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netherfeildren · 4 months

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FABLE OF THE DOG : 1. The Two Headed Calf

Series Masterlist;

Pairing: Joel Miller x FMC

Summary: Welcome home and buck up, cowgirl.

Rating: Explicit 18+

Content Warnings: Cowboy/Heiress AU; Slowburn(ish); Original Characters; Alcohol & Drug Use; Discussions of Grief; Daddy Issues; Graphic Descriptions of Vomiting; Description of a Dead Body; Death of a Parent; Parental Neglect; Older Man/Younger Woman; Jealousy; Past Teenage Crush; Unrequited Pinning; Yearning and Longing Galore; Boss’s Daughter; Complicated Family Relationships; A Home is a Place but ALSO a Person!; Found Family

A/N: Disclaimer, I know nothing about Wyoming and it’s geography, ranching, or being a cowboy and just made all this up. Any and all misrepresentations are fallacy of my laziness.

The FMC tag was decided because she has a last name. It was just too difficult for me to speak in depth about her father without giving him a name, and thus her one too. After that decision was made, she kind of went away from me and devolved into her own person who I have come to be quite obsessed with. It’s still written in ‘you’ format, anyhow.

I’ve been having a whole lot of fun with this, I hope you do too.

Word Count: 10K

Read on AO3

1: The Two Headed Calf

“She’s been shut up in that house goin’ on three days now, Joel,” Tommy says as the two brothers make their way across the lawn.

The ride had been long and hard, and Joel is tired—he levels a dark look at him. “Just sayin’. Nothin’ you find in there’s gonna be pretty to look at.” He raises his hands in surrender at the brooding glare, that non-confrontational shrug that’s set Joel on edge since they were boys.

“One of you’s should’a gone in there. Made sure she’s okay.”

“The housekeepers’ve been keepin’ an eye. And Frank tried to go in there and check on her himself, but she’s angry as a barn cat. Hissin’ ‘nd yowlin’, and just bein’ downright scary as hell, to be honest. You should be prepared is all I’m tryin’ to say.”

“Her father just died, Tommy. I’m not expectin’ pretty sights right now,” Joel gruffs, trying to swallow the panic that flutters in his throat as they crest the final hill up to the big house.

The beautiful stone, oak, glass monstrosity that’s stood as monument to this place, this home that is not truly his, for over a decade now. The Kelly Ranch. The sky above is still a sultry, yawning blue, deep and tired, basking in the throes of dawn as the sun just now makes its way over the crest of the Tetons in the distance so that the house sits for just a moment longer in its pool of shadowed blues.

Joel pauses on the border of that somber darkness, afraid suddenly of what awaits him inside; boots glued to the ground with the gum of cowardice. He doesn’t want to see her broken. He doesn’t want to see her hurting. But there’s no other recourse, he knows this. The death of the estranged father she’d fought with all her life, the inheritance of this world that seems suddenly too big for just one orphaned girl, all alone now.

He’s afraid that he’ll walk into that house he’s always seen as other and home all wrapped into one—that Olympus that was so far removed and out of reach even when he walked through it’s halls to the man who’d given him sanctuary and salvation, to the man he knew mistreated her sometimes, didn’t love her enough—and not have the capacity to recognize her, this girl who’d always been familiar and stranger all in one also.

Joel Miller suddenly feels afraid of the memory she exists as in his mind, in the face of the woman he knows she is now.

When he lets himself in the back kitchen door, it’s still nighttime within. The cool dryness of the AC cranked up to inhuman temperatures makes him shiver once while sprouting a damp sweat along his nape. He should’ve showered before coming, should’ve washed the ride and the days of camp off his skin before walking into her presence, but all he’d managed were his hands and face. There’d been panic to make sure she was well, if not then alive, at least. But he should be more presentable for her.

Hell, he should’ve been here for her when she came home for the first time in two years to the house where her father had died. He should’ve been here when the man died.

But the herd had needed moving. He hadn’t thought it’d all happen so quickly, thought he had more time, that they all had more time. He’d hoped she wouldn’t return at all, if he was being honest. There was nothing here for her. Nothing except memories of a gilded and loveless, already motherless childhood. The reality of all she was set to inherit. The truth of an aloneness Joel didn’t know if she was prepared for.

He moves through the house slowly, afraid to disturb the ghosts and the silence. The interior, immaculate and beautiful and solemn. Something out of a movie picture or the gloss of a magazine. Something covered not in dust but in sadness. The stairs are silent as his spinning mind makes up for the creak, the boots she’d sent him on his last birthday hit the richly piled rug at the top, and the hallway to the bedrooms yawns long and frightening in front of him. Two grand a pop, the boots—Lucchese, he’d looked them up on the iPhone she’d sent him the year before. A gift giver, generous to a fault, kind to a detriment. She sent something to all the ranch hands that’d worked for her father since she was a girl. Something for the entire ranch at Christmas. And all he managed each time was a perfunctory thank you card, like he did every year because he remembered, years ago, in her little voice, polite people send thank you notes, Joel, my grandmother told me so. Last year he’d written that they were too much, that she shouldn’t have, that he was grateful. There wasn’t much else to say.

That was the extent of their communication, familiar and stranger in one, the far removed golden child of the Kelly. They’d all called him that, the Kelly, for as long as he’d known the man. As if he was some Scottish laird of old, ruling over his clan and half the world. Egotistical, was what it really was. He’d thought himself a god among men, in the face of his only child. Ridiculous was what Joel saw it all for, a put on play, a farce.

And wonder of wonders, she was entirely unlike him because of course she would be. Of course a man ruled by nothing more than ego and narcissism had been sent his polar opposite in the form of his only child. Kind hearted, was what she was—sending him a birthday gift every year. Remembering them all here always no matter how far she’d gone. He sent her a thank you note for each benevolence in return, a word of respectful gratitude for the fact that a person like her could ever remember a dog like him.

Sometimes, Joel had wanted to go to him, the old man, Oswald Kelly, and ask him where his daughter was, why he wasn’t looking for her, keeping her closer, caring for her. He wasn’t the sort of man that could’ve ever understood such callous behavior towards one’s child.

The last time she’d been here, over two years ago: less than forty eight hours that had ended in screaming so terrible they’d all heard it down from the barn, sitting in uncomfortable, swollen silence, the spinning of tires ringing as she yelled at her father that he was never going to see her again, the man’s echoing laugh as she’d fled him.

Joel hadn’t seen her on that visit, it’d been so quick and angry. Flying down on the jet from New Haven for her father’s seventieth birthday and not even making it long enough for the festivities. This was what her life was, as he’d observed it from a distance for all these years, the singular daughter of this great house, coming to her father, attempting joy and finding nothing but disappointment at the end of him.

She’d been right, a knowing streak running through her. Kelly had never seen her again, and Joel didn’t know if the old man had regretted it or not, the anger and the estrangement and the lack of love. But the last time he’d spoken to him, hours before setting off on their move, the herd always came before everything else, the ranch was all that mattered is what the man had always said, with death scratching at the window, his frail and withered body licked down to almost nothing from the austere and imposing figure Joel had always known him as, he’d asked for her. His only child. Do you think she’ll come, Joel? The dying man had asked him. My daughter, do you think she’ll come see me? Joel had lied a lie he hadn’t known was one, said she would, that he’d call her as soon as he was back.

In the end, he hadn’t even afforded her that decency, a personal call.

He comes to her open bedroom door now, pitch dark as grief within, and the stench of sorrow and liquor seeping from the living grave. He looks down the long and empty hall for a brief second, wishing it didn’t have to be him, that again, he didn't have to see her any way other than okay. And he realizes that there’s something about her, as she will exist now, that makes him cowardly. Something about this house without the man who’d granted him the absolution of a hiding place all those years ago, who’d understood and sheltered Joel in the midst of his own past grief, that makes him cowardly. The house feels wrong without Kelly within it, wrong with only her as its holder now.

Joel steps into her dark, and it’s a battleground—

—You are silent and motionless in the blue room.

Nothing of the gleaming splendor that dresses the rest of the home sleeps in here. There are clothes everywhere, an exploded suitcase lies open and massacred in the middle of the plush white rug, a turned over bottle of red wine bleeding into your clothes. Shredded pages with scratched on writing slashed across them, the dusted white mounds of crushed pills, as if you’d smashed each one individually beneath the thumb of your grief. The sight makes him more afraid, the scent of weed and cigarettes heavy in the air, as he takes the final step towards the wrecked bed, and a single small foot hangs limply from the edge.

He stares at it long and hard for a second, afraid, afraid again, still, of what he’ll find. He says your name once, short and gruff like a dog’s bark. It’s what he feels like. Animal, bestial, lacking any sort of cognizance amidst this minefield. His heart beats against his spine, and he thinks he should do something else, shake you, check for a pulse, his bones throb inside his skin. He needs to fucking move, but the smell of smoke is so cloying he’s choking on his own tongue.

Your ankle twitches.

And Joel sucks in a sigh of relieved air without panic, saying your name again. His voice is level now, maybe gentle, no more barking dog. His eyes move up the length of one pretty leg, and then quickly, he averts his gaze when he gets high up enough he’s met with soft-creased asscheek covered in silk. Swallowing his tongue, his eyes roll in their sockets, looking for anything else to look at besides the sight of panty clad ass. He steps closer again, gripping the edge of the sheet to pull it over your scantily clad body, eyes flitting to the silver spun clock on the nightstand, the warm glow of the hall light shows that they have two hours to get you sober and presentable before the funeral.

Joel should have been here. He does not feel that he is even here now. And the guilt eats at him like acid. The fear too.

“Darlin’, you’ve gotta get up now,” he says softly, taking hold of your shoulder, scalded by the feel of fragile skin, realizing with the suddenness of a gunshot that you’ll be the Kelly now. He gives you a gentle shake, “We’ve gotta get you ready,” and his heart pumps blood like a machine. The sight of the dry liquor bottle toppled on the nightstand, the shattered glass glittering the floor in crystal, the empty pill bottles, it all taunts him. His guilt is a cacophony in his mind. He knows he’s going to have to stick his fingers down your throat, make you spit it all up, that you’ll hate him for all of this afterwards, but when his gaze meets streaked rust, dark and shocking against the white sheets, he’s kicked into terrified action.

He turns you over, your head lolling sickeningly in unconscious stupor, hair a tangled mess strewn about your face so that he has to dig for your eyes, parting the curtains of your fringe to uncover you. He focuses on your closed eyes, the too long lashes clumped together, lips cracked and parched.

He should’ve fucking been here.

Smoothing his fingers along the lengths of your arms, he keeps his eyes on your face and averted from all the skin that keeps peeking out below, searching the divots and slopes of your arms for hurts. When he gets to your right hand, battleground of a long ago broken hurt, he finds the drying crust of blood, the ragged split in the soft, small palm, thankfully shallow.

His eyes smart, looking down at the broken glass, feeling the tear in you.

Gripping you gently below the elbows he pulls you into his arms, cradled like a child, light as loss. Your head lolls again, neck crooked at an unnatural angle as he carries you into the restroom, careful of your head, knocking the lights on and putting you down in front of the toilet bowl. He pulls your camisole to rights, making sure everything is covered, and gathers your mess of hair as carefully as he can, trying his best to not snag the fragile strands in his too rough hands, but gripping you firmly in position. And ignoring the sound of your awakening cry, he sticks two fingers into your slack jawed mouth and down your throat until he feels the hot rush of vomit.

Crouching behind you, his thighs bracket you, keeping your form from slumping over as you empty the poison from your belly, flushing the alcohol soaked bile as you struggle. He wipes his messy hand on the leg of his jeans and rubs soothing circles on your back, his fingers woven through the soft silk of your hair to keep your head in place and your face clear. His heart thumps in rhythm with your heaves, your too quick, panicked breathing. There seems to be not enough oxygen for the two of you and your grief in the too small room of the commode, and Joel gasps like a dying fish, trying to swallow calm breaths.

When you finally stop your heaving, you rest your arms at the edge of the gleaming porcelain, head hung low, defeated, wracked with shivers or silent sobs, he isn’t sure, a strange and horrible keening noise, so small he barely catches it, held in your throat. There’s the finest down of peach fuzz that covers the tender slope of your vulnerable nape, and it makes Joel feel suddenly, just as vulnerable, just as unprotected. At a complete loss for how to help you.

“Finally decided to show your face,” you croak, voice ragged with your sick.

His fingers tighten once around your shoulder, a panicked tick of reminder that he’s here now, that he’s him. “I was moving the herd. It had to be done. Your father, he—” he stutters, trying explain, tripping over his own guilt ridden words. “I didn’t think it’d happen now, so fast, that you’d get here so soon. I thought we had more time.”

We.

