#but i think he just got too big for his britches

[bhaalble]

Back on my Wyll script doctor because I was talking about it with a friend. Specifically imagining a version of Wyll's big Character Choice that felt like it had some actual teeth.

Imagine a world where instead of a cartoon evil hot lady Mizora and Wyll's relationship actually had some complexity to it and like. some genuine push and pull which gives him temptation to stay. I just keep thinking about this 17 year old who his whole life wanted more than anything to be a hero, who got his chance to do something heroic and selfless and save the city from certain doom, and his reward is getting kicked out because he did it the "wrong way".

Imagine if instead of forcing his silence, Mizora instead comforted him. How unbelievably cruel of your father! Well...since you've nowhere else to go, why not stick with me? We make a pretty good team, as it turns out, and I can get you a whole list of monsters who need killing. Plenty of devils and demons loose in your world targetting all sorts of innocents. Our interests can keep aligning, and you get a place to sleep when you need it.

Wyll makes his peace with it, because he has nothing and no one. And Mizora's not GOOD maybe, not by Ulder Ravengard's definition. But she's fun. She delights in his growth. And she does certainly keep direct him at greater evils, devils who really do need killing. And if she spies on his every waking moment, well, she worries. If she sends him after the occasional innocent, well, she had people who she has to answer to as well. She's a devil, how much can he fault her for her nature? She's always seemed like she knew where the line was...

Karlach (and the player) express their doubts, of course, but for act one at least he's defensive. Yes, she punished him and he hates it and its miserable but....he was in breach of contract! She's NEVER gone outside its bounds, she's always stuck very closely to their agreement. Wyll, who wants so badly to trust others and believe everyone has the chance for good, can't find it in him to believe the worst even of a devil.

And Mizora is FOND of Wyll, loves him even in her way. As a cherished pet, as a trusted tool, as a best-laid plan. Never enough to choose his own well-being over her own agenda, never enough to see him as his own person. He's her little project, the long shot noble brat she gambled on when Tiamat decided to get too big for her britches. And it paid off! Wyll always pays off, currying her all the favor from Zariel she so desperately craves. And who are you, or anyone, to come between them? She's treated him well. As she's quick to remind him, she wanted him when no one else did, aided him while the rest of his city slept snug in their beds. And if Ulder Ravengard didn't want a son with a whiff of infernal, then do you REALLY think he'd want you with lovely horns and Avernus in your blood?

You discover his father's been taken. Beyond igniting a lot of old feelings, it brings up a question of succession. Of course, Florrick isnt giving up on him, but if not...there aren't currently any likely candidates to take over the Flaming Fists. Not trustworthy ones. Florrick will take the position, but everyone knows in the back of his mind Ulder never really stopped planning for it to be Wyll. With the city in chaos and a cult army on the rise, they may need an answer sooner rather than later. Wyll feels the call of the Gate, but knows just as well that Mizora wouldn't want him to return in such an official capacity.

For the first time ever the leash starts to chafe in a way he can't keep pushing through.

Act 2 rolls around. Mizora sends up the Warlock signal. After potentially some encouragement from the player, Wyll (NOT THE PLAYER. I DONT KNOW WHY ITS THE PLAYER IN THE GAME ITS WEIRD) hesitantly proposes that maybe, if he does this....they can do a renegotiation of his contract. Not break it, he assures her quickly! Just....reopen the terms, take a looks at the agreement. Maybe discuss an exit ramp? After all....I mean, neither of us truly thought I'd be doing this forever, did we?

Based on Mizora's reaction. Yeah she did.

But fine. She agrees. And Wyll's not mad that it turns out you're rescuing her, not a nameless "operative" for Zariel. He would've done that on his own had she asked. Its the fact that she apparently didn't feel like being honest, that she let him fret and worry about potentially handing Zariel back some runaway for basically no reason. Its the fact that she came here to check in on the cult that abducted his FATHER just to see if Zariel could make any use of them. And its the fact that she seems surprised and annoyed that ANY of this bothers him.

All this builds, of course, to the final confrontation. The basic elements are the same. Mizora outside the coronation (this time needling at Wyll, "I'll be at camp if you're not too high and mighty to consort with the likes of me anymore"), Ulder tadpoled and fighting it. Mizora makes her offer. I can end the contract now, and you're free to go running after daddy (who won't want you btw! not like I do!). You'll lose all your powers, all my aid, all those juicy quests to chase down the greatest monsters in the hells. Take on your father's job and settle in for a life of misery and compromise and only doing as much good as the nobles will let you. Or: pledge yourself to me, eternally. I'll give you a boatload of new powers and eternal life to boot, so long as you serve as my sword and shield.

From there I think three endings branch out, and with it three classes for Wyll. If he stays with Mizora, accepts a relationship where he will never be an equal or a free agent in exchange for the affirmation he wants so badly from his father, he remains a Warlock, with some juiced stats and extra spell slots, along with shiny new gear. If he pledges to follow in his father's footsteps, he instead becomes an Oath of Devotion paladin, pledging himself in service to Tyr, if with a sense of doomed finality. The Blade of Frontiers is officially retired, and along with it any identity he has outside of being his father's son. Or the third path, break the contract without taking his father's role. He will look for his father, yes, but whether or not you find him he's going back to his roots, travelling around to do some good in the world (as the Blade of Frontiers) or kicking ass in the Hells with Karlach (as the Blade of Avernus). In this timeline he becomes a fighter, with a default preference for Eldritch Knight.

What's important: if he breaks his contract then Mizora is NOT hanging around camp. She will leave in a fury, accidentally bound by her own word to withdraw her influence completely if he breaks his contract. She may still approach the player some night to sleep with the player, framed for high approval/romanced players and her trying to take something back from Wyll. But Wyll will have to learn how to define himself without her breathing down his neck, without keeping her happy dominating his every thought. Its nervewracking, and even lonesome at times...but its freedom. And, perhaps, that's worth a little bit of lonesomeness.

[lesbian-for-arthur-morgan]

do you have any headcanons for arguing and making up? i’m a slut for angst with comfort 🙈

Making Up After a Fight

Gender Neutral Language!

Genre: slight angst, fluff Featuring: Arthur Morgan, John Marston, Dutch Van Der Linde, Javier Escuella, Charles Smith, and Sean MacGuire Warnings: Dutch is kind of toxic | Not edited

AN: Sorry it took me so long to get these written! I went through some nasty writer's block and decided to play the game a little to help out but all that did was distract me for a week. This is definitely pretty roughly written - I'm also a huge slut for angst with comfort, though, so I hope you like these! <3 ---> Requests are open! Check out guidelines if you have any questions

<><><><>

Arthur Morgan:

Arthur gets frustrated easily when he feels like he’s not being listened to or understood. It’s not really anyone’s fault, but his emotions can get the better of him and he’ll say something that he doesn’t mean.

“You got bait for brains or are you just being an idiot for fun?” (or something like that)

You know in the back of your head that he doesn’t mean it, and he regrets it the second the syllables bounce off his lips. Your brain can know something but your heart will still hurt all the same.

Usually when Arthur is getting too big for his britches with you, you can shut him down and put him in his place. It’s something he highly respects about you - not putting up with his bullshit when he gets like that. Sometimes, though, your eyes will start to water and you can’t say anything without feeling a lump in your throat constricting your vocal chords.

You have to turn and walk away or else you’ll cry in front of him. That would just make everything worse.

Seeing your form retreating, knowing that you’re running off because you’re hurt rather than angry, made Arthur’s chest grow heavy with guilt. His first instinct is to follow after you and hold you until you’re feeling better.

But since he’s the one who hurt you, he just lets you walk away and he goes to pout since he thinks he deserves to be outcast for a little while.

He’ll give you as much space as he can bear, avoid you for an hour maybe two, but he comes crawling back with those puppy dog eyes and a singular wild flower in his fist.

He’ll go to his cot where you’re sitting with his hat in your lap. You stopped being upset five or ten minutes after the argument. Once you took a few deep breaths you understand, but you also had to understand that Arthur would come back to you after he was done punishing himself.

So you waited.

When you saw him approach with that sheepish expression and slouched posture your heart bled for him. He was a brute and an ass at times, but he meant well.

“’M’sorry, Darlin’,” He’d mumble and get on his knees in front of you. “I didn’t mean it, I never mean it.”

He places the flower in your lap by his hat and gazes up at you. His hair is long and falling in front of his eyes a little, so you brush the strands away from his forehead to get a better look at him.

His blue eyes are a little red and there’s a deep crease in his forehead from an hour or so of constant worrying.

“You can be so mean sometimes, Arthur Morgan,” You scold him lightly and he sighs, nodding.

“I know.”

He spends the rest of the week making it up to you. Truly it doesn’t matter exactly what was said or what the argument was about, when you are truly hurt by his words/actions it kills him. He’ll punish himself for a bit then come back ready to spoil you with words, presents, kisses, and anything else you could possibly ask for.

John Marston:

He’s constantly arguing with you about something. A lot of the time he just picks at you to get a rise out of you - he thinks it’s funny.

Things can get out of hand quickly with him if he grates on a nerve of yours and you bite back though. His first instinct is to give a smartass retort and it just spirals into a full-blown fight from there.

“John Marston you are a pig!”

You storm off and hide in your tent for a while. He’s just standing there dumbfounded. He starts asking himself why he let it get to that point, why did he have to open his big ol’ mouth and antagonize you?

He tries to get you to talk to him, he’ll pace in front of the tent and start calling your name nicely. He won’t ever open the flap though, he doesn’t want to invade your space and risk riling you up anymore.

When you ignore him he’ll eventually get the hint and wander off.

He tries to figure out something to do while he thinks about how to make it up to you. He offers to help Arthur out with any bounty hunts or little jobs, he’ll offer to take Bill or Lenny into town, or he’ll just pick up extra shifts of being on lookout for the camp.

When you finally come out he has to restrain the urge to run to you and scoop you up, demanding that you forgive him so that he can stop pouting.

He does drop whatever it is he’s doing to approach you and makes small talk to test the waters.

“How are you?”

“Fine, John.”

“That’s good… You still mad at me?”

You roll your eyes and try to walk away, but he shoots out and grabs your hand before you can get too far. He doesn’t hold you tightly; his fingers gently encase your own, if you wanted to leave you could easily. But, you falter with your back turned to him and wait for him to speak.

“I’m sorry, really. You know I’m an idiot.” He’s practically whining as he says it, begging for you to look at him.

You turn your head slightly to give him a side glare. At first, the sight makes his heart drop into his feet and he thinks he really screwed up this time, but when a small smirk starts to quirk the corner of your mouth upwards he lets out a low sigh.

“You are cruel,” He chuckles and tightens his grip as he pulls you into his arms and wraps you up in a bear hug.

Your laughs are loud and genuine as he twirls you around, pressing chaste kisses to your cheeks as he does so. Your voices echo throughout the camp once again.

Everyone in camp knows what’s going on with you and John whether you’re fighting or making up, your business is everyone else’s.

Dutch Van Der Linde:

I want to start out by saying Dutch never actually apologizes when you two fight. He’ll buy gifts, say pretty words, whisper sweet nothings, and all the like, but the words “I’m sorry” have never left that man’s lips in his entire life. He will not start now.

Dutch’s obsession with the O’Driscoll’s can cloud his judgment on many things, it makes him blind to reason. Further than that, it makes him hateful and sometimes just plain mean.

He trusts you, he loves you. So, you’re stuck listening to his plans and his grievances with the gang, the law, the O’Driscoll’s, and any other misfortune he has had to endure in his life.

He’ll go on and on, plotting, groaning, whining. One night, after being sat on his cot for hours, you’ve had enough. You beg him to do anything but complain and come up with a half-brained plan to get rich quick.

It hits a nerve and he blows a fuse.

“You don’t understand what’s at stake, do you?” He’s practically yelling. “It’s so easy for you - I spoil you!”

You’re stunned into silence as he shouts at you. You didn’t expect him to blow up.

“Get out of my tent, get out of my sight!” He sends you away. In a daze you stumble out of the tent and into the dark camp.

There’s a few people still up wandering around. Mary-Beth is singing by the fire and Kieran is trying to sing with her, but doesn’t really know the words. Your feet start moving on their own and you take a seat across from the two at the fire.

“What’s going on, gunslinger?” Karen shuffles to a seat beside you and settles down. Mary-Beth’s singing falters for a minute but she continues on, just quieter.

“Dutch is pissed.” You mumble, staring into the flames.

“When is he not? Have a drink,” Karen shoves a bottle of beer into your hand and watches as you take a long swig. She continues, “Have some fun without him for once.”

The night takes a turn from there. You sing and dance and laugh. A few more people join in until it’s gone from moping around the fire to a proper party around it. Javier even brings out the guitar. The noise is enough to draw Dutch from the dark hole in his tent to see what’s going on.

When he sees you, the tears on your cheeks have dried and your face is flushed from the drinks, he can’t help but feel a little guilty. To him, afterall, you were just naive. You didn’t understand what was truly going on in the camp, didn’t understand his plans.

He creeps out of the tent and sneaks up behind you as you’re dancing along to Javier and Mary-Beth. When a pair of arms wraps around your waist, you let out a little squeal.

