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irisbleufic · 4 months

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REVIEW

Gatsby: An American Myth (Welch, Chavkin, Bartlett, Majok, & Tayeh; American Repertory Theater)

Something that most adaptations of Gatsby get wrong, whether film or stage, is the treatment of characters as archetypes rather than individuals. Symbolism drowns out most genuine attempts at capturing emotional connections and conflicts of personality. They forget that this story is not only a failure of the so-called American Dream; first and foremost, it’s a tragedy of failed roles and relationships. Almost every one of the players is attempting to be someone they are not, and even as they reach for what they believe they should want, they reveal with increasing fervor what they actually want. This is the heart of what makes Welch’s new adaptation so devastatingly, disarmingly unique, so true to its source.

The set design is literal wreckage. Crushed and warped automobile chassis scaffold the moving staircases, and concealed trap doors. The backdrop shows no clear incorporation of the infamous Eckleburg billboard; rather, it is made up of a dotted grid resembling headlights. These play out effects ranging from a downpour to camera flashes to, briefly and only once, a pair of eyes that make no effort to hide behind the owlish frames of glasses. The only thing infusing this jagged framework with meaning is the people who move through it.

The lighting design works with the set’s incongruences, deepening or excavating shadows as needed. The brightness, when it flares, is blinding. Jewel tones either enhance or diminish a costuming scheme that is composed of either very pale or very dark shades, no in between. And whether it’s the post-apocalyptic black and gray cabaret garb of the ensemble or the wealthy protagonists’ pale suits or the gunmetal and gray denizens of the wasteland, everyone’s trouser and skirt hems are conspicuously rimed with reddish dust. The visual effects are nearly impossible to describe without sounding like I had some kind of desperate fever dream.

So far, I realize that these descriptions of the set and lighting design sound like this production is about to fall into the trap of overplaying symbolism, but please bear with me. With all of that established, I can focus on what’s truly extraordinary here, what’s meant to and does shine unhindered. The acting, musicianship and vocals are all so precise that it was hard for me to believe this show is still in previews. It feels Broadway ready, West End ready, major international tours ready. If I was the production crew, I’d turn this loose on a massive scale from the get-go without a second thought.

Much like with Hadestown, the musicians are not down in an orchestra pit. They’re characters in their own right, present on the stage from start to finish on tiered risers that run up from the center on each side from one of the catwalks. I’m sure Chavkin’s involvement as director has everything to do with why this show feels so much like, moves so much like Hadestown. The company is on an equally small scale, about 23 - 25 people including the principals.

Costuming among the ensemble is delightfully gender agnostic. I mention a cabaret aesthetic earlier in this review, and I’m not kidding. If you had shown me the ensemble costume designs without showing me the principals’ designs, I would have assumed I was looking at a Cabaret revival. They’re the most talented dancers I’ve seen occupy one stage in more than a decade. The choreography relies on movements in eerie unison for a significant portion of the show, but not without allowance for individual flair within those constraints. The guy sitting next to me, when I spoke to him at the intermission, said he works as a choreographer in regional theater, and he’d never seen anything like this. I couldn’t agree more; the dancing is singular, and as impressive as the musicianship is, the dancing and unusual body movement are maybe the greatest achievements of this show on the living, breathing end of things. I could have watched the dancers for those three hours without any dialogue or vocal intervention and still understood the story. That takes so much fucking doing.

As for the principal cast, they’re constantly among the ensemble; when I say these are all triple threats in the purest sense of that terminology, I really mean it. You always expect a few of the principals to be less dance and movement focused, more polished on the acting and singing side, but this show gives you terrifying proficiency from every angle. Even the guy playing Meyer Wolfsheim is at the center of what I think is the most memorable dance number in the piece. I’ve just never seen such versatile principals all in one production. What’s even more extraordinary is that I had never heard of or previously seen any of them, and that takes some doing given how much live theater I’ve consumed in several decades of life.

Ironically, the musical composition is the one aspect of this production on which I’ll be spending the least time. I need not tell you why Welch and Bartlett were perfect for this job. They understood the assignment, and then some. There’s not a single weak number among the track listings, and I desperately hope they release a recording soon. The standout numbers all have something in common: they showcase Soleia Pfeiffer as Myrtle Wilson. You can tell that’s the role where Welch sank most of the sound that’s considered her signature style. I don’t even need to describe it; you already know what I’m talking about. What’s impressive otherwise is the restraint, the lack of over-reliance on that signature style.

The principals are fucking perfect. I’ve kept this review tautly professional without meaning to thus far, but from here on out is where I start bleeding feels all over the post. If you don’t already know who my blorbos are due to my writing history with a Gatsby-related novel (The Pursued and the Pursuing, 2021), you’re going to know by the time you’re done reading this. You’re going to know exactly who I love and why, who I hate and why, who I ship and why. But you’ll also know that I approach all three of those elements from a place of enjoying every moment of those characters, even the ones I hate. Nobody’s performance put me off or struck the wrong tone when taken in context of the novel and how the tragedy of how their relationships play out.

For a long time, I’ve been saying that there are certain support roles, certain sidekicks, that make or break the higher-profile person to whose side they’re stuck, ride or die, until the bitter end. Horatio is a great example that I’ve ranted about before; if your Hamlet production has a lackluster Horatio, then it doesn’t matter how good the Hamlet is. You have nothing if you don’t have the binary star system at the heart of that harrowing universe. I’ve seen other adaptations of Gatsby consistently fall apart because Nick Carraway is treated like the kind of voyeur who doesn’t matter, the kind of voyeur who serves as the audience’s eyes and ears, and nothing else. Anyway, this is all to say: Ben Levi Ross as Nick might be the most compelling argument I can make for the fact that the creative team behind this show understood the assignment. He’s awkward, warm, sincere, and reactive in all of the ways you need Nick to be. He’s not a passive observer; he’s in the middle of everything, and he knows it. There’s a self-deprecating response he makes when one character, Jordan if I’m not mistaken, quips that maybe he’s the reason for Gatsby’s parties for all he knows. “Maybe I am,” he says, and the tongue-in-cheekness belies a gutting meta-sincerity. We believe Daisy is the point, Gatsby believes Daisy is the point, but what’s borne out every breathtaking moment of this production is that Nick is the point. He always was. He’s also given his due as a gay man in context of the story for the first time ever. I might make some folks mad when I say Nick has always been gay; I’m going to point you to Myrtle’s apartment party and the hookup with Mr. McKee as textual evidence in the novel. The kiss with McKee, the hookup with McKee, is unapologetically here. His lack of belonging everywhere else he’s ever been, because he is gay, is unapologetically here. One of the most memorable numbers in the show hinges on the hope feels at being able to be himself in New York. Queer fans of Gatsby have been waiting a long time for this. Anyone who’s read the text closely and understood him has been waiting a long time for this. I’ve been waiting several decades as a reader, and I would’ve waited forever to have Nick so fully, lovingly realized.

One of the other things that Gatsby adaptations have persistently gotten wrong is the titular character himself. The invention of Jay Gatsby hides the underlying James Gatz, makes it feel as if that old self is truly subsumed, as if it never mattered. But Isaac Powell gives us a Jay who’s exactly as he should be, who can’t hide beneath his own attempt at artifice and reinvention worth a goddamn. He’s young (as young as Nick; they’re 32 and 30 respectively both in the novel and here), painfully earnest, and just barely keeping a handle on the criminal shit he’s had to do in order to get where he is. When he says old sport to Nick, it’s not an affectation; when he says it to Tom, it becomes a biting insult. This is a Jay who knows where and why he’s vulnerable; he latches onto Nick like a not because he sees a man close to Daisy that he can exploit, but because he sees another young man who’s equally vulnerable, equally an outsider, equally haunted by the things they had to do in the war. From the moment they meet, they are almost always touching—a hand on the shoulder, on the back, getting in social harm’s way for each other, eyes seeking each other without cease in the most crowded of settings. When Jay takes Nick to lunch to meet Wolfsheim (who has in this production taken on the function of Dan Cody as well), it’s not to have somebody else vouch for the artifice of who Jay Gatsby is. It’s taking Nick to meet his fucking father-figure, and all of the messy, sincere “if you hurt my boy, I’ll kill you” sentiment that Wolfsheim aims at Nick was the moment I knew just how much the Nick’s loss by the end was going to hurt. Jay’s love for Daisy is a ghost of itself, even if as painfully earnest as everything else about him. Meanwhile, his attachment to Nick is so disarmingly genuine from the start that you understand the true tragedy you’re about to watch untold: these men who need each other, maybe even were made for each other, each prove unable to step outside their parallel distractions from what they truly are to each other. Jay’s interactions with Daisy and Nick’s interactions with several male and/or gender ambiguous members of the ensemble have something in common, which is a shocking level of physicality. This show had an intimacy coordinator; that’s the level of no holds barred we’re talking about. When you look at Tom and Myrtle, you can see why that was merited, too.

Speaking of Tom (Cory Jeacoma), the treatment of him here is every bit as scary as it should be. There’s no attempt to make him palatable, unlike what I’ve seen done with him in other adaptations. He towers over everyone else in the cast, I mean everyone, to a physical degree that’s uncomfortable. The way his wife, lover, and friends all flinch when he gets too close to them speaks volumes to the fact that he’s an abuser in every sense of the term. Even Nick, the prodigal college friend from Yale, is on eggshells around him (which, by the hotel blowup at the end of the show, becomes a sneering, reckless contempt, one of the driving forces that drives Nick to put himself between Jay and Tom whenever real harm is on the table). At the same time, this is a Tom who sincerely loves his wife and was only ever using Myrtle as a fling. You can tell he never meant any of the promises he made Myrtle. When Daisy tells him she didn’t stop the car on purpose, it’s as if his wife’s unapologetic act of manslaughter (“It was her or me!”) is the thing that wins him back. They aren’t careless people; they are people who consciously choose, day in and day out, to use others until they’re bored or done with them. The ruthlessness of Tom and Daisy as a couple is impressive, played up to a level that I feel more adaptations should do without fear of exaggerating the text.

As mentioned above, Daisy (Charlotte MacInnes) is no delicate, nervous creature who can’t help her actions under duress. She knows what she’s doing every bit as much as Tom knows what he’s doing. They use people, hurt people because they get bored and restless and enjoy it. I respect a Daisy who’s in control of her actions every step of the way even if I don’t like her; it’s better than trying to depict her as weak and at the mercy of the men around her. She’s a pragmatist and a survivor. So many of her songs are about choices and being conscious of those choices. She is a person you should fear every bit as much as you fear her husband, and even Jordan knows she’s not safe in Daisy’s orbit.

As Jordan, Eleri Ward is one of the neatest personalities on stage. Like Tom, she’s noticeably taller than most, which gives her a commanding physical presence. She has no romantic interest in anyone; I fucking love that this production show her and Nick bonding on the basis of being queer and tired of everyone else’s shit. This is a more likable, relatable Jordan than I’ve seen in the past. This is a Jordan whose relationship to Gatsby is much more familiar and warm, much more akin to the friendship she forms with Nick. In fact, the queer-and-tired vibes that roll off several of the principals in this production are palpable.

Myrtle and Wilson (Matthew Amira) aren’t always played as effective foils for Daisy and Tom, but here? They unquestionably are. They do actually love each other in spite of the things they’ve done to hurt each other, and it’s a constant dance of daring each other, challenging each other. The most memorable duet in the entire show is between them, during Act II. The confrontation is positively electric. These are two people with deep, complicated history. Of all the couples in the show, they feel the most real, the most alive. It makes the loss of Myrtle so much more wrenching; she’s not just a plot device emblematic of the bad choices they’ve all been making. She’s not shallow or frivolous or anything like that. She’s a shrewd woman with complex motivations, and for the first time ever I find myself loving her and caring what happens to her. She’s thrust even further into the action in that one of her part time gigs is working as a maid at Gatsby’s parties, a conceit that works shockingly well and hastens the devastating consequences of her affair with Tom.