Your skin seems to cool by the second beneath his fingertips, and then you’re shrugging his touch away, huddling closer to the porcelain bowl, further away from him.

“Get out.”

“Let me explain. I—” And he’s begging now. He can hear the note of it in his voice. Begging for forgiveness. For a chance.

“I don’t want to see you.” You don’t say his name. “Get out.” It feels worse than anything.

“I’m here now. I didn’t know— I didn’t think.” He reaches to grab for you again, but you turn to face him suddenly. Wiping the back of your hand against your mouth, pushing your heels at his shins to kick him away. Your eyes are red rimmed, the hollows beneath bruised with lack of sleep. But fire spits from the deep color, all anger and hurt.

“Go deal with your fucking ranch,” you fling the words at him. “It’s all you care about anyways.” And they weren’t shivers, he sees now, they’re tears tracked as proof of all his guilt, all his lacking, along the slopes of your fine grained cheeks.

Your, you say. As if this place and anything in it has ever been his. He’s never wanted any of it like that, only ever seen a thing that needed taking care of, and him, with the ability to care for it.

“I needed you,” you whisper as if the thought comes along on a second wind of anger, a realization that sends your voice breaking, hitching, your chest caving in on itself as the tears come faster and faster now. “He’s dead, and I needed you.”

“I’m sorry,” he begs. “I’m so sorry.” His voice breaks now too. He thinks he’ll cry now too, for the man who he also lost, who despite it all meant something to him, as well. For you, who’s lost even more. For Joel’s own guilt.

But he doesn’t think you see any of that, not his apology, not his regret, not his own grief. You turn away from him again, laying your temple down again on your forearm. “Get out. I’ll be ready soon.”

And so he goes.

Your father is made small and withered in death.

One of the wealthiest men in the entire world. A stranger, a titan, a nightmare of a man.

It wasn’t something you’d ever considered, that a human body could look so colorless and frigid and not alive. Like a shock or a ringing bell, it’s a realization that you’re an orphan now. That you’re all alone.

You feel something like a memory of regret. Or something that’s like the idea that you should feel regret, that you should feel guilt for how it was between the two of you. But all that is overshadowed by the reality of what you weren’t. All you feel even more, or in actual reality, is the old loss of what you’d never been to each other. That, you realize, is the seed of your grief. That long ago wound, that child’s understanding that he wasn’t like all the other fathers, that he’d never care for you the way other children were cared for.

Looking down at the frozen face that looks nothing like the one he’d worn the last time you’d seen him, the wispy thatch of hair that hadn’t been so jarringly white before sickness had ravaged his body, you realize that this is no new loss, it is only a continuation, a reopening of a very old one.

The cavernous cathedral at your back is silent, vacated by the sea of people that had congregated here earlier. And with sickening curiosity, you uncoil an arm from where you’ve got it wrapped around yourself, reaching out to press a finger against the ice cold back of his hand. Shockingly not alive; he feels made of rubber.

Everyone that’d been here to bid farewell to this behemoth turned slip of a man, to catch a glimpse of you, packed like teeth into Jackson’s grandest cathedral; business men and heads of state from around the world, the oldest family names in the country, figures of the highest echelons of wealth and society, vipers circling the barrel—half the world here to see this person who was supposed to have been your father but was really only a stranger.

You take your hand back, and you don’t say goodbye as you turn away from his body. There’s no farewell to really tell.

And at the back of the church, hiding in a bright ream of sunlight, Joel stands propped against the face of a saint. Dark and silent and maybe even more far removed than your dead dad. Watching sentinel. Oswald Kelly’s hovering man—come to watch over him one last time.

The silk of your stockings slide against each other at the junction of your thighs, the hiss of your skirt around your calves as your reed thin heels click against the stone, and you pull your armor as tightly around yourself as you can. There’s a hollow echo inside of everywhere and everything, your mind like a gong, reverberating, and his gaze is so steady, hazel bright, deeply shaded by the lip of his dark hat, beckoning you towards him from beneath the brim.

Large and strong and steadfast, your heart gives a painful, longing thump—stupid, writhing thing—and you can only bear to look him in the eye for a second, and if you were to really think about saying goodbye to that father that never really was, lying behind you, slipping further and further away, you’d say it to the man that always stood as his shadow before the world, before you ever said it to the man himself.

The drive back home is cast in frigid silence and made all the more uncomfortable because you can practically hear Joel’s brain clicking and ticking away with worry.

He’d sent your car and driver away with a harsh word while you collected your final goodbyes and words of respect from the last smattering of people congregated and waiting for the newly birthed heir to one of the greatest fortunes in the world.

Hovering over your shoulder, he’d kept anyone from stepping too close or getting too friendly, so close you could feel the heat of his chest through the silk of your blouse, and then going suddenly full on aggressive when a reporter from the New York Times had approached, fishing for a quote on the future of the Kelly empire. Ushering you away with a hovering hand at the small of your back before the man could get half a question out, he’s opening the truck’s door for you as a haze descends over your eyes, the distant shutter and flash of cameras bursting in your peripherals, a latent hangover and sleep deprivation and not enough to eat in the last forty eight hours causing you to sag in his hold. Then it’s only his big fist wrapping around the span of your wrist as he lifts you into the truck, your eyes downcast and unable to take in sight or sound, vision all a blur. You murmur a barely there thank you with his hand fitting at the dip of your waist, big body blocking yours entirely from prying eyes trying to catch a glimpse or a stumble, and for a single second, your entire weight is suspended in his hold, allowing you to bypass the struggle of balancing your high heel on the step up, and then you’re sliding onto the leather of the seat, the whisper of your cashmere and silk rustling around you as he handles you like a child being spirited away from the scene of a crime.

The door shuts gently behind you, face turned away from the flashing lights, the watchful eyes of the whole world, and worst of all, the assessment of his concerned gaze. All you’re afforded are thirty seconds of privacy to let out a single gasping sob.

And now, an hour and a half of silent purgatory.

You slip your heels off, flexing your smarting toes against the damp of your stockings and tuck your folded legs beneath you on the seat. Paying the frantic energy of his anxiety and lodged words no mind, you consider instead: your new reality. The burden of it all means very little to you now. The last of your worries is being readied for entombing as the two of you speed down the eighty nine, zinging past the bright Wyoming green. The thrum of his truck drowns out your thoughts, brand new, probably over a hundred grand, only the best for your father’s right hand man, and the Kelly Ranch insignia emblazoned proudly on the sides. A brand for the whole world to see just who exactly is being whisked away to her old home turned brand spanking new grave.

You might be feeling a little bit dramatic. But then again— you’d just put your last remaining parent in an actual grave, surely that provides you some allowances.

Out of the corner of your eye, you can see his big paw gripping the leathered steering wheel in a death clutch, knuckles white with his frustration at the dilemma you pose, his own discomfort. You’re sure if he thought you wouldn’t catch him, he’d be squirming in his seat.

You do something to him sometimes, you know this. Not in any way you’d like, not in any interesting way, that of a woman affecting a man, but something respectfully harrowing. Maybe something a little bit like fear.

There has existed between the two of you, always, that strange intimacy of two people who’ve known each other for a very long time, and yet, have always remained at a far removed, arms length distance from one another.

A professional intimacy of sorts. Your father’s foreman, shadow, fixer. The man who guarded that treasure trove you’d inherit one day, today; the thing your father loved most in the world. Two people who’ve known each other a long time, and yet, don’t really know each other at all.

There has always been, however, the fact of the birthday.

The birthday. Your birthday.

The way you’d latched onto that small, immense, detail when you’d first discovered it at fourteen, when he’d newly arrived at the ranch and the true weight of your first real crush had really hit you, it was probably not entirely healthy. But you’d thought yourself in love with your father’s man, the first figure of the male species who’d ever drawn your attention in such a way.

He’d never paid you any mind; you were the boss's daughter, a figurehead or a responsibility, maybe a nuisance, although he’d never ever treated you as one. But the day someone had let slip it was his birthday, on the same day as yours, your teenage heart had swelled with the naive hope of fate. It was meant to be, the two of you were connected, so on and so forth, swallowed by girlish innocence and made buoyant by fantasy.

But you’d had something to share with someone, which was what really mattered. Something tangible, even if only in your inexperienced little mind, something to wield as comfort so that the first time your father had forgotten your special day, fifteen, and what a tender age it had been, you’d had something to cling to. That's when your gifts to him had started. It was your way of making sure there was at least one person in the whole world who’d remember that was your day too. That you were alive, that you mattered. A reminder of yourself. And as the years and birthdays passed, sometimes, when he sent those coldly gracious notes of his, you’d wished you could’ve written back with honesty. Said something like, I’m so lonely, wish you were here, wherever it was in the world you’d found yourself at the time.

And of course, he was gorgeous and older, strong and patient and capable, entirely unattainable. Impossible to forget. You’d gone so far, traveled wide, gotten yourself an overpriced education that would probably serve you for nothing, had lovers and parties and splendor, and always, you remembered your gifts for him, you remembered him. It was the single most important detail of your birthday every year.

The leather creaks beneath his fist again, chapped knuckles set to burst before he flexes his fingers out, long and straight. Thickly built hands, strong, made for working or hurting, on a man who you’ve never seen be anything but stoically patient.

He was strange in that way, neither wholly impulsive nor precisely intentional in his mannerisms. More so, it was that there was something extremely neutral about him, a middle buoyancy of personality. Strict with the cowboys, exacting, wielding his title as ranch foreman with an iron fist and your father’s blessing, and yet still, quiet, serious, with that patient gentleness about him. You’d seen it in the way he’d handled Ellie when she’d first come to the ranch, young and skinny with that hollow look of trauma kids who’d seen things they shouldn’t have shamed adults with. She’d been a little older than you, and with an air you’d not understood, a sort of lived past you’d been naive to the existence of, frightened when confronted by it, and yet inevitably, the two of you’d become fast friends eventually.

You’d even experienced it yourself, on two treasured occasions, that gentleness that you’d held onto for years. Nurturing the memory of him in your mind like a delusional bloom.

He stretches his hand again, wheel caught between his thumb and forefinger, cinching it there, back and forth. His nails are meticulously clean, cut to the quick, and you imagine he must spend a great deal of time cleaning himself up when he works so hard at getting himself so dirty most days.

You can see him sneaking glances at you, and he coughs once, a clearing of his nervous throat. Averting your gaze, you turn your face away so that you’ll be able to watch him through the reflection in the window. He monopolizes the space in the cabin of the truck, broad shoulders and hulking form, all the fine leather smell washed away in the scent of him. That bay rum aftershave he’s always worn, the one with the distinctive notes of bay leaf, cloves and citrus. An old fashioned scent, masculine and crisp.

You’d snuck into the bunk once with Ellie, before he’d moved into the foreman’s cabin, before Switzerland, when the two of you were still girls running rampant and free through the ranch, clutching desperately at the last vestiges of any sort of happy childhood you could scrounge up for one another. You’d peeked in his things, found a whole world of Joel shaped curiosities. The glass etched bottle of aftershave, a hole spotted t-shirt with a burnt orange longhorn across the front, Flannery O’Connor’s The Complete Stories—something you found comforting, knowing he could read about the small, the freakish, real life; thinking that perhaps he was homesick for the comfort of the South, hungering for a taste of the life he’d had then, through books. And then, in a spine cracked copy of Suttree, the pages almost falling apart beneath your fingertips, dog eared and well loved, her picture tucked between the pages.

It had been the first time you’d done something you knew you shouldn’t have and actually regretted it, looking down at that green eyed photograph.

You’d run back to your room after that, ashamed and something a little bit like jealous, desperate to know who she was, desperate for someone to keep a picture of you like that—as if they loved you. And years later, you’d found the scent for yourself. The little molasses glass bottle you still have and pull out on occasion, when you’re feeling extra bad, extra lonesome, extra far away from the whole world, just for a reminding of home.

Beside you, he sighs again, coughs again, brings you back to himself and the present. Just spit it out already, you think exasperatedly, say something, anything else besides how sorry you are.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there,” he starts, and you roll your eyes, scoffing quietly.

“You already said that.” Sullen. Mullish. You wish you were a child who could still throw a tantrum and get away with it. Letting your eyes go unfocused from his reflection in the window, you brood at the sight of everything that’s yours now as he turns off the highway, passing below the iron eave of the Kelly Ranch entrance. Eight hundred thousand acres of pristine Wyoming land nestled into the deep valley surrounded by the Grand Tetons mountain range.

“Well, I’m sayin’ it again.” He’s driving too fast, and you refuse to turn and look at his face. Your heart beats blood in your ears, and you screw your eyes shut to the dizzying blur of green legacy, not wanting to see any of it—him.

Your belly swoops, going slightly nauseous and gurgling.

