left shoulder and his grandfather's spare rifle in his right hand. He struggled through the thick underbrush; with it being early spring, vegetation and broken branches from winter cluttered the woodland floor. To pass the time—and to ignore the occasional lash of brambles—Luis thought about his recent meeting with Mendez regarding the library, about the possibility of expanding it to include more science books, especially on biology. He'd made a strong case to the other village leaders: that such knowledge could help them understand God's work better, that it might improve their ability to prepare medicines, and that it wouldn't lead them astray but rather allow them to experience a little bit of the 20th century, just a taste.
He had rehearsed that pitch for a whole week, and he smiled to himself at the thought. For someone with a mind that moved as fast as his, focus wasn't always easy. His peers and teachers reminded him of that often. Still, Luis knew he shouldn't get his hopes up—but what else was there to do besides try? Try to fight for others to be smart, even if they can't see it for themselves.
By the time he reached the other side of the lake, he was panting and red-faced. Squinting toward the dock, he could barely make out the scutes breaking the surface of the water. His smile returned, broad and proud, as he rushed to the shoreline, splashing the water with his foot and giving a sharp whistle.
“¡Oye, cocodrilo Cervantes! ¡Ven aquí! ¡Ven aquí!”
The enormous crocodile immediately reacted to the vibrations. It heard Luis and began to swim toward him—still maintaining a cautious distance. Despite its size and ability to kill with ease, it moved carefully as if aware of its own threat. Luis figured the creature's wariness came from being far from its natural environment. He'd learned that from a tattered reptile book he found in the library.
"You must be hungry! Hope you like deer!"
He began tossing chunks of meat into the water. The crocodile sprang into action, jaws snapping, devouring the offering like it hadn't eaten in weeks—which, judging by its thin frame, might've been the case.
As Luis fed it, he found himself wondering again: How had something so exotic ended up in the middle of nowhere in Spain? Maybe it was a pet. Perhaps it escaped a zoo. Maybe it was a fluke of fate. Whatever the case, Luis hadn't had this much fun in ages. It was like seeing a dinosaur in real life, just like in the few books the village had on them. It made him wonder what other creatures were out in the world—creatures he might never know existed.
His smile dimmed slightly. That thought always stung.
"I don't know your story," he murmured, "but it looks like we're both trapped here, buddy. At least for now."
He hated that he'd named the creature. Cervantes. It made things more complicated. His grandfather always said not to name the chickens, especially since they were food, but Luis had already grown attached.
He couldn't help it. This felt real. Not like the sermons. Not like the invisible forces preached about in the halls of the church. This had weight, teeth, hunger, beauty...
And danger.
He knew what the villagers would do if they ever found out. They always killed what they didn't understand—killed the thought, killed the idea. Maybe even people, once upon a time, before he was born. The possibility made Luis's stomach churn.
"Maybe one day I'll wander off and end up in a random lake like you, eh?"
Luis chuckled. The crocodile rolled lazily in the water, then swam closer. Luis instinctively stepped back a few paces. The creature opened its mouth wide. At first, Luis didn't understand—then he realized he had one last hunk of meat left.
"Since you're so polite…"
He tossed it. Cervantes snapped it up with a booming crunch and swallowed it whole.
"Whoa…"
Yeah. There was still no way in hell he was telling his grandfather—or the village chief—about the lake's new dragon. Not until he figured out how to help the poor thing.
If you like my work and feel generous, feel free to donate to my ko-fi account or my cash app account!
#drabbles#luis serra navarro#luis serra#resident evil 4#resident evil 4 luis#re4#re4 luis#resident evil fandom#young luis serra#luis has a pet crocodile named cervantes#thats the story and we're sticking to it
12 notes
·
View notes