#no there are things here that's beyond you to help him with and you have to sit with the discomfort and grief of that without

[ggukivrse]

THIRD TIME'S THE CHARM | JJK

summary. when you complain to jungkook about your lack of action in the past year, you're not really asking for a solution. but when he casually offers to help, you just can't seem to bring yourself to say no.

after all, what's the worst that could happen in hooking up just this once?

pairing: jeon jungkook x f!reader

genre: friends to lovers, smut, fluff, slight angst

word count: 7.7k

warnings: swearing, they actually talk about their feelings :0, explicit sexual content, kissing, making out, hickeys, dry humping, oral (f. receiving), multiple orgasms, unprotected sex (be smarter than them pls), a bit of banter, petnames (baby), they're really fucking cute in the end it makes me sick, let me know if i missed anything!

notes: idk if this counts as my first completed series buttt... i'm gonna act like it does. thank you so so much to all the love and support you guys have given me for the past two parts, i'm genuinely so beyond grateful for it all :<< hopefully, you guys enjoy this part too!!

ps. READ PART ONE HERE & PART TWO HERE!!

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You open his chat window again like it’s muscle memory. Like your thumb don't know how to not betray you.

It’s not even about sending something. You’ve got no intention of doing that. At least, that’s what you tell yourself. But the screen is always open, staring back at you with that last unread message you sent almost a week ago — a throwaway meme you found on your lunch break. No reply. Not even a reaction.

And it hadn’t felt like a big deal in the moment. You sent it like always, light and dumb and nothing. But then the nothing kept going. No little gray typing bubble. No 'lol.' No double text. No late night 'you up?' Just this wall of silence.

You would’ve rather gotten a dry reply. Hell, even a thumbs up. Anything to prove that he saw you.

But now it’s been long enough that sending something new would feel desperate. Like you’re chasing him. Like you’re asking for something you’re not even supposed to want.

You lock your phone and throw it face down on your bed.

Then pick it back up five seconds later.

Then toss it again, harder, as if that’ll prove something.

You wish you were mad. You think you are mad — at least a little. But it’s a tangled kind of anger. One that knots itself up with embarrassment and sharp, bitter shame. You want to scream at him, yeah. But also at yourself.

Why did you let this happen?

Why did you let him blur the lines and kiss you like that and touch you like he meant it?

You were supposed to be smarter than this.

You lie back across your bed with one arm flung over your eyes. It’s stupid. You know it’s stupid. It was just sex. Just two nights. Two insanely good, dangerously close, way-too-connected nights. But still — technically just sex.

Except it wasn’t.

Not when he remembered your favourite sauce order without asking. Not when he brushed a loose strand of hair behind your ear while you ranted about work.

And especially not when he went cold the second things felt too good.

That’s what keeps twisting the knife. That shift in him. Like someone flipped a switch and rewrote the script. One minute, he was holding you like you mattered. The next, you were stepping out of his bathroom and into a stranger’s apartment.

You haven’t heard his voice since.

You bite the inside of your cheek and squeeze your eyes shut, trying to push down that lump of feeling before it rises too high.

It’s fine. You’re fine. You’re overthinking it.

Maybe he’s just going through something. Maybe he didn’t mean to shut you out. Maybe he thought you didn’t want to hear from him. Or maybe he’s just a fucking coward who got scared when the stakes changed.

But then, why didn’t you reach out?

Why didn’t you ask if he was okay, or tell him he was being weird, or demand an explanation like you’re owed one?

Because you’re afraid.

Because you don’t want the truth if the truth is that he regrets all of it.

Because deep down, you know this isn’t just a friendship anymore, and pretending it is would break you worse than silence.

Your phone buzzes once on the comforter beside you.

You freeze. Then sit up fast, breath catching halfway in your throat.

Your eyes are already scanning the screen before your brain can fully catch up.

Kook 🍜: hi

One word. Just hi. Like the last seven days didn’t happen. Like your stomach hasn’t been in knots trying to make sense of his silence. Like he didn’t vanish without warning after folding you into his sheets and leaving you to figure out what the hell it meant.

Your breath leaves you in one uneven exhale.

You blink at the message, your body locked in this strange stillness. Your thumb hovers, frozen. Part of you is tempted to stare at it until it disappears. Ignore it. Let him feel what it’s like to be the one left hanging. But your hands betray you again — just like they always do with him.