“I didn’t think you’d get here so quick.” He swallows, “Hell, I didn’t think it’d all happen so damn fast.”

“I was already in New York,” you tell him, voice clipped with breathlessness. “I left Paris last week.”

“What? I didn’t know— I—”

“Why would you?”

“I would’ve called you. I would’ve gotten you out here quicker.”

“Ellie called. It’s better like this, Joel.” Finally letting yourself say his name out loud, it feels wrong and molten on your tongue, a heaviness being spit up from the depths of your stomach. “We don’t have to pretend anymore. He’s dead now.”

“There’s no pretending. He wanted to see you—”

“Please, stop.”

But he urges on unheeded: “He told me so before I left. Told me—”

“Stop,” you snap. Finally turning to look at him and hating him for it. For how gorgeous he is, for all the things he’s always made you feel for as long as you can remember what it was to feel something for a man, for all he did or did not have with your father when you had none of it or so much of an entirely different thing. “Stop. I don’t want to hear any of it. It doesn't matter anymore, Joel.”

“But you should know. You deserve to know that—”

“What?” Because that one hurts. “I deserve to know what?” That he actually had loved you but had just never been able to show it? That now it was too late? That the only person the great Oswald Kelly had ever been able to speak to of the supposed care he had for his only daughter was the hired help? You’d read once that one should never let their parents anywhere near their real humiliations. You’d tried your damndest to follow that as soon as you’d grown up. “It’s not your place,” you seethe with teeth bared, an animal shoved into a corner and made to fight for its life, deciding you won’t ever let Joel near them either.

He spits a cursing, growled sound of frustration, but doesn’t continue. The two of you find yourselves at an impasse, and you turn back to your windowed mirror of him, eyes pinching hot, filling with tears. One of the things your father disliked most about you, your easy tears, and a single salt marred inadequacy tracks down the slope of your cheek, dripping off the edge of your jaw into the bandaged cup of your palm, and you breathe slow and measured through your open mouth, watching the fog cloud grow and shrink against the glass obscuring your vision of him.

The last time you’d missed your mother, the one you’d never known, in any sort of real and true way, you’d been eighteen. Returning to an empty house after celebrating your high school graduation in a far off school, alone.

In the midst of your sophomore year, you’d been sent away to a Swiss boarding school. It had been something worse than devastating, losing your life in Wyoming, the only home you’d ever know, Ellie, the other people on the ranch… But it was far removed enough that you couldn’t bother, where you couldn’t ask for things like attention or consideration. The education had been excellent, the upbringing desperately lonely ending on a whimpering sigh despite your many accomplishments. You’d wanted her very badly then indeed, your mother. To have been there, to have helped you pick your dress, kissed your cheek after watching you walk across the stage. To have wiped your tears when she told you that your father wasn’t there because he was busy managing the whole world, but that he was proud of you, that he’d have been there if he could. You’d wished she could’ve been there to lie to you so that you wouldn’t have needed to lie to yourself.

Peering down from your balanced perch atop the deck’s bannister, you survey the deep bed of Lily of the Valley, destroyed beneath the vindictive soles of your bare feet. He’d planted them for her all around the house after she’d died, her favorite flower.

You’d always hated them.

And that was the thing of it all, which you’d learned when you grew old enough to recognize such things like disdain. He couldn't stand you because you reminded him of her. Clichéd and old and tired. An excuse for being a neglectful father. The daughter who was too much like her dead mother, and thus did not deserve to be loved.

You tip your head back, nursing at the lip of fine aged Macallan, and the sky is a glass mirror of blackened silver streaks. You’re almost positive that all the stars in the Milky Way are visible from right here at this very spot in the heart of Wyoming. The sight makes your broken heart feel full and falsely mended.

You’re certain you’re painting a pretty picture right now: tipsy on a bottle of your dead dad’s sacredly hoarded whiskey that probably cost as much as someone’s house, staring up at the stars in your newly inherited home with a whole unappreciated life full of possibilities ahead of you. Basking in the title of your newly minted— orphan-hood? Orphan-ness? A peer of the orphans.

You snort softly, sucking on the bottle again, letting the heat of it settle in your belly, smolder in your heart. Your head feels full of bubbles and sugar and sad.

There’s a part of you that feels a little ridiculous, despite the circumstances. You’re good at compartmentalizing, good at being objective of your realities. Obviously: sad because your father is now dead, and it’d been nine months and eleven days since you’d last spoken to him. Sad because he’d never given a shit about you. Sad because you’re alone, dumped by the stupid French jockey boyfriend who you’d not even liked very much, just a few days before this whole pathetic ordeal of acquiring your orphan-hood, yeah, that’s what you’re sticking with, had occurred. Not to mention the army of looming lawyers and financial advisors and various heads of business vying for your attention, waiting for the what next?

And Joel.

A one man army of looming Joel.

So you’re feeling morose, blue, maybe a little spoiled, but brought low and cut short. Depressed and unsatisfied with your life thus far.

Poor little rich girl. Poor little orphan. Poor little me.

What you want?

Someone to care.

Someone to love you.

Hard to come by. Impossible to buy.

The stars gleam purple silver, winking at you. The bracketing black so dark it swallows the eye. Another taste of the nutty bouquet of smoked apple oranges, and soon you’ll be tipsy enough you won’t be able to balance your butt on the bannister’s ledge anymore. Maybe you’ll go humpty dumpty over the edge and crack your skull against your mother’s valley of destroyed Lily’s.

You laugh again with sound now, not crazy, only an orphan, ha, but you think that it’s only that it feels shockingly as if you’ve fallen through the surface of your life. As if you are still falling with nothing and no one to grab on to, to help stabilize you. A really terrible, shit-out-of-luck feeling.

Your eyes continue their infernal leaking, and you blow your nose loudly on the inside of your sweater. You’ve given yourself three days to do whatever the hell you want, be as disgusting as you may. When the three days are up you’ll plan to get your act together, take responsibility and hold of your life and become the woman you should be.

Who that is? Still being decided.

You think that maybe you’ll buy another jet before that time’s up. Or an island. Something ridiculous. Maybe you’ll sell the goddamn ranch.

You eye the dark rolling hills of the valley with seething suspicion. Let’s see what Joel says about that. You, marching up to the highway entrance and spearing a For Sale sign in the dirt of the largest privately owned cattle ranch in the continental United States. Way more than that God forsaken surly frown is what you’d get.

So long, Joel, it’s been swell. I’m done with this place. It’s time to pack it up and find some new hunk of land to care about more than you care about me or anything else.

Maybe you’ll be real funny and put up a Craigslist ad.

And it isn’t that you don’t love this place, the only home you’ve ever known. You do. In a way that is passionate and consuming and irreconcilable. Everything about it, the serenity, the guarding mountains and the deep woods, the home you’d been born in, that both your parents had died in. You do love it in your way.

It’s only that every man you’ve ever loved—loved—had always cared more about the place than he’d ever cared about you.

For the longest time, most of your youth until you’d decided that you officially felt an adult, you’d thought you’d hated your father. There was just so much anger and resentment and the resound of his ever furious words and insults and endless disappointment. The echo of no mother ringing so loudly in your ears that the confounding feelings had all been mistaken for hatred. But with age and distance and life, you’d realized you didn't hate him. You never had. You thought, actually, and this was a very good and mature thought of yours, that you were the only person in the whole world that had ever seen him as only a man and not a god.

He was only a man, full of greed and grief and missing the mother of the child he’d probably never wanted. Nothing more or less.

Maybe it was that you felt sorry for him. Not in the way of pity, but in the way of one person feeling empathy for another in a clinical and helpless sort of manner. And a numb, detached sort of sadness. A longing for something that you’d never had and had always wanted but eventually learned to live without.

Ultimately, his disappointment had turned on him, and now it was all you felt you had for him at the end of it all.

But, for some reason, and an annoying one at that, you do think that, if you try very, very hard, you could bring yourself to hate Joel Miller. There’s satisfaction in that possibility, vindication—resentment that even now, as practically strangers, you know he’d be able to pull that sort of feeling out of you which could result in hatred. Something strong and overwhelming and not easily escaped.

Your stomach rumbles, and you smile blithely at all your inherited legacy, filling the hollow with more drink. Three days to behave very badly, as badly as you can. The whiskey is so good, and swishing it around in your mouth, you tip your head back further, gurgling it loudly at the back of your throat.

“What the hell are you doing?”

You jerk, scrambling to keep your balance, choking a little on smokey apples and your own spit. A trickle of the golden amber liquor drips out of the corner of your mouth as you find him hiding in the dark across the deck. Accustomed to drooling over him, you wipe it away with the back of your hand.

“Having a party. Would you like to join?”

“Are you drunk again?”

Tough crowd. Ugh. “Never mind. You’re not invited. Go away.”

“You need to go inside and go to bed.”

You tip your chin at him, putting on doe eyes. “Alright. And are you going to be my new daddy also?” You say in a baby voice.

Fucking Christ, you hear him whisper under his breath, turning away to run an exasperated palm over his mouth. Frustration seethes off of him like sulfur. He’s tired. Of you maybe. Of the whole circus this place has become in the past few days—and rightfully so.

“What do you want? I’m extremely busy, if you can’t tell.”

“Just thought I’d check on ya.” Courteous, always the gentleman, bullshit. You roll your eyes at him.

“I don’t need you to check on me.” And you, ever the child. One day you swear you’ll grow up.

But it can’t be said that you’re entirely selfish either. You have considered the fact of Joel’s own grief at the loss of your father. After all, they’d been much closer than you’d ever been to him for many years. And maybe, in his own cold and removed and superior way, your father had seen this man who you’ve thought yourself in love with since you were a teenager, as something like a son.

Probably, that’s just your own wishful thinking: that Oswald Kelly had ever been capable of such tender feelings.

Maybe the fact of Joel’s own grief is the thorn beneath your nail bed that’s making you so angry with him, so needing of his attention. Maybe it’s that he’d failed to fulfill your silly and girlish fantasy that upon receiving the news of your only remaining parents death, he’d have been here waiting for you, at this home he’d guarded for you for so long, ready to take you into his arms and console and care for you.

When instead, he’d been off doing what he’d always done for as long as you’d known him. Protecting your father’s interests, his legacy.

“Is this how it’s going to be?”

“How?”

“You, being difficult.” Driving me fuckin’ crazy— he adds again under his breath.

“I’m an orphan now, Joel.” You’re becoming quickly addicted to the word. “I think I should be afforded a tiny bit of leeway to drive people fuckin’ crazy,” you mock his Southern drawl. Enough of your time had been spent in Europe over the past two years, kissing Europeans, that you’d sloughed off the last of your American twang; something of a vaguely European lilt peppering your words every now and then that Ellie likes to tease you for whenever the two of you speak on occasion.

A muscle under his left eye twitches at the jab, and you take another deep swig of the bottle, provoking him with your gaze. Wishing you had whatever it is a woman needs to entice this man. Like the fucking vet. Fucking world renowned, brilliant, highly coveted, beautiful veterinarian. You know about her. You’re sure he thinks he’s been discreet over the years with their whatever they’ve had, Tess, but you know.

Maybe you’ll be insane and irrational and possessive, taking advantage of your three crazy days, and fire her with your new found power. See what he has to say about that. Ha.

Ha. Ha. Ha.

Obviously not.

Despite your current hysteria, your goal is not to send the ranch head over heels into a tailspin.

But the imagining is soothing.

“Want some?” You hold the heavy crystal out towards him in a peace offering, held precariously between two sweaty knuckles. “It’s probably worth as much as your truck. Would be a waste for me to finish on my own.” You eye what’s left of it, about half, and give him a sheepish grin. It really is very good.

He looks at you for one long, solemn moment, always so silent and pensive, this strange enigma of a man. You get to watch in real time as he loses whatever fight it is he’s trying to fight against you, victorious when he shrugs and comes over slowly, resting his butt against the bannister—a carefully respectful distance away from you.

When he takes the bottle from your swinging clutch, gripped from the base, careful not to touch you in any way, you see the real sad in his eyes. The dim lights bleeding out through the big windows of the family room without a family shine on his face in strips and bursts. A shadow here, golden warmth there. He’s got more lines around his eyes than you remember from the last time you’d been this close to him. Smile lines made bright white in the center and gold burnished at the edges from too much sun. There’s little bursts of silver threaded at his temples now too, a gleam here and there in his dark beard. Forty four years old, he’d turned on your last birthday.

You dig your nails into the soft meat of your palms, and your belly smolders as he brings the bottle to his lips, tasting the exact place your own mouth had just been moments ago. You press your knees together as hard as you can, head a little woozy with the color of his eyes; the most gorgeous green, caramel hazel.