Dutch spins you around so that you’re facing him, your bodies pressed flush together causing a heat to flare in your stomach.

“My beautiful dancer,” Dutch mumbles and presses a soft kiss to your lips. You don’t fight, don’t ask any questions. You’re just happy that he seems to be sorry for what he did. He’s holding you after all of that, kissing you. He must be sorry, and so are you.

When he pulls back you gaze at him with half-lidded eyes. “I’m sorry, Dutch.” You whisper.

“Hush now,” He starts swaying as he holds you, leading you into a dance.

Your fight is practically forgotten by the end of the night. In the early hours of the morning, everyone is stumbling back to their respective beds. Stomachs are full and heads will be aching come noon, but to you it was all worth it. So long as you and Dutch aren’t fighting anymore.

Javier Escuella:

He hates fighting. I mean not in general, but just with you.

He won’t allow himself to be taken advantage of or walked all over, but if there’s some stupid argument that’s making you mad he will roll over and apologize. Just to keep the peace.

He loves you more than he loves being right, and if it makes you happy to just admit that then so be it.

When y’all do fight, though, it’s over something big. Stupid quarrels are so rare that the first time anyone catches wind that the two of you had a falling out it shocks half the camp to the core.

Javier would only truly get upset with you in a life or death situation. Like when you decided to not tell anyone you were heading into town really quick and met a few O’Driscoll’s in the general store.

When you saw them you recognized them as few that had gotten into a fight with Javier in town a few weeks ago. Javier let them walk away to save face, there was a large group of witnesses that would have pretty much guaranteed him an execution if he had taken their lives.

Your heart skipped a beat as one of them turned to look at you, but they left shortly after you entered the store and you prayed that would be the end of it.

After you finished at the store, though, you walked through the door to find the three men standing in the road before you. Their arms were folded across their chests and their legs spread in a dominant stance.

You clutched the items you bought to your chest and tried walking away from the trio, but one of them called out and made you stop in your tracks.

“You’re one of Dutch’s people ain’t you?” The tallest one said. It wasn’t really a question, he knew who you were.

“And what’s it to you, mister?” You shot back, reaching for the dagger in your belt.

“I’ve got a few questions for you about your boss.” The three of them started moving towards you. They surrounded you and backed you to the wall of the general store. You whipped out your dagger to tell them to back off, but it wouldn’t do much against three of them - you knew that and so did they.

The only reason you had made it out of that situation without even a scratch was because Arthur happened to be riding through town on his way back to camp and noticed the commotion.

He brought you back to camp, and that’s where you saw Javier standing at your cot with this arms crossed and a scowl darkening his features.

“What the hell were you thinking?” He practically shouts at you.

You didn’t mean to, you held them back as long as you could, but tears start flowing freely down your face in large, hot drops.

Javier’s scowl disappears almost immediately. He didn’t expect you to cry. Maybe yell back or explain yourself, but not cry. He drops his arms and grabs both of your hands in his.

“Are you okay?” His voice is low and laced with worry. Arthur got to him first and told him what happened briefly, so he knew you weren’t physically hurt, but other than that he didn’t know what happened.

“They surrounded me. I was - I was so scared, Javier.” Your throat was thick and it was hard to speak. Javier embraced you, rubbing your back and holding the back of your head as you cried harder into his shoulder.

“You’re safe now,” He assures you and presses soft kisses into your hair.

He spends the next few days feeling guilty for being mad at first.

You tell him you understand his reaction and that you were sorry,but he just says sorry back to you and claims he shouldn’t have been angry when you were scared.

You’re both equally sorry, I guess.

After that, though, Javier refuses to let you go anywhere alone. You don’t have to go with him but you have to have a traveling buddy in case anything like that happens again.

Charles Smith:

Doesn’t fight with anyone, really.

Sure, you can get mad at him and yell and hold a grudge, but he just lets you figure your emotions out from afar if that’s what you need. He gives you space when you need it, attention when you want it, and does anything that he can for you.

He loves you more than anything in the world, so when you’re mad at him it eats away at his insides until you make up. He’s literally the consent king, though, and will wait for you to come to him before he initiates anything.

It feels like he doesn’t care sometimes. It drives you crazy that he doesn’t chase after you and try to make up with you then and there or rectify the situation immediately, which turns into another argument.

“Do you even give a shit what I feel?” You frown at him one morning after a small argument that he just brushed off from the night before. He assumed since you slept with him in his bedroll, that meant you were over it.

“I love you! What are you talking about?” He rubs at the little stubble on his chin in exasperation.

“You never listen you just say ‘okay’ and move on. You don’t learn that way, Charles. You roll over and the same thing will keep happening because you aren’t listening.” You try to explain yourself. Charles nods but you can’t tell if he actually gets what you’re trying to convey since he never acknowledges it more than that.

You sigh and get up.

“I need a minute, come talk to me when you can.” You walk away from him and towards Miss Grimshaw doing the laundry.

Charles just stays where he is and lets out a long deep sigh. He thought it would be better for him to just agree with you, it would make you happy to be agreed with rather than continuing to fight over something so trivial.

He hasn’t been with the group for a super long time, but he’s created a strong bond with Arthur. So, that’s who he goes to to ask for advice on the whole situation.

Charles relays as much as he can back to Arthur and the cowboy just starts to chuckle at the absurdity of the conversation. He’s used to people coming to him for advice (he doesn’t really get why), but the situation with you and Charles came out of nowhere for him. He didn’t realize you two fought ever.

“No relationship is perfect, Charles.” Arthur suggests.

That’s literally no help to him so Charles walks off and tries thinking what to do. He comes up with nothing, though. Which makes him frustrated.

He starts walking towards you. You look up and see his determined face and scrunched brow and excuse yourself to meet him halfway.

“We need to talk.” He says, his words are intense but his gaze is still soft. You aren’t scared of him anyways.

“I think we do.” You reply and follow him to a private area right outside of camp.

The whole time he goes off about how he doesn’t get what you want from him. What you expect him to do or say when you get mad or annoyed.

“I just want to know you care about me and my emotions.”

“Dear, I care about you more than anything in the world. More than life itself, why do you question it?” He’s basically pleading with you to understand him, to finally see that just because he isn’t as forward with every single thought (good or bad) on his mind doesn’t mean he doesn’t care about you or your emotions.

It takes little to no time for you to throw your arms around him in an embrace and mumble an apology into his hair.

Even your big fights aren’t really fights.

Sean MacGuire:

Sean does stupid stuff all the time. Literally he does stupid stuff more often than he does anything smart.

Especially when he’s drunk.

One night a small group of some of the gang decided to head into the saloon in town for a drinks for the night. You and Sean were always up for a good time and tagged along - obviously.

It presented opportunity for a little pickpocketing as well (if you didn’t get too drunk and sloppy to do it).

Everything went well for the first hour. Drinks were shared among the group and laughs were bellowing through the air with a contagious warmth. Better yet, no one seemed to be testing the waters and starting a bar fight.

Sean had his arm around you the entire night. He claimed it was to let all the scoundrels at the bar know that you were his and no one should even try to stake a claim to you.

You rolled your eyes but stayed nestled in the spot.

That is, until you were pulled away by your bladder. All the drinks were catching up to you and you slipped from under him to run to the restroom really quick.

When you came back, though, a working woman had taken advantage of your absence to catch Sean’s attention.

In his drunken state, Sean couldn’t even realize that the weight of the woman beside him wasn’t the same as when you were sitting there before. He didn’t say a thing as her arms wrapped around his torso or when she ran her fingers through his longish hair.

Tears fill your eyes almost instantly. You try to blink them away and get a better look at the scene in front of you, but it doesn’t change. It only gets worse as her lips start leaving rougey red stains on his neck.

“Sean!” You shove at his shoulder. When he sees you in front of him, his bleary red eyes turn to the woman beside him. His brain takes a minute to put two and two together, but by the time he has figured the situation out you are pushing through saloon patrons to get out into the night air.

Sean sobers up immediately. He pries himself out of the grasp of the other woman and follows your trail out the door.

He calls your name over and over again until he finally finds you sitting on the street corner crying into your knees.

“Please, Love!” He approaches you and your head whips up at the sound of his voice.

“You stay away from me you dog.” You snap and get up. You’re still pretty drunk as well however and you wobble and nearly fall over at the sudden movement.

Luckily Sean catches you by the arm before you can tumble into the dirt.

“I didn’t know she was there, honest. Thought you was there beside me.” He lifts a hand to your cheek, ready to brush away some of your tears, but you turn your cheek and shrug him off.

“Sure.” You say and try to walk away. He catches your arm again and turns you towards him once more.

“Honest, Love. Why would I pay for sex anyways - I’ve not a penny to me name and you give it to me for free.”

The sentiment was there, but definitely not the right thing to say.

You have to physically restrain yourself from hitting him upside the head at his words.

He sees the struggle on your face as soon as he says it and clamps a hand over his mouth.

“Sean MacGuire you bastard!” You shout at him, but can’t help a weak laugh from erupting from your throat at the end.

“I didn’t mean that, oh lord I didn’t.” The terror in his face only causes you to laugh harder.

The laughter surprises him and even yourself, so much so that the both of you are laughing. Though you don’t really understand why.

“If you ever-“ You say with a mocking glare, “Ever do something like that or say something like that again, I am leaving you Sean MacGuire.”

“I wouldn’t blame you one bit,” He says somberly, still with a small smile.

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I didn't write for Sadie because I genuinely could not think of a situation for her or how she would be, my brain died halfway through writing Sean's. I'll just have to write some Sadie focused hc's next time teehee~

[zvdvdlvr]

Hi there, friend . Please write if you have time a Soap, Ghost, Price, Alejandro, and Konig headcanons about a male partner with really big veiny hands.Hope you have a pleasent day or night .

- 141, alejandro, and könig with a male partner with large hands

☆ - warnings :: some nsfw topics, coarse language, neck snapping, features sub!könig, usual call of duty violence, male reader, short HCs,

☆ - characters :: john "soap" mactavish, simon "ghost" riley, captain john "bravo six" price, alejandro vargas, könig

☆ - k.j.'s diary says... i haven't written for CoD that much so i apologize for any inaccuracies or any out of character-ness.

kyle "gaz" garrick

SLUT ME OUT, SLUT ME OUT, SLUT-SLUT-SLUT ME OUT

bro was flabberghasted when he saw you gloveless- like, yes, he knows your hands are huge because of how easily you handle massive weapons but god almighty kyle almost started drooling when he saw you flex your hand while stretching your arm

silently admires the way you move in battle, your melee attacks, hand-to-hand, etc.

when you are dating, gaz for sure hints at his attraction to your hands if that wasn't obvious

gets turned on when you pin him to the ground while sparring and it shows

goes off on tangents about your hands when drunk

"they just- *hiccup* -they look so good, y'know? they'd look really nice around my ne-neck" (bro was passed out not even half an hour after saying this)

simon "ghost" riley

encourages you to snap someone's neck while out on the field

"christ, y/l/n" ghost (the first time he saw you do that

was drinking tea the first time he got a hood look at your bare hands

needless to say, tea was spilled in simon's lap

when you're together simon would come up with all these bullshit reasons to see your bare hands

not really into being choked, but would love watching you choke someone out

would ask you if you could choke-slam people

the answer was yes

simon loves being flipped off by you idk he thinks its hot

i like to think that while off duty simon can be a little bitch sometimes so whenever he turns around to go sulk he LOVES when you grab onto his belt loop or whatever and turn his ass around

captain john "bravo six" price

tried to keep his cool

also kept really quiet about his feelings

like

quiet.

loves holding your hand when off duty

so let's say price is the typa guy to enjoy back hugs? even better when he looks down to see your hands wrapped around his middle

has you demonstrate ways to snap/break necks to the newbies while watching with absolute adoration

did i mention price loves hand holding? i did? ok well just reminding you

u dont have to have big hands to know john loves kissing you with one of your hands in his hair and another tugging his belt loop so he's closer to you. hawt.

john "soap" mactavish

smiles widely while watching you snap someone's neck like it's nothing

doesn't even care if you choke him out if you did at least it's by your hands

choking kink question mark exclamation point

loves getting neck/upper back massages (non sexually you pervs) especially after a long day

a true simp.

will praise you till the end of time no matter how many war crimes you commit on the field

johnny likes when you help him trim/maintain his hair

it's such an intimate thing for him and the fact that you're helping take care of something so personal to johnny makes his heart swell

alejandro vargas.

will absolutely bring attention to the fact that your hands are massive

wolf whistles, even.

alejandro thinks it's the greatest thing ever making you flush

absolutely gushes to rudy about it

ok so now ur in a relationship:

ONE TIME alejandro was getting a bit too big for his britches so you stalked up to him and grasped his neck lightly. (if ur taller than him is what im imagining but wtv) ale was turned on

always wants to be touching you or you touching him

when he has free time he'll come find you, cuddle, play with your fingers while tou watch a movie or something

thinks about you jerking him off when you're both in a meeting or in a semi-public space

practically sings praises about how he loveloveloves your hands

könig

ok if your hands are larger than his than yes bro would pass tf out when he realized

would be very quiet about his attraction to your hands but his obvious staring spoke volumes

would immediately want to be slutted out when you had sex with him

plays with your hands when he's bored or really anxious

REALLY into you holding him by his neck and showing you how much he wants to be taken care of

loves when you tend to any sore muscles or wounds

honestly könig wants a simple, domestic life with all of the things hes seen

HAND HOLDING IS A MUST‼

watches you disassemble, clean, and reassemble guns like you didn't have ur fingers in his mouth the night before with a lopsided smile

you both spar together, learning from each other and being the duo that no other trio or group want to fight

together, you both are unstoppable. the admiration and personal connection you both have baffles many

[millerscoffee]

dancing is a dangerous game | part one

you're a bandit like me, eyes full of stars.