You: Radio silence for a week and all I get is a fucking hi? Wtf Jungkook

It’s not even what you really want to say, but it’s the closest thing you can manage that doesn’t sound like I missed you so much it made me sick or please don’t do this again.

Three dots appear.

Your heart squeezes like it’s caught in someone’s fist. And then the dots vanish.

Then come back.

Then vanish again.

You mutter, “Fucking say something,” to no one. It comes out too small, too desperate. You shut your eyes tight for a second like you can wring the feeling out of yourself by force.

A minute or so passes before his reply finally sends.

Kook 🍜: sorry. can i talk to you today?

You reread it so many times the text starts to lose meaning. Can I talk to you today?

You feel sick.

There’s no way you don’t know what this is. The phrasing. The tone. He wants to talk? What the fuck else could that mean, if not that he’s about to cut things off? That he’s going to hand you some polite little speech about how you’re great, but this can’t happen again. That he wants to stay friends and he doesn’t want to confuse things any more than he already has.

Or worse — he thinks you guys are better off cutting contact all together.

You bite down hard on your thumb, suddenly on the verge of tears and furious at yourself for it. You should’ve never let it get here. You should’ve drawn the line before the second time. Before the car. Before the party.

You should’ve been more careful with your heart.

But you’re here now. So far past the line you can’t even see it anymore.

You open your keyboard, then close it again. You want to ask what he wants to talk about. You want to demand answers over text so you don’t have to see his face when he says the words. But you know you won’t get anything that way.

You: Where?

Kook 🍜: i can come to yours

You sit there for a second, just breathing. You feel like you’re bracing for a crash that’s already midair.

You: What time?

Kook 🍜: i can be there in an hour?

You don’t answer. Not right away. You’re too busy staring at your reflection in the dark screen, wondering why your face looks so calm when your body feels like it’s trying to collapse in on itself.

You: Okay

You put the phone down carefully, like it might go off again, or explode, and turn your gaze to the ceiling. Every minute after this is going to stretch like it’s mocking you.

You don’t know if you’re getting closure or clarity. You don’t even know which one would hurt more.

But you know you won't cancel.

Because if this is going to end — if he’s going to say it — it has to be to your face. You need to see it.

You need to know for sure.

Jungkook is fucked.

Like, actually, cosmically, irreversibly fucked.

He stares at the elevator doors like they’re the gates to hell, and his own reflection in the brushed metal does him no favours. He looks tense. Jaw tight, shoulders hunched up high like he’s trying to fold himself into a more manageable version. Someone chill. Someone who isn’t about to shit himself over the thought of seeing you.

He rolls his shoulders back, shakes out his hands. Useless. He’s already sweating through his hoodie.

Every nerve in his body feels like it’s tuned an octave too high. Like if someone so much as breathes in his direction right now, he’ll either snap or confess something humiliating.

He wipes his palms on his jeans again. That’s the fourth time since the lobby.

The worst part is, he knows how he got here. He knows exactly when it happened, too — the moment the line moved.

It was your laugh. The tired kind, all cracked at the edges after that hellish Friday you had. You were curled up in his passenger seat, half out of it, feet tucked under you, and you’d looked over at him with that soft, worn-down smile.

And it just… hit him.

The weight of it. Of you.

He wanted to reach over and touch your face. Not to tease. Not to start something. Just to feel your skin under his fingers like it was allowed now.

And the second that thought formed — clear and blinding and way too tender — it was over. Game fucking over.

Because it wasn’t supposed to feel like that.

You’re his best friend. Have been for years. He knows how you take your coffee, how you organise your playlists by mood, how you chew on the inside of your cheek when you're anxious. You’re not just some girl he hooked up with at a party. You’re you.

And now, he’s standing in an elevator on the way to your apartment, trying not to think about how badly he messed it all up.

He hadn’t meant to ghost you. Not really. It was just — after that night, after the way you looked at him, all warm and trusting — he panicked. Full-body, brain-scrambling, total system failure. He couldn’t even look at you without feeling like he was seconds from saying something stupid like "Don’t sleep with anyone else, please," or "I think I’m in love with you."

So instead, he shut down. Did the one thing he always swore he wouldn’t do with you — he pulled away. Got weird. Avoided it. Avoided you.

And now you’re pissed.

Rightfully so.