You’d graduated two years ago with a degree in art history and had done absolutely nothing with it since. It was just that everything appeared boring and pointless and shallow. Your whole life had one day suddenly seemed just a little silly. Useless, overpriced degree, nothing to be done with extensive knowledge in color theory when your world is expecting such different things from you now.

But you sure as hell can appreciate the color of his eyes in extensive and meticulous detail. There is that.

Watching the slow slide of the amber liquor down the bottle-neck, the long pull of his lush mouth, the ripple of his strong throat, and the way his eyes go a little wider, shocked at how good it is. You laugh soft: “I know, right.”

He takes another pull, another swallow. That’s what you want to be—swallowed just like that. “Damn, that’s good.” His mouth is a little wet, bottom lip shiny with thousands of dollars worth of your father’s favorite whiskey, and his eyes are sad.

You’d said you were going to be bad, but you don’t want to be bad to him. “I’m sorry,” you whisper.

He swallows again, tipping his head towards you, trying to catch your too soft words—he’s got a bad ear, you know why—and turns to peer at you from beneath his low pulled brow, the tip of his tongue peeking out to swipe at the drop of liquor you wish you could suck off his tongue.

“You’ve got nothin’ to be sorry for.”

The first time he’d shown you that gentleness of his: You’d fallen from your horse at school in your junior year. Something had frightened the beast, and she’d bucked you, sent you flying ten feet in the air, ragdoll-like, before you’d landed badly on your right arm, a comminuted fracture in your radius that you’d needed surgery to fix. At your insistence, and with only a few weeks left to spare, you’d been sent home for the remainder of the semester. Your father had been incensed but eventually allowed it. He’d been away from the ranch on business, after all, at no risk of being truly disturbed by you. But when you’d been readying to return to Switzerland at the end of the summer, arm healed, courage not, you’d not been able to get back on a horse no matter what you tried. Joel had helped you, before they’d shipped you off again. Trotted the corral with you for hours and hours before you’d finally been able to relax and sit on your own without tears and vertigo. No questions or admonishments, nothing but the quiet burr of his deep voice, guiding you and the mare along.

It had been a kindness unlike any you’d experienced in maybe your whole life.

“I’ve been bad.”

“Nah. You couldn’t ever be.”

The second time: “Did today make you think of Sarah?” Years after you’d found that green eyed photograph, he’d shared her with you.

His gaze turns suddenly sharp, but you’re not worried you’ve stepped in unbreachable territory. “Yeah.” The echo of her name rings around the two of you.

“In a bad way or a good way?” He takes another long swig, a low whistle through his teeth and a shake of his head before he’s handing the bottle back to you—again, carefully.

“Both.”

You take your own swallow, slicking your tongue all around where his just was, and you’re drunk for real now. Drunk on a man.

“Do you ever regret telling me about her?”

“Nah.” He tips his head back, looking up at the thick beams of the deck’s awning. He’s got the longest lashes you’ve ever seen on a man, thick and curling. The deepest voice you’ve ever heard too, sultry, a bedroom voice. A voice for fucking. Your belly swirls and dips, and you want so much you’re dizzy with it.

Heart beating like it’s about to burst, out of breath on the verge of hyperventilating, you can taste his mouth in your mouth, the imagination flavor of it. This is what it must feel like to die. This is what your father must have felt like three days ago, this agony.

His Adam’s apple bobs, and it’s so pronounced, the skin of his throat sun pebbled. There isn’t an inch of him that isn’t all rough-hewn man. “You needed to hear about her then, I s’pose.”

Yes. “You told me when I needed you to.” After that lonely graduation, the last time you’d missed her really very badly, longed for a mother. Alone, alone, alone little girl.

“You were missin’ your momma somethin’ fierce. Needed to know you weren’t the only one that felt like that sometimes.”

You laugh a not-laugh, butt scraping against the railing, slipping off your perch, socked-feet thudding beside his gifted boots. The pleasure you feel whenever you see him use one of the things you’ve given him is indescribable.

“Silly,” you say with barely any sound, his bad ear reaches for your voice again. “At the time it felt like I was the only person in the whole world that had ever felt like that.”

“We all feel like that at one point or another, I reckon.”

“Will you miss him a lot?” You ask looking up at him, the beautiful profile, the strong jaw. You’ve always wondered how he sees you. If he’s ever thought you were beautiful. Other men do, it’s a common thing, a nothing sort of thing. There are always men, there will always be men. But this singular man—this one is not like the rest.

“Maybe. Can’t tell yet, don’t think. But it felt wrong earlier, walking through his house without him in it.” His house, not yours.

“Do you wish he’d been your father?” And he turns to look down at you at that, gaze snapping, and you can tell you’ve shocked him with the question. But you’d always wondered.

“No. Never,” he says with such assuredness, an uncompromising shake of his head.

And the answer doesn't necessarily shock you in turn. You don't think anyone could have ever wanted a father like that. But it also doesn't help you understand what it was that lived between them either.

He sighs, perhaps reading the confusion in your gaze. “He helped me at a time when I needed it real bad. Gave me a place and a purpose and a thing to do and take care of. You get me? It was gratitude—maybe. He saved me in a way, after Sarah. Nothing more.” He thinks for a moment, and then, “Perhaps it was that we understood each other about certain things.”

You gaze across the sprawl of dark land as far as the eye reaches, that point of no return where the earth shoots up into the sky, purple blue behemoths in the shape of mountains.

From this spot, rooted to the deck of your family home, it seems like the whole world is yours to keep. Also, like you’ll never be able to touch any of it with fingers or taste or meaning.

Your love for this place is complicated—tied up in the people, the memories, the could’ves and should’ves, the whole dreamscape idea of the monument of childhood and all it’d really never been. The time away had felt eternal, like you’d never really been here to begin with, like the young girl who’d grown up on this land had never really existed. But you’d not forgotten them, this, despite your distance. Your home, the father that wouldn’t want you, Wyoming and all its splendor, the people you’d left behind, Joel and Ellie and shared birthdays that meant a secret world to you. Morsels of small happinesses interloped amidst a largely lonely and sad childhood. That’s what it was at its core.

“Would you be angry with me if I gave it all away?”

He thinks for a moment, maybe you’re making him sadder, but then finally says with a swallow, “No. It’s yours to do with as you please.”

You eye the quarter of whiskey left, but your belly isn’t hungry for its warmth anymore. You want something heavier now.

“Could you even do that—legally—sell it or somethin’?”

“Probably not. He probably tied it to my fucking life. Sell and die.” You mime your name in an imitation of your fathers deep voice, frowning at yourself the way he’d always frowned when he looked at you, but it pulls a laugh from him, and the painful memory is worth it. “But I have a billion dollars to spend now. More?” You tap your chin—you want to make him laugh again. “Gotta think of something interesting to do with it all.”

His mouth slides into an easy half grin. Like the moon—that beautiful. And he turns to face you fully. “You’re gonna be just fine. You know that, right?”

You turn to face him too, gripping the bannister for dear life. “What? Will you make sure of it?”

“That’s my plan.”

“How’re you gonna do that, d’you reckon?” The American twang bleeds back into your voice, and you’re all swollen lush on the inside, heart a beating fist in your chest.

“Haven’t gotten that far, if I’m bein’ honest with you.” God. His eyes, the strong bridge of his nose, his mouth. He’s so tall your head has to crook back to look up at him. “I’ll figure something out.” And after another pensive second, and still with that soft, sloped eye smile, he asks, and nicely, “Will you stop drinking now—for me?”

“Maybe tomorrow,” you say with the same sort of smile in return.

And then suddenly, like vomit again but maybe more humiliating this time: “Did you respect him?” Because you don’t know all the things about him that there are to know, but you do know that Joel Miller’s respect is a thing hard earned.

He clicks his tongue, and you hear the pop of his jaw as he shifts it like he’s chewing on an honesty. His eyes, his eyes, they’re serious, mercurial, warm and deep also. You worry he won’t answer, that he wouldn’t want to disappoint you or something, but then: “No,” said real simple like.

“Why not?”

And the way he looks down at you, you know already, and it makes that falling through the surface of your own life feeling rise up inside you again, makes your ears pop with embarrassment. Ah. “He never did a very good job of hiding the way he treated you, sweetheart. I couldn’t ever respect a man like that.”

This is reality right here, this is you falling through your life, this is the realization that it wasn’t only you imposing yourself, your existence, on someone with gifts they didn’t want or ask for. Joel had seen. Joel had understood.

Someone else had noticed that you exist, and it had been him.

What else had you ever wanted?

And in the blink of a desperate, yearning eye, drunk on a man still, you’re throwing yourself at him, pressing your mouth hot and heavy to his, kissing him full on the way you’d dreamt of since you knew to dream of such things.

Chapter 2; Sugar, Not so Sweet

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yesimwriting · 10 months

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Heyy ya!! Hwo you doing? I wanted to ask maybe you can write Coriolanus x reader when he gets to district after just finishing training for pacekeepers, or maybe where his tribute just arrived to the capitol and the reader maybe says the “what does my mentor do besides bring me roses?” Line? ❤️

A/n the turn around for this was so fast for me 😭 i got excited

hi!! i love these prompts and am so glad for the excuse to write something for him 😭,, also i didn't blatantly make the reader the district 12 tribute bc i didn't want to necessarily cute lucy gray out all together, but it's clear that she's from a poorer district and that being assigned to mentor her is an insult to the Snow name,, also reader pulls a katniss and volunteers for a younger family member bc the irony of that scratches an inch in my brain

Summary: After the very public slight of being assigned to mentor a female tribute from a lower district, all Snow can think about is the uphill battle that winning the Plinth prize will now be. Until, he realizes, that he's been given the first ever district volunteer who seems to have a quality that makes people care about her.

Warnings: my first time writing for a specific character, Coriolanus's internal thoughts are a little softer than they should be at some points but i love the accidental and deeply impractical crush trope so

---

Of Angels

The desperation masquerading as fierceness behind her eyes is undeniable. Coriolanus feels the way your panic, your shock as the weight of your own words dawn on you in his chest. He swallows, forcing down the feeling.

Take me--take me instead! The phrase is repeated again and again, shaky and pleading.

Something about the display, about the 12-year-old girl that desperately tries to cling to you as peace keepers push you forward, makes it hard to watch. Even worse, it makes it impossible to look away.

The first ever district volunteer. A suicide mission or a--a desperate call for attention? A decision made out of hysteria that you're already starting to regret?

He can't decide as the footage of you being ushered onto stage is played. Surely, Dr. Gaul and other Capitol officials won't find this acceptable. The concept of volunteering has always been reserved for the careers, the districts that produce well fed children that train for this. It's a way to allow them to pick their best, their strongest. It is not a way for someone to lay down their life for someone else.

"Are you saying you volunteer?"

You blink, eyes wild and bright as you openly survey the crowd. Coriolanus briefly thinks that you might attempt to take what he doubts is an actual out. You seem to be considering something before finally nodding once. The motion so stiff it makes you look smaller, like the girl whose name was originally called.

"Yes," you mumble. The softness of it is a personal accost. Your choice was made in panic, but that isn't who you are. You're not much of a performer or a fighter or even bold...you're not much of a chance at the Plinth Prize. "I-I volunteer."

----

In the end, he had come because of Tigris. She had insisted that there was a way to see his tribute as more than just another face from the districts, as more human than animal.

She loves that little girl enough to die in her place. If I was her, I'd want someone to tell me that my choice meant something. I'd want someone to show that they care about me.

The words had felt dismissible at first, but the more he thought about them, the more it made sense. Panem had seen the entire thing, had seen the way that his tribute continued to comfort the younger girl even after sentencing herself to death. There's a story worthy of a show in that.

If he can convince you to go on camera, to speak of the girl, of the choice...maybe he'd have a chance at his future. And if the public support manages to help you in some way or another, that'd only be an additional benefit. You love that girl enough to die for her, maybe that means you love her enough to fight tooth and nail to live for her as well.

The train that stops at each district pulls to a stop. The doors open, releasing the sound of tributes that are learning the consequences of attempting to cause issues for the peacekeepers.

A boy he vaguely recognizes steps out, and then a younger girl. Are you one of the tributes already risking their lives in an attempt to aggravate peacekeepers? Or maybe you're cowering at the back of the train, clinging onto the safety of a familiar space.

You prove to be neither. You emerge from the train, perfectly in tact and stable.

Coriolanus parts his lips, yet no words manage to come out. You're different in person, the white you're dressed in is objectively dirtier than it was when you were reaped and yet somehow, here in the dim, gray station it feels brighter. A stray beam of sunlight breaking through a cluster of clouds. A promise that the storm will end soon and that the angels have yet to abandon the earth.

Your dress is a simple thing, loose enough to be a hand-me-down or maybe even borrowed, the lace of the skirt falling farther down your knees than it should. That paired with the ribbon scraps tied to each side of your head make you look younger and cruelly innocent.