5.5k | joel miller x f!reader

masterlist

rating: 18+ MDNI

tw: brief mentions of using your body for trading purposes, you shoot at joel miller????, light dub-con but that goes away quickly

warnings: post-outbreak au. no ellie. angsty smut, semi-dom!reader and dom!joel so that's fun, power struggle, age gap (joel is 56, reader is late 20s or early 30s), enemies to lovers, voyeurism (f watching m), masturbation (m and f), pet names/degrading names (baby, honey, darlin', brat, bitch, slut, etc.), dirty talk, choking, oral (m receiving), fingering, spanking, p in v (unprotected - wrap it up folks), joel is mean but not unkind. no use of y/n.

summary: inspired by "cowboy by me" by our lord and savior taylor swift. this is a post-outbreak world and joel has his own land. think bill, but a little less... deranged. kind of. you essentially are a raider, but make it fashion. when you stalk joel's cabin for the third day, that's when you get interrogated by none other than joel miller himself.

A/N: hi, i'm bee! this is my first fic on tumblr, and my first stab at this whole stratosphere. longtime listener; first time caller 💅. i was ALSO inspired by an ask i saw on @swiftispunk's page (hi! i love your writing sm??) and kinda just... ran with it. i honestly wasn't anticipating writing stuff during the outbreak, so i apologise if it's not quite right. imagine me living during that time with a tube of lipgloss and one (1) bullet in my pocket just in case. this... may be a series. i don't know yet. see ya! enjoy!!!

The first time you meet Joel Miller is down the barrel of your gun.

You can hear your father's voice telling you 'Back out, girl. Don't get too big for your britches.' Look where that got him. His ashes against your chest in a makeshift pendant necklace, buried by your clothes.

Still, you listen.

"It don't have to be like this," you drawl with index over the trigger guard. You've heard of him. Joel Miller. He's notorious, and even though you've kept to yourself most of your life, his name still roamed throughout the abandoned towns you passed. Someone always owed him, and he always owed somebody.

Your dad would've been older than him, but not by much. You knew of the world before this, was just a little thing. Still, you heard stories undulate from your father's southern voice that mostly left you bored on long days searching for food or shelter. You'd give anything to hear them now.

Part of you died when he did.

You were young when the outbreak happened. Resourceful, your father made it work in raising you. Taught you how to fend for yourself, rely on no one. Which was no easy feat considering how unbelievably stubborn you were. Were? Are.

Maybe he loved you. Maybe it was the chip on his shoulder. The kind of anguish that comes from not being able to give your mother the same kind of life. A promise to her.

Yes, you were young when the outbreak happened, but flashbacks of her getting attacked by a clicker burn you alive at night.

"Y'er on my land." A gruff voice calls you back to reality. Few words for someone who held your life in his hands. His own gun pointing back at you. Of course it would be.

"I was just passin' through." The lie flies through your teeth. You had been circling the place from a reasonable distance for a few days now. Scoping out when this man in front of you was his busiest, when he patrolled, when he slept. This was a heist situation, no doubt about it.

"Bullshit. This s'the third fuckin' time I seen you 'round here. And it's y'er last."

Shit. Fucking shit.

Your eyes dart to the side, really trying to pattern a plan in escaping but your breathing would say otherwise as calm and collected as it was.

In any other situation, you wouldn't be so willing to comply, but considering he's got you cornered and his gun is quite literally cocked and ready to go – you're not exactly in the position to make hasty decisions.

Goddammit if there wasn't something about him that made you nervous.

"Listen. Just was lookin' for somewhere to sleep. It's fuckin' cold and your stables look warm." Your head tilts in the direction of a lone horse's home in a bed of hay, and you're not fully lying. It's not that you have set up camp by any means, but you've noticed.

"We could trade. You give me y'er ammo, and I g–"

"You give me your cock, I get it. You really could be more original." You were used to this. Bartering, some might call it. Living out here on your own was dangerous, and running into men who wanted to use your body in order to get supplies wasn't that uncommon. If they were that kind, even. You'd heard the horror stories.

Albeit, most of these men met your gun in the end. Enabling you acquire their supplies, keep all yours, and your dignity. Win/win.

"...I give you the pleasure of livin' another day. Really? Y'think it's that easy?"

There was something in the way Joel says this that makes you grateful for the jacket you're wearing. Goosebumps prickle your skin, bile creeping up your throat and you will it back down again. Y'think it's that easy? As if he thought you wanted it.

If circumstances were different, you'd be rubbing the crimson off your cheeks. Flashing him a sheepish grin in an attempt to resolve whatever misunderstanding there was... but this wasn't the environment to elicit such conversation.

And you weren't that type of person to begin with.

Instead, your index sweeps from guard to trigger when you fire off at his leg. Hasty decisions be damned. You're quicker than him, so why're you tryin' to save him? You're a 'shoot to kill' type of person, and as the bullet grazes past his calf – part of you wishes you had.

Because not only did your bullet not make contact, Joel gets worse. You two lock eyes. His rifle is thrown over his shoulder as he grunts and walks perfectly fine over to you – despite the way his eyebrows knit together, jaw ticked. Was that a grin? Do something, anything – run.

Joel grips the nape of your neck, and you yelp in surprise.

Who the fuck does this man think he is?

His large hand eclipses your wrist as he maneuvers the gun from your hand. The action makes you writhe in pain, and it sends a shiver down your spine to know he's only using an ounce of his power.

You dig your elbow into his ribs despite him stronger than you. Stomping, kicking, punching anything you can find.

"What the fu–"

"Little girl, you picked the wrong one." His breath edges at the shell of your ear, and every sign should be pointing for you to hate this, but it almost feels familiar. Like yourself. It's only then when you worry.

---

You don't realise it, but Joel is pushing you inside his cabin. Keeping your head in direction of the ground, thud of the door heard somewhere behind you.

"You want to be treated like a big girl? Get these fuckin' pants off."

"What... what? No I'm fuckin' not–"

Joel chews up the space between you when he pushes you to the nearest wall. Your back at his chest, a cheek flush against the cabin's support.

Pine, tobacco, and whiskey fill your senses and you bite back the urge to whimper. He wouldn't see you like that.

"You're not? That why you were watchin' me jerk off last night? 'Cuz you don't wanna give it up?"

That alone makes blood creep up your neck and spill over your cheeks. You have to squeeze your legs together to quell the ache.

It was lonely on your own.

Most nights were spent half asleep on a cold, hard surface. Tired and hungry more days than not. You don't remember the last time you got a hot meal, much less been touched. So when you heard Joel's low grunts coming from the window (a window from a cabin you don't know quite yet that he built with his own hands) you become intrigued.

It's in this moment you're certain it must have been the rustling of branches just outside his room. You remember it happening last night, cursing to yourself for making noise. His fist stalled around the girth of his fat cock before spilling his seed over his stomach. As if that is what caused him to come.

It makes sense now, and it equally causes you to become dizzy and filled with rage. You bite your bottom lip, unable to think of a response.

"Mouthy thing ain't got much to say now. Now c'mon. I ain't taking these off you, doin' it y'erself." More of a warning, Joel lets up on his grip on you, but you're defenseless. No weapons, no pack. He's got your world in his hands.

With the newly found space between the two of you, you turn around – back of your head against the wall as your eyes find the other set for, perhaps, the first time. And they're deep. Deeper than you were aware of. Dark, impossibly round. Wrinkles reside on the sides of them, and if you knew any better, you wouldn't admit they were doing something to you.

But not only are you stubborn, you're too forthright to beat around the bush.

"I shot at you, and you want my cunt? You must be lonelier than I a–"

"Now."

Your words don't match your actions as your hands fall by your sides. Fingers play with zipper of your old, faded jeans that have seen better days.

You can't help but snicker an awkward laugh from how he's just watching you. Insecurities rise when you realise you're not laughing at him, but more his eyes on you. How intense it feels suddenly. He wants this. Wants you.

His eyes draw impatiently, broad frame leaning against the opposite wall, arms crossed.

"Ain't got all day. Still considerin' your death."

His arms. Bulging through the fabric of his shirt, his body was built in a way that you could tell he worked with his hands... maybe in his past life, too. Throat dry, you shimmy out of your pants until you're left in your cotton panties.

Ones that you are becoming more aware the condition of. A small pool of wetness forming at the core of you clings to the fabric.

"Top, too."

Is that? It is. Your eyes wander down to see the growing bulge in Joel's pants. Not even the hem of his flannel could hide it. Sure, you'd seen it in its full form the night before, but that was with distance and without the heat rising between the two of you.

You bite your lip without hesitation, pulling the layers of jacket and a handful of tops onto the ground until you're bare. The cool air passes over your nipples and wills them into stiff peaks.

"Ain't you somethin', baby."

That's the first time Joel Miller draws a shaky exhale out of you. All from a single sentence.

When Joel steps over to you, that calm and collected breath is nowhere to be found. Your chest rises and falls at a random pattern, feeling more and more naked by the second as his clothes are completely kept on his body. A purposeful tactic.

He bends down to collect your clothes along with everything else that yours, and you are truly at his will. So busy on the precipice of pleasure that you don't even think about trying to get away.

"Stay."

"Ain't a dog." You glare, standing with your legs brushing together.

"Then quit actin' like a bitch. And quit movin', I'm gettin' to you."

It shuts you up quick, jaw snapping shut. You're certain if he told that to anyone else they'd be reduced to tears, but you can take it. It coils a heat inside the pit of your stomach that you've never felt. Causes your clit to feel as if it's on fire from the need to touch it.

Joel turns on his heel to walk away and it's as if you're able to breathe fresh air from the humidity he brings. You notice he's putting your things and his rifle away on his kitchen counter before coming back to you. He must really trust his ability to keep everything out like that.

Then again, have you even moved in the last five minutes?

The last thing he is, is worried.

You're able to look around, if only for a moment. Though, is it really looking? Your adrenaline is pumping, pupils blown from the fact that not only are you in the house you'd been stalking... you're about to fuck the man in it. And you almost tried to kill him. You definitely didn't miss on purpose. Couldn't have.

All the same, the cabin was nice, and you could take in briefly the light wood – old and weathered. A record player in the corner beside a guitar. This stuff could get you a lot in return, but for whatever reason that doesn't even cross your mind. Maybe your heart beating in your ears is a handy distraction to keep you walking the line.

Your eyes track the rugged man instead.

---

"Here's how this is gonna go," he announces, coming back to you and not phased that you haven't moved a muscle. "You are gonna take your ass over there on the couch. You're gonna make me come, then you're gonna go. Understand?"

"Well... I guess it is that easy."

Your bratty mouth getting you in trouble again. As if you're in the position to say anything. Naked as you are.

---

Joel's jaw ticks forward in a way that makes you feel fear, yet there's a direct correlation between it and the slick gathering between your folds. The same wide hand that gripped the nape of your neck wraps around the front of your throat while he pushes you against the wall, and your shoulders slump – all but folding instantly.

His mouth is inches from yours, forcing you to look him in the eyes.

"Listen here. I've been real kind to you. Coulda killed ya day one, tryin' to steal my shit like that. Was gonna be real kind in where I fucked ya, too. Now we're gonna fix that mouth a'yours and fast. Knees. Now." You soon come to know this isn't a suggestion. It's not even a warning. It is what's happening.

It's in the way Joel's hands guide you down onto your knees. He goes for his belt and you hear and see that distinct clang of metal untangle before your very senses. Your mouth waters instantly, teetering into fully giving into this struggle of power.

Joel's hands are calloused. You can tell he takes care of them, but that doesn't hide the wear and tear. Specifically on his fingertips. They grip your jaw roughly, and you choke back a moan as your mouth hangs open pliantly from this. Every nerve ending buzzing to be touched.

"Where'd that bratty girl go, huh? You done bein' big and bad – wanna be a slut, don’tcha?"

Your eyelash splay along your cheeks as you nod, and you feel his grip tighten, tugging your chin up higher.

"Look at me. You want this cock? I need your words. Tell me you wanna be a slut."

You're not sure when it happens, but hot tears run down your cheeks as everything comes to a head. Your body is trembling with raw desire right at your fingertips, just within reach. You can't hold back anymore, it physically hurts to.

"I wanna be a slut for this cock... please."

"Fuck, even a please. Oughta eat you out for that, sugar. Maybe next time."

Your brain is swimming at the thought. Next time?

With his free hand, Joel sets his cock free from his jeans, giving a satisfying smack to his abdomen quickly. No need for another piece of fabric keeping him from getting what he wants as you soon take note he isn't wearing boxers.