He deserved that text you sent. Probably worse. You could’ve ignored him completely and he wouldn’t have blamed you. But you didn’t. You texted back and he’s clinging onto that like a lifeline. Because it means there’s still time. Still a chance to fix it — if he doesn’t blow it again.

He presses the heel of his hand to his chest like that might steady the erratic rhythm of his heart.

What the fuck is he even going to say?

Sorry for being an emotionally constipated idiot?

Sorry I ghosted you because I realised I’m in love with you and it short-circuited my whole fucking personality?

Sorry I thought I could fuck you and still keep pretending like you don’t mean more to me than anyone else?

The elevator dings.

Jungkook flinches like it slapped him, then scrubs a hand through his hair, lets out a tight breath, and steps through the doors before he can change his mind.

He’s here.

Fuck. He’s actually here.

Jungkook looks like he didn’t sleep last night. Hair messy, clothes a little wrinkled, eyes flicking up to meet yours for a second before they dart away again. His hands are shoved into the pockets of his jacket like he’s afraid of what they’ll do if left unsupervised.

You tell yourself not to feel relieved. Not to let it show. He didn’t cancel. He showed up. That shouldn’t mean as much as it does. It really, really shouldn’t.

But still — there’s something in your chest that unclenches when you see him standing there, real and present. Even if he does look like he’s about to apologise for burning down your house or something.

“Hey,” he says, voice quiet.

You step back from the door to let him in. Dry. Wordless. The move is automatic, but your body feels stiff with it, like your own muscles are annoyed on your behalf.

He hesitates before stepping inside, like he thinks the floor might swallow him up. You don't offer a smile. Don't even look at him once the door’s closed behind him.

You cross your arms and lean back against the edge of the kitchen counter, watching him with a blank expression that’s only half-real. The other half is tightly coiled under your skin — anger, sure, but under that, all the feelings you’ve been pretending not to have.

He does a slow, uncertain glance around your apartment like something might’ve changed since the last time he was here. But it hasn’t. It’s still your place. Same plants, same overhead light humming softly, same faint scent of laundry detergent that clings to the air.

He stands there awkwardly, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. It’s like he doesn’t know where to put his body.

You’ve never seen him like this before. Not around you. Jungkook’s always been comfortable here. The kind of comfortable that leaves shoes by the door without asking. The kind that opens your fridge like he owns a shelf. But right now, he looks like a stranger in someone else’s house.

You let the silence stretch out. You’re waiting for him to just speak, but he doesn’t

He doesn’t even try.

Eventually, your voice cuts through the air, a little too sharp. “Jungkook, you said you wanted to talk.”

His head snaps up like he forgot that was part of the deal. Like the fact that he came here at all already cost him everything he had in reserve.

“Yeah,” he says. His throat moves when he swallows. “I do.”

You raise your eyebrows, waiting.

He opens his mouth like he’s about to start, then closes it again. Shifts his stance. Rubs the back of his neck with one hand. You catch the way his eyes flick to the floor, then back to you, then away again.

You narrow your eyes. “Well?”

He breathes out a weak, almost bitter laugh and runs both hands down his thighs, like he’s physically trying to ground himself. “I don’t know how to do this,” he mutters.

You frown, arms still crossed tight across your chest. “What? Talk?”

You hate being like this towards him — you feel like a bitch. But it’s the only way that you can stop yourself from just spilling all of your thoughts and feelings to him.

“No, I—” He breaks off, jaw flexing. “No. I mean… say the right thing. Say any of it without sounding like an idiot.”

You blink, unimpressed. “So you came here without knowing what you were gonna say.”

He looks at you then. Fully. And for the first time since he walked in, you see the real wreckage behind his eyes. There’s nothing cool or casual about it. He’s unravelling in slow motion. Everything about him is quiet desperation wrapped in someone trying really hard not to fall apart.

“I didn’t know what to say because I didn’t know what I wanted,” he says finally. “And then I figured it out, and that somehow made it worse.”

You stay silent.

He shifts closer, not by much — just a few inches. “I fucked up,” he adds, voice barely above a whisper. “I know I did. I know I disappeared. I didn’t mean to make you feel like I didn’t care. I was just—” he stops, jaw tightening again. “I got scared.”

You scoff under your breath and look away.

“I’m serious,” he says, softer now. “It freaked me out. How fast it happened. How much it changed.”

You look back at him, jaw set. “What changed?”

He swallows again. Stiff. His voice cracks a little when he speaks next.