"Hello." The blandness of his own beginning forces a burning sort of regret to take over his chest. You attentively turn, expression kind and expecting. It only makes the embarrassment he doesn't fully understand scorch him from the inside out with more violence. He's once again struck with the desire to look away and finding himself incapable of doing so. "My name is Coriolanus Snow, and I'm your mentor."

You nod, features hardening. You've pieced it all together--his appearance, what he's saying, and where you are. He's revealed himself as part of the Capitol and now you can no longer watch him with kind, accepting eyes. The look you're giving him is almost enough to make him wish he could have presented this differently.

Coriolanus extends an arm, the carefully chosen pure white rose an olive branch. You blink, eyebrows drawing together before you slowly reach out and take the flower by its stem. Your fingertips brush against his own, the warmth of your skin is so shocking he has to remind himself not to flinch.

"A mentor?" You repeat the word like your only reason for doing so is to try out the foreign word on your tongue. "Does everyone get one or am I just lucky?" You look down at the rose you're now holding. "Or has the rumor that I'm a rebellion trick spread to the Capitol?"

The last question genuinely surprises him. It shouldn't, there had been some talk about why anyone from a poor district would ever choose to go into the games. The way you and the girl you saved reacted to each other could have been staged...but Coriolanus didn't think it was enough to warrant genuine rumors. Anyone that had looked at your eyes and seen the fear in them would have known that it was sacrifice. Is sacrifice. That girl means the world to you.

"No," he starts slowly, "No, everyone gets one and no one here has any preconceptions about you."

You raise your eyebrows, making it clear that you don't believe him. No preconceptions had been a strong way to phrase things, but the urge to assure you had taken over with no warning. You then look away, glancing around to take in your surroundings.

"Then why isn't there..." You trail off, your gaze landing firmly on him. "You're not supposed to be here."

He blinks. For the first time, it feels like you're truly looking at him. His own susceptibility to your wide eyes turns his stomach. You're the one that should feel like something up for display under his stare. "No, I'm not."

The admission forces the edge of your lips to pull upwards. "Alright," you hum, "So what does my mentor do for me besides bring me roses?"

"I do my best to take care of you."

For a second, all you do is stare. He's surprised you. The realization brings him more relief than it should. "The girl who you volunteered for..."

You tilt your head downwards, hiding your expression as your fingers carefully toy with the exterior of the soft petals. "My cousin," the explanation is low, cautious, "But we uh--we're more like sisters."

An in that he doesn't even have to work for. "I understand that." You look up, not bothering to hide your confusion. Maybe you weren't expecting something so human to come out. Maybe human works for you. "During the war, we took care of each other...and then after our parents passed, we were left in the care of our grandmother."

The silence that follows is tight, straining against the sympathies you're not willing to extend to someone like him. Your lips part, and Coriolanus is disgusted by the part of him that's curious about what's going to come next.

You're pushed back with no warning. His attention snaps towards the peacekeeper who is shoving against your shoulder with more force than necessary.

"Excuse--" No reaction, no response as another peacekeeper grabs your arm. "Excuse me, I'm her--" You're being dragged away in order to be packed into another vehicle of transportation with the rest of them.

Coriolanus stays near, doing his best to never lose sight of you in the chaos. A tribute breaks free from the hold of the peacekeepers and launches his body forward. An ill thought out escape attempt. The distraction is all Coriolanus needs. This is his chance to go after you, to cement a connection that will guarantee cooperation.

It's not the distraction that gets him to move or even thoughts of the Plinth prize, it's the final flash of angel white fabric as its forced back into darkness. He rushes forward before he can overthink, entering the vehicle just as the doors shut.

----

i think i might make a part 2!!

#the hunger games #coriolanus snow x reader #coriolanus snow #the hunger games x reader #the ballad of songbirds and snakes #the ballad of songbirds and snakes x reader #coriolanus x reader

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drunkenkissesatdusk · 2 months

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MORNIN’

pairings — jason todd x fem!reader

warnings — mentions of scars (tracing healed ones), talk of marriage, being a normal mundane couple, VERY domestic romance (i crave!!), mentions of having children but nothing actually happening!!

summary — moving from gotham into a more rural and quiet area was the best decision you two had made, because it turned out perfectly.

━━━━━━━ WAKING UP TO YOUR side empty was normal, but still scary, for jason. he knew you were safe, he could smell the breakfast you were cooking downstairs. still, a part of him forced him up. he continued the same routine he’d normally follow now that you’d moved from Gotham together.

your marriage solidified your hopes of leaving Gotham behind. finding the house was the final straw, and Jason jumped at the chance to buy the house. thank god he’d been adopted into a rich family, since neither of you two had to work.

occasionally, you had part time shifts at a bakery in the small town nearby. you loved it, and Jason loved coming in to see you with flowers. the longer you two lived out here, the less people that cared how Jason was related to Bruce Wayne.

your lives had become a very mundane manner, your stomachs filled with a consistent warmth that eased you into the knowledge of safety. Jason no longer kept a gun under his pillow — you agreed to him keeping it in the beside table.

downstairs, Jason met your face in the small soft yellow kitchen. you’d painted over the original white color, in hopes of creating a very fairy-like cottage. it was working out, and you spun around to face your husband.

“hey, Jay.” you extended your arms, gathering him into a soft hug. Jason smiled into your neck, spinning you around. he peppered your face with kisses, muttering a greeting into your body.

“hey baby.” he said.

“y’hungry? i made pancakes.” you motioned your head to the plate on the table. there sat a plate of pancakes, bacon, eggs, and fruits. Jason felt the warmth bubble, and an indescribable feeling of pure love towards you filled him. he didn’t know how else to explain it, he stared lovingly at you as you plated up your own plate, pouring two cups of coffee and handing one to your husband.

together the two of you fixed up your coffees before walking together to the rocking chairs on your back porch. there sat a small table between the two chairs, and you both set your things down.

you jogged back inside, turning on your guys’s favorite cd — a collection of love songs from the 60s. the familiar Skeeter Davis song flowed from the open windows, setting a calm mood over you two.

you both began drinking from your cups of coffee, as well as taking portions of your carefully prepared breakfast.

“i’ve been thinking, y’know.” you spoke after taking another sip of coffee. Jason looked up, intrigued. you met his eyes, hesitation crossing your features for a second — you never had to be afraid of saying anything to him.

“‘bout what?” he spoke, taking another bite of bacon.

“i think im ready, for a kid. i talked to my manager, i can get the time off when it happens.” you reached for his hand, and he happily took it. this statement by no means meant the two of you would try to rush it, you were both ready, and wouldn’t want to rush through this cherishing moment.

“really?” he was smiling brightly.

the rest of the day was spent relaxed in the bedroom you two shared, his head on your stomach and your hand crossing his back across every one of his old scars.

he didn’t mind, you wouldn’t cause them to reopen. ever since his old scars had died out, you noted how calm he was, how serene this entire portion of your life was.

“im so grateful. i love you so much.” you muttered, running your hands through his hair.

“i love you too, baby.” he rose up to kiss you gently, rubbing your jaw with his hand.

this was all you ever wanted.

masterlist — reminder that my requests / inbox is open

#ceciljameswork #batfam #damian wayne #dc comics #dick grayson #fluff #batfamily #batman comics #batman #jason todd #jason todd x reader #jason todd imagine #jason todd fluff

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ckret2 · 8 months

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You know, after seeing your evil Ford au, I wonder what would happen if evil! Ford, met cannon! Ford. I feel like Cannon! Ford would hate him because he's just an example of what would happen if he haven't learned his lesson on perfection and how it's impossible to reach and how he doesn't need to impress people to be happy. I wonder what evil! Ford would think of his original counter part..would he be a little regretful? Since his cannon counterpart got more happiness than him? It's honestly intriguing to think about.

That's actually part of why I made Evil Ford: I was thinking about a dimension of lost Fords (like the dimension of lost Mabels in Don't Dimension It) and asked myself, which Ford alternate would Canon Ford most hate to meet?

So yeah you're right, Canon Ford would HATE Evil Ford—but not for thematic "you haven't learned the moral lesson about perfection & family" reasons. That's how audiences think about characters, it's not how people think about other people. When's the last time you hated somebody in real life because they missed the point of their own narrative arc—rather than because, say, they're rude to cashiers?

No, the reason Canon Ford hates Evil Ford is much simpler.

Similarly, meeting Canon Ford wouldn't make Evil Ford feel regretful because Evil Ford still thinks he made the right decision. What does he care if Canon Ford is "happier" if he only found contentment by—what—giving up on his high ambitions and settling for being a washed-up burnt-out ex-academic with no memorable achievements to his name? Evil Ford would rather die as a miserable overachiever than live as a peaceful slacker.

And he didn't spend thirty years on a completely different life path from Canon Ford without developing a totally different perspective.

Note: when Canon Ford found out Bill lied about the portal and declared he'd stop Bill no matter what, Evil Ford thinks that's Ford betraying Bill, not the other way around.

Also note: Evil Ford thinks Canon Ford is only motivated by anger over being deceived—not concern for the safety of the whole planet. Like yeah sure, he's HEARD that excuse; but that's what he thinks it is: an excuse. If he'd decided not to forgive Bill, he probably would've used the same excuse himself. A convenient, heroic-sounding moral justification for a thirty year vengence quest—but he doesn't really care that much about who's running the Earth, why would his alternate self?

(And really, Canon Ford? Thirty years? Thirty years?? You never found anything more productive to do with all that time than stalk your former mentor because you're MAD about ONE LIE?? If Canon Ford had said he thought killing Bill would net him more interdimensional fame and praise than he'd ever have as his underling, then Evil Ford could understand THAT—he himself has had misgivings about the fact that he's signed up to spend all eternity playing second banana—but as it is, though...)

Also also note: Evil Ford never reconciled with Fiddleford because he never acknowledged Fidds was "right" about Bill. He spent two-thirds of his life estranged from his brother. He moved across the country from his family. He made no friends in Gravity Falls, and likely no other college friends than Fidds. But he spent over half his life working with, dreaming with, living with Bill Cipher.

Evil Ford is evil; but he's not heartless.

Bill's the muse that gave him the blueprints he needed for his greatest invention and for the culmination of his life's work as a scientist and explorer. Bill's a near-god who hailed Ford as the greatest genius of his century, the man who's going to change the world, and via divine weirdness intervention he personally made sure that prophecy come true. Bill's the guy who—after Ford's embarrassing failure of a portal accident—welcomed Ford into his gang with open arms and the assurance that all his hard work wouldn't be for naught. He's Ford's longest-lasting friendship, his partner in crime and in science and in just about everything else by now, the person he trusts to puppet his body.

Is that a very skewed perspective on Bill? God, yeah. But it's Evil Ford's perspective.

If someone told you that all your suffering is due to the one person you trust most in all the world and the one person outside your family you care about the most—someone you've known for over thirty years—and your life would be so much better if you'd ditched this person the very first time you didn't get along—and that ditching them would have been the moral action—and that, in fact, you should have dedicated your life to killing this person...

Would you regret your life? Would you envy the life of the man who told you all this?

Or would you despise him?

How much more would you despise him if you knew he was you—had lived the same life as you—and that he had killed the most important person in your world?

Oh, Evil Ford resents the hell out of Canon Ford. Who are you—you slacker, you betrayer—to say you're "happier" than your counterpart? How do you deserve that "happy" ending? How is that fair?

Evil Ford only has one regret: not locking up his entire family before Weirdmageddon, where they'd all be safe... and where Bill would be safe from them.

#stanford pines #grunkle ford #gravity falls #evil ford au #fanart #my art #(I made these pictures much tinier than i usually draw to ensure they'd actually upload lmao)

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miiilowo · 2 months

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Highlights / Notable info from the second Scott Cawthon Dawko interview for people who don't want to watch it

MISC/START OF INTERVIEW

- scott says the 1 thing he'd wanna go back and change/fix the past 10 years is FNAF world; said a lot of weird/bad decisions were made going into it, that he didn't like the graphics and it Could Have been a good game but he doesn't like it overall & he may consider making an improved sequel

- he was scared to hand FNAF over to steel wool but he thinks he got lucky w/ them

- refuses to play both FNAF VR games because they genuinely scare him too much; didn't want to beta test them (funny)

- he very much knows the fandom prefers pure horror and the supernatural but cant resist leaning into scifi stuff

- doesn't like the names burntrap and glitchtrap and they were supposed to be temporary

SECURITY BREACH

- half blames covid splitting up steel wools workforce for the games lack of quality and delays

- says his "vision of the game" was misaligned with steel wool, that he had a "very specific story in mind" for security breach and it didnt pan out like he wanted

- he takes fault for it, saying he conveyed it in a bad way; "I was trying to tell steel wool to do specific things throughout the game, put specific items in specific places, have specific characters do certain things, meanwhile not TELLING them what the story plot was. Because in my head, I was thinking 'Okay, when people find this, they'll connect this to this to this & it will all be revealed, and I thought I could do that without telling steel wool the story plot. That didn't work out very well because they got all of these pieces, and they thought it was their job to connect them in a way that made sense. And so really what you ended up having were the same pieces telling completely different stories...I don't blame them for that, I blame myself for that, because what I should have done was gone 'hey, heres the story, the pieces are here, here's how theyre supposed to connect'."