There's no denying what you're met with as you get to view it from this close. Joel Miller has a pretty cock. There's a soft, but bulging vein on the underside to match how big and thick it is. The rosy tip greets you, and it's the first time you get to see how much you've turned him on.

Your mouth is drooling while it's pried open and meets the tip of him. A moan from you is instantaneous, yet feels so distant from yourself, it doesn't affect you until much later. The taste of his precum coats your tongue as he slips past your lips and it's all you can experience. Your moans slip in and out of the sloshing sounds of your mouth. Keeping your hands by your sides, you don't tempt to touch him in fear he would pull away, so instead you twirl your tongue around his leaking head. Bob your head up and down in a slow, but sultry rhythm that causes him curse under his breath. He's not stoic above you, he's reacting.

He's clawing for every last bit of the upper hand.

"S'a lot, innit, babygirl? That's alright, you can take it." It's then you can sense Joel's guard slipping. Could be the fact that your mouth is suctioned perfectly around the length of his cock, but his voice gets damn sweeter the longer you go like this. His hips also have no problem in thrusting shallowly every now and then to knock the drool off of your dripping chin.

Even if you could form a thought, you don't know you would.

His fingers tangle in your hair, pulling it out of your face as you maintain eye contact. Intuitive in your approach, he told you to look at him earlier, so maybe he likes it? The groans filling the room lead you to believe you are correct. It feels so removed from who you were moments before: snickering because his gaze felt intimidating. Now, his pupils are blown as they pour into yours and his neck hangs back when your mouth makes those pretty, sloppy popping noises – testing your gag reflexes as you will them to relax.

It's way more intimate than anything you've ever done with anyone you've ever been with, and this stranger is pulling it out of you. Within the mess your brain is in, you remind yourself if you want to stop you can, and not a bit of you does.

The hot tears that were once down your cheeks swell in your eyes once more, but this time from the sheer size of him. You moan vibration after vibration against him, shifting and pushing your cunt against your calf, thigh – anything to feel some sort of friction.

He lets out a growl when he notices you, "Honey, if it's that bad, touch yourself." If your cheeks weren't red before, they are now.

It's him calling you out, slight embarrassingly, but not letting up with his hips. It's the way the embarrassment builds the fire in the pit of your belly. It's your hand pushing inside your panties at the sound of his command. And it's you practically choking on his cock from the gasp you let out through your nose – stunned at how wet you are.

Your fingertips barely brush over your clit when you notice the slick collecting, bubbling right at the very top of your slit and slutty moans fall out of you. Your eyelids droop as you try to keep your gaze up to Joel, but the way your fingertips roll over the hood of your clit in satisfying circles sends you over the edge way quicker than you anticipate.

"Shit, baby. Just like that. You filthy thing, can't hold off another minute longer, can ya? Need it right fuckin' now."

The sound of Joel's deep voice looms overhead as you come completely undone.

Unable to stop yourself, the suction on his cock pops free for a moment. Your moans hitting the air as your eyes roll back. Your body rushing to find each wave of pleasure roll off your back. Joel's cock still nestled in your mouth, but his hips still. "Goddamn, look at that little slut come out. Such a needy fuckin' kitten."

When Joel makes sure you've ridden it out, he pulls his cock from your mouth. Your body feels weak despite how eager your mind is now, face-to-face with Joel's cock, you watch as his scarred hand glides your saliva over his length entirely. It puts you in a trance, quickly getting out of it when he taps his cock against your cheek. "Pretty kitten want this? C'mon."

If your moans felt foreign to you, you don't even know what to do with yourself at the twinge of a grin that spreads on your face. The sheer audacity of his taps right against your fucking cheek. Orgasm-drunk, you shuffle to your feet and Joel has no problem in tossing you – finally – to the couch.

Your back is to him while the front of your body brackets the width of his couch, arms hunched over the back of it, knees dig into the cushions. You're grateful for the lack of eye contact in this position as it gives you a moment to press your face into your bicep, an attempt to collect yourself. But all of it obsolete when you sense Joel's presence at your ass.

His body heat unmistakable to miss. You bite at your own skin, neck craning to behind you to watch him.

"Shit, darlin', look at you. Ass up like this like y'er in fuckin' heat for me." You whine at the fact his clothes are still mostly on, and you know he must be sweating underneath them, but he won't give it to you like that. Not yet, 'maybe next time'. "You know I can't go any further 'til you get a spankin'. Need to be punished for tryin' to hurt me like that. For tryin' to take my things. Ain't right. Need you to learn your lesson."

Where are you? A part of you knows this is a tactic. That Joel is lulling you into a position you can't say no to. It already shows itself in how you're splayed on his couch. Yet, you can't find the person you were before you stepped into the cabin. Not yet, not like this. You nod weakly, and Joel swipes the cotton undies down to your thighs so quickly the rush of air cools the heat of your folds. A flutter runs through you.

"Count. To ten. If you don't, we start over. Say, yes sir."

"Y-yes... sir. Yes sir."

A searing, mind-numbing spank wallops over your ass and it causes your hips to jut forward. Whimper hitting the top of your throat, you almost, almost, forget to count. Everything in your senses distracting you from completing the simplest tasks such as fucking counting.

"O-one." Another. "Twooo." And again. "Th-three!"

You start sniffling by the third smack of his wide hand, and you hear mocking sniffs behind your head. "Aww, pretty baby can't take the hurt she tries to give to others? That must be really tough. Y'heart's bleedin' all over my couch, honey."

Your cheeks burn, you really feel sorry for what you've done. Or at least, what you were planning to do.

The next spank leaves a welt of Joel's handprint across your skin. "FOUR!" Your body begins to feel weak, sliding against the couch, you know talking back is useless as you silent tears stream into your arm.

There are six more blinding slaps to your ass by the time he's done with you, and you feel him pull back when he's through. You imagine him wringing his palms, the roughness of them. You begin to wonder if that's how they got to be so weathered, and pretend not to be weirded out by the ache of jealousy.

"Y'know for somebody whinin' the whole time, your pussy is just droolin' from that," any narrative you wandered off with disappears in its replacement of Joel's fingers gathering slick between your folds. No announcement, just go. It was just within reach, feeling him inside you. You ride the shudder your body makes, licking your lips as you realise the unspoken rule is free and you can speak. "N-need it. Need your cock, please... please." "Need it, and you don't even know my name?" His index and middle finger waste no time in pressing into your aching core. Sounds of your wailing mix with his words as he lurches over, lip close to your ear. "Or maybe you do already."

"Please, please, please," your fingertips grip for the worn fabric of his couch while your hips that try to jut back are quickly halted by his other palm, a strong stopper at the base of your spine. "Not 'til you tell me my name." "I-I don't know. I don't know it, I swear." Joel's thick fingers slip completely out of you and you mewl pathetically, pussy clenching around nothing and he can see every last detail of it behind you. "Last fuckin' time, better tell me the truth." "It's Joel," you cry, hips pushing back against the resistance as much as possible. Anything to be filled again. "Joel. Joel. Joel. I was... I was– I don't know anybody. Not with anybody, I swear! Joel, I swear. Please! Just grew up hearin' your name. I swear on my life, Joel, please! I know I lied, didn't think you'd believe me."

You don't know why you're begging like your life depends on it, but your pleasure surely does, and there's a longer pause than you want lingering behind you. As if you can palpably feel Joel contemplating whether you're being truthful or not. But if there's one thing about you, aside from this moment in this compromising position: you don't answer to anybody.

Joel's cock bottoming out inside of you at the drop of a hat is confirmation enough that he believes you.

And you not only wail, but scream at the stretch and irresistible contact that punches you straight to your gut – right where you can feel the tip of him. Half-moon prints dig into your hips by his short fingernails when he grabs ahold of you and you're on your forearms, head hanging between your shoulders. Your panties keep your thighs straying too far apart if there is such a thing.

"This what you wanted when you watched me?" Joel grips your torso now, pulling you closer to him as you become more upright, his cock more accessible to the spongy spot inside of you and your nipples stand erect, eyes rolling back as it takes all of you not to rest your head back against his shoulder, and you fail. Hard. Your occiput makes contact with his shoulder. Joel brushes your hair back to the side, lips graze but never fully touches the column of your neck. "Thought about this tight cunt last night. Left the window open on purpose, but you knew that already, didn't you, pretty girl? Clever little thing and so fuckin' dirty."

Joel's hand snakes around the front of you, spreading your folds as he dives his fingers over your glossed-over clit your wetness claimed and that sends a whine off of your depraved lips. "That's it, honey. Show me what this cock does to ya. Makes you downright brainless from how well you take it." While his skilled fingers, toy with your clit, the other set of digits graze over your breasts on their way up to your mouth. You take them inside the warmth of your wet mouth easily, rolling your tongue over the digits until you can only focus on the white hot pleasure beginning to boil over. You keep his fingers between your teeth, a faint realisation that you can taste yourself on them. That's what does it.

His hips are relentless as they pound into you, the repetitious slaps of his skin against yours, of his balls tapping your cunt again and again sends you into a place that he knows you're approaching when you tighten and pulse.

"Y'know how tight and wet you feel around me, darlin'? Never had a fuckin' cunt like this. Let it out, let it out, just like you wanna. Just like you did last night around your fingers. Nothin' like this cock though, and you know it now, don't you? Oh, fuck yeah– thaaat's it. Look at you." "Joel... Joel!!!" Joel talks you through it, sending your body diving off the cliff that is your second orgasm. The undeniable gush of your fluids around his cock. His name stays stuck at the your tongue, the constant thud of it vibrates your lungs.

It starts at the attention on your clit. The raw bundle of nerves send signals outward as it spreads down your legs, up your stomach, to your nipples and down your spine. Your brain feels effervescent, toes curl, and it comes back again right to your heart. Your beating heart, wild, and every moan, whimper, scream that comes from you sounds like it is from someone else's chest. But it's yours, and you know that when you start to feel hazy, unable to hold yourself up anymore.

"Good for my cock after all. Ain't ya, baby? Shit."

Your torso leans forward while your cheek rests on the top of your hand that's gripped on Joel's couch, and your body is relaxed and fucked. Comfortably silent, just the way Joel would want you. His cock slips out of you, unable to stop the slew of grunts and groans that acts as an anchor to keep you from slipping under. You lick your lips, looking back at him with a nod, unable to stay silent for long. That struggle of power coming back for vengeance. "That's right. Come all over this ass you ruined. See those handprints? Dirty fucking man, you just met me. Show me how much you enjoyed doing that."

That's as far as you get when you feel the heavy streams of his hot, white come rope over your skin, and for someone who is no position to be smug, you sure do have a shit-eating grin on your face. Pure, and the simplest thing the two of you accomplish.

Joel shakes his head, shallow breaths become him as he staggers back and you pretend not to notice. "Gonna kill me, kid."

"Almost did."

---

You don't know why, but neither of you hold the promise of you leaving right away. You linger, both of you half naked and spent. You take your time cleaning yourself off, slipping your clothes back on. Day becoming night.

You tiptoe into the living room where Joel is unfurled on his couch. His eyes are closed, the back of his head inches away from where the two of you just had sex.

Planning your goodbye, you sit at the edge of the couch cushion, knowing he wasn't really asleep. Just restin' his eyes.

"I am sorry...," you finally say into the dimly lit room, pangs of annoyance fizz at your tongue for even apologising. For shooting him, for trying to steal from him. All of it.

It's not his fault. It's just how you are.

This is dichotomous in relation to your eyes. They're bleary when a yawn pulls deep from within you. As if rest had been climbing up to the surface this entire time.

"Maybe you should be apologisin' 'bout your shitty aim. Could teach you a thing or two." Joel's eyes remained closed, arms crossed. If you could let yourself experience this, you would notice how soft he looks in this moment. Instead, your stomach is recoils in fight or flight.

You're glad he can't see you swallow the knot in your throat.

There was no magical solution for your life, and a part of you wishes you hadn't chosen his cabin to raid. You wish you hadn't met him, because now you could feel yourself want to notice the small things in him. Already.

You felt it dangerous to let anything that close to you.

You scoff to play it off, giving his chest a light shove and very accidentally getting lost in the light landscape of hairs that resides at the top of his flannel. "I could teach you a thing or two." A pathetic response for a pathetically spent human.

"We could both teach each other," he resigns and you're grateful he doesn't point out your lack of wit for how worn out he's made you. Perhaps the smugness settles in the things he doesn't say. Really, it's in what Joel spouts off next that throws you upside down.

"S'why you should stay. One month. That's it."

"Excuse me?"

"Didn't stuttered," your eyes roll and somehow, despite Joel's own being shut, he tuts his teeth. "Don't roll your eyes at me, little girl. You need a place to sleep. Besides, I could use an extra set of hands. Way I see it, best offer you've had in a while. Got a shelf life, though. Don't like to wait."

A part of you is suspicious, and if this man didn't make sure you orgasmed twice, you would suspect yourself to be dead within a matter of minutes.

There's something true about him, though. You're unwilling to look at it directly, but you trust him.

"Fine."