I’ve made mention of Meyer Wolfsheim’s (Adam Grupper) uniquely enhanced role previously, so I’d be remiss if I didn’t comment on him again. This is a man who does, in fact, seem to give a shit about Jay above and beyond using him as a tool in his criminal empire. It’s not necessarily a healthy father-son dynamic, but Wolfsheim is usually played as ruthless, opportunistic, inhumanly calculating. Here, he’s a charming, but unquestionably dangerous man moved by a young soldier’s plight. He seems conflicted between his love for Jay and his need to have Jay continue to hold the party line within their business relationship. Wolfsheim is deeply conflicted about Jay in a way that I haven’t seen any Wolfsheim be played previously. And, as I mentioned earlier, the actor has a showstopper of a song and dance number. That may be the #1 “I wasn’t expecting that, but I’ll take it!” moment for me in this show. And I say “may be” only because the moment that truly stopped my heart, will stay with me until everything else fades from memory, is perhaps only understandable in the context of my engagement with the text of Gatsby as a writer of transformative works.

Daisy’s and Tom’s daughter, Pam Buchanan doesn’t always appear in adaptations because she’s a toddler. Even in the novel, she a throwaway mention plus a single scene near the end where the nanny brings her out to meet Jay and Nick. She’s most often left as a throwaway mention without even grave of the scene where she appears. The scene in the novel, however brief, is memorable—and has been captured in all its fragile beauty for the first time in this adaptation. Jay and Nick both pay bewildered, wondering attention to this kid when she’s brought out. Jay drops to his knees and takes her hand when she greets him while Nick looks on in a moment of singular focus on both of them. The child who plays Pam here has a spark, an expressiveness that made me choke up even though she’s only on stage for a few minutes, if that. The tableau is one in which you can feel the shock of reality, however brief, touch on these men—Daisy’s and Tom’s reckless actions may yet do harm to someone who’s barely even begun to live her life, but who is just conscious enough to be a participant in it. They recognize that they, like this child, are probably in for a word of ruin—and that they have let it go on for so long that there’s now nothing they can do about it. For me, the deepest tragedy was watching Nick and Jay throw off that moment of heartbroken, horrified recognition prompted by Pam and return to the parts they’d decided to play out until the moment one of their hearts stopped.

Speaking of grief, of Nick’s grief since he’s the one who loses so much: there is only one person who loses more, and that’s Mr. Gatz, Jay’s father. They preserve his arrival at the house when Nick is the only person who stays around to carry out Jay’s funeral and burial. And when he arrives, the visceral shock of seeing his dark skin, braids, and beaded elements of Native regalia in juxtaposition with his otherwise period-typical Western garb underscore the tragedy of what young Jay was running away from, of what he never quite succeeded in erasing from himself. The burial scene shows Nick reverently bringing several of Jay’s folded shirts from the house and handing them down into the grave to Mr. Gatz, who places them reverently as possessions to accompany his son into thereafter. The cultural ramifications are all at once understated and devastating. Nick has moments with each of Jay’s father figures that are among the most complex and moving in the show. The program does not make clear the name of the ensemble member who takes on this most memorable of all Mr. Gatz appearances, and this erasure in and of itself is both unfortunate and telling. This is a world that never belonged to the majority of those who inhabit it, and Nick realizes it with heartbroken clarity after having this final interaction. Even though he’s an outsider, he’s part of a world that has erased and betrayed the man he loved so much at every turn.

The closing number, “We Beat On,” felt like it needed something more, but it utilized the final line of the novel to a deeply moving effect. The lights go down suddenly as the last word is sung; it feels like the song is half finished. When the lights came up, Nick and Jay were center stage in each other’s embrace, just withdrawing from each other as the entire company transitioned into final bows. That’s how I’ll remember them, always: touching even when they’ve already lost each other, borne ceaselessly back into each other’s arms. If Nick is Orpheus, then I have no doubt that he, too, will tell this story again and again until someday, somewhere, something gives.

#the great gatsby #gatsby musical #florence welch #gatsby #natsby

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chaiisms · 2 months

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BALDURS GATE 3 PARTY BANTER PROMPTS LIST.

all of the following prompts are taken from party banter between the companions in larian studios' baldurs gate 3 (2023). there should be no spoilers! also, a disproportionate amount of these are from astarion and karlach. i'm not sorry.

I am enjoying our walks together, aren't you, [ name ]?

You'll be as depraved as the rest of us in no time.

Friend of yours?

Were you always so sneaky?

If there's hope for me there's hope for anyone.

How are we not there yet? My feet are killing me.

This is what I get for trying to strike up conversation.

We're not going to have trouble, are we?

If we continue this way, we may get too close for comfort.

Don't get too comfortable. We shouldn't overstay our welcome in such a place.

Do you have pet names for each other yet?

[ name ]! Was that a joke?

You know what - that is not the easiest of questions for me to answer.

Given your own nature, are you really the one to judge?

You can read?!

I'm surprised - I expected you to turn your back once you got what you wanted.

I wouldn't know a flirtation if you whacked me alongside the head with it.

Why stay somewhere safe and comfortable when we could be in mortal peril?

Can't say I love what they've done with the place.

I'm learning to enjoy the taste of chaos. Count me in.

At least you didn't tell me to 'be myself'.

You have so much to learn. Repeat after me: honey muffin, sweetie pie, sugarplum.

Nice to be in a crowd of normal people for once.

So [ name ], how is your sad, hopeless pining going?

You seemed a million miles away just then.

I fear I've been rather hasty to judge you, [ name ].

Ready to enter the belly of the beast?

Step one of starting a conversation: think before you speak.

I hear your relationship has taken on a new aspect recently…

All right, just keep it down. We're conspicuous enough without your hyena call.

Not one for roughing it, I see.

Why not have a little fun?

You're right, of course. Forgive me.

My money's on you, [ name ].

The echoes - listen! They're coming from three directions!

Want me to carry you?

Feeling at home?

Treat them right, or you'll have me to answer to.

Oh, darling, would you?

No doubt they found me too intimidating.

A girl could get used to this.

Now I don't know what to believe.

Well - yes, it was a joke.

I know that, too. It just wasn't funny.

And here I thought I rubbed you the wrong way.

Man, it's good to be home. First round on who?

Oh, I wouldn't actually leave. After all, where would you be without me?

You've quite the knack for finding the bright side of things, haven't you?

Well what would impress you, then?

Let's just stop this conversation right here, shall we?

Must've been an awful day for the people who lived here

You've clearly thought this through a great deal. I'm impressed and appalled in equal measure.

Sure, but think of the stories you'll be able to tell.

I never was scared of the shadows.

I know you're not really as heartless as all that.

I judged you wrongly. I'm sorry.

Are you charging for this sage advice, or is sticking your nose into my business just a hobby?

Pragmatism, thy name is [ name ].

That's ironic, coming from you.

We're either very clever or very lucky.

You do not need luck to survive, [ name ]. Not when you have me.

That will make getting word to my mother rather tricky.

Stop gawking at the decor. This place is dangerous.

I can't tell if you're joking.

So, what's it like caring for someone other than yourself, [ name ]?

You think I'm beautiful?

I feel it too. Here if you need a pick-me-up.

Yet another thing we have in common. We're two peas in a pod.

Is it so unbelievable that they would simply like me?

Use your words.

You gonna catch me if I eat a brick?

[ name ], I've heard you talking in your sleep.

Let's never speak of this again.

You can take a day off once in a while, [ name ]

Hey! Something bit me.

Cheer up. It might be all downhill from here.

I love a nice secret hideaway, don't you?

Think the bar is open?

#roleplay meme #roleplay prompts #rp meme #rp memes #rp prompt #rp prompts #chaiisms #revisms #baldurs gate 3 rp #bg3 rp

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astroboots · 1 year

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CICI!!! I am obsessed with Miguel's chompers! his teeth!! I just want him to bite me!!!

Oh nonny I knoooooow. They are so pretty! They do something to me. So funnily enough I have this tiny little drabble in my WIPs for the longest time that I didn't quite know what to do with so I thought I'd throw this out here.

Pairing: Miguel O'Hara x reader

Word Count: 750

Astroboot’s Masterlist | Spiderverse Masterlist

"Can I touch them?" you ask.

He raises one thick and perfectly arched eyebrow at you, with not a little judgment in his expression, as if he is looking at a fucking crazy person.

Which, he's probably not entirely wrong about, but it's rude nevertheless.

"You want to touch them?" He repeats, slowly with a deep sardonic drawl. The way you would speak to a not so bright child.

Heat prickles your cheeks. Miguel has this uncanny ability to get under your skin. He should add it to his list of superpowers.

"If it's a no, just say it's a no! There's no need to be an ass about it."

His lips pulls into a smirk, and for a fraction of a moment, you see a glimpse of the sharp edge of his corner tooth before he tucks them behind his lips, out of sight again.

Miguel gestures you forward, spreading his legs from where he's sitting on your couch. The motion has your brain stalling. You can't help but stare, he's wearing oversized sweats and you can still somehow see the definition of his legs shift against the fabric as he moves.

Shit, he definitely caught you in the act. His smile pulls even wider as he pats his hand down on the meat of his thigh. "C'mere nena."

What does he think you are? A dog?

For all your indignance at the gesture, you still go to him, and when you're within reach, his hand comes up to pull and tug you into his lap until you're comfortably perched there.

"You wanna touch, huh?" he teases, amusement dripping from the words as he smiles up at you and bounces you up on his knee.

God, of course he's going to make a big fucking deal of this. You don't know what possessed you to ask in the first place. You can really only answer with the truth:

"I'm just a little bit curious."

It's the understatement of the century. You are more than a little bit curious. You're absolutely fucking fascinated by them. Feel a trill of excitement everytime you catch a small glimpse of them when he's caught by surprise and smiles uninhibitedly at you.

Will stall out any moment during any dinner when he chews on his food and they peek out from his mouth.

Throughout the years, Miguel's gotten very good at hiding them. Conspicuously tucking them behind his lip that most people will never be the wiser. It's why he often mumbles why he speaks because doing both at the same time can be difficult. It's a part of himself that he never show, to the point that even though you've been together for a while now, it's only fairly recently that you've gotten to see them properly.

In front of you, Miguel leans back against the couch.

"Go ahead." He tilts his head up, baring his throat to you as he parts his mouth, and then you see them.

Those two prominent canine teeth of his. Fang-like pointy teeth on either side of the incisors.

Your ears burn. He never shows them to you this brazenly.

Raising your hand closer to his face, you can't help the way they are actually shaking with excitement. Your thumb grazes at the point of his left tooth, and you can feel the sharpness tingle against your pad.

God, you could cut yourself on these.

"You done? Ish a bit uncomfortable."

You hum distractedly, not fully taking in his words, entirely fascinated as you press your thumb with a bit more pressure again the edge.

"Careful, nena," he warns.

Stilling at his words, you pull your thumb from his mouth as you inspect it. It hasn't broken any skin yet.

"Why? Does poison always come out when you bite?"

There's that look on his face, like you just asked him the dumbest question on earth, then he laughs. "No. It'd be difficult to eat if that was the case. Most of the times it's dry bites. I used to bite myself on the lip all the time when I first got them."

"So what would happen if you bit me?"

He blinks up at your question. Smile fading as he considers your question as his eyes roams over your form slowly appraising you from head to toe. Something switches in him, no longer playful a tangible change that you see in the shade of his darkening eyes that shines crimson.

His arm snake around your waist, tightening his hold on you. "Do you want me to bite you, nena? Is that what you're asking?"

You swallow thickly at his words. Staring up at his saphire eyes that seems to glint with glee as he asks you the question.

Your back prickles with excitement just at the thought of it and for that moment you forget all about your hesitation or any shred of pride as you nod back at him.

"Yes," you answer. "Please."

A/N: This is nena from Every You Ever Me universe, do with that piece of information as you will.