- burntrap originally even supposed to move; just supposed to see something you saw in between machinery or in corners, that you werent supposed to know his purpose even though he used to have a very specific one (that the fandom doesnt know)

- he knows it didnt turn out like anyone wanted & thats why they made the RUIN dlc, he hopes it redeemed security breach

- he said hes learned from that mistake with security breach and things should be better in the future

- he cannot share any thoughts on the mimic

- he likes vanny a lot, shes one of his favorites and he thinks that shes underutilized and should get more spotlight in the future

THE BOOKS

- process is 'he has an idea, he proposes it to the writers, they flesh it out'

- he likes bunny call the most, and that it's not entirely made up; he took his family to a summer camp. 2 older kids 2 babies. one of the things you could sign up for was a 'panda call' . a very 'deceiving title', he says. early in the morning, a bunch of the camp counselors dressed as killer clowns would come into your cabin and scare the kids to wake them up early and drag them off to do their daily activities (?????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????) and he knew this was the case, & before it happened he started to sort of feel bad that he signed up his two youngest kids for it so he crept outside in the dark and 'started listening for screams' early in the morning. 'somewhere in the dark in these trees theres clowns and theyre coming for my cabin'

- acknowledges the fazgoo is weird and bad.

- the 'creature on the cover of blackbird is my sleep paralysis demon' (quite literally)

- says his least favorite story is the guy getting pregnant with springtrap's baby and that he Doesnt Know What He Was Thinking, that he swears he 'wasnt trying to pick on matpat'

- he says theres potential for the books to be adapted into shorts goosebumps style, but hes afraid it might be 'too much' and oversaturate the franchise

THE MOVIE

- he says a big issue was that there was material thats difficult to translate to the big screen; the nuance of the antagonists being that the animatronics are possessed by the spirits of innocent children, and he wanted to preserve the innocence of the victims while also having the horror and the kills, and thats a big part of why several screenplays got scrapped; he was more picky/cautious about that than anything else

- says the victims are sort of like 'confused, scared animals backed into a corner, who believe that adults are out to get them' & thats part of why they kill people + the manipulation from william afton

- he likes the movie overall but thinks specific things could be improved and they aim to do that with the second movie, but doesn't want to dwell on those shortcomings too much

- hes perfectly happy with critics hating it but the fanbase loving it & that was his goal for it

- when the movie began showing in theatres he said: 'i told myself i wasnt gonna go online i wasnt gonna read any reviews i had already told everybody at blumhouse and i told my legal team DONT talk to me DONT call me DONT email me DONT send me charts DONT send me facts or figures i dont want hear ANYTHING', saw 1 negative review on accident then started reading all of them immediately before the 2nd showing even happened

- 'for a couple of hours there i was distraught, i thought it was a complete disaster' (based off the initial negative critic reviews, before learning how much the fans loved it)

SECOND MOVIE

- Not giving away many details, but following the same formula; 1st movie based on 1st game, 2nd movie based on 2nd game, etc

- Thinks people will like it, that the setup for the 1st movie was the hardest part but now that they have that launch pad to go off of and hes really fond of what they have planned

- Emma Tammi is also directing the second one

INTO THE PIT GAME

- was originally just supposed to be a short novelty game, but they made something really good and he encouraged them to keep going & its turned into a full-fledged game

- he says its going to be a very 'unique experience' and that everyone will like it a lot

- says working with megacat (studio for the game) has been 'weird but good', that theyll vanish for several months and return with a bunch of info

SPINOFFS, GENERAL FRANCHISE STUFF, FUTURE PLANS

- Would want to work on a game based off of Fetch and that he thinks it'd be really cool

- Says he feels like he's sort of lost touch with the fanbase as things have gotten bigger

- Wants to have a better structure for managing a twitter page, official news feed, etc., wants more management than just Himself because it'd better service the fanbase

- He says theres another game planned with steel wool (not the mimic game) way down the line that hasnt been announced yet

- Making more choose-your-adventure fnaf book stuff

- He's 'very careful' with collaborations because he wants to preserve the fact its fnaf and he doesnt want it to be distorted or tainted, & even if he really really likes a game he won't do a collab if the vibes are mismatched, but he's a little more open to things like that now (but we have FNAF X DBD now! yay)

THE BOX.

- (paraphrased) His process for a lot of the lore in games is that he'll come up with half of a mystery and then come up with an answer as things progress, that he feels something is there and he makes the path for that thing to be revealed

- 'but sometimes when things progress the roads that have been put in place arent the same roads that were there before'

- he had something planned for the box. the progression of the story did not allow for the reveal of whats in the box

- he never pursued whats in the box. and he will never know whats in the box.

#fnaf #five nights at freddys #fnaf movie #security breach #scott cawthon #fnaf books #long post

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twost3ps · 4 months

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This boy has been in the drafts for like a month

I'm feeling like I want an Adam sandwich with two slices of Morningstar brothers so you guys are going to hear me out on my LucifurxAdamxMicheal au (and I mean it in a they both share Adam in the end :3 ) In general I'm calling the ship ✨️GuitarStars✨️ boooyaaa I feel like there might be a better name for it but idk

(Also I’ve noticed there is complaint for guitarhero in the adamsapple tag. I'm tagging this post as adamsapple this once of it but post related to this with both brothers will be counted as #guitarstars.

I also completely agree with the complaints. There is a problem with the tagging so this is a very quick reminder to please tag properly!!! Ik it's not meant to be harmful bcz most guitarhero shippers are also adamsapple as well. But i will admit there has been a lot of unecessary tagging (i am guilty of this im so sorry qwq) so please be mindful!!!! Ik this post might go agaisnt that but its just this post i swear sorrryyyy)

ANYWAYS The actual au:

For now I'm calling the au- Angels on My Shoulder (I can't think of a good title rn grrr)

quick sketchs so you get the idea

General prompt:

Adam respawns as a human with all his memories. He lives a normal happy life until he turns 21 when two angels (Micheal and Lucifer) appear on his shoulders with a mission: try convince him into making certain decisions so that he ensures a spot in heaven or hell.

That doesn’t work out very well because adam hates how theyre forcing their ideals onto him one way or another. He doesnt really want to think about heaven or hell anytime soon. Heaven or hell seems like complete torture to him. The fact that he didn't like either of them before he respawned doesn't help.

A revelation happens and both brothers realize it's not gonna work on their terms so they're gonna have to earn his favor first before trying anything. One of the ways is talking it out beacuse adam had expressed several times over that, while at first it was funny, their bickering needs to die because it's getting annoying.

They talk it out. They make up. It takes a whole but they become close again. They try to earn adams favor in the meantime and between time. Everything is at peace. As time goes on though, the wooing is no longer for just adams favor, its now romantic. Both develop feelings for Adam. And since now they made up both made up they are very willing to share him.

The og goal is completely lost. Gone with the dirt and dust. And now what was once a competition to get Adam into heaven or hell has spiraled into heaven and hell trying to get into Adam. If you catch my drift.

Do they get in there?

God bless they do

(Ps they start off as small little mascots but then later grow into their normal form and an added human form. Adam Prefers the small mascots though)

My in-depth of the au that is very subject to change I just wanted to rant is under the cut o3o

So when Adam had died, he respawned onto earth. Born into a normal family and all that jazz. He lives life as normal and has comes to terms with it. He actually loves his life. He doesn’t have to walk on eggshells anymore and lives as normal. He’s not insanely good or insanely bad, he’s just a guy.

A guy who is very happy with himself. After graduating he becomes a national park ranger.

Heaven and hell both know of adams soul, but contant cant be initiated till he turns 21 (It was recognized because I wanna say 21 would be the age Adam technically was in his creation during Eden, and thats when he can process divinity without his body tweaking as if he were any other mortal. Souls grow along with age and all that drama, adams soul in eden was strong enough to stand the sheer power of a seraphims presence) both sides made it their immediate duty to guide him to their path.

Sera wanted Adam in heaven to clear her mind- to have heaven back to perfection with the original perfection creation (also to have her son back, but she's not ready to unpack that for herself.)

Lucifur wanted adam as he could punish him directly for hurting Charlie and her friends. A little tiny part of him also really wants Adam all for himself grrryrvgrvsgrs

So both heaven and hell spawn a representative guide for Adam to follow once his soul is ready to guide. Lucifur nominated himself and Sera nominated Micheal who agreed.

For some reason (probably amix of earth and god or sumn), Adam's presence nulls the powers of both angels and devils. So the first time they appear, Micheal and lucifur appear as small tiny mascots on Adam’s shoulder.

(Adam has flicked both of them away several times and they can't really do anything about it other than fly back and try again)

Both sides had the same idea and Adam connects the dots very fast on why they are here without them telling him. And he's pissed.

His normal life is now ruined.

Adam actually really hates both Lucifur and Micheal. Lucifur for obvious reasons and Micheal because he's just so nitpickey. Micheal had trained Adam in the past and that guy was brutal. Adam understood part of it was with Lucifurs falling and their brother thing and whatever but god daymn bro needed to chill. If Sera was on him like a hawk Micheal had been on him like a spy camera from space monitored by the secret service. In a way, both devalued adams emotions to some capacity so Adam hated both of them equally. Nothing Adam could do about it though because he was human.

In the beginning, both micheal and lucifur kept it really formal between them. Its strained but neither brother imposes on what the other one advises. That doesn’t stay for too long. The formalities between Lucifur and Micheal die pretty quickly. Under 2 months tops. While both are very old and very much adults, they are, first and foremost, SIBLINGS.

Both begin talking over eachother, butting in, shoving eachother. It's like pre eden all over again between the two on who is better. Most of the time they argue about the most random topics forgetting their og purpose.

After one year of enduring both of their bs, Adam feels like he has a dog and a cat rather than two otherworldly gaurdians monitoring his every move.

He doesn't complain though. After a while he's learned to tune them out. He also finds it incredibly entertaining watching the literal devil fight with the a high angel while being incredibly small. And with no powers it resorts to petty slapping. He's gotten pretty used to it....

Except when it comes to them making him choose what actions he takes.

They're always on him about everything. It sucks so much ass. Everything Adam tries to do something good, Lucifur tells him that it's stupid, that he should be more selfish and blocks Adam. He keeps on telling him that deep down adam really isnt all that, and why should he try and do good when everyone knows that hes not really that. Micheal does the same thing in reverse. When Adam does something considered bad, Micheal raves on how he'll go to hell. That Adam was made in perfection and must reach that perfection. That heaven is waiting for him and is available only if he keeps on doing good.

It makes Adam so mad when they remember what they're trying to do.

Adam doesn’t listen to either angel because after living part of his life as just a normal person, he’s come to realize he doesn’t want to think about living life wondering if he’s going to heaven or hell. Adam does not want to face eternal punishment or be in hell. He still really hates sinners, and while the blood hungry killer part of him died with his second life, he still thinks that the majority of those sinners are disgusting to say the least. But he doesn’t want to walk eggshells to be virtuous enough to enter heaven. Heaven, for all its greatness got tiring after 1000s of years. He's grown tired- already hated hell and grew to hate heaven. He doesn’t want to think about either, he doesn’t want those ideas to deter him from choosing what he wants to do. He wants to make both good and bad decisions without an angel watching over him. He wants to be able to make both good and bad decisions. He makes this very clear after a breakdown.

It becomes less of a competition over making Adam choose and more of getting into Adam’s favor after that because their first tactic is clearly not working.

So both agree that they will have to earn adams favor before making him do anything.

But in order to get adams favor both have to learn to get along because it had become one of Adam's biggest gripes. Funny at first, but the bickering and arguments got tiring after the course of a few years.

So they do attempt to make up. Genuinely. It's hard and its tough. Theres a lot there to unpack. But both jnkw that if they don't do this Adam is not going to listen to either of them because getting along has go go both ways.

And they do make up.

By the time Adam is in his early 30s, the close proximity and a lot of Adam yelling to sort it out, allowed for some slow but needed time to talk it out. They would do it infront of Adam who was the mediator, but they mostly would talk when Adam falls asleep as both watch over his dreams (creepos imo). They begin talking about their decision and their lives. Both brothers do acknowledge that they miss each other and that they have committed several wrongs with each other. And soon the fighting turns to light banter and life is good. They still try to earn adams favor but it's a lot more calmer. Everything's more calm.