"Gonna need clearer confirmation, darlin'. Really need you to want this if you're gonna stay with me." He knew exactly where to press.

"Fuck, I shoulda killed you when I had the chance. I want to stay with you. One month." You try to ignore the grit between your teeth as speak, but your shoulders eventually soften. And you really do mean it. It's just... you're hardened from years of misplaced trust.

Your hand goes to the pendant around your neck subconsciously.

Joel either doesn't notice, or gives you the space.

You're grateful either way.

"That's that, then."

If anyone could understand the concept, it's Joel.

"That's that."

[eluxcastar]

idk if we're meant to req this way but Pantalone Dottore and Capitano (separate) with #6?? please we're starving out here ri

Opening up to their s/o

── ୨୧：pantalone, il dottore, il capitano x reader (separate)

୨୧﹑synopsis :: more of this prompt more comfort drabbles spins

୨୧﹑genre :: fluff but I would maybe not call it straight fluff

୨୧﹑content :: gn reader, literally none of these people effectively communicate, kinda vague on purpose

୨୧﹑words :: 1.3k

Opening up for the first time.

is nobody feeding you?? I mean I know I've been slow but anon honey are you ok 😭

sorry this has taken so long as I said medical issues I swear I'm back to not starve you I've been thinking of this since I received it actually because you said you're starving. to everyone else, I'm getting off my ass

prompt list

── ୨୧：pantalone

Pantalone is not typically emotional. He is prone to fronts and lies, and he is not enthusiastic about the idea of sharing his feelings with you. It's not in his nature to be emotional, though Pantalone feigns such things and uses it to hide things from you. Playful with you each time you question him, he'll evade it and convince you, to his satisfaction, that everything is fine.

You hardly believe him, as is the case with many of the things he says. His well-crafted exterior hardly masks his stress once caught off guard, crushed under the pressure of maintaining the image of a well-groomed and high-class businessman.

The people he associates with disgust him, as do their actions and worldviews. They were raised in a world of glamour and decadence where he's belittled, new money in a sea of people living off of old money. It never seems to get to Pantalone until it does; the outbursts of anger are what follow. It's fine, he always says. He just needed a moment.

But nothing will ever be enough, he realises, your arms so inviting as you stand by the chair at his desk, running your hands through his hair, only a month after you made it official you were dating. Pantalone's poker face was pretty while it lasted, but his messier sides were always lurking just around the corner. To hold his head in your arms and console him through his pent-up anger is therapeutic to him, a labour of love for you.

His composure is fragile at times as he dances on the occasionally very thin line between put together and on the verge of smashing his wine glass in frustration right in front of an acquaintance. It's certainly not pretty, and he makes his fingers hurt at times from how hard he fights to refrain from doing it, but it keeps the very thing he works so hard for—his reputation.

Pantalone got so far, but it still amounts to nothing, even when he's the wealthiest man in the world. Nothing matters in the face of a reputation lingering, a poor man pretending to be rich, new money already too big for his britches. You don't care about his reputation, and you're not caught up in appearances. He likes that.

He likes how you laugh as you tell him that's junk, rich people crap, aristocratic bullshit. It feels comforting, like home to laugh his problems off as the pettiness of others. It's nice to let go of such a serious outlook.

 

── ୨୧：il dottore

Dottore's idea of sharing with you very much involves deflecting, avoiding and dancing around the many problems in his life, not eager to rely on a person when he could solve the issue himself. If you never need to know, you never start worrying and never dwell on it. He never has to face the problem properly.

For small things, that doesn't seem so strange. Dottore can quickly move on without them bothering him too much because that's the natural way of dealing with minor inconveniences, short of being ironically dramatic. Something goes wrong, and he can solve it within fifteen minutes. It's like water off a duck's back. Other times, Dottore will wake up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat, and his greatest worry is how to make sure he doesn't wake you up as he slips out of bed.

No matter how often you tell Dottore to tell you what's wrong, he tries to assure you it's nothing, insignificant or a temporary setback. It's not that, as evidenced by his troubled face. It doesn't shake his lies. He'll run off and try to fix it all himself just as he always has, previously stemming entirely from the fact he had to, now purely by habit. If it ain't broke, don't fix it (it's broke).

So to hear him open up is…strange, though you are used to long-winded rambles reminiscent of a raving madman. He talks quickly sometimes and expects you to follow to the best of your abilities. Whether you can or not is another question. It is different, tired and spent from a day of hard work, hands raking through his messy blue hair as words fall from his lips as quickly as they enter his mind, barely coherent sentences of every inconvenience big and small he faced.

In a way, he hopes it's so hurried and jumbled you'll hardly catch half of it, though you sit by his side and debate between rubbing his back and not startling him with the sudden touch. It feels like the release of every little thing he bottled up overflows, and he doesn't want to speak once he settles, quiet. He looks at you with such exhaustion in his eyes, and you touch your hands to his face with as much caution as you can muster. He lets out a sigh the closest filled with the closest to relief he can get.

It is not perfect; he is an imperfect man. But it is his first step, and he can be nurtured.

 

── ୨୧：il capitano

Capitano doesn't intentionally hide things at a glance. He's usually very open with what he says, but some things slip his mind, and he's hardly keen on speaking from an emotional standpoint. Everything is objective, a piece of news and not a conversation about what happened. Someone fell down a ravine. What happened? They died. And his reaction? It happens all the time.

Objectively, that measure is correct, but it ignores the fact that people are people. He never wants to acknowledge being part of something because Capitano can tell you things without needing to. You notice it but avoid bringing it up, wondering maybe if that's just how he copes with it all. The years of death and bloodshed will weigh down on him, but if he doesn't bring it up to you, he'll have a reprieve to retreat to.

It's not good enough, but people never are. Everyone has their vice, and perhaps Capitano's vice is separating himself from who he is in battle once he returns home.

He never had a single point at which everything came crashing down, and the world felt bleak, but a series of small moments where Capitano let it slip that he mourned each loss with unimaginable care. Capitano remembers their names and keeps items to memorialise them. Somehow, that's not unthinkable with the way he keeps his regiment running like a well-oiled machine, every person there to better it in some way. He picked those people by hand.

Capitano paces when he thinks. He paces more than usual around the room in circles on a particularly rough night. He suffered a great setback, as it was put. You try everything you can think of to get through to him, from asking him to talk to you to telling him to sit down. He insists on just being preoccupied.

Coincidentally, that gets you the furthest as he tries to push you away with excuses.

He's preoccupied. Why? He had a difficult mission. What happened? People died. And? And what? There shouldn't be more, yet it unravels, the loose thread of his stoic composure suddenly coming apart. He knew them by name; it hurt to lose them, and he wishes to personally deliver their belongings to their families as soon as possible. That's it. That's enough for him to curl up on the couch and quietly accept that you finally got him to say something and that it was pleasant to have it be less of a burden to carry such things.

[wittlesissyb4by]

It was such a pathetic sight. Ryan was squishing in his chair, crinkling in his ridiculous diaper, and blowing raspberries between bites of mushy carrots.

I can’t believe how far he’s come, or, rather, how far he’s fallen. Ryan used to be a pompous, chauvinistic asshole who got a little too big for his own britches. If he wasn’t trying to  impress his holier than thou attitude upon anyone he could in public, he was doing it at home with me. I was beneath him. I was nothing but a 50’s housewife expected to cook, clean, and pick-up after him. Oh, and to be there to please his tiny dick for almost a full 30-seconds…

I was tired of it, sick of being nothing but a vending machine for him to call on, only to be left thankless and underappreciated. Things had to change.

So, I started off small, slipping various hormones and chemicals into the food I was ordered to cook for him every night. When he was sleeping, I’d put on a little hypnosis for him to listen to after I popped my earmuffs in. 

The effects were gradual at first. He started complaining about his nipples hurting. I’d find wet stains in his underwear, and he’d whimper and whine about the tiniest things (okay, maybe that wasn’t much different than before…). Soon I noticed him constantly needing to have something in his mouth. It started out with just his fingernails, then a toothpick, a plastic cap, and–when I started taking those away and he’d (literally) cry–he would resort to sucking his thumb.

He was actually giggling with delight when I brought home a pacifier. That was when things really started kicking in. He’d come home from work with wet underpants, and would wake up in soaking sheets. So, obviously, it was time for diapers. He protested at first, but soon I’d come into the living room to find him humping and crinkling on the floor, drooling all over his thumb. Where he used to bark at me to bring him a beer when he got home, he was now begging and pleading for a bottle of ‘milkies’ with his wittle baby voice.

He learned to address me as Mommy, to say ‘pweez’ and thank you for every little thing. He even agreed to let me bring home other guys. Real men for me to play with. There was a time where he’d try to act all macho in front of other men, now he’d get on his knees and suck their dick if I told him it was his ‘ba ba’ for the day.

He has no problem dressing like a girl, in fact, he kind of throws a fit if all his pink tutu’s and rompers are dirty and he has to wear a blue onesie. I used to let him hump his huggies as much as his little heart desired, I’d rather him pump his pitiful load into pampers instead of my pussy while I pretend to enjoy it–but then I took that away as well. He still whines and cries sometimes for me to let him out of his chastity cage for ‘cum cums’, but those are a thing of the past now.

It’s funny, he used to think he was so smart, he’d belittle everyone around him for not knowing the most random of facts. Now? He’s practically a braindead, bimbo baby. I mean, look at him. He’s blowing raspberries with muck in his mouth and drooling down his bib, smiling the whole time. He doesn’t seem to mind that he’s sitting in a heavily soiled diaper, in fact, he’s mushing around in it like a happy piggie playing in the mud.

I wonder if he understands that all of his money is now in my account. Sure, I’ll drop the hypnosis and send him out to work, only to make him snap back into it as soon as he’s home so I can tape him back in a diaper. Ryan–or Rylie–as she’s now called, is not even close to a man anymore. Her little dick is caged and diapered, right where it belongs. Now excuse me while I shovel more slop into her babbling mouth.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

This was a custom caption I did for one of my lovely supporters on SubStar! If you would like one of your very own, consider subscribing to the Silver tier or higher!

[chambergambit]

Read The World Downton Abbey a while back and it talked about how during WWI, some working class men gained a certain amount of social power due to their military service, only to have that social power suddenly disappear when the war ended, leaving these men to sort of flounder without it.

This phenomenon was explored in the show when it happens to Thomas. He was a Lance Sergent managing the convalescent hospital with Cora and Dr. Clarkson, putting him on a comparable or even higher level on the social ladder than Carson.

But then the war ended, and the soldiers convalescing went home, causing Thomas to not only lose the social power he'd gained, but his very livelyhood.

DA fans (very much including myself) tend to remember this as "that time Thomas got too big for his britches and didn't think ahead, then managed to fail upwards by stealing a dog and then losing it" and I feel like maybe we should consider it more in its broader context as a pretty widespread class issue than just an amusing Thomas plotline.

[hanasnx]

Anakin says "Mami" to goad you into speaking Spanish, but if you get a little too smug about him not knowing what you're saying, he gets all rough and starts speaking huttese because he's petty and defensive.

Maybe he shoves his dick in you and yells in your face to speak huttese until you muster up what little you've picked up from him.

"speak, are you stupid? You fucking dumb"

"Ani I ca—"

"Speak right or my fist is going in your mouth."

got your other msg saying this was donnie 💕

what do i even say other than holy fucking shit. this shit had my jaw drop to the floor im freaking out rn bcos oh my fucking g o d DONNIE DONnIE DONNIE DDODNDIE who is out here doing it like you

"ay, mami," smirking, knowing he's getting to you, grabbing onto your hips. "c'mon," a taunting drawl. and you get out of your own head about it, you let the words flow, and you can tell he's into it. all until you get too big for your britches (of course you do 🙄, he should've known). "you don't even know what i'm saying, do you?" you tease, all high and mighty. you can feel the change in his demeanor with how his grip digs into you. "what do you know, huh?" combating it with huttese out of his own insecurity. "i know shit too."

"really impress me. go on, show me what you've learned. or have you been slacking?" he asks in basic, only to switch to huttese. a vulgar attitude along with it, his upper lip snarling just like it usually does when he speaks it, "what do you got? let me hear it." his dick is fucking bullying your insides. shoving in and making room for itself. the sting of stretch not so bad because of how fucking wet you're getting from this. "yeah? you like when i call you stupid, whore?" his eyes widen with interest when he sees recognition pass over your face. "yeah, you know that word, don't you? say it. say 'schutta'."

threatening you he'll fist your mouth if you can't speak right.. fucking christ. im about to cum i swear this is so fucking hot. calling you stupid. "what have you been learning all these months? haven't been keeping up. ask me to teach you and you keep disappointing me. how many times are we gonna do this?" all because you spoke a little spanish to him and he happened to not know it.

kinda need him to shove his fist in your mouth tbh... fucking christ i cant stop thinking about "speak right or my fist is going in your mouth." holy fuck.

[thecuriousquest]

Can I request a part 2 (more like a prequel) of this fic please:

https://www.tumblr.com/thecuriousquest/727912708774690816/yandere-levi-making-his-favourite-cadet-cockwarm?source=share

Like their relationship and dynamic before this, how they got into this arrangement, their first sexual encounter, etc. NSFW please.