“You,” he says again. “How I feel about you. That changed.”

Your chest tightens.

You don’t react, not visibly. You keep your face still, unreadable, even though your brain is suddenly scrambling. You’ve been yanked in too many directions this past week. You’re not going to lean into hope just because he finally decided to speak.

So you say nothing. You just hold his gaze and wait.

Jungkook takes a breath, his shoulders rising with it, then falling in a slow, deliberate exhale. The nervousness is still there — but it’s settled into something quieter now.

“I kept trying to tell myself it didn’t mean anything,” he says. “That it was just— whatever. Two friends, getting carried away. We were drunk the first time, right? It was easy to lie to myself about that. Easy to say it didn’t have to go anywhere.”

His voice is calm, but there's tension underneath it.

“But the second time?” He pauses, tongue running along the inside of his cheek, eyes still locked on yours. “That wasn’t drunk. That wasn’t casual. That was me driving us across town just to make you feel better, because I can’t stand it when you’re not okay.”

You flinch — barely — but he sees it. You know he does.

“And then it was me kissing you like I’d lose my mind if I didn’t. You think I didn’t notice how different that felt? I’ve never kissed you like that before. And I haven’t stopped thinking about it since.”

The weight of his words hangs in the air between you.

You’re still standing by the counter, arms crossed, but now your grip has loosened. You hate how much this is getting to you, how badly you want to give in, how your chest aches just hearing him say the things you’d only let yourself think when the lights were off and your phone screen was dark.

Jungkook takes another step toward you.

“When I brought you back to mine that night… when you came out of the shower, and I saw you just standing there in my space, looking at me like I was safe…” His voice catches, but not in a way that makes him crumble — just enough to show the truth of it. “I freaked the fuck out.”

You blink at him, finally speaking. “Yeah. I noticed.”

He huffs out a breath that's almost a laugh, but not quite. “I didn’t mean to shut down. I didn’t even know what I was doing in the moment. I just— everything in me wanted to pull you close, and that’s when I realised I couldn’t keep doing this the way we were doing it. Not without losing my shit every time you left.”

Your throat feels tight, but you still ask, “So you decided to ghost me instead?”

That lands. His jaw flexes, and he nods once. “Yeah. I did. I thought if I gave it space, I could go back to being normal. Go back to just being your friend. But I couldn’t. I can’t.

“I don’t want to be just your friend anymore. Not because of the sex, not because it was good— which it was, but that’s not the point. It’s you. It’s always been you. I didn’t realise how much until I almost lost it completely.”

You swallow hard. Your arms are uncrossed now. Not folded in, not defensive — just hanging at your sides like you’re too stunned to remember what to do with them.

Jungkook steps in closer. Not touching you yet. But near enough that you can smell him — faint cologne, his laundry detergent, the scent you associate with your car windows fogging up.

“I missed you,” he says, and his voice turns softer. “Every day. And it scared the shit out of me, how badly I wanted to talk to you. Touch you. Just be around you. I wasn’t ready to admit it last week, and I was a coward for that. But I’m not running anymore.”

Silence again.

Except it doesn’t feel like the ones you’ve been drowning in for a week.

“I don’t know what you’re feeling,” he says, lower now, like the words might break if he’s too loud. “And I’m not assuming anything. But if you still want me around— really want me— just say the word. I’ll figure out the rest.”

You inhale slowly, try to even out your breathing, but your chest still feels like it’s barely holding together. Your heart’s doing that thing where it thuds too hard without speeding up.

You hate that you believe him. That you always would’ve. That no matter how angry you were, no matter how cold you tried to be when he walked in — you still wanted him to explain, to prove it wasn’t what your worst thoughts told you it was.

And now he has.

He’s standing in front of you with open hands, with the words you oh so desperately wanted to hear. And for a moment, you’re not sure what to do with that.

“I hate you,” you say quietly.

It’s not true. Not even close. But it’s the first thing that leaves your mouth.

Jungkook huffs out a dry laugh, eyes dropping to the floor. “Yeah,” he murmurs, nodding. “I figured.”

You shake your head once. “No. I mean it. I fucking hate you for this. For—” You break off, because your voice is shaking now. “For making me feel like I was crazy. For not even saying goodnight after… after everything.”

His face tightens, but he doesn’t interrupt.

“You could’ve just told me,” you go on. “You could’ve said it was too much. That it got weird. That you needed time. Anything