Atleast that's what adam thought at first.

While bonding and stuff, they both come to the mutual agreement that they could share Adam. So they both freak it and try to woo Adam together.

And then now it's a matter of Adam freaking out because while before, both his little shoulder angels used to argue, they their bickering distracted them enough that Adam could chill and leave.

Now they're both bothering him and helping eachother try to get in adams pants. They're tag teaming him now.

It doesn't take long for their combined forces to make Adam cave.

The og goal is kinda gone. They still put their input but adams become more open it because they're less demanding and he feels like their goals are more aligned to his wants than theirs. Lucifur and Micheal also come to kinda realize that where Adam ends is where Adam ends. They're going to have to just suck it up when the time comes but they'll enjoy sharing while it lasts.

It gets pretty domestic and slice of life here. So the years following is a mix of sibling bonding and having ✨️the rizz✨️ on Adam.

Lucifur talks about hell and Charlie. Micheal talks about heaven and lucifur and his siblings. (Both Micheal and Lucifur arent permannt shoulder angels, they can actually pop away if they wanted to) Adam talks about his life and stuff.

When Adam eventually dies, his soul is neither here or there (because getting absolutely boned by twin morningstars does not make you virtuous or sinful it just makes you a bad bitch) his soul spawns in limbo. He’s deprived from salvation but doesn’t endure the horrors of hell. It’s basically a decent sided garden with a basic house in the middle where the garden ends is white space. On opposite ends of the garden are two doors, one goes to hell and the other to heaven. Turns out, the doors are connected to Micheal and Lucifer’s homes, but only appeared in them once Adam died. He’s allowed outside limbo into heaven or hell of his choosing for a limited amount of time and visites Micheal and Lucifer when he can. On the flip side Micheal and Lucifer can freely walk in and out of the place. I don’t want Adam to be lonely once he enters limbo so Cain and Abel are there because they died before heaven was ready and when he’ll just started.

So that’s pretty much it :3 kinda

incomplete but doesn't have everything I wanna say

Also

I will reiterate what I said at the beginning. I love you my guitarhero ppl but they are right in the tagging. It comes from a place of love so just be mindful!! Also, this is from me, sometimes the adamsapple vs guitarhero thing gets repetitive. It's a very common post ive seen. And I mean in general not just leaking into the adamsapple tag. That might just be me, but I do see it pretty often. Love it but that with the tagging does get a bit old. Really, the problem is a mix of incorrect tagging and the same trope. There's a lot more to the ship, especially with Micheal being free reign rn, so there is a lot of opportunity to show their relationship besides comparing it to Adamsapple.

I feel like somone who ships guitarhero also had to say something so yeyeye

Again, no offense to anyone guitarhero isbmy love but just please be mindful guys o3o

If you read all that thank you lol

#hazbin hotel adam #hazbin hotel #guitarhero #adamsapple #michael x adam #adam x lucifer #hazbin hotel michael #adam hazbin hotel #lucifer hazbin hotel #my au #guitarstars #if i miss tag guys pls dont be afraid to tell me #even old posts

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stillness-in-green · 4 months

Text

Not-Really Chapter Thoughts BNHA 424

You know, I really think there should be a point at which Deku rushing in with no plan and doing whatever he thinks feels right should become Heroic Malpractice.

Just me?

Because, like, Shouto had a plan. He spent the time between the two war arcs specifically developing a brand-new combat technique that he planned to use to shut down Dabi's combat advantage without killing him. He convinced his dad not to change the plan like Endeavor was hesitantly sounding him out about[1]; he went out and talked and asked questions, and even if they weren't the right words every single time, he did his best and he did it with intention. If Dabi proves to be dead, it won't be because of anything Shouto did to him; it'll be because Dabi himself chose to stand back up, take a warp gate across the country, pick a fight with the guy who doesn't have the power set to shut him down without unduly hurting him, and try to replicate an Ultimate Move specifically tailored for someone with a balanced power set Dabi doesn't have.[2]

And if Dabi lives, it's still going to be because Shouto booked it across the country and used that same technique to stop him again.

1: Dabi surely would have preferred to fight Endeavor from the start, and it probably would have been the more "just" choice if it had to be one or the other, but Shouto is the nominal focal character between the three of them, so, critiques of the broader Hero-side decisions aside, Shouto's arc has to come first. This is one of those places where you can clearly see how much the decision to let Endeavor survive where Horikoshi originally planned for him to die hurts the shape of the later story.

2: Obviously ultimately if Dabi dies, it's going to be because his family and Team Hero made repeated choices to ignore and neglect him, culminating in the entire family swearing to deal with Touya together only to passively accept a battle plan that involved splitting them all and letting the kid who knows Touya the least be the one to fight him. But like, in the context of that fight, Shouto isn't the reason Dabi takes all that hurt.

Uraraka may or may not have had much of a plan, but at least the words she said to Toga reflected that she had been seriously thinking about Toga in the here and now, what Toga's told her, what Toga needs. If Toga dies, it will be because Toga chose to give Uraraka an unsupervised blood transfusion with no intention of stopping it. (With the same general caveats as in Footnote 2.)

But Deku? From the very beginning, Deku has been valorized by the manga for how much he doesn't plan. All Might tells him specifically that it's a sign of greatness shown by future "top Heroes" that, in some crisis situation, their bodies moved before they could think. Bakugou's Rising chapter is defined by him reaching that same state.

Deku claimed he wanted to save Shigaraki; he's sad in the latest chapter that he couldn't save Tenko's[3] life. But did he ever have a real plan to do that? With all the quirks he had at his disposal - both his own and those who would be in the flying coffin with him, or classmates whose presence he could specifically request - did he think hard and come up with a technique that would let him stop Shigaraki without harming him? Did he try to connect with the Shigaraki right in front of him by citing to the future?

3: And I have nothing but scorn for Deku's insistence on that name when "Tenko" goes out very pointedly calling himself Shigaraki Tomura.

Well, no. Deku obstinately yelled at the phantasms in Shigaraki's mindscape that he had no plan whatsoever. The only plans we saw him carry out were ones handed to him by the OFA collective that involved "breaking" Shigaraki's psyche; the only plans he came up with himself involved more efficiently breaking Shigaraki's body.

Way back in Chapter 130, Nighteye harshly scolded Deku by saying that his way of thinking was arrogant. He said, "Go after him haphazardly and he'll slip through our fingers. You're not so special as to be able to save who you want, when you want. (...) This world is not so accommodating that you can act the Hero because you feel like it."

It felt like something that Deku should have taken to heart, a lesson to be learned and applied later, but I never much got the feeling that he did. Nothing he did in that moment, in that arc, or anywhere else in the series afterward indicates that he thought Nighteye was right. He just chose not to talk back, and the arc ended with Nighteye dead and no longer around to pose objections to Deku's mode of heroism.

But Nighteye was right. Three hundred chapters later, Shigaraki is dead because Deku could not be arsed to plan for how he could stop Shigaraki without killing him. Because he let Gran Fucking Torino give him the intellectual out that killing someone could be a means of saving them. Because he followed his gut instincts of prioritizing the phantom Crying Child that he always saw as more valid and real than the human being standing in front of him.

Because he haphazardly acted the Hero and let his body move without thinking.

And he wants to act sad about it now? I hope Nighteye materializes in his bedroom to sneer at him every night for the rest of his life.

Incidentally, fuck All Might, seriously. "Wow, Deku and Bakugou, you two are the greatest Heroes ever. Fuck me and everyone else who fought tooth and nail, arm and leg, eye and earjack, life and death, to contribute to the pile of damage that was necessary to kill and/or save Shigaraki and All For One. You two got the last blows in, so you're the only ones who get the credit for it in my eyes. Hero Society is definitely going to be different and better with you two around."

#bnha #bnha critical #bnha spoilers #bnha 424 #stillness has salt #class talk #no. 2 green #this just in:#class 1-a will no longer ALL be the greatest heroes ever #they thought too much about how to deal with the challenges facing them #and encouraged that thought in others #which is obviously the opposite of their bodies moving without thinking #and since moving without thinking is what signifies top heroes they are OBVIOUSLY not top hero material #christ almighty i hate this endgame

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barbatusart · 5 months

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bit of thinking outloud but for my current tactician run im doing a special wyll origins playthrough im calling the Evil Wyll Run & it’s given me a lot of food for thought about his character (or at least the freedom of psychological movement + exploration afforded to an origin run!)

wyll spoilers abound we’re entering the wyllenium here

wyll always felt a bit underwritten to me - i know that’s partially because there was that big kerfuffle in the 11th hour with changing his whole story and personality on top of having to recast his VA, and frankly hats off to both original VA lanre malaolu & new VA theo solomon for their hard work - both brought tremendous performances, & i sincerely hope mr malaolu was paid well for his work & time even if his voice wasn’t used in the final cut (i would also say warlock as a class itself felt a bit underdeveloped but im 100% OK with chalking that up to me the player not understanding how to play warlock effectively yet lol im more of a fighter barbarian Hit Stuff guy)

but honestly this feeling of being “underwritten” combined with a character with a long history of heroism in his pocket made wyll really interesting to me even in my tav playthrough. for all his accomplishments he still feels like a blank everyman, or like he’s someone who fully believes he’s the main character who doesn’t “need” to do any extra work on himself - and honestly he feels Very much like he could be The Main Character. once his backstory of the son of the duke was revealed too i immediately got the sense of like, rich boy trying to prove his worth beyond his wealth and status by striking out & becoming that hero, or that Prince Charming. basically that perfect happily ever after somebody. and im of the opinion that you don’t get mixed up with a cambion in the first place unless you’re either the kind of naïve “everything will just work out” immature that tends to comes with his status as the son of a noble, or you’re hungering for power. depending on playstyle he’s very easily both of these things

on the naïve front (ie a good wyll playthrough) if anything he feels very believably immature, & from that perspective the events of the game feel as though they’re the prequel to the actual start of wyll's story where he finally finds himself & learns what kind of man he really is. we just dont get to see it alas, but i really enjoyed the thought exercise of somebody still grappling with overcoming his own immaturity. he feels like someone who can still grow and that his tale is just beginning

Evil Wyll (meaning any time mizora shows up he drops everything to enact her instruction & hasnt once tried to find a loophole out of his contract) which ive come to be far more fascinated by is someone clearly vying for power, which is interesting because his noble status would’ve given him all the power he wants had he Played Nice. to me it speaks of someone who wants to be able to take what he wants from life without it being handed to him, which contrasts in a really fascinating way with entering into a warlock pact at all. maybe he thought it was better that it be a decision he made as opposed to nobility given to him by his family ties, maybe there’s still that pollyanna sentiment of “it’ll just work out & ill live happily ever after.” again maybe both. maybe in a sense the fiend, as he calls himself, is a good excuse to shuck off any poor decision he makes or any genuinely heinous thing he does under mizora’s instruction - an identity he uses as power fantasy (and very much in tandem/interchangeable with the blade of frontiers power fantasy) until it means taking ownership for any of his misdeeds, and then a scapegoat.

may be a bit incoherent but im only now hitting act 3 in my origin run & im Really enjoying this difficult characterization ive cooked up for myself lol

#wyll ravengard #baldur’s gate 3 #evyl wyll

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vaultdwellerbarbie · 1 month

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i want your midnights

javi rivera/f!reader (3.2k words)

summary after spending a week and a half away from javi, it becomes clear to both of you that you'd rather not spend any time apart at all.

content warnings pretty much just p with very little plot, smut, unsafe sex, car sex, making out in public, also with a hint of domestic bliss at the end

before you inquire "august, didn't you just say you were throwing up blood last night??? how did you find time to write smut???" when you're a real fucker, you always have time. also... twisters leaked in hd where are my javi gifs??

Agreeing to take a later flight was the right thing to do, the kind thing to do. Coming back to Oklahoma after a pitch-meeting with Kate that had gone on for well-over a week was draining, but you would have felt especially guilty if young boy - who looked like he couldn’t have been older than fourteen - needed to wait hours to get home to his family. So, you agreed to take the next soonest flight home.

One delay led to another, and you didn’t get to leave the airport until five hours after you originally intended upon leaving. Kate felt bad, but you reminded her that you had made the decision and that you would see her tomorrow. Javi, on the other hand, seemed to be losing his mind every time you spoke to him.

It was as if he was growing progressively more unhinged with the second, and you weren’t sure how long he had been hanging around the general vicinity of the airport. It wasn’t that he was mad, he just seemed sad that you weren’t there. Granted, you missed him more than you cared to admit.