Little Pet (Prequel to The Favorite)

Tag List: @issamomma @repostingmyfavs @chickennugnugnug

Warnings: Yandere themes, NSFW, spanking punishment, finger fucking, vaginal sex, thigh riding, reader is a crass little thing, reader is 18 and short, Master/Pet, overstimulation, edging, manipulation, breaking reader down, dominance, sadism, submission

Master List here.

The Favorite here.

—————————————————————————

It was your own fault really. You were just a puffy little mess, too big for your own britches. You declared wildly that you would be the one to kill more Titans than anyone in history. You were going to be the one to even END the Titan war!

Levi couldn’t contain his shock. Sure, he’s heard things like this before from young and strong men who could easily lift a boulder if needed. Yes, he’s heard these drunken ramblings on the nights where soldiers were allowed to drink.

Never has he heard it from a little slip of a thing like you, though. You, just about as short as him while lacking muscle and any sort of special abilities, think you can manage such a feat.

Oh, he’s going to enjoy breaking you down, and he does.

You have the loudest mouth in the squadron. Always shouting, always fighting, always leading to your inevitable punishments.

Levi really likes singling you out, letting the people you fought with get off lightly. He likes to give them one day of kitchen duty while you’re to report to his office for some…special attention.

And his ministrations aren’t light either. Oh, no, ma’am. He takes you in an iron grip, firm discipline delivered right to your door.

You end up ass up over his thigh while he relaxes on the couch, a hand on the middle of your back, keeping you from moving around too much.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing? This isn’t right, Captain! You can’t fucking do this to me! Oh, fuck, I’m gonna raise hell once I get off of your knee! I’m telling Commander Erwin about this! You can’t do this to cadets-”

And you go on and on and on. He listens to you like a child telling their parent a make believe story. He listens with little interest, still hearing your words, but not necessarily finding any meaning or bite in them.

How cute you are.

He lets you tire yourself out. “Are you done? Good. Let me tell you what’s going to happen. You’re going to settle down for a long night because I can’t imagine this will be a quick session. You’re going to take this spanking, brat, and then I’m going to break you down. I’m going to make sure that by the time you leave this office, you’ll barely be able to walk straight.”

You try to push up again. It’s futile. You can’t get past his heavy hand on the middle of your back.

The spanking, true to his word, is long because you make it that way. You fight tooth and nail, thrashing around, punching the couch. You scream volatile threats at him.

You’re like a feral animal, too wild for your own good.

Yes, this will be so much fun.

He strips you of your pants and panties, letting you lie bare over his thighs. You’re humiliated. Tempted to bite him and try to run.

What if he catches you? Will it be worse if he gets his hands on you before you get out the door?

The captain’s palm is heavy against your blazing rear, and you simply can’t stand it anymore. You buck, your hips squirming.

Your body slowly starts to slump from all of your exertion, all of your fighting. It’s too much to keep going, and you press your wet nose against the calf of Levi’s pants as he raises and spanks your bottom. Your thighs, oh, they’re so sensitive! He really takes the time to pay special attention to the curve of your bottom and the backs of your thighs. He even orders you to spread your legs so that he can smack, smack, smack the insides of you thighs, where they are somehow even more sensitive than the backs.

It’s excruciating, mortifying. You feel like a small child, helpless. You don’t like it. Don’t like it one bit.

“Please, I’ll be good, sir!” you sob.

And his hand stops. It takes you a few short seconds to register that his palm is no longer inflicting damage on your backside.

Instead, now, he’s rubbing your tenderized flesh, and this somehow doesn’t feel relaxing. No, it hurts still. You would like for him to stop rubbing your overworked and burning bottom.

You sniffle and wipe your eyes with the sleeve of your shirt. As he rubs the insides of your raw thighs, you hiss on a sharp note, trying to calm yourself so as not to stir your captain’s anger again.

And then you think to yourself that he wasn’t angry. He was calm, smirking devilishly at you when he took you over his knee. There was no disdain or disappointment in his eyes. It was almost like he wanted to do it this way for another reason.

You find out what that reason is quickly as he works his deft fingers all the way up to your slit, gathering juices on the tips as he plunges them inside of you.

Your eyes widen, widen so much that they might pop out if you open them anymore. You can’t help it.

And fuck, it just feels too good. His fingertips slip in and out, in and out against your walls which squeeze around his digits.

It’s slippery for him. Fuck, he likes that a lot. A little too much for a cadet maybe.

“You’re a loud mouth because you want attention. Just a fucking kid looking for someone to listen to them. Well, go on and cry, scream for me. I’m all ears.”

And he is. His cock pays extra close attention to every guttural moan falling from your wet lips. Your chest puffs up in a different way and you lie half naked over your captain’s lap.

For a moment, a singular moment, you attempt defiance.

It doesn’t work in your favor as he speeds up the pumping of his fingers, adding a third one, slipping in and out, in and out, in and out.

You squeeze and squeeze, a raspy cry paired with the shake of your head. There’s fingers on your little button with thousands of nerves which makes you feel so, so fucking good.

You pant heavily, chest heaving, spanked backside long forgotten with his nice feeling hands.

You swear upon the walls that this man is the creation of an angel making wild love to a demon.

Levi pulls you up on his knee, forcing you to straddle it, making you ride it.

Your clit rubs against the fabric of his white pants, and you can’t imagine the stain you’re going to leave.

Will he be upset? You know how much he likes to keep things clean.

You throw these thoughts away when your head snaps back, his hair tangled in the mess of your locks.

“You tell me when you’re about to come, cadet, or I’ll take you down to one of the classrooms and cane you.”

No, you don’t want a caning. A caning might mess everything up. You, especially, don’t want this to end, these sexual pleasantries.

You ride his thigh, ride it back and forth, hard with the intention of making yourself feel good.

“What a fucking bitch. Such a loud mouth when you came in here. Look at you now. You’re just a come hungry cocksleeve. Such a little thing. Could make you do anything I want. Wouldn’t you like that? Wouldn’t you like to please me, cadet?”

“Yes, sir! Oh, fuck!”

“Yes, sir?” he tuts. “No, you’ll call other captains and commanders that. You’ll call me ‘Master’.”

And you don’t even think about it. “Yes, Master! Please, Master! Anything you want, Master!”

You’re so greedy for a climax.

“I’m gonna, Master, I’m gonna!”

Nothing. He lifts you off of his thigh and places you next to him. It causes you to squirm on your battered and raw ass, but you also huff in frustration at him. You whine, blatantly whine right to his face. You bring your fingers down to your throbbing pussy, aching with the loss of an orgasm.

Your captain grabs your wrists and shakes his head at you, tsking at you for being such a naughty little girl.

It makes you embarrassed. It makes you blush.

“Oh, don’t look at me like that, cadet. I’m not done punishing you. Remember what I said? I’m going to break you. You won’t be able to walk out of here on your own when I’m done with you.”

———

He doesn’t know just how much of a submissive little thing you could be until he’s through punishing you, and true to his word, you’re unable to even walk alone.

He spanks you raw, fucks you with his fingers, lets you ride his thigh, punishes you with his cock in all sorts of ways, slaps your ass some more. He even threatens to shove his dick down your throat if you don’t settle down like a good girl.

Of course, you sharpen up and calm yourself. You like how good he is making you feel, don’t want to stop even for a single second. Don’t even like the thought of stopping. He edges you and overstimulates you, letting you build up orgasms just to rip them away, and then making you come too many times in a row afterwards.

You don’t get a break. Not for water, not to pee. Mean Captain Ackerman.

———

Levi fixes his own clothes and then dresses you, puts your clothes back on like a child would a doll. You’re too fucked out to do it yourself as you lie down on his couch while he buttons your pants and then your shirt.

So cute. Such a submissive little thing.

Where’s the rough edge? The bite to your threat and declarations? Where did all of that bravado go?

It went straight out the door with all of your orgasms.

Knowing you’re way too tired, he picks you up and lets you settle against his chest, watching you breathe through your nose, your hair falling into your eyes.

You look softer now that you’re asleep. Less feral. More vulnerable in a sense. He chuckles to himself, and you stir, hearing the thunderous rumble in his chest.

You quickly still and continue your soft snooze as Levi takes you to your quarters. He’s quiet, slipping you into bed.

He doesn’t exactly want to leave you. He feels something stirring his insides as he watches the steady rise and fall of your chest.

His. You’re his and his alone. He’ll make sure of it, make sure you know it deep down. He’ll fucking break that lesson into you, punish it into you hard. You’ll call him “Master”, and you’ll be his little pet.

[doctorstethoscope]

Wonderstruck || Aaron Hotchner x fem reader

Hi besties missed you besties!! This is a little something sort of inspired by LDSK-- I was watching it and couldn't help but think how crushed I would be if I was in Spencer's shoes, lol. Not a direct au, just a little something adjacent to it!

and a huge thanks to @spacecowboyhotch for beta-ing this for me!

tw: misogyny, epithets against women, arguing, typical cm canon content.

wc: 2.1k

“He’s a violent misogynist. Sending her in might distract him enough to give us an opening,” Rossi says, mulling over Spencer’s suggestion to send you into an active hostage situation in an attempt to de-escalate.

“I’ll go,” you say, reaching for a vest. Hotch’s hand shoots out in front of yours, keeping you from the stack of protective equipment. 

“No you won’t. He’s a violent misogynist. I’m not sending you in to become a defenseless target.” He says, his jaw set.

“I’m not defenseless!” You argued indignantly. “I’ll have a vest and a gun, not to mention half the FBI as backup.”

“I don’t like the risk. There has to be another way,” he insists.

“Hotch, it’s the best we got,” Morgan tries to reason with him. 

“It’s fine. It’s the job. I can handle it,” you plead to your boss. He holds your eye contact for a moment, your hopefulness appearing to soften his steely gaze. 

“Go get a discrete comms for under your vest. You won’t be able to hear us but I need to be able to hear you to know if things are okay on the inside,” he relents, and you scamper off to prepare yourself. 

Once you’re ready, Hotch insists on walking you to the door of the compound.

“It’s very important that you don’t try to prove anything to him. If he asks you to sit with the other women, sit and acquiesce and attempt to negotiate subtly from there. And if he escalates, stand down. We are getting plenty just from your comms,” he counsels, placing a hand on your shoulder and taking care to look you in the eyes.

“I’ve got it, Hotch. I’m gonna be fine,” you nod.

“I’ll see you when it’s over, then.”

“See you, Hotch.” 

You step into the compound and walk down a long hallway before you make it to the room where the unsub is holding the hostages. 

You knock gently, opening the door and introducing yourself.

“A woman? From the FBI? Ridiculous,” he scoffs.

“I know, but the sooner you and I work things out the sooner I can get out of your hair,” you say sweetly.

“I’d sooner blow this place up than yield to one of you,” he sneers, and a look at the collar of his shirt reveals that he means it— you can see a few threatening wires coming through. 

“What do you need from me to avoid that? I’m happy to oblige anything I can.”

“How about you sit down and shut the hell up, and the FBI gets me a passport and a helicopter.”

There’s another knock at the door and you whip your head around. “This is supervisory special agent Aaron Hotchner, I just want to talk,” he says, swinging the door open. 

“Supervisory, huh? You sent the girl in?” 

“Not by choice,” he scoffs. 

You bite your tongue. It was true, you supposed, but you hadn’t expected him to tell the unsub that.

“And look what good it did you. These women, they get too big for their britches and they think they can start to question our god-given authority.” 

“It’s ridiculous, dealing with this one whining and complaining about my orders. She doesn’t belong here,” Hotch sympathizes.

You think you might throw up. You always liked Hotch, admired him, and you thought the two of you had a mutual respect. Thought.

“She’s a real spitfire, that bitch, thinking she’s good enough to be law enforcement. I bet she’s a real pain in the ass.”  The unsub continues.

“Don’t I know it. Always late, cares more about her outfits and her hair than her work. She ever should have made it to my department to begin with.” He snarls.

You’ve been late a couple times, yeah, but you didn’t think anyone had noticed. And sure, you liked to look nice, but who didn’t? And it never got in the way in the field. You take a deep breath, fighting to keep your emotions at bay.

“And she’s not a kept woman, I’m sure,” the unsub scoffed. 

“Of course not. It’s like you said, who’d want to keep a mouthy brat like her around.” He agrees.

While you want nothing more than for Hotch to turn around and cuff this guy so everyone can leave safely, you secretly hope you don’t make it out so that Hotch never sees that you’re crying. You wouldn’t give him that satisfaction, the bastard. 

“Between the two of us, if you wanted to give the whore some long-overdue discipline, I’d be happy to turn and look the other way.”

“I don’t think she can be helped, but I suppose it couldn’t hurt, either,” Aaron rolls his eyes, crossing the room and grabbing you harshly by the shoulders. If he can tell that you’re crying, he ignores you. Burn in hell, Hotchner. He pulls you away from the other women. 

“My Glock is in my ankle holster. You need a clear shot to the thigh or the head,” he mutters as he drags you. It takes you a minute to put it together, but you nod once you realize. “You need to struggle so he’s distracted.” 