#miguel o'hara x you #miguel o'hara #miguel o'hara x reader #across the spiderverse #spiderverse #spiderman #spider man 2099 #marvel #oscar isaac #miguel o'hara fanfiction #miguel o'hara fanfic #spider man: across the spider verse

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dateamonster · 9 months

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youre doomscrolling through twitter to try and distract yourself from your empty stomach and empty wallet when you come across some inspiration porn about a delivery driver who collapsed on a customers front porch. the homeowner turned out to be an emt and after seeing her fall with the help of his doorbell-mounted security camera he was able to perform the necessary first aid and rush her to the hospital, and even started a fund to pay for her medical bills after the footage went viral. in the end she not only raised enough money to pay her bills but enough to quit her delivery job for good.

broke and desperate, a dangerous idea begins to take root in your brain. you are not currently a delivery driver, but youve dabbled, and you do have some experience taking bad falls, as well as punches, kicks, and the occasional elbow to the sternum. you have tried worse things for less money.

you order a pizza and cram yourself into a passable looking red polo tee and khakis. googling "rich doctors near me" doesnt exactly yield the results you were looking for, but it gives you enough of a jumping off point, and in only a few clicks you have an address. the multiple conspicuous security cameras mounted around the property look promising. never mind that the couple that lives here (two doctors! how lucky can you get.) didnt actually order the pizza; you can cross that bridge when you come to it. you approach the front steps, making sure to be well in view of at least one of the cameras at all times, stagger, and then take a dive, smashing face-first into one of those decorative fake rocks uppermiddleclassers love for some reason. you try to embody an air of pitiability as you go down.

you lie there a moment, face down in a strangers rock garden, tasting your own blood as it drips lazily from your nose. after some thirty seconds have passed it occurs to you that you maybe should have done something to check that the couple are actually home first. still you dont get up just yet, and a moment later you are rewarded.

you hear multiple sets of footsteps shuffle onto the porch, stopping short as their owners catch sight of your limp body. you plan to feign unconsciousness at least until they turn you over, so they can see your face, see the very real blood and bruising. you wouldnt want them to think you were faking or anything. after what feels like far too long a pause, a soft, feminine voice says,

"theyre still breathing."

"lucky," says the man, his voice something breathless and thick with gravel.

"i'll take the legs, you take the arms."

and then you are being lifted, carried with no small effort up the steps and into the house. they must be bringing you somewhere more comfortable to treat your injuries. you crack open one eye but all you manage to see from your unfortunate position is a few glimpses of the immaculately clean hardwood, the carpet, the marble tile. your prone body swings like a hammock between them, and soon all their jostling and this blurry upside-down view combined with the iron taste lingering on your tongue starts to make you feel vaguely sick until you have to shut your eyes again.

at last you are deposited on a cold, hard surface, the chill of it seeping through your bloody polo and up your spine. youre no longer lying limp and motionless because youre still hoping to pull off this grift; any half-baked hopes have been chased out by a creeping sense of dread, and you know somewhere in your gut that the moment you open your eyes you will have to face that dread and name it.

a mechanical murmur followed by a harsh clank and the sensation of icy metal closing around your wrists and ankles wrenches the privilege of hesitation from you. you gasp and your eyes fly open. the starburst of harsh white light that greets them reminds you distantly of a childhood trip to the dentist.

"good morning, sunshine," that syrupy voice from earlier chirps at you. squinting through the brightness, you make out two figures of similar stature dressed in vomit green medical scrubs that appear to have been hastily pulled over their ordinary clothes. the man is washing his hands in a small sink somewhere off past your feet. the woman is securing a paper mask, though even with her mouth covered, you can still see the smile pushing up her high sculpted cheekbones to the point where she seems barely able to keep her eyes open.

her skin is like a smooth putty, not a wrinkle or pore or freckle in sight, as if there were a layer of pink latex pulled taut over her real face.

"you came just in time," the man, her husband, calls over his shoulder as he shakes his hands dry and reaches for a box of gloves. "we didnt know where we were going to find another subject, and then, out of nowhere, there you were." he turns and steps into the light, and the face that stares down at you is a lidless mass of pulsing purple-red veins, hairless, damp with sweat already (you hope its sweat). a narrow arrow nose with nostrils too thin to take in breath sits above a rosy sphincter of a mouth, before that too is covered by a mask.

if you manage to scream, you cant hear it over the relentless whine of whatever machine sits just outside of your periphery, just out of reach no matter how you twist and strain at the manacles holding you in place, and the ringing in your own ears.

"youre just what the doctor ordered."

#writing #horror #body horror #medical horror

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mousy-nona · 7 months

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Head-cannon for thought?

Lucifer has duck wings so they molt every spring and end of summer. Luci dealing with molting… with Alastor??

Excerpts from “Duck Care for Dummies: Hell Edition”:

Molting can be painful for your aquatic friends! Their skin can get very sensitive during this time, and some ducks may even pick on their fellow birds. Please be patient with them throughout the molting process.

Alastor looked up from the book with a grin that sent Angel Dust scurrying for cover.

“Very interesting,” he murmured, his eyes gleaming fever-bright.

The mystery started a few weeks ago. The denizens of the hotel had woken up one morning to find some mysterious prankster had scattered feathers everywhere – between the couch cushions, on the stairs, even stuffed between the kitchen cabinets and in between the radio speakers (that one felt a bit personal).

So began a strange battle, with the hotel on one side and what appeared to be the ghost of Mother Goose on the other. Every afternoon, they’d finish cleaning up the remnants of last night’s avian snowstorm, and every morning they’d wake up to find a new layer of radiant white down covering every possible – and impossible – surface.

Husk finally lost it when he found a stray piece of fluff floating in his rum. “Alright, ‘fess up! Who the hell is shaking their tail feathers around this damn place, huh?”

He glared daggers at Vaggie, whose very conspicuous wings flared wide as everyone turned to stare at her. She marched forward until she and Husk were nose to nose.

“What the hell are you implying, huh?”

“I think you know exactly what I’m implying, you overgrown chicken!”

It was mayhem. Charlie rushed to Vaggie’s defense, Angel Dust pulled out a bin of popcorn, Niffty started chanting kill kill kill kill at the top of her tiny lungs. But Alastor, who made a habit of haunting the shadows, spotted something no one else did: one of Lucifer’s hands twitching towards his back. Where his own wings would be, when he wasn’t hiding them.

“Interesting,” Alastor grinned, then disappeared to the library, where he found this book after a few hours of intense searching. Someone had moved it from the shelves and shoved it under a massive pile of papers – almost as if they didn’t want anyone to find it.

Unfortunately for Lucifer, Alastor was nothing if not thorough. Humming a swinging, jaunty tune, flipped to the last chapter.

So your duck is molting…what should you do about it?

Unlike their earthly counterparts, ducks in hell may go through a much longer molt without help. A good avian caretaker can speed up the process by helping brush out the feathers. A light touch is essential – using a soft brush or bare fingers is the best way to dislodge the plumage without hurting the sensitive skin underneath.

“Very interesting.”

He waited until nightfall to make his move. When the hotel had finally quieted down, and the only thing he could hear were the roaches in the walls, he willed himself to appear by Lucifer’s door and knocked, just once.

Lucifer cracked open the door, his eyes bloodshot and bleary. He looked as if he hadn’t slept properly in days. “Charlie, is that – oh. It’s you.” He sighed, visibly deflating when he saw who it was. Alastor’s smile widened.

Oh, he was going to enjoy every moment of this. Especially the parts where Lucifer would protest, and stutter, and turn as red as one of his beloved apples.

“I was doing a little light reading today, and stumbled upon a rather interesting passage.”

Lucifer scoffed and tried to slam the door in his face, but Alastor managed to slip his foot in the crack before he could.

“Alastor, it’s really way too late for this – “

Alastor held up the book in question, and Lucifer shut up immediately. A pink blush spread across his pale face. Alastor could have purred with satisfaction at the sight of it. Oh, how he enjoyed making Lucifer uncomfortable. It was quickly becoming one of his favorite pastimes.

“Would you like me to share a few verses with you? I must say, this portion about just how sensitive the skin grows during a molt is especially fascinating –”

“Shut up!” Lucifer stuck his head out into the hallway and hurriedly glanced around, checking to make sure if anyone had overheard him. Then he grabbed Alastor by the lapels and yanked him inside.

“Your Majesty, how very forward of you.”

Lucifer pinched his nose between two fingers and took a long breath in. Out. “So you figured it out, huh?”

“That you’ve been spreading your body parts all over the hotel?” Alastor chuckled merrily. “Quite. I found it especially interesting how fond your feathers were of my radios.”

Lucifer had the grace to look a little sheepish. “Okay, that was childish, I admit it. But you’re not exactly the easiest person to live with.”

“That’s entirely by design, I assure you.” Alastor stepped forward, his smile turning coy. “But this little midnight rendez-vous isn’t about me. It’s about you, and your rather, ah, feathery problem.”

Lucifer pouted, looking almost uncannily like one of his beloved toy ducks. “I’ve never gone through a molt alone, alright? Lilith is usually here to help me out, and…it’s a rather intimate thing to ask of Charlie.”

“That’s why I’m here!” Alastor grinned. “Alastor the Radio Demon, at your humble service.” He swept into a grand bow, ending it with a little flourish of his cane because he was a showman, first and foremost.

Lucifer blanched. “If you think I’m ever letting you within an inch of my wings–”

“And what’s the alternative, your Majesty? You’re going to fill the hotel with feathers until we all suffocate or drown? You’ll wait until Husk kills Vaggie?” He covered his mouth, feigning shock. “I didn’t realize you were so cruel! You would really stand by and do nothing as your daughter becomes a widow?”

Lucifer scoffed, but Alastor could tell that he’d hit a nerve. He paused and ran a frustrated hand through his golden hair.

There was a long moment of silence. Then finally – “I do need help.” The words were so quiet, spoken so quickly it could have been a passing breeze.

Alastor stepped forward and wrapped one arm around Lucifer’s thin shoulders. Lucifer was burning up, his back so hot Alastor could feel it through his gloves. “The night’s not getting any younger.” He leaned in so his lips brushed the shell of Lucifer’s ear, delighting in his shudder, in the bob of his throat as Lucifer gulped. A thin line of sweat trickled down his temple. Alastor’s mouth watered, but he forced himself to sit still and wait. “I suggest we start immediately.”

“Fine,” Lucifer sighed. Slowly, begrudgingly, he stripped off his coat and shirt, then willed his wings into existence. All six of them sprang out in a veritable shower of feathers. Alastor was covered in the stuff – feathers were in his hair, on his suit, stuck on his pants. A few of them even landed in his mouth, to his great displeasure.

He spat them out and glared daggers at the angel, who looked like he might burst out laughing. “Sorry,” Lucifer said, not sounding even the slightest bit apologetic about the mess.

Alastor determinedly shook off the plumes that he could find. Then he stepped forward, stripping off his gloves as he loomed over Lucifer’s wings. His smile grew as Lucifer shrunk back, staring nervously at the sharp points of his claws as they drew closer and closer to his tender skin.

“Can’t you keep those things on?” He squeaked.

“No can do!” Alastor said, almost sing-song with glee. “The book said it would be better with bare hands.”

“They probably didn’t think of the claws – oh!” He jolted upright, as if he’d been tazed. His eyes fluttered closed, a truly indecent sound ripping from his throat as Alastor rubbed the outer spot of his wings. A few feathers flew off, revealing bare skin beneath. With a gentleness that Alastor hadn’t known he’d possessed, he rubbed carefully around the frame of the wings first, working from left to right as he freed Lucifer of the worst of the molting.

Lucifer grit his teeth, his throat working as he fought to keep those strange sounds inside, but more and more escaped as Alastor finished with the edge of his wings and started working his way inward, towards the spot where his wings folded into his shoulder blades. At one point, Alastor brushed against a particularly sensitive zone near his upper back, and Lucifer let loose a long, low moan, his back arching up against Alastor’s graceful fingers.