Having been a Wrangler, you weren’t really supposed to speak to Javi. The two teams didn’t like each other, most of the people he worked with at the time were stuck-up and rude. It was toward the end of a summer, when things were starting to wind down, that you struck up a conversation with him. He was incredibly attractive, he looked good in everything he wore, and when his hair got all wet and more curly than it already was you felt like you were going to go insane. But you didn’t live in Oklahoma, and as soon as winter hit, you weren’t going to see him again for a long while.

One thing led to another, and for the rest of the season you were sneaking around with him whenever you got the chance to do so. Whether it be because your team was in the area, or because his team had branched out and gone to your area. It really didn’t matter, what mattered was that you consistently found a way to hook up with each other even though you both knew that you probably shouldn’t.

If that wasn’t bad enough, you figured out eventually that it wasn’t normal to describe your ‘casual hookup’ as ‘the most beautiful, angelic boy in the world - and have you seen his freckles??’. Turns out, it wasn’t really casual at all. Thankfully, he stopped working for Storm Par, and with a bit of convincing from Kate, a partnership was formed. A partnership that meant that you no longer had to hide your relationship or pretend that it was just hooking up when you both knew it was a lot more than that.

The plane-ride wasn’t even that long, but it felt like an eternity. An eternity of knowing that Javi was just sitting there waiting for you, an eternity of wishing that you could see him now - or could have seen him hours ago. At some point, everything that happened on the plane became irritating. If the bathroom was occupied for two seconds when you needed to use it, it was a problem. If a child made too much noise, it was a problem. When someone snored a bit too loud, it was a problem. Every little thing became a problem, you couldn’t even claim to be fond of your own playlist by the time that you finally landed. Perhaps it was because you were sleepy, and you couldn’t sleep with the anticipation of knowing that you would soon see Javi. But that thought alone had you thinking about him again, it was going to be about ten at night by the time that you landed, and he would have spent most of his day sitting around in that airport just waiting for you to get back. You wanted to thank him in some way, but nothing felt good enough - you’d just never really had anyone willing to go to that length for you, even though he really didn’t have to.

By the time that you did land, you were rushing through the airport to find him. It didn’t take too long, because there he was waiting for you at the bottom of the stairs. Your lips spread into a wide smile, rushing down the escalator and letting your bag rest beside you as you nearly tackled him in a hug. The airport was predominantly empty, at least in this area, since it was getting late and you weren’t in a massive city. There was nobody to complain about you stopping right at the bottom of the steps or even too many people to worry about taking your bag for the few moments that you have it set down.

Javi didn’t seem to mind, though. He encouraged you to tackle him, if the feeling of him keeping your legs around him for more than two seconds was any indication. His lips were against yours in an instant, your fingers tangling into the back of his hair until he deepened the kiss.

“Javi- Javi, we should go outside.”

“Mhm.” He pressed a kiss to your cheek, another one against your neck, before you pressed a finger against his lips.

“You gotta put me down.”

“I can carry you, you’ve had a long flight.”

“But my bag-”

“I can do both.”

It took about one step for you to realize why he was insistent upon carrying you. “You really missed me, huh?”

“It’s been like torture, especially today.” He complained, another absentminded kiss pressed against your neck as you moved to hide your face in his shoulder. Even though barely anyone was there, people were still around. PDA wasn’t something that you weren’t used to with Javi, but never to this capacity and never around strangers. But he was needy, you could tell from the feeling of him pressing against your thigh.

“Javi, baby, just get me to the car at least.”

“You got it.”

How he managed to get to his car as quickly as he did was beyond your own comprehension, but he did. The moment he got to the car he let you down, keeping an arm snuggly around you as you both worked to get the suitcase into the trunk. Javi shut the truck, but made sure to push you against it after a moment. You let him kiss you for just a minute, stopping him the moment that his hand got down to your ass.

“Javi-”

“I need you.”

“In the parking lot?” You took his face into your hands, your thumbs brushing against his cheeks. He was so beautiful, even if you could only see him under the light of dim streetlights and the further away lights coming from the airport’s runway. His skin was always so soft under your hands, and the feeling of his warm body against yours made you want to forget about all of the voices in your head telling you that having sex in the parking lot was an absolutely terrible idea. But, the sight of headlights pulling in had you sneaking away from his grasp. “Take me home, and we can do whatever you want.”

“It’s a long drive.”

“It’s not that long.”

“It’s like… thirty minutes.” You turned to face him as he settled in his seat, though he looked far from settled. With one glance toward the predominantly empty section of the parking lot you were in, you moved so you were on his lap. Javi’s hands instantly moved to cup your ass, holding you against him as your lips crashed against his.

“You should take me home.”

“A little hard when you’re on top of me.” He responded, a buck of his hips against yours causing a yelp to come out of you. The thin fabric of your leggings didn’t seem to be doing you any favors, but they seemed like a good idea earlier in the day - comfortable, not going to bother you on the plane, not like you could have accounted for how horny your boyfriend would have been the moment you stepped foot in Oklahoma.

“You’re not making this easy for me, Javi. It’s been a week and a half.” You mumbled, your lips trailing to his chin, reaching his neck. Finally, you pulled back. “I need you, too.”

“You have me, if you’ll let me.”

Glancing out, you sighed. There were people, not a lot of people, and you weren’t sure how likely it was that they would see you since it was so dark out. “You’re evil.”

“I’m not-”

“Evil, Javi.” You responded, moving back to your seat; not without a fleeting kiss to the corner of his lips, but back to your seat regardless. “Please drive.”

Javi was silent for a few moments as he drove, letting you take the time that you needed to pick out what you wanted to listen to. The issue, similar to the one that you had been having on the plane, is that everything was annoying you. Nothing you listened to made you happy because the only thing that could make you happy was Javi’s hands on you, but he kept those firmly planted on the steering wheel. It wasn’t until the fifth time that you changed a song that you typically liked that he realized that he was definitely getting under your skin.

“Want me to help you?”

“Sure, you can pick a song.”

“Not what I was referring to.”

Turning to him curiously, your breath hitched in your throat upon feeling his hand on top of your thigh.

“May I?”

“Promise not to crash the car?”

“I promise not to crash the car.”

Once you gave the go-ahead, he grinned at the sight of you parting your legs for him. Still, he took the time to feel you through the leggings, quirking a brow at how you had seemingly gotten wet enough that he could feel it through the thin fabric of your pants.

“You want me that bad?”

“I told you, you weren’t making it easy for me.” You replied, watching him as he moved his hand further up your body just to slide his fingers into the fabric of your leggings. Despite his neediness, he took his time. His hand ran all along your thighs, played with the fabric of your panties, everything that you figured that he wouldn’t have time - or energy - to be doing. But, clearly he did.

“Javi, please.”

“I’ve got you.” His voice was so soothing, but he continued to tease you for at least a few seconds before his fingers moved where you really needed him. Your head fell back against the seat as you kept your eyes locked on him. He really was a sight, but he knew that you liked looking at him. “You need to look at the road.”

“W-why?” Your mind was elsewhere, the feeling of two of his fingers pressing into you caused a whimper to leave your mouth.

“Because if you don’t, I’m going to pull over.”

You glanced out toward the road, there really was nothing going on past the airport. The treeline was dark, and you were pretty sure you hadn’t seen any cars for at least a few minutes. Maybe it was that, or maybe it was how good his fingers felt pumping inside of you, but whatever inhibitions that you had were gone.

“Pull over, Javi.”

“What?”

“It really is a long drive.”

Finally processing what you were asking him, Javi pulled over into an empty parking lot that he was about to drive by. Whatever the place was, it was certainly abandoned. The moment the car was off he had you in his lap again, your hands fumbling with his pants while he worked on getting the seat back as far as it could go.

“You have no idea how badly I’ve needed you all fucking day.” He complained, moving his hands from the seat to your leggings. You moved off of him a bit, letting him remove them from your body before he harshly pulled you back down onto his lap. The moment he was free from his pants he had his head thrown back, your hand covering the length of him. He let you do what you wanted for a few moments, but there was only so long that either of you could go before giving in to what it was that you needed.

“I have some idea.” You responded, sighing at the feeling of him rubbing the head of his cock against your cunt. “A lot of idea, actually.”

“Did you miss me, baby?”

“More than you know.” You responded, your forehead falling unceremoniously against his shoulder as he pushed into you. Moving your head away from him, your hand covered his cheek again. “I love you, Javi.”

“I love you too.” His tone was softer, but it was just as needy as it had been when you had first kissed him. As contained as you were trying to be, it was clear that both of you were having a difficult time keeping your hands off of each other. Granted, he was the one who started it since he was the one who couldn’t keep his hands off of you in the first place.

The moment his lips were against yours again was the moment you started moving. He helped guide you, but you were pretty sure it was mainly because he wanted to keep his hands on your hips. Despite all of the weird places that you’ve had sex with Javi, a car hadn’t been one of those places for quite some time. The last time you’d done this together in a car, it had been when you were still sneaking around and weren’t sure where you could go that nobody would notice. His car seemed to be the only option at the time, but it was never preferable because of all the windows. Plus, that time was different - you were in the backseat that time, so you had a bit more room.

“I wish I had more patience, I wanted to take my time with you.” He admitted, parting from your lips. His lips trailed down your neck, resting for a moment before he looked at you as he moved to tug your shirt up. Giving him the room he needed, you allowed him to remove the shirt before he reached behind you to unhook your bra.

“If you take that off, I’m just warning you-”

“It’s not going back on, I know. I know you.” He replied, a gentle smile covering your lips as you let him do what he wanted. “Just make sure to bring it inside so the neighbors don’t give us looks.”

“Deal.”

Once the bra was off, you resumed your movements while Javi kissed lower down on your chest. Arching your back towards him reflexively, you squeezed his arm slightly when he took your nipple into his mouth. The feeling of him inside of you, against you, with his mouth on you - it was a lot, since you had gone a week and a half without even being able to see him. It felt like an absolute eternity, and you were partially grateful that it took you so long to actually see him today since you weren’t too sure that you wanted your other friends to see him be incredibly, incredibly needy.

Perhaps that slight overwhelmed feeling was why you didn’t really notice when he moved a hand down the front of your torso until you could feel his finger pressed against your clit.

“Fuck, Javi- feels so good.”

He moved his head up, leveling his face with yours. The kiss was sloppy, your hand moving to the back of his neck and your fingers lacing into his curly hair. Neither of you seemed to mind, though. His fingers continued to work against your clit, your grinding becoming more and more erratic as he started to thrust his hips up into you. You were certain that, if you got a little bit more distracted, you were going to end up hitting your head on the roof of the car. Still, you couldn’t be too concerned with that. The only concern on your mind was how good it felt to be with Javi in that moment, and how you never wanted to be separated from him for that long ever again.

“I’m- where-” Javi was no better off than you were, already thinking about where you wanted him to finish. He always made sure to ask, even though you could both sometimes forget important things like condoms. But you were on the pill, and you also weren’t so sure that you were going to be able to give him the time to pull out even if you wanted him to.

“Inside- please, do it inside.” Plus, you kind of liked the feeling of him finishing inside of you, but that was a conversation for another day.

As Javi brought you to your climax, the feeling of your cunt squeezing around him was what brought him over the edge. Your lips melded with his, your moans coming together to the point that you weren’t sure who was louder. By the time that you did pull away, there was a big goofy smile on his face that just made you want to kiss him again.

“Have I mentioned that I love you?” Your voice was breathy, but it only made his smile grow wider.

“A few times. Have I mentioned that I love you?”

“I few times, I could always hear it a little more, though.”

It was… a struggle to get you off of him so you could go back home and it was even more of a struggle to figure out how to get dressed again in the car. Eventually, you managed, and by the time that you made it to his house, whatever adrenaline had been keeping you going was wiped out.

“Can I carry you again?”

“You don’t need to.”

“It’s the gentlemanly thing to do.” He replied, grabbing your suitcase from the back and holding an arm out for you at your door.

“At least let me take my own suitcase to the door.” You replied, stepping out of the car. But, Javi was persistent. So, even though the walk was only a few feet and you definitely could have made it even though you were exhausted, he insisted. But it was nice being held by him, being against him. He was warm and comfortable and he felt like home to you, that was a feeling that you could never quite get enough of.

For the first time in over a week, you were able to cuddle in to the warmth of Javi’s chest, and he’d be damned if he let you go. Anywhere, for the next day. You both may have been exhausted that day, but his touch-starved tendencies continued on throughout the next day and they ended up being mildly contagious. Some part of you blamed the fact that you had to delay your flight by a few hours, and that part of you is eternally grateful that you were ever given the opportunity to do so.

#twisters x reader #twisters fanfiction #javi rivera x reader #javi x reader #anthony ramos x reader

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