“Get off of me,” you protest, squirming against Hotch’s grip. His fingers dig into your skin and the tears continue to roll down your face. He slots his knee into the back of yours, toppling you off balance and into the ground. 

“Learn to be obedient, you dumb skank!” The unsub bellows, but Aaron’s body crouching over you  gives you enough cover to unsheath his gun and make a quick shot to the unsub’s thigh. 

He falls out of his chair and Hotch rushes to cuff him, while you work on freeing the hostages. You wipe your last tears away as you escort them out of the building— you had a job to do now, and whether or not your unit chief thought so, you were damn good at it. 

The rest of the team is waiting for you at the compound doors, and they help get the victims over to medical. Morgan moseys over to you as you help the last person in your group into an ambulance.

“Alright mama, your turn,” he says, taking you gently by the arm, and you just follow. Morgan tilts his head in surprise. “You okay? You must be hurting if you aren’t even going to put up a fight about medical,” he says as he lifts you onto a gurney. 

“I’m fine, Derek. Just do me a favor?” You ask as the paramedic begins his assessment.

“Whatever you need.” 

“Don’t let Hotch anywhere near me.” 

He’s a bit taken aback by the request. “Kiddo—“

“Derek, please,” you interrupt him before he can argue. 

“Alright,” he relents.

“You should be okay, miss,” the EMT says. “You’ve got a few bruises and you’ll probably feel pretty exhausted once the adrenaline wears off, but I don’t see any reason that you’d need to be admitted to the hospital unless you’re in any pain. Just rest should do it.” 

“Great, thank you,” you say, hopping off of the gurney. “Take me back to the hotel?” You asked Derek. 

He grits his teeth. “You go sit in the car. You don’t have to talk to him, but I need to let Hotch know that you’re okay before I take you back— I’m not facing his wrath if I don’t,” he explains with a wry smile.

A few hours later, you were tucking yourself in after a long, hot, tearful shower, Netflix on in the background and your laptop open in front of you. Your cursor hovered over the transfer request form as you chewed the inside of your cheek. A knock at the door— presumably the room service you’d ordered— distracts you from your dilemma. 

You swing the door open with a polite smile, and immediately crumple when you see all six feet and two inches of your unit chief standing in the hallway. 

“Respectfully, Hotch, I really don’t want to talk to you.” You tell him, attempting to close the door, but he blocks it.

“Are you okay?” He asks, looking you over. Suddenly you feel small in your ratty old sweatpants and college tee.

“I’m fine, but Morgan already told you that.” You remind him. 

“You’re not injured, but that doesn’t mean your okay.” He says, and he looks so concerned that it makes your blood boil. 

“Fuck off, Hotch. How dare you ask me that. Just go back to your room, I’ll finish my transfer application and we can both pretend I was never here,” you say, stepping away from the door and hoping he’ll get the message. He follows you in, instead.

“What?” He asks, shock and hurt in his tone. “You can’t transfer.” 

“You have a lot of nerve showing up at my door to begin with,” you continue. 

“I don’t understand,” he says, bewildered. 

“I get that I’m new here, but I really thought I was proving myself. And as my supervisor, I would have appreciated some feedback if you didn’t feel the same way,” you argued bitterly. 

“What do you mean?” He asks.

“Maybe Emily was right when she said you don’t trust women as much as you trust men.”

“Is that what this is about?” He asks, and he almost laughs. You swear you could hit him.

“Of course it is! How could you say those things? Everyone says you’re such a hardass. I never believed them, and it turns out they were wrong. You’re worse. You’re cruel, you’re mean. Get out of my room.” You’re being loud, too loud, but you can’t bring yourself to care.

“Y/n, I didn’t mean a word of that,” he implores. 

“Oh, sure,” you scoff. 

“It was a strategy. I had to empathize with him. You know that,” he reminds you, his tone begging you to believe him. 

“Even at that, why did it come so easily? Why were all of my worst qualities right at your fingertips? Why was it so easy for you to find reasons to discredit me?” You bite back. 

“It had nothing to do with you. All of that came straight from the unsub’s blog, Garcia found it after you went in.”

The revelation hit you like a ton of bricks. You could only let out a sheepish, surprised little “oh.” 

“You’re an exemplary agent. I wouldn’t have let you go in if I wasn’t certain of your abilities,” he says, putting both of his hands on your shoulders, staring at you to make sure you were looking at him too, to make sure you believed him.

You couldn’t, not yet. “Why’d you push back on me going in, then? Is it because I’m a girl?” 

“No.” He says resolutely. 

“Then what is it?” You goad him on. 

“It’s not that,” he says through gritted teeth, no longer able to look at you.

“Tell me why, then!” You exclaim. “Tell me.” 

“I didn’t want to send you in because I care for you. And because the thought of something happens to you scares me.” He admits, his voice only hairs above a whisper.

“Oh,” you gasp out. “Oh.”  It’s like all the air has left the room, and the two of you are suspended in time.

“I’m sorry. I know that’s inappropriate.”

“Hotch,” you start.

“If you still want to submit a transfer application, I understand. I’d be happy to write you a glowing recommendation.” 

“No,” you say, reaching out to take his hands in yours, taking three quick steps so your toes are practically touching. 

“No?” He asks trepidatiously, ducking his head closer to yours. 

“No,” you answer. “I think I’d like to stay right where I am.” 

“Thank god,” Aaron breathes against your lips before he kisses you. He wraps his arms around your waist and draws you in closer, and you curl your fingers into the cropped hair at the base of his neck.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. “I’m sorry for thinking you could really believe those things.” 

“You have nothing to apologize for. I’m sorry for not making it clearer how in awe I am of you constantly, as an agent and as a person. I am… wonderstruck by you, constantly, but I’ve done my best to hide it for the sake of professionalism. I’ve done too well, it seems.”

You shake your head. “You did what you thought was best. I couldn’t ever blame you for that.” 

He smirks. “Luckily for us both, I know better now,” he says as he leans back in to kiss you again.

taglist: @spacecowboyhotch @honeybrowne @call-me-mrsreid

@dadbodhotch11 @the-modernmary @angelfxllcm @rousethemouse @skyler666 @mintphoenix @gspenc @ashhotchner @wheelsupkels @infinite-tides @zetasaturno99 @itsmeiguessidk @ahouseforhermitcrab @catsofsmoke @silversighs

[decadentjellojaloppy29]

By the glow of the vending machine.

You can't sleep, neither can Copia. Time for a talkie talk about getting over your fears by the glow of a vending machine.

🌌🌌🌌🌌🌌🌌🌌🌌🌌🌌🌌🌌🌌🌌🌌🌌🌌

You walk down the hallway late at night. You couldn't go to sleep so you decided to take a much needed walk around the monastery. Your hands run down your face as your slippers make the softest of noises. So much was on your mind, you'd been feeling out of it recently. Disconnected, unreal, trapped. And you had no idea what to do about it. As you saunter down another hallway a silhouette catches your eye.

Copia stands in the dim light of a vending machine. His shaky gloved hands straighten out a dollar and try to put it into the machine again. The dollar gets spit back out. Your eyes squint at the scene for a moment. He's wearing nothing but checkered pajama pants and his gloves. You almost feel as though you were dreaming watching this happen. It was almost funny...almost. After a few more seconds of watching him fumble you shake your head and walk over to him.

Copia squeals realizing he's not the only one awake at this hour.

"H-hello sorella..." He greets nervously, his arms going to wrap around his torso, feeling the need to cover up.

You nod toward him grabbing the dollar from his hands. You straighten it out on the edge of the vending machine and shove it into the machine.

"Which one?" You ask, not even looking back at him.

Copia looks up at you suddenly, wringing his hands before he answers, "B5."

You punch in the buttons and then take a step back. The two of you stand in the vending machine light, quietly waiting for his snack to fall. The thoughts that were swirling in your head now replaced with an awkward silence. Copia felt it too. His mismatched eyes traveled to you, studying you and your face that was being illuminated by the red light of the vending machine.

Copia cleared his throat, "Why are you up so late?"

You answer without looking away from the machine, "Can't sleep."

Copia nodded. Even though you hadn't looked at him you could feel the sense of tension in the air. You sighed and finally made eye contact with him. Not prepared for how you felt when you saw him looking back at you. You heart jumped slightly.

"What's the matter?" You ask, finally.

"I- what makes you think anythings the matter?" He asked, scratching the back of his head.

"Call it a hunch. Normally your saying or doing something at this point but you seem relatively quiet. What's on your mind?" You ask.

Copia visibly slouches. You tilt your head at him. And he shrugs, "I...I'm a little afraid."

"Of?" You raise your brow.

"Becoming a papa. I've been talked down to since I got here and I can't seem to get through to the other papa's. The siblings of sin don't respect me, even the ghouls are giving me a hard time. I know I can be a little odd but it's not that bad...right?" Copia answers honestly, apparently he had a lot on his mind.

You sigh and lean back onto the wall. The stale air of the monastery surrounds you as you take a deep breath and then look back at him. Copia had never confided in you like this. He'd always talked to you whenever you were doing chores or if you just saw him out and about so you thought he liked you well enough but now he was talking to you within a different...context. A sincere one. Why now? You took a deep breath and started to talk.

"Is it true that you can be a mama's boy that gets mostly whatever he wants because he can get away with almost anything and is sometimes too big for his britches? Yes." You answer truthfully and he slouches even more.

"But..." He perks up at this.

"You are also a charismatic, hilarious and just all around nice guy to be around. And there is no doubt in my mind that you'll do incredible as papa." You tell him, nodding to illustrate your point.

Copia tries to hide his grin at your praise, scratching the back of his head.

"I just don't know..." He tells you.

Youd heard him doubt himself for ages before this and to be honest you were tired of hearing it. And just tired in general. So you took a shot in the dark. A leap of faith.

"Papa, what's the scariest thing you can think of?" You ask him.

His face seems to heat up at the question and he averts his gaze. You raise a brow at his sudden shyness. Copia laughs to himself a little.

"I...well, uh...you, I think." He answers, giving a small grin.

You stare at him. That was the last thing you expected him to say. You feel a smile creeping up on your face. You didn't even know why you were smiling, he just called you scary.

"Me?" You finally ask.

"Yes..." He answers a bit sheepish.

"How come?"

Copia scratches the back of his head and looks off in some random corner. "I don't know you've always been scary. Your presence fills the room as soon as you walk into it. You just talk to whoever you want whenever you want, however you want. You are...yourself and you seem to be very comfortable with that. And that's an admirable...yet terrifying trait."

You nod slowly, trying and failing to hide your grin from him. You've never heard terrifying used as a term of endearment. To think the new papa was scared of lil old you. The two of you sat there for a while in the silence. The snack now sitting at the bottom of the vending machine long forgotten.

"....And..." Copia finally breaks the silence, "you have a way of making hearts race...w- mine at least."

You really couldn't help the smile that came over you now. Your brows knit together in admiration for him and his stuttering honesty. Feeling a rush in your stomach. You push yourself off of the wall and walk over to the glowing vending machine and grabbed the snack. Then turning on your heel you walk up to him. As you walk closer Copia swallows hard. You keep going toward him until his back is against the wall, his arms slightly tightening around his torso. His eyes darting around slightly until they finally come to land on yours.

And without much thought you press a kiss to his cheek. Pushing the bag into his chest you waited until his shaky hands gripped it.

"Now that you got that out of the way becoming papa will be a piece of cake." You say before walking back down the dark hallway.

Copia held the bag close to his chest, his body frozen, face hot and mouth dry. Watching you as you disappeared into the darkness he slid down the wall until he was sitting on the floor.

"Oh..."

🌌🌌🌌🌌🌌🌌🌌🌌🌌🌌🌌🌌🌌🌌🌌🌌🌌🌌

[silvantransthranduiltrash]

Please give me more of the Míriel comes out of the halls, the moment Finwë dies. I’m on my knees begging you!

Have a delightful day.

i imagine that the moment Miriel comes out of the halls, she's simultaniously murderous, but also over whelmed, bc what tf is she supposed to do?

she's like the deadbeat mom (though she was dead so-)

i imagine she'd do 1 of two things

not mention her return to anyone and just... disappear into the background

in this scenario i imagine she makes her way to middle earth ( personally hc that Miriel doens't really like valinor at all). maybe she sneaks into fingolfin's host? i don't think he'd know all the elves that joined him soo.....

or maybe she's mor sensible and, because she's technically not been identified as a noldo (bc she wasn't there during the first massacre and she has silver hair, which is a more teleri like trait and no one suspects MIRIEL THERINDE to be out of the hall)

i don't think she reaches feanaro before he sails away with his host bc i imagine she takes a moment to get her barrings and figure out what she's going to do and then hear's about the massacre, and by the time she arrives she's too late.

like i said before, Miriel doesn't strike me as the kind of elf that's all that bothered by the incident, not because she's heartless but bc she's a cuivienen elf and bc she will always prioritize her family over anyone else.