And Alastor, being Alastor, couldn’t let it slide.

“Having fun, your Majesty?”

Lucifer turned a brilliant shade of scarlet. Like strawberries in spring. “Shut up,” he muttered.

Alastor’s hand stilled. “Why, I thought I was doing you a favor. I could stop here…”

“No!” Lucifer yelped, then buried his head in his arms, as if he wished the floor would swallow him whole. “I mean…”

“Yes?” Alastor prompted. The embarrassment! The shame! Lucifer’s humiliation was sweet on his tongue, like blood and spun sugar.

“Please continue,” Lucifer whispered, his voice mouse-quiet. Alastor chuckled.

“It would be my pleasure.”

Lucifer jerked and arched as Alastor finished his ministrations, the white pile of feathers on the floor growing into hills, then mountains. Finally, Alastor leaned back, humming with satisfaction at a job well done.

“I daresay my work here is finished.”

Lucifer sighed, shaking out his wings with a groan of satisfaction. “They feel so light! I can’t remember the last time I could move them like this. I – Alastor, thank you.”

Alastor grinned. “Save your thanks. Let’s just say…you owe me one.”

Lucifer blanched and shook his head. “I am definitely not saying that.”

As Alastor turned to leave, Lucifer grabbed his shoulder.

“My molting season…it doesn’t end for another few weeks.”

“And…?” Alastor prompted, his Cheshire cat grin stretched almost impossibly wide.

“I would appreciate it if we could do this again,” Lucifer said, too fast, as if he thought he could pretend he never said it if he said it quickly enough.

"An interesting idea! I'll be sure to give it some thought."

Lucifer spluttered, but Alastor was already gone, his radio laugh echoing endlessly into the night.

#radioapple #hazbin hotel #alastor #hazbin hotel lucifer #duckiedeer #lucifer molts #prompts #asks

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blackdollette · 7 months

Note

I want Clyde walking up behind you at a crowded show and fingerbanging you while no one notices. I want that spur of the moment, he's not sure where you're putting his hand but when you look back at him and rest your head on his shoulder, he goes for it.

you are a damn genius.

"i was at coachella, leaning on your shoulder." | clyde

coachella: woodstock in my mind. - lana del rey

✮⋆˙ [tags] @faesucksass @lustkillers @mayathepsychic1999@josibunn @livingdead-materialgirl @romanroyapoligist@auggiethecreator @oliviah-25 @vanlisbon @lankysimp @livingdead-reilly@imoonkiss @lankysimp @nom-nommmm1 @xxbl00d-cl0txx @k1ll3rh0rr0r @wildathevrt @mommymilkers0526

female!reader x clyde

word count: 1.4k

contents: fluffy stuff, clyde being sweet (as usual), fingering, public sex, clyde being a whore

you stood amidst a heavy crowd, the booming of the bass nearly being strong enough to send you to the ground. the night sky was illuminated by the bright, flashy lights, almost making it look like day.

you looked through the crowd, looking for that one familiar face that had left you for the washroom a few minutes ago. but it was impossible to see anything in this mob. you attempted jumping to catch a glimpse of the performers on stage, but you were suddenly swooped off of your feet by a pair of strong hands, effortlessly placed on his broad shoulders as you yelped.

you looked down, seeing his grinning face as he laughed at your predictable reaction. “sorry, doll. did i scare ya?” you rolled your eyes, your skirt lifting a little as you wrapped your legs around his neck to strangle him. “you could’ve given me a heart attack, dumbass. i thought i was getting kidnapped.” he snorted out a laugh, lifting you up again and setting you back on the ground.

he holds out a cherry-red slurpee to you, taking a loud sip from his blue-raspberry one. “i found a slurpee stand on my way to the bathroom and got you one. you’re welcome.” you accepted it, scrunching your nose a little. “you didn’t take this into the bathroom with you, right?” he scoffed, running a hand through his hair. “what do you take me for, a slob?” you both laughed at the obvious question.

you took a sip of your drink, the crushed ice hitting your teeth and making you wince. clyde’s attention had shifted to the stage, the crowd beginning to get rowdier as the music crescendoed. people bumped and thrashed into you, making you lose your balance. you slipped backwards into clyde’s chest, him luckily able to catch you by your waist.

“shit!” looking down at your skirt, you saw a very conspicuous and unappealing red stain, your slurpee being the culprit of this crime.

“jesus. you okay?” he asked. you pouted, lifting up the skirt’s fabric slightly to examine the mark. you showed it to him, frowning. “my skirt’s ruined. i wore it just for you but now it looks like my period came to say hello.” he laughed at your comment, gettiing down onto his knees and pulling a wet wipe out of his flannel pocket like it was nothing. he was weird like that, always having exactly what you needed in that dusty little pocket of his.

“nothing a little care can’t fix.” he gently dabbed at the stain, transferring the red juice to the wipe in a matter of seconds. he looked up at you, his almost doe, blue eyes staring up at you. from this angle, he looked like prince charming. cleaning up your messes just like a good boyfriend should. you patted him on the head, making his cheeks flush a little. “good boy.”

he stood up, bowing playfully. “anything for you, princess.” goddamnit. why did he always have to be so charming? as messy as life got with him sometimes, he was the perfect mix between witty and seductive, the alluring combination causing heat to pool in your core every time. even now.

you swallowed hard as you turned away from him a little, looking down at your skirt. he had been so close to your exposed thighs just now, his warm breath on them feeling like heaven. and you saw exactly when he snuck a quick glimpse up your skirt, his blue irises being telltales for when his pupils swallowed them whole. but at least he tried to be sneaky about it, even though he failed miserably.

you called out to him, trying to catch his attention over the roaring music. “hey clyde, i think you missed a spot!” he brought himself down to your level, bringing his ear to your lips so he could hear you better. “what?” you rolled your eyes, not feeling like dealing with his poor hearing at the moment. you stood infront of him, pressing your body into his and bringing his hand down to your thighs, his fingers just teasing the rim of your shirt.

your breath got a little heavy as you slowly brought his hand underneath your skirt, his fingers now touching the lacy fabric of your panties. clyde seemed confused for a moment, but he’d learned how to read your little gestures and quickly got the message. he gently grazed his fingers over your clothed clit, which throbbed in response to his touch.

he snickered a little, sneaking his fingers underneath the fabric and slipping your panties to the side just enough to let a few drops of wetness trickle down your thighs. you whimpered quietly, but he didn’t stop. he used his thumb to massage slow circles onto your hard pearl, his index and middle finger teasing your dripping wet lips.

you moaned quietly, gripped onto his arm to hide your embarrassed face. but to your luck, everyone around you was completely oblivious to what was going on. then he slowly pushed his fingers into your tight hole, making your knees go weak. you nearly collapsed, but he caught you, whispering into your ear and making every hair on your body stand up. “easy there, princess. i’m just gonna have a little fun with my favourite girl…”

he carefully thrusted his fingers in and out of you, using his other hand to cover you mouth as sweet little noises slipped from it. he began to pick up his speed, starting to fingerfuck you rapidly as your warm juices dripped down his fingers.

though the music was loud, you could hear how wet you were. and you knew he could too. “oh my god… are you always this wet, or are you just a slut for risky shit like this?” he laughed, but you were falling apart inside. his fingers tore through your bruised walls, his palm slapping against your base each time he pushed himself back into you.

your knees were practically jelly by now. you were holding onto him for dear life, your head leaning back onto his shoulder as his thumb massaged hypnotic patterns onto your pussy. he curled his fingers a little as he fucked you, making you scream out uncontrollably. you had drawn the attention of a few, but no suspicion.

god, he was good. his methods were so effortless, yet mastered. like he had been practicing them for a moment like this but didn’t care enough to actually find out if he was doing the right thing. he just went for it, and that’s exactly how he got your legs shaking, back arching as his hands muffled all the sinful noises that came out of you.

“m’gonna c-cum, clyde..!” he didn’t understand a single word you said, but he got the message and fingered you with all his strength, veins popping out of his hand and arm from his aggression. but he did all this with a straight face, just watching the show like every other citizen.

you were a screaming, crying mess. your pussy throbbed and convulsed around his, desperately chasing the orgasm that he was delivering you. cum poured from your core all the way to the ground, leaving a white puddle underneath you. your heart raced as your body heated up in that moment of pure bliss, you and him being the only people in the world right now.

you felt a waterfall flowing out of you, and that did it. you clung to him, you body sinking to the ground as you came and squirted all over his fingers. he released you from his death grip, leaving you to regain your balance as you came down from your orgasm.

it had been more powerful than you’d expected, probably thanks to the thrill of doing it in a setting like this. you slipped your sodden panties back into place, stepping away from the puddle underneath you before looking up at him. he was licking his fingers like he just finished the best meal of his life, which was you.

he caught your gaze, his expression turning sour. “goddamnit. my rings are gonna rust from that.” you snorted out a laugh. “should’ve taken them off beforehand.” you picked up your slurpee from the ground, taking a long sip as he gave you a playful slap on the chest. “like i knew that you’d get horny in the middle of a show.” you both laughed at that, clyde bringing his lips to yours and giving you a deep kiss. you were able to taste to blue raspberry off of his lips, and you were certain that he could taste the cherry off of yours.

author's note: ii've got another clyde request coming out tonight. stay tuned yall!

#444rockstargf #rory culkin #rory culkin smut #smut #clyde rory culkin #clyde electrick children #rory culkin clyde #electrick children clyde #lana del rey #lust for life #coachella woodstock in my mind

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princessanonymous · 8 months

Text

When Night Comes

Platonic Yandere Vampire

Previous Part | Next Part

First Chapter

15. 𝓐𝔀𝓪𝓴𝓮𝓷𝓮𝓭 𝓖𝓻𝓪𝓿𝓮

Time took its course. Days turned into weeks and those turned into months. (Y/n)'s outbursts became few and far between and Dorian liked to think their relationship was growing closer. She retreated less from him and talked to him more often. She was progressively starting to act more comfortably, like the little bright girl he had met in that forest all these months ago.

Dorian thought fondly of the little moments they spent together. Her nightmares were becoming less frequent, but every time she had one, the girl came to him for comfort. They played chess and, while the vampire was still winning against the girl, she was a fast learner and was getting better at it.

(Y/n)'s etiquette was something he was very proud of. They had gone to two other balls and the girl had behaved impeccably. Dorian had received a lot of comments about how the child acted the part of a future vampire very well; that she was a good fit to be amongst their elite society. He relished at those compliments, a proudness only a parent could feel growing in him.

Additionally, he grew more cautious, understanding he had underestimated her wits. He had ensured that she had less contact with the servant. The unfortunate events on that night could not repeat themselves. He wouldn't allow it. The vampire was however positive that they were unlikely to repeat themselves as he had had an enlightening conversation with the child. One that hopefully crushed these foolish ideas out of her head.

· • —– ٠ ⏳ ٠ —– • ·

"I am so relieved you have given up on the silly idea of leaving, doll," Dorian had told her one night as they were both spending time together in the living room.

(Y/n) looked up, but didn't say anything. The vampire, nonchalantly engrossed in the pages of his book, continued his discourse with an air of detached sophistication. "Considering your circumstances, it's not as though you possess anything to return to," he declared, a smirk playing upon his lips, casting a shadow of cruelty. One that was necessary to educate her; she wouldn’t learn otherwise. "You have nothing to go back to. What would you do on your own ?"

She averted her eyes uncomfortably, her shoulders responding with a subtle shrug. "I don't know," she admitted in a soft whisper, her uncertainty palpable.

A chuckle escaped Dorian's lips. "Nothing," he corrected with a pointed emphasis. "But, I am here, which is why there is nothing good in leaving."

· • —– ٠ ⌛️ ٠ —– • ·

(Y/n) knew it. The child knew leaving would be fruitless and foolish. Dorian found comfort in the knowledge that she relied on him, the assurance of her presence intertwining with his sense of control over the situation. She had to understand who was the caretaker here.

Despite the apparent tranquility of their coexistence, the veneer of familial harmony in the household couldn't fully mask the palpable void that lingered within. It was as if an essential piece of their collective puzzle was conspicuously absent, leaving Dorian with an unshakable sense of incompleteness. As the days unfolded and (Y/n) became increasingly amenable to the idea of establishing connections, Dorian seized upon the opportune moment that presented itself. A subtle shift in the familial dynamic paved the way for him to contemplate the reintroduction of that elusive missing piece into their lives. He had been away long enough by now. 72 years of slumber must have taught him a lesson.

"(Y/n), dear," called out the vampire as he entered the library. He had recently bought books for the girl to read and she was spending more time in their library.

She looked up from her armchair, curiosity etched across her features. "Yes?" she inquired.

"Come with me, starshine. I have something to show you," he announced with an air of gleeful anticipation.

She straightened, tension briefly evident in the set of her shoulders, yet she followed him nonetheless, her steps echoing through the dimly lit corridor. As they approached the basement door, she edged closer to him, her unease palpable, and she hesitated for a moment, the uncertainty etched across her face. She shook her head.

"I didn't do anything," she promised with a brittle voice, her words hanging in the air like delicate glass on the verge of shattering. Her eyes pleaded for understanding. Despite the conviction in her voice, there was a vulnerability that betrayed the turmoil within.

He gave her an understanding look, his eyes softening with empathy, acknowledging her discomfort with this place. He recognized that her fear stemmed from the anticipation of potential punishment. After all, the first time she had been allowed in that basement was to be reprimanded. However, he sought to convey that this time would be different.

"I know, dear," he reassured, his comforting touch guiding her forward. "Trust me, I merely want you to meet someone."

She trembled, a palpable shiver coursing through her frame, yet his firm grip on her trembling hand compelled her to follow him nonetheless, even if it was against her wishes. Her steps were hesitant, but they arrived at the room at the back of the corridor and Dorian used the key to unlock the door.

He turned to his child and passed a hand through her hair tenderly. "Wait here for me until I tell you to enter, starshine," he instructed. He smiled when she nodded dutifully. Dorian opened the door and closed it behind him.

The room, untouched since his last visit, held Killian in a state of slumber. Dorian approached him, placing a hand on the lifeless figure's chest. With a sigh, he declared, "I believe we are ready."

He withdrew the wooden stake, an artifact designed to neutralize their kind, and the body, once inert, sprang back to life. The vampire, now released from the temporary paralysis, slowly rose. He gasped out for breath, the sound echoing in the cold silence of the tomb as he stood up from the casket.

He scanned the room, his eyes adjusting to the muted light, and a sense of disorientation lingered. It however disappeared mere instants later when Killian's eyes shot on Dorian as he put his hands on his chest where the wound that had disappeared by now had been. Sensing an opportunity, the dark-haired vampire seized the moment. With a swift and fluid motion, he retrieved the wooden stake discarded in the earlier struggle. The blond vampire realized the imminent threat. He could feel the energy coursing through the blessed weapon, a reminder of the danger it posed. Fortunately, he sidestepped it with ease as the other had been weakened by the stasis he had been put in.

As the recently awakened vampire raised the stake for a second strike, determination etched on his features, Dorian managed to summon a surge of strength. In a swift and calculated move, he intercepted the descending weapon, his hand closing around it just inches away from his own chest. He found himself cornered against the cold wall, his back pressed against the ancient stones. The impact sent a shiver through his undead form, but the immediate danger was averted.

"Welcome back, darling," Dorian greeted, his voice a mixture of defiance and wry amusement, still struggling against the wooden stake the other was pushing dangerously close to his chest.

"Dorian," the other responded, his tone dripping with a dark edge. "You stabbed me."

He glared at the remark, his previous smiling exterior disappearing in mere seconds. "You wanted to leave," he snapped back to justify himself. "I had to do something to make you understand."

"I will leave," Killian declared adamantly. The dark-haired vampire, unmoved by Dorian's explanation, maintained his grip on the stake, the tip hovering dangerously close to the point of no return. "I will leave, and you will not stop—"

"We have a daughter," Dorian interjected hastily, his words slicing through the tension like a sudden gust of wind.

Instantly, the other paused at the words uttered. Seizing the moment, Dorian acted with agility. The pause granted him the opportunity to disarm his adversary effortlessly. With a swift and calculated move, he deftly knocked the stake from Killian's grasp, sending it clattering across the stone floor.

"What are you on about?" The other asked with narrowed eyes, the fiery being temporarily quelled. Killian, known for his aggression, typically combined actions and words seamlessly.

There existed an unspoken agreement between the two, a delicate balance ensuring that their clashes never escalated to true harm. Dorian had, however, shattered this agreement the day he pierced his lover's chest with the blessed stake—a memory he preferred not to dwell upon. Despite such incidents, a mutual understanding persisted: they wouldn't inflict genuine harm on each other. And while the memory of the quarrel leading to Dorian’s slumber often hung wavy on his mind, he justified his action; Killian hadn’t been genuinely hurt. That had all been temporary; Dorian hadn’t done anything wrong.

"A child. I brought in a child," the blonde reiterated, approaching his partner. Clasping both hands, he offered a smile. "Our child."

Killian's face remained closed off, his stare unyielding. "If she is anything like you, I do not wish to see this girl," he sneered coldly. "I will not raise a child with you."

He looked away for a second dissimulating the hurt he felt at that. "At least, let me introduce the both of you." Before the other could respond, he opened the door and let (Y/n) in. "This is (Y/n)," he introduced. "Doll, this is your—"

"Killian Ambrose-Hart," he introduced sharply, his eyes shining a bright red as his gaze focused on the girl. "She's human."

Dorian stepped between the two, placing an arm on his child's shoulder. With Killian having not fed for decades, the vampire was uncertain of what he might do in his current state of hunger. Who knew what he could do to the human with the hunger he must feel right now.

"She will be turned following her twelfth birthday," he declared with unwavering conviction.

Killian, outraged, furrowed his brow. "On her—you won't," he insisted, pointing accusingly.

He had known Killian wouldn't have liked that. There was a reason why children couldn't be turned before they turned twelve, after all. Following the turning, the body completely stopped aging. It was the same for the person's mind. Children turned before their twelfth birthday were called immortal children. They could not grow physically and neither could they age mentally. The immortal child would therefore lack the self control of an older vampire and become a creature only driven by hunger ; a danger for their world. A liability that was meant to be put down. Turning a child was therefore not allowed and punished by other vampires.

"I can and will," he retorted. "She will be old enough by that point and—"

(Y/n) would be turned after she reached twelve years old. At twelve, it was deemed that individuals had generally developed sufficient self-control. Though turning someone so young was rare, it was permissible. Some at that age were still too uncontrollable, but Dorian was sure it wouldn’t be the case for his fledgling. And even if it was, he wouldn’t care; the mere idea of a member of their vampiric society touching even a single strand of hair on her head would unleash the formidable force of Dorian.

"You cannot curse her to such an existence," Killian tried to reason with him. "What will we do with an uncontrollable beast?"

Dorian would have been happy at the slip — 'We' meant that he felt involved in the child's existence — but his eyes darkened at the way he referred to her. He turned to the girl who seemed frightened by the presence of the other. "Why don't you go to your room, dear," he suggested lightly. "Killian and I are going to have a grown up conversation. Close the door behind you."

She left diligently and as she closed the door, he gave the newly awakened vampire a dangerous look. "Do not," he sneered, "call her a beast ever again. She is well-behaved, and we will ensure her safety once she is turned."

Their argument persisted through the night and into the early hours as the sun ascended in the sky. That wasn't anything new for them—Killian always rambled about how the 'curse of vampirism was something he didn't wish on anybody else'. Or how 'selfish and conniving Dorian had been to doom him to such a fate,' acting like a martyr. If anything, the older vampire should be the one complaining. Killian was too focused on making a tragedy out of his existence to care about anyone else. As always, the two only stopped when both of them had exhausted each other enough and then left it at that.

"I will go hunting," Killian declared, exasperation evident in the pinch of his nose.

"At this hour of the day?" Dorian questioned, both baffled and frustrated.

"Had you not started this complete mess, I would have been able to do so earlier," the dark-haired vampire countered.

"Oh, so all of this is my fault?" Dorian challenged. "Typical of you."

"Typical?" Killian repeated with outrage. "What do you mean, 'typical'?"

"Always trying to put the blame on someone, aren’t you, darling?" Dorian snapped back sardonically.

"Don't you try to put this on me," he threatened angrily. "This is all your doing!"

"This is ridiculous!" the blond exclaimed, flinging his hands in the air spitefully. "Utterly ridiculous; you are ridiculous!"

And like that, another session of arguing began.

#platonic yandere #yandere platonic #yandere vampire #yandere father #obsession #yandere #vampire #platonic #x reader #female reader #reader insert #child reader #yandere x reader #fanfic #unhealthy relationships #toxic relationship #They are lovers your honor #but they shouldn't be XD

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tremendum · 2 years

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landmines

pairing: joel miller x fem!reader (afab, use of she/her, use of the word girl once) rating: explicit. (18+. mdni.) word count: 6.2k summary: (straight lines, they unwind you she does a little thing with her eye that says “we’re off soon,” she says the bleeding’s incidental ‘cause she’s so cool she said “I’m no fun if I’ve only a bottle of wine” and now she’s doing it all the time ) or. “he saw how your hands shook when you exchanged rations for those damn pills. hell, at one time in his life he'd felt his own hands shake in the same way. so Joel doesn't get to be all high and mighty with you, after all.” warnings: Pre-TLOU, set in Boston, canon-typical violence, age gap (mentioned & undefined), joel and reader are in love but joel can’t deal with his emotions, mentions of drugs use (painkillers), drinking, brief and minor allusions to religion, angst, alcohol/drug abuse, this is about reader and joel's drug addictions, and about reader's struggle with going clean (PLS DO NOT READ THIS IF IT IS HARMFUL TO YOU. keep yourself safe <3), love confessions, brief mentions of withdrawal symptoms (reader gets a nose bleed), brief mentions of smut (unprotected PiV, creampie, multiple orgasms, soft its kinda vanilla tbh), fluff. notes: this just came to me while listening to Milk by the 1975. heavily based off of the lyrics of that song and just something I needed to get out of my system. also written in both Joel and reader’s POV, but tbh it’s mostly Joel’s

recent joel fics: fever Mr. Miller

★

there was something so conspicuous about the lines you created with your fingers.

soft music crackles odd over the weak signal in the corner of the room. a breeze chills your bare skin over your head as the swell of the concerto sends shivers over the blades of your shoulders, smoothing over your form as you hunch at the table.

you need this.

stray swipes of plastic - marred around the edges from rough use down with FEDRA or from wear-and-tear of jobs in your life; it's the flimsy, pathetic evidence of your existence within this QZ, within this society, within life. you are here.

your own identification name and photograph stare up at you with a bright smile as you scrape strict lines out with your hands.

currently, you are here, but soon, you'll be a little less than that.

the powder slips through a crack in your nail and you wince, groaning at the smidgeon loss that quite literally slipped through your fingers. but sooner than you'd expect, your irritation is eased with the sight of the jar to your right, nearly empty of its bloody red contents. you smile gently - you're almost out. maybe Joel will come to your rescue soon with more refills; you'd traded enough items as of late to be rewarded with something as delicious as his presence.

slipping up towards the cabinet, you remove your glass from its resting place and set it on the table, completing your sweet altar of peace before you.

the glass you pour the crimson into is smudged but still cherished; its place in the cupboard always rimmed with the absence of dust from daily use despite the scarcity of the product itself. you work hard for these small rewards.

but the thud of your door busting open looses your focus and you can't help the yelp that you let out, head turning on a quick swivel towards the entrance, gauging the severity of the intrusion.

the startled movement of your hand sends the glass tumbling over, acetous red seeping over the grains of wood under you and you grunt in irritation, sighing towards the intruder who's now cost you that very last half a glass of wine.

your door swings on weak hinges as the broad shoulders that you'd know anywhere stumble into your small studio, seemingly overestimating the power with which he'd need to throttle the frame open. there's a denim shirt that stretches over the arms and chest of the intruder, the top buttons undone and revealing golden skin kissed with the sweat of the day's work.

you sigh as Joel Miller's sharp gaze hits you.

"you made me spill." you whine. both of you recognize the adoration that laces your words, straining them of any hostility that might flood through you had it been anyone else to startle you.

a moment of peace as he shuts the door and lumbers into your space, face laced with a sort of exhaustion and irritation that you've grown used to. a hand wipes over the facial hair of his mustache, jaw set with unvoiced exasperation as he stalks forward. "you should really be lockin' that thing, you know." he grunts, face ridden with the displeasure of his easy entry.

you sigh, knowing he's right, "but I knew it'd be you that's coming round, Joel. why lock it for you?"

it's a fair statement, because if anybody in this life were to make you safe, it's him. but he clearly doesn't accept that as he rolls his eyes; sometimes, you wonder if he sees you as a nuisance.

the drawl of his slow accent leaks through his words as he stares at your little altarpiece in front of you, the way your your chest is wet with the spilt wine, your face flustered in your embarrassment. "y'can't always be expectin’ me." he mutters and the words should feel bitter to your ears, but there's a ring of falsehoods that lie within each syllable and it just makes you smile.

you just press your tongue to your teeth; "right. I’ll keep my axe by the door." you say, hoping that’ll soothe him.

you don't want to press it with him today, because it seems he's in an odd mood anyways, his eyes trained on your small little art project in front of you. so instead, you stand to rid yourself of the red that stains through your shirt.

"y'got that thing workin' I see." he states, jutting his jaw to the side towards the radio that crackles with the classical music gently in the evening air. streaks of bright orange paint his silhouette from where he props himself, the dying light of another boring Thursday being swallowed by the sweet nighttime air.

you nod, clearing your throat, "y-yeah, um, I fixed it up this morning before heading down to sweep." you explain, fingers keeping the wine-stained cloth away from your skin. you'd seen him earlier today already - he was working down in the other quadrant this week, but he showed up to see Tess and you while you worked sweeps. he had to discuss business with Tess, leaving you sticking out like a sore thumb when their hushed conversation turned their backs from you. it'd taken a turn recently, since the last mistake you made on a run with Tess. you'd almost died and Tess was nearly there with you, saved by the skins of your knees and a shot through a clicker's head.

Joel didn't really like that all too much, and ever since then you'd been kept on the sidelines. only repairs for inside the QZ, now; Joel and Tess would get the parts you needed from elsewhere for you.

"what are you doing here, Joel?" you ask, though at this point it seems futile to ask him something so obvious- just as expected, he ignores your imploring question. instead, his hand sweeps over your table in a confused motion, gesturing pointedly to just where your guilt falls into three tidy, straight white lines of powder.

you bite your lip.

"c'mon," he mutters, shaking his head as your name falls from his curled lip. "what are you doin' with all this? it's more than a week's work."

you send him a heated gaze; a week of your work, not his. you tell him just as much, in a way.

"it's not a big deal," you defend, crossing your arms; as if that'd protect you from the truth that you almost caved in again after several days of going through the motions, starved of the high that you so craved. (you are here.) your eyes are torn from the floorboards as Joel huffs in irritation, this arms bulging as they cross along his chest.

his eyes flicker over your form in a hawkish gaze, his nostrils flaring in anger, "get yourself cleaned up." he snaps.

it's an order, and you're smart enough to listen.

alone in your room, Joel recognizes the piece that plays over the radio, the kind of music you could have heard at a ballet way back before all the shit. some piano piece by some guy- Satie, he thinks you've told him before- something way before your time, before his time, even. he's sweeping the sweet lines you'd created into a baggie and pocketing them while you're gone wringing your loose top in the bathroom bitterly. he knows you’ll be upset with him, but it’s for the better.

you stare bitterly at your shirt; the red rings down the drain in a vague pink trickle.

it's quiet in the small apartment but not in an absent kind of way. it's a more tired, angry quiet. the kind that Joel carries with him everywhere in town; the kind of quiet peace that has befallen your life ever since earning your name tangled in with his and Tess's those months ago.

it's not that life in Boston is peaceful. nothing is, anymore.

but the things that Joel and Tess do for you, for whatever reason - be it the parts you can fix or the items you've found easy to smuggle for your bosses; or even just your personality, your ability to survive and still flourish despite all the rot of the world - it's nice. and they trust you.

you like Tess, you trust her. she's kind of like an older sister to you, in some ways. the world's birthed out a new kind of life for the people like you, who were too young to remember the before of it all, and maybe Tess sees in you a sister to protect, to survive with.

Joel, though... your head peaks around the corner of the bathroom before you slink back out, almost as if you have a tail tucked between your legs, face burning with something between anger and shame. Joel.

Joel is someone vastly, deeply embedded into you. it's something that you never expected, but meeting him only a month after you met Tess, after you survived the trek from Springfield QZ to Boston, there was something within him that just clicked with the two of you.

and he’d seen how your hands shook when you exchanged rations for those damn pills. hell, at one time in his life he'd felt his own hands shake in the same way.

so Joel doesn't get to be all high and mighty with you, after all.

even he knows that.

when you round the corner, shirt wet and stuck to the soft skin underneath, his heart flutters slightly in his cold chest. he didn't want to pick a fight with you; he was fucking tired. and with you and him, it was always the same: he'd overreact about your safety, or your using, and you'd yell at him that he isn't in charge of you. then it'd get all- as he liked to call it - thick, muggy with the words that he cannot, will not say and the words you yearn to whisper.

you never do, though. so it ends with anger until it's somehow resolved and he sees you the next day on the street.

one time, you'd gotten into such a heated argument that you did not speak to him for six days. he'd gotten angry at you for trying to smuggle something too big by yourself. you'd gone and gotten yourself beat nearly to a pulp by a bunch of assholes and Joel was beside himself with the gullibility, the naiveté of it all. and he'd been real fuckin' mean to you about it, enough to spring large tears of anger in your eyes and earn himself a smack across the face - a harsh one, at that, because you know well how to defend yourself.

but then, you'd really shocked him. you'd told him he was weak because he can't love anything.

he wasn't sure where that shit came from, and maybe it was coupled with the resurgence of emotions from his past - something he did not allow himself to think about - but it just made him more angry.

it ended in an ugly roar of anger and unspoken feelings. he didn't see you for almost a week.

Tess stopped by instead of him to trade for parts or pills, checking in on you with subtle questions that turned into blunt statements. you'd pass him on the way to a job in the mornings, eyes sharp as they saw right past him, jaw tilted with that spunky defiance he so admired in you.

his heart had hurt the whole time, even when your birthday came round and you showed up meekly at his front door to ask if he'd get you some sugar and eggs (he realized as you spoke that you were planning to make yourself a birthday cake). instead, with a lot of huffing and ignoring those all-knowing looks from Tess, he'd baked you your own goddamn cake, showing at your door with the shameful attempt at the confection to effectively end your near-week-long standoff.

you'd cried at his knees out of his thoughtfulness, as you'd called it. at his willingness to just pretend, for a minute, that everything was okay. he didn't know how to feel about that.

he knows the anger that he feels towards you is synthetic; a covering that he throws on top of the storage unit full of things that scare him too much to uncover - age, safety, responsibility, affection, happiness, protection, pain, surviving.

but consequentially you bring it all out of him anyways and light the fire of anger more than anyone else, even those goddamned pricks who paint the insignias onto every street sign in the city. and he never knows how to just talk with you, even after all this time.

you make him nervous like a damn schoolboy in the hallways seeing a pretty girl.

this life is cruel in so many ways; unfortunately, happiness is one of the worst. way back before all of this shit happened, Joel would never have favored sadness, or pain, or hurt, nor sorrow. but the twisting, bitter truth is that he's no longer content with that same, dull pattern of emotions which swirl languidly in his chest that have just nested within him. life in Boston is just that - life. and for the last few decades, he's done what he needed to survive, and that's how it was.

but now, he's got you.

and that's not really anything he'd thought were in the cards for him, not after so many years alone. Tess was his partner, and he trusts her with his life. but you - you. his sweet girl, too much for this world yet not enough at all; with your music, that stubborn independence, light of laughter, and those straight lines; the ones that always seem to unwind you and never seem to stop.

you told him once that you're not sure if Joel Miller was the type to love something. he's not sure either.

when you're face-to-face with him again, the sheepish grin melts from your lips. the absence of the crushed pulls, your identification card, the rolled up scrap paper you'd made into a makeshift straw of sorts paints a bitter look on your face as you stare up at him.

you know he took them intentionally, to help - so the warmth in your chest from the gesture of good faith tells you not to bark at him.

he's trying to do the good thing for a friend right now. it's the same thing you would do anytime you come over and Joel's halfway down a fresh bottle of that amber liquid he keeps on him at all times. you appreciate each other.

so you just pour yourself a small glass calmly, aware of his eyes on you. "d'you want some, Miller?" you ask, back turned from him to fish out a glass.

he lets out a chuckle, "no, darlin', wine ain't really my thing." it makes you grin, because yeah, you did know that. you know a lot about him. you shake your head, tilting it slightly as you settle yourself back into the chair you'd perched on before his company.

"right." you smile at him, a glinting in your eyes as you shrug at him. god, that look. you're tempting him all the same, with your eyes or your smile or just you.

"I took your shit." he admits, knowing there's no point in hiding it. he was a very blunt man, always has been. life's easier that way.

you sigh, shaking your head, "I-" you stop yourself from griping at him for being a fucking babysitter, instead trying again. your eye drops down to him in a wry little wink, your mind static with the noise of his knuckles against the scruff of his jaw. "come on, Joel. you know I'm no fun if I only get a bit of wine." you try to joke, crossing your arms as the liquid breaches your lips, head itching for a bit of euphoria. "I just... I need some of that other shit every once in a while." you try to defend. “I’m getting better.” you convince yourself.

something pops gently inside your sinuses, and as you sniff slightly, you feel the gush of movement.

his eyes are hard as he stares you down, but he soon swears under his breath, turning to grab the rag that sits on your counter. your hands rise to your nose to cover as the blood starts to drip from your right nostril - fuck.

you tilt forward slightly the moment you have the urge to lean back; when you'd first met and he learned about your habit, Joel'd shown you to reduce swelling and swallowing blood to lean between your legs. "I'm fine, Joel-" you start to argue as his grip finds your bicep, "shut up, now." he snaps, clearly upset.

it hurts you to hurt him like this.

licking your lips, your eyes fall onto his own, the movement of his jaw as his plush lips clench, brow furrowing in anger. if you could just- if you could be bold enough to just once surge up and taste him, maybe it'd all be different.

maybe.

"Joel, it's-" you break off, eyes flickering to the pocket you just know he shoved your pills into, roaming over the denim, "it's incidental. it's dry outside now, allergies and shit."

he shakes his head in disbelief, growing tired of you skirting around the problem and not outright saying it.

"you think you're fuckin' special, don't ya?" he grunts, storming over to shut your windows, leaving your body with a cold chill of reality.

the rag he gave you comes away from your face bloody. no, you're not yet a corpse, but you still rot away.

he sighs heavy, like he has to make a grave decision in the face of a troubling truth - had you really gotten to a point where this was an issue, or was Joel just protective? you're not sure, but it makes you feel shitty no matter.

"y'know, it won't make anything better." he tries again through a soft, gruff sigh after a few moments. you barely let your eyes flicker to his.

who is he, to say that to you?

"is that supposed to be some kind of joke, Joel?" your words don't have sharpness, instead you're shrouded with that kind of disappointment he often finds in your eyes every time he can't say the things to you he wants. the things he's afraid of, the things he knows you're not afraid of. "don't you think I know that? you went through this yourself, you've told me that you know how fucking hard it is." you defend, knuckles white as you sip a bit of the wine.

he sighs; a deep, heavy sigh as his fingers pinch his frustrated brow. "I know-" he starts to explain himself, but you shake your head, tired.

"don't say anything about it, Joel. I get it." you sigh, "it’s 'not the same', for whatever bullshit reason you can come up with this week." your words are harsh but they're not mad.

you're not angry in the way maybe you should be towards the hypocrite that stands tall and sharp in front of you.

instead you stand, moving to let yourself fall onto the ratty couch that sits miserably in the corner of the room. you're fucking tired - your body aches from the exhaustion of the week's work, of fixing up all that shit for Tadeau who honestly cheated you out on the last payment. worse, though, you're tired of this push and pull with Joel; where he shows up to bring you what you need, stays and watches with commiseration as you try to feel something - sneaking sips of his own liquid gold until his cheeks are a pinkish red, matching the heat in yours.

but you're most tired with how, recently, it always ends with arguing instead of maybe just- being with each other. you're just tired of stepping over eggshells that may actually be landmines.

landmines like I care about you too much and I just want you to feel something like what I feel for you, because you deserve it.

"I'm just-" he cuts himself off with a resigned look. hardened. I'm just worried about you.

he doesn't sit on the couch. your wine is forgotten on the table now, because the most intoxicating thing in your life stands in front of you with his full, undivided attention just on the way you curl up on the ripped sofa.

the sun is setting now and if Joel doesn't leave soon, curfew will pass. you hate it when he stays over, sleeps on the sofa; your bed always feels huge and guilty beneath your body when you can hear him toss and turn all night, air tense either with anger or with the desire to continue to exist within each other's company even after the exchange of good-nights.

"how is this different from your thing?" you ask, the defense rising up like bile in your chest, swirling inklings of doubt and fear within your chest.

perhaps it's because he's right. his fear is real; he's gone through this before, and as badly as you want to believe him you also just can't keep pretending he's just a really good friend. because it's Joel fucking Miller, and he doesn't have friends.

you're tired of the fogginess of which you lately haven't been able to escape. and if Joel is afraid of something... then you know you should run from it like hell.

he doesn’t respond to your attempt to make him, so you purse your lips, shame curling up your cheeks. you try again.

"I have been trying to- to stop." you admit, fingers tangling into themselves. he heaves a deep sigh and makes the trek over to you, dropping onto the sofa next to you. his thigh brushes yours and the both of you tense, though you pretend you don't notice. you know he likes the touches - subtle as they are - because in a world like this, affection was a weakness but it was also an incredibly fierce strength. it was scary, but it felt right.

he was always just like you, in that way.

"I know you have." he resigns with a nod, eyes flickering over to yours with a gentleness that is only ever reserved for you these days. “’s a good thing.” he acknowledges.

you swallow the heavy lump of regret in your throat because you're done hiding all of this shit. "I'm sorry. I don't- I don't want to let you down."

but there it is - the line that Joel had invisibly, wordlessly drawn in the sand of your blurry relationship. especially when the sun is almost gone, and it's not enough to know that you're not together just because words have never expressed it.

any time you do this, toe this line he’s made, Joel has to close up from you. and you understand that. this is the line - where you admit something vulnerable, something you're both feeling, only for him to go completely the other way. because he’s scared.

he shakes his head in almost disappointment. "you should be doin' this for yourself." he says sternly, jaw tightening as he moves away from you. push and pull. and he is right, you should do this for yourself.

and you are; every damn day you wake up, get dressed, go to get some work done for rations so that you can survive in this hell of a life because you really do love this life. the feeling of belonging somewhere, with him and with your friends and Tess. but it's hard to express that to him when it's like talking to a brick fucking wall every time you mention feelings.

you let out a choked sigh, tears rimming your eyes as you huff, "you're right. I am. I just- I don't really want to fight like this," you sigh, heart thundering with anxiety. "not tonight."

he nods shortly, looking across the apartment to your trinkets that lie everywhere. he doesn't know how you do it - the apartment is full of them, just random shit you find around and treasure enough to keep. it brings life to something that shouldn't have it in the small, crumbling studio apartment that should take life out of people - but your place, it gives people life. it's a glimpse into how things should be, how they used to be. your items are a look back into a life that you never got to have; things that he'd see as trash. but truth be told: in your place, they're so you, and he supposes they're treasure to him anyways. "neither do I." he mutters, hand falling into his lap.

you should probably remind him that curfew is soon. he knows it is, though, you know it'd be pointless to remind him; it's clear that this has become one of those many nights he'll spend on your lumpy couch.

you say something else, instead. "I saw Jonah fall on his ass today while shoveling."

he chuckles at that. shaking his head, he looks down at you, at the sunshine in your eyes despite the sun's dip below the crumbling remains of the city; you're smiling up at him, giggling to yourself at the sporadic noise of his amusement. you're amused because he's amused. you want him to smile.

he wishes, fleetingly, that he could be like you, more alive, more full of love and life and - and happiness. naive as it may be.

that was the kind of gift you brought for him each time you came to see him or he came to see you. somehow, you fill him with words he doesn't know how to express. and you never make him explain them, you just feel them.

"he deserved it." Joel decides with a smirk, ignoring the monstrous green envy that licks at his lungs at the mention of that young pup that followed you around for months, nearly begging to have you.

he remembers when you'd shot him down; much to Joel's shock, you'd said you weren't interested in him. you've said that about just near every damn person who has set their sights on you.

you shake your head at him, smacking him lightly on the shoulder and leaving a buzzing warmth on his skin as you do, "stop it, Joel. you're awful." but you're still giggling, grinning nearly ear-to-ear. "he-he did, though." you agree, smiling down to your lap with a laugh.

his face feels warm as you settle into the cushions, lulling your head to settle it onto his shoulder. the light weight of it blankets his heart in a warmth he swears he hasn't felt in decades.

"never understood why people keep that boy around." Joel shakes his head, "he's a dud."

you let out a soft laugh, staring up at Joel with disbelief, "c'mon, Joel." you tilt your head with a stare at him. he blinks back, jaw clenching as he leans back, wincing as he adjusts his back.

you shake your head as you laugh yet again, "he's not a dud. he's actually quite resourceful for those assholes in the square. creepy, but smart enough." you shrug, pulling a stray seam from the couch beneath you. he sighs- you're too kind for your own good, sometimes. "he's just terrified of you." you add, lifting an accusatory brow.

"don' know why." Joel chooses to mutter, and you send him a look yet again. Joel doesn't need you to remind him why that boy Jonah was so afraid of him, he remembered damn well on his own.

he'd just made sure you were safe, was all. and after it’d happened, you’d spent the whole night convincing Joel that what he did wasn't scary, just protective. worried about his friend.

there's a streak of pride that runs through him, knowing the boy wouldn't come near you again. you deserve to be comfortable, to feel safe in this city, this life. and if Joel can try to do anything, it's that.

"yes you do." you say it so gently, it's less than a whisper. but Joel, emboldened by the soft light of your single lamp in the corner, the crackling of the classical music in the corner, the ambiance of the settled sun, nods his head.

you make it seem so simple. he looks around your apartment; at the glass that's filled but forgotten, at the ripped and faded posters for bands that fell from existence before your birth; at the plants that flourish in your care, at the clay pots and spare keychains and old magazines that you've collected for so long. you make it so damn easy, he realizes.

so for once, why can't he indulge? he knows you wouldn't stop him if he were to try and kiss you right now. there have been several times, in the heat of an argument or after a close call during a smuggle route with you where he's almost just leaned down and gone for it. and each time, your sunshine-eyes have called him in, begged him. pleaded with him.

but he's always avoided that; it's like stepping over a landmine each time. and those landmines just seem to pile up and pile up these days.

the landmines; the ones that are starting to seem more and more like eggshells just waiting to be crushed.

so with a shallow swallow of pride, he crushes them all with one sentence.

"yeah, I do. ‘s because he knows you're mine now."

well, this was certainly new territory for you and him.

you stare up at him after he mutters those words. his eyes are sharp, serious, jaw ticking as he searches for your response. your heart thunders at his admission - the willingness to admit anything even remotely close to affection has never come easy for Joel, if at all. it's almost scary.

but he doesn't look dishonest, or regretful. there's a flicker of insecurity, of course; but deeper inside, there's acceptance. you've been patient with him, and likely will be for the rest of your life - he's ready to be patient with you, too. you let out a shaky breath, afraid that any burst of movement or emotion will scare him away like a wounded animal.

"yeah." you utter, mouth dry, "I'm- I'm yours." you agree.

it was never spoken out loud before; it wasn't really even suggested except for by the prying eyes of others along the street, noticing the one and only soft spot Joel Miller has: you.

hell, even Tess hadn't mentioned it to either of you out of fear of hostility, fear of cannon-balling feet-first onto a landmine the size of the whole QZ.

you and Joel.

but there is simply no alcohol or pill on this planet that will taste the way his lips do, and you know it. you yearn to taste him. "Joel..." you mutter softly, leaning forward as your arm curls around his bicep. your chin tilts up and his eyes, lidded low, meet yours.

he ought not to do this. there are reasons he's held back from touching you, kissing you, making you his before. there are hundreds of reasons that this is a bad idea, but as you stare up at him with the warmth of the sun in your eyes, warming his cold bones, he caves in. he would give you anything you want.

that's just the way it's always been with you and him, he realizes.

your face is close to his, and you stare up at him with longing, desire, need dripping from your whole being. his hand falls onto your denim-clad thigh, his thumb rubbing light patterns as you lean closer.

"why would you let me do this?" he whispers, a ghost against your lips. tilting your head, you furrow your brows, "l-let you?" you shake your head with a soft smile, "I have wanted this since I met you. I've ached for you." you admit feebly. "isn't this right?" you ask, insecure. your brows are pulled together in anxiety and he wishes to smooth out the frustration with the pad of his thumb. "shouldn't we be together?" you ask, almost broken.

his stomach curls with emotion at the tone of your voice, pleading with him. his groan vibrates through your entire body as he sighs, "darlin', you're askin' the wrong man that. y’know I'd tear the world apart to be with you." he admits, feeling the grace of your smile over his own.

"I want to feel-" you beg, hands roaming over his chest, "I want to feel you. please." you ask him gently, and his stomach twists because you know he'll always cave for you.

"I'm a bad man-" he starts with the spiel he's given himself every single night, laying on his mattress or on your shitty couch begging his mind not to dream of your soft, supple skin.

"stop that, Joel. you sound foolish." you shake your head, sunshine in your eyes lighting the whole room. "this life is just how it is, and you are how you are. I am yours, and you deserve to be mine, too."

he swallows roughly as your lips brush against his, and his heart feels the trigger of a pressure plate; he knows he isn't going to be able to stop the words from falling from his lips as soon as they part.

"you're- you're everything." he admits breathlessly, eyes searching yours.

the world explodes around you and even with Joel's shitty ear he can still hear the ring of your laughter, of your smile, of your happiness. his words are broken and choked up from disuse; he's not sure when the last time he said those words were, and he cannot open that closet full of skeletons right now.

but it doesn't matter, when you say your next words with a smile bigger than the whole world. "I love you too, Joel."

and when he takes you on your lumpy couch, your moans are sweet. saccharine. he swallows every single one with his own lips, your fingers tangled in his curls.

you taste different than he'd expected - more sweet, more caring. your skin is soft and your touches on him breathe new life into him.

sure, there are a lot of things that Joel cannot and probably will not ever be able to say. you know that, though, and as you come undone around him, spasming in bliss and sobbing out his name as if it's the only thing you can remember, it's all he can do to pull you closer into a tight embrace.

it's fully dark outside as he pulls orgasm after orgasm from your strained body, gone limp from his love; your lips are bruised and so are your hips, but there's still that sweet smile on your face as he moans your name out, finally able to let go. the couch is on its last leg, crumbling beneath your bodies as you wrap your legs around his lap, squeezing him tighter as you pull your chest to his, your lips to his own. his words are dirty, uttered into the shell of your ear as his hand trails down the line of your spine, pumping up into you until he's shooting spurts of his seed deep into you.

he paints you with his love, and though his words are never enough, yours are. he can't believe those things that you left unsaid for so many months would taste so damn good after they were detonated. both of your fears, entangled with each other in a life nothing like what you'd hope for, are enough to keep your hands entwined even after you're both spent.

his hands are gentle and intoxicating as they clean you up, wiping down your slicked thighs and your spent body, his lips soothing over every mark he'd left in his wake.

and finally, as sleep overtakes the both of you, Joel finally slides under your covers with you. he pulls you tightly into his warm chest, the lumpy couch forgotten. his lips ghost over your neck even after you fall asleep.

your hand twitches in his when you mutter his name in your sleep. he can't help the smile that grows on his lips.

maybe, you could guide him through all of those landmines.

requests open.

#Joel Miller #joel miller smut #joel x reader smut #joel miller x reader #joel miller x reader smut #tlou #tlou fanfiction #the last of us smut #the last of us x reader #the last of us #pedro pascal x reader #the last of us (hbo)#the last of us (tv)#joel miller x you

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aureatchi · 11 months

Text

.🕷.𖥔 ݁ ˖ WHAT A SCAREDY CAT ! — nakahara chuuya

“aw, poor baby. movie too scary, doll?” “shut up chuuya.”

a/n. it’s spooky szn !! so of course i need to write something fit for the occasion…so,, why not do it w my fav ginger-haired!

info. fem!reader. fluff. lowercase ✎. profanities. horror movies, drinking, small argument. it gets suggestive sjwsj, neck kissing. wc. 1.9k

“oh, this is so cute.”

you and your lover both shared an eye for aesthetics. that’s why you gazed so proudly at the coffee table in front of you when you stepped back to see the finished product—the rounded table was filled to the curved edges with your favorite takeout meal, bowls of junk sweets to indulge in after, popcorn, two wine glasses, and accompanying of course, a bottle of wine. other than the food, there were two lit candles to set the ambiance of the space, and a jack-o-lantern chuuya had carved himself.

all were organized beside each other to make it look like it came out of a pinterest post.

“i agree,” chuuya replied with a smug smile, also proud of your combined work. he joined you on the side.

you grabbed your digital camera resting on your couch and took a picture of the cozy scene.

“before it all gets ruined,” you chuckled.

chuuya then took the camera, turning the lens towards the both of you.

“let’s take a few together,” he said, wrapping an arm around your shoulder to pose. you and chuuya were also wearing matching pajamas: black tees and halloween themed pants.

“okay!”

click! click! click!

the trio included a picture of you holding up a heart with your hands as chuuya’s arm encased around you, a picture of you turned towards him with your arms around his neck (you realized the flash was very bright), and one more of you kissing his cheek.

“awh!” you widely grinned as you looked through them, giggling to yourself when you noticed how the camera captured chuuya’s conspicuous blush in the last photo.

“what’chu laughing at?” he asked, looking over your shoulder.

“nothing, it’s just cute,” you replied, putting your camera away. “can we eat now?”

“yeah,” he replied, motioning towards the snug sofa nuzzled with your cushiest of blankets.

you enveloped them around you as chuuya grabbed the remote control to browse movies on the tv.

RANKED #1 HORROR MOVIE THIS YEAR!

“wanna watch this?” chuuya asked, hovering the selection over the movie. “i just realized we’ve never watched a horror movie together.”

“yeah, if you want me screaming and retreating on your lap every five minutes.”

“exactly,” he replied, smirking. “that would be nice⎯”

“too bad. i was joking. i don’t get scared easily.”

you held an opposing smirk back, but in reality, you did get agitated easily, especially when jumpscares were involved. but you felt stubborn and didn’t want to give what chuuya wanted, so you decided to take it on as a challenge.

and he seemed to sense your game too. “better not catch ya lying, doll. there’s consequences for everything.”

“what do you mean by that?” you asked, your face heating up, but he gave no answer to your avail. now you really had a challenge.

“…whatever. i don’t need to know anyway. i’m not getting scared.”

“hm,” chuuya said as he clicked on the movie. up popped a screen with the synopsis of the two-hour film, including all of the content warnings.

…murder, blood, sudden jumpscares…

oh shoot.

chuuya pressed play, and immediately, the movie started.

…

the first twenty minutes were actually okay. there hadn’t been anything too much to frighten you yet⎯eerie music, corporate workers, and dark rooms were the only thing you had seen so far.

“damn, when does this good?” chuuya mumbled, finishing eating the last of your main course.

you were glad things hadn’t been intimidating to you so far. but you also knew your lover was awaiting for something to happen, something to cause him to win.

that wasn’t going to happen.

you were snacking on the bucket of popcorn when suddenly, a creepy humanoid creature engulfed the screen, accompanied by a petrifying sound. there was no way to see that coming⎯there was no warning. you couldn’t help but squeal and jump slightly on the couch, the bucket of popcorn following. luckily, it wasn’t so much that it fell and made a mess.

“o-oh shoot! chuuya, i thought i saw a spider!” you said right after the moment passed, turning your head and making it look like you were searching the cushions for a spider. you knew he was watching for your reaction the entire time.

“spider, yeah?” chuuya asked, amused. “nice excuse, sweetheart.”

you crossed your arms. “okay! that was a mild reaction! i didn’t jump on you so that doesn’t count.”

“scared yet?”

“nope!” you popped the p. yet, a shiver went down your spine.

you continued watching the movie. more horror started to seep in, grisly scenes causing unease. you weren’t sure if you preferred those drawn-out sights to the jumpscares, but you could hide your reactions better with the former. you hadn’t seen any more sudden clips yet, thankfully.

“yikes,” you and chuuya said when a corpse got shot multiple times even after they already died and then mutilated.

“i’m opening the wine,” chuuya said about an hour and thirty minutes into the movie.

“alright,” you replied, not opposing. you probably even supported it. maybe if you drank a little, you wouldn’t scare so easy.

especially because you could feel the plot’s climax approaching. you were already suffocating a couple of pillows on your lap in anxiousness.

chuuya poured the glasses and handed one to you. you quietly finished yours quickly so you could have it refilled.

“oh shit!” you shouted when the main character suddenly made a super stupid decision⎯as you probably did too by pretending that you didn’t spooked⎯of course resulting in a chase by the disgusting creature that popped out of nowhere earlier. you clutched the pillows even harder, but you couldn’t take your eyes off the screen. you needed to prove to chuuya you weren’t lying to him.

the wine was not strong enough against the fear-fueled adrenaline that surged through you, paralleling the intensifying background music.

stupid chuuya. he made sure the volume was cinema-loud. it did not help trying to drown out the creepy atmosphere that engulfed the entire room.

the figure suddenly appeared in front of the protagonist with a dramatic scream.

“AHH!” you screamed too, but immediately bit down on your hand right after.

but then it happened again. the main character turned a corner, and it popped up again, even more disturbing than the last time.

“AHHH!”

you screamed again, jumping on chuuya to try and bury your face on his neck. your heart was racing from the images you had seen.

but he had other plans.

“aw, poor baby. movie too scary, doll?”

“shut up chuuya!” you replied, yet you still gripped tightly on his shirt.

but then, chuuya pushed you off of him.

“chuuya!” you tried to climb back on him, but something was preventing you from making contact with his skin.

“…are you using gravity manipulation?!”

“i thought you said you wouldn’t get scared,” he taunted with a smirk. “eyes on the screen, brave girl.”

“you’re so mean!” you shouted, but faced back toward the tv. he had even gone out of his way to use his ability to turn your own words against yourse⎯

“AHHH! WHATTHEFUCK!”

you were already screaming as the creature finally caught the main character, but you weren’t alone as chuuya cursed and pulled you on top of him, horrified.

“DAMMIT. what the hell was THAT?”

“put us down, we’re FLOATING!” you cried. it didn’t help at all that you were both scared and floating above all solid surface, even though it was only about three feet.

“s-shit, sorry!”

he rested the both of you down on the sofa once again. you had missed most of the eerie epilogue, but you didn’t really care when your brain had now conjured a new character for your nightmares.

chuuya poured the last of the bottle’s contents into your glasses and handed you yours. you finished the cherry-red liquid instantly to try to get some relief.

you turned towards chuuya right after to see that he had done the same. and then, you broke out laughing.

the ginger-haired raised an eyebrow and glared back at you as you continued to stare at him and snicker.

“i-i didn’t know YOU were a scaredy cat,” you tried to speak, but it was hard when you were overcome by laughter. your stomach was hurting and your chest was heaving, but you couldn’t stop.

“shut up!” he shouted.

“i-i can’t!” you replied, continuing to laugh. “how ironic⎯it’s one thing for me, but the port mafia executive? getting scared?!”

you were only silenced when chuuya had pulled you on his waist once again.

“if you didn’t think you were in trouble for lying, you definitely are now.”

you immediately stopped, staring into his eyes. you had forgotten about his temper.

“wait, i’m sorry!” but your apology was futile because you were immediately lifted once again but this time, higher and alone.

“put me down, chuuya, i’m sorry!” you screamed, about eleven feet off of the floor. you really hated his ability sometimes.

“why should i?!” he observed you from the couch, trying to grab onto something but stuck inside a sphere of air. he would never try to hurt you, even while he was mad, but currently, his ego had been offended by your words.

“i was joking, chuu! i didn’t actually mean it⎯i promise! i’m sorry, i’ll make it up to you.”

you were slowly lowered, relieved once your legs hit the couch.

“i’m sorry,” he said, quietly after you had made sure you could stand on floor again. “i got carried away, plus you weren’t wrong.” he sighed at the confession.

“it’s okay,” you replied, straddling his lap. “that just makes the two of us scaredy cats. i think that’s cute.” you booped him on the nose.

“but you’re the bigger one,” chuuya provoked.

“no! you are!”

“you are!”

“who’s the one on my lap?” he asked, moving a piece of your hair out of your face as he smirked. “just as she foreshadowed earlier too?”

“shut up,” you replied, but he had gotten you where he wanted in the end. “want a trophy or something?”

“no, you’re just gonna make it up to me now.“

he pulled you closer, and kissed you softly, seeing if your reaction would allow him to continue.

you pulled back. “if this is what i have to do, that’s easy.” you leaned back in and resumed the kiss, lifting your hands to play with chuuya’s hair. you could still taste the wine on his lips⎯it made you feel even more high combined with the tension between you two as he kissed you deeper.

he pulled back for the both of you to catch breath and then spoke.

“you’re funny if you think that’s it, doll.”

he moved one of his hands to move your hair away from your neck and the other to cup your cheek on the opposite side.

he started kissing there, and then, sucking.

“…chuuya?”

“this is for lying to me,” he said, focusing on the spot. once he was done, he moved to another.

“and for making fun of me.” he sucked again, until your neck had two new red marks.

“…keep going.”

“yeah? want more?”

“yes. it helps me not think of that scary murderer in the movie.” chuuya laughed.

“alright, i’ll help take the scaredy cat’s mind off of the things that bring her fear.”

“hey! stop calling me th⎯”

you were silenced as he went back to what he was doing, until your entire neck was filled with shades of red.

reblogs are cherished. <3

#₊ ⊹˚✉︎𑁤 with love; reverie #chuuya x reader #chuuya x you #chuuya nakahara #bsd chuuya #chuuya fluff #chuuya fanfic #chuya x reader #bungou stray dogs #bungou stray dogs x reader #bsd x reader #bsd scenarios #bsd imagines #bsd fluff #halloween prompts #aureatchi

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