2. the other thing i can see happening is her (begrudgingly) staying in valinor in order to take controll there. sure, it might not be the nicest move but she's the MOTHERFUCKING QUEEN OF THE NOLDO

YOU REALLY THINK FINWE BECAME KING ON HIS OWN AND SHE'S JUST THE WIFE?!? NO MA'AM.

if anyone has a claim on that throne it's her, thank you.

she's about to make her re-embodiment everyone's problem. (you can see where feanaro get's it from)

now, her taking over the remaining noldo does make things more difficult bc, again, feanaro does not have the best rep atm. but god damnit, no way she's loosing against the third son and fifth child that had no interest in leading.

plus, i refuse to believe that she didn't have her own supporters when she was still alive that stayed in valinor bc they're only gonna respect miriel therinde, or someone who also survived life at the lack, fuck you. they're not following some greenhorn warrior that's to big for his britches to their completely avoidable death, thank you. (sorry feanaro, but you were not made for middle earth. he's a lowkey rich kid that thought he could make it on his own (tbf, most valinor born noldo thought that, hence why they fucked up so many times))

of course in this scenarios, the moment Miriel catches wind of shit going tits up in Berilian, she mobelizes her army (bc Morgoth is out there, fuckers, and you're an idiot if you think that bitch isn't gonna go after valinor the moment he's got ME) and heads to Beriliand. she's got a score to settle with that MotherFucker.

[twopoppies]

Agreed. MP felt like it could have built on the promise of Dunkirk. Stick with the ensemble cast but a bigger part (I know he had main billing but they were all considered supporting actors and I think that’s fair), do an overall decent job even with some issues. Get the reputation that you can come in, do work that will at least fit and not detract from the overall film, don’t overshadow promo more than what happens when music stars join a cast (we’ve seen it plenty from JT to Gaga). I mean, he’s not going to get an Oscar off the bat but he could learn and grow his skills. Show he’s an asset. But DWD was so ill-advised. I think it was a too big for his britches glitch on what he could carry at that point and how he should market it. I’m sure he’s had quite the wake up call. I do think he can act successfully, I just think he needs to get back to building from less and truly working at it with some lessons and stuff. He’s got plenty of time. 30 years old for a guy in Hollywood is nothing.

Totally agree.

[twistedtummies2]

Fee, Fi, Fo, Fum!

Hee, Hi, Ho, Hum!

I'm a most amazing guy!

A most amazing guy, am I!

Fee, Fi, Fo, Fum!

Hee, Hi, Ho, Hum!

I'm the stuff, I'm tellin' you!

For here's what I can do!

I can change myself into an elf!

Fly up high, like the birdies!

I can disappear into atmosphere...PEEK-A-BOO!

'Cause I know the Magic Wordies...

"Fee, Fi, Fo, Fum," Billy Gilbert.

-------------------------------------------------------------

My next image in my “OCs & Inspirations” series for Disney’s 100th Anniversary! This time, I present to you Billy Géant and his inspiration, Willie the Giant from the “Mickey and the Beanstalk” segment of a personal favorite Disney film of mine, “Fun & Fancy Free!” The art here was done by @twisted-brainrot.

Billy came about because I wanted to do something with one of my favorite fairy-tales, “Jack and the Beanstalk,” which is a big part of what I think “activated” the more macro/micro side of my many, MANY kinks and fascinations. My thought process was I could do one of two things: one was create an AU for Twisted Wonderland with some characters as giants and others as “Jacks” (which I eventually did for “My Hero Academia,” and may do again for another couple of anime-ish franchises I love). Two was to create my own OC based on a Disney giant - and I went with Willie for a LOT of reasons - and do something with them. Obviously, that is the choice I went with, and I have not seen a reason to regret it: alongside Nakoda, perhaps even MORE than Nakoda, Billy is my most popular OC for Twisted Wonderland. I think there’s more art and writing for him than any of my other major characters for this universe.

He’s also the closest to his source material. Willie the Giant, in his initial appearance (and most other antagonistic roles he’s had since), is essentially a villain by incidence rather than choice. The film actually states this in black and white: “Willie was a nice giant…he just got too big for his britches.” He’s not really EVIL, he’s basically just a big, dumb kid. He’s selfish and has a bad temper: when he causes trouble, it’s not because he’s trying to actively hurt anybody, but simply because he either doesn’t know or doesn’t care about the consequences of his actions (or both). When you push him the wrong way, he then shows his dangerous side, as he can go from cuddly and silly to a terrifying titan of rage. Billy is the exact same way. As well as having a lot of Willie’s superficial elements as a character, the main takeaway between the two is that inherent childishness, and the dichotomy of danger and sweetness it provides. Billy is a lovable dunderhead who only becomes truly cruel and vicious when someone REALLY presses his buttons, and typically is only an antagonist because circumstance has sort of put him in that position. The big difference between the two is what they seek: Willie’s problem-causing is usually a result of greed or ignorance. Billy, however, is someone with a LOT of personal issues: he’s lived a large portion of his life being neglected, rejected, abandoned, and betrayed. He’s effectively a very lonely person who just wants some affection, some respect, and above all some companionship. Show him those things, and you’ll probably be fine.

As to the art…I asked Twisted-Brainrot to do this one because he’s actually made more art for Billy than anybody else, and because he’s also a big fan of Willie the Giant. I’m not sure, but I think this might have been his first (public) outing with the Disney original, and he did an absolutely MARVELOUS job. Seeing the big guy paired up with Billy is truly a treat, and speaking of Billy, I just love how cute he is. TB always draws him with this really cuddly “extra plush” appearance, and it’s truly beautiful to see him that way with his great-great granddaddy. Good big bois, both of ‘em. <3

[aevallare]

can i share an ascended astarion headcanon with you. i personally think that in the very first few days or so (or more!) after ascending, his mind is probably swirling with everything that’s changed and he’s discovering new shit about himself and feeling actually powerful for the first time maybe ever and it’s just a lot, and that played a big part in him acting like an arrogant shithead towards tav. he got a taste of power n got too big for his britches. 1/2

take my hand. u can ALWAYS share your headcanons with me.

i think i mostly agree with you but for a single (imo very important) caveat --

ascended astarion might be mask off (per neil; i have my own opinions on this), but as a character, he's playing into our knowledge of the dark, brooding vampire trope.

i definitely agree that time affects him (for better or worse)! and i think that would be something that would be really interesting to explore in fanwork. i think a tav consenting to become his spawn feeds his ego and further fractures his hold on "humanity" for lack of a better word.

that's why i think a mortal romancing an astarion who's ascended has so much more juice. he gains everything he thinks he wants in the ritual, but tav won't accept the greatest gift he can offer? that's humbling in a way that i think is really compelling.

i don't know if any of this made sense. btw. i am on desktop but imagine the dancing woman in a red dress emoji is here

EDIT: I can see how saying "per neil" can be interpreted as me speaking on mr newbons intent, but I was more referring to the way that sound bite has been interpreted by astarion girlies. I can see how that would be unclear

[ferris-the-wheel]

m!MC x Epel Felmier

Info: You work at the farm with Epel's family and sleep over there sometimes. Since Epel left for NRC, you video call sometimes. This is a little while after Vil promotes Epel's family's apple juice during Chapter 5.

SPOILERS FOR CHAPTER 5 OF THE MAIN STORY!

TW: None

You waited almost impatiently for Epel to get on the call. Yeah, he was busy or somethin' but still! Suddenly the phone picked up and Epel's face appeared on the screen.

"Heavens to Betsy, Epel, ya took forever, y'know!" You said, but there wasn't any real anger on your face. He laughed. "Howdy, Y/N. It's been a month of Sundays since we've spoken, huh?"

You waved your hand in a dismissing way. "Sure has. But has your Meemaw told ya yet? 'bout the apple juice? Ah was fixin' to tell myself, but your Meemaw insisted." You demanded.

"Ya kiddin'? 'Course she did!" Epel responded. "Ah'll reckon you're livin' in high cotton right 'bout now!"

"You're right 'bout that! Ah dropped one of them crates with apple bottles today. Your Meemaw looked madder than a wet hen an' she scolded me! She hardly never gets mad at nobody." You complained with a frown.

"Ah reckon it's busier than ants at a picnic over down yonder then!" He exclaimed. "Meemaw ain't never got mad at me unless Ah did somethin' real bad."

"Yep. I'm worn slap out right 'bout now. Say, how's school? Ya get to get all gussied up every day like them rich folk?" You inquired. Epel's face became annoyed, so you were sure you'd touched a nerve there.

"It's not too bad here, but my housewarden— Vil, he really is too big for his britches! Always tellin' me ta do this 'n do that. He thinks the sun comes up just ta hear him crow, Ah tell ya. An' Ah won't lie to ya, the vice housewarden here, Rook, he's kinda creepy. Halfway off his rocker." Epel said. His mood seemed to be much better now that he'd gotten that off his chest.

"Well, ya didn't call me up to talk about my school life, didn't ya? Besides the farm, how've ya been? Ain't nobody been botherin' ya, have they? 'Cause Ah'll tan their hides if they have." Epel said with a scowl on his face.

"Aw, don't you worry 'bout me, Eps. Ah would beat 'em up myself if someone tried." You chuckled. "Same goes for you, matter o fact."

" 'Course not. 'Bout everyone here is so uppity an' full of themselves." Epel huffed. You heard muffled knocking, so you assumed it was on Epel's end. He looked alarmed and called out, "Yes?" You couldn't hear the response, but Epel looked back at the camera for a moment.

"Gimme a sec." He replied quickly and he moved out of view. You could hear Epel's voice and someone else's, but you couldn't tell what they were saying. "Eh— Rook?! What do ya— I mean, what are you doing?!" You heard Epel's outraged cry. You were now worried and thoroughly confused.

"My apologies, Monsieur Cherry Apple, I heard you talking to someone and I was curious." The camera on Epel's end shook as the phone was picked up. Epel's face reappeared, but he was looking away. "I'm chatting with a person back home." His voice was calmer now.

"Oh, mes excuses, monsieur! I did not intend to barge in on a conversation with someone from your hometown. If I may, who is it?" Epel was right. This guy seemed a bit creepy, though you were used to oddballs. Epel sighed loudly. "My boyfriend. Here, lem— let me introduce you guys." Now that was weird. Epel sounded totally different.

A face appeared on screen beside Epel's, a guy with straight-cut blond hair. "Oh mon! What a pleasant face!" Rook said with a smile. "May I know your name?"

"Y/N. You're Rook, right? Epel was jus' talkin' 'bout ya." You replied. Rook's smile broadened. "Oui! Good things, I hope?" He inquired. Ain't no way you were rattin' Epel out to this guy. " 'Course." You said. "By the way, that hat o' yours is cattywampus. Do all y'all wear hats like that over yonder or jus' you?" Rook seemed totally confused and Epel had to translate.

"He said your hat is crooked and he asked if everyone wears hats like yours over here." He turned to the camera and added, "No, the only one who wears a hat like this is Rook, as far as I've seen." Rook looked very surprised. "Your speech pattern is very interesting! It's quite like speaking another language, in a way."

"Whaddya mean? It ain't that hard to understand. I reckon ya only got one oar in the water if you can't tell the difference 'tween a different language an' an accent." You retorted. Epel looked like he was holding back a laugh. Rook either didn't seem to realize he'd been insulted or he didn't comment on it and brushed it off.

"Can you leave now, please? I'd like to get back to talking with Y/N before we eat su— dinner." Epel said. Rook nodded. "Of course, Monsieur Cherry Apple! I've invaded your space for long enough. Au revoir, you two!" You heard the door close and Epel breathed a sigh of relief.

"Say Eps, what's with you hidin' your accent?" You asked. He looked miffed. "Well, our housewarden, Vil, right? He said Ah ain't allowed to use it an' Ah gotta speak "properly". But since he's housewarden, Ah gotta follow his rules. On the bright side, Vil's gonna be a senior next year, so he won' be able to be housewarden cuz he'll be gone most the year." Epel said. The last bit seemed to cheer him up. "Ah'll be happier than a dead pig in the sunshine when that happens."

"That's good, I reckon. Say, it's gettin' late an' your Meemaw's gonna have me liftin' juice all day tomorrow, so Ah should get some Z's." You said, reluctant to end the conversation, but knowing you'd be as a steering wheel on a mule if you stayed up all night. "Alrighty. Ah should probably be gettin' ready for supper here anyhow. 'Night then." Epel said.

You nodded. " 'Night, 'Monsieur Cherry Apple'." You said with a grin. "Aw, don' ya start callin' me that too! It's already annoying as it is comin' from Rook, Ah don' need ya chimin' in!" Epel exclaimed, his face scrunching up with a frown that was— you would never say this to him out of respect— very cute. "Ah, don' worry, Ah was jus' pullin' your leg." You said while laughing. "Alright, alright, 'night." You said, tapping the screen and ending the call, smiling to yourself.

Boo!! Hi again~~ Here's another post for you guys! Disclaimer here: I have never spoken French in my life so all of the French above was entirely the product of Google Translate. I also have never used country/southern speech before, so I was attempting to mix that with the dialogue I remember from Chapter 5 as well as copious research. I am not fluent in either French or country slang/terms, though writing this was incredibly fun!

Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this post, and sorry if it was a bit long. For those who are fluent in French or speak with a southern accent, if I made a mistake somewhere in this post, let me know, please! I hope you enjoyed regardless! Bye~! 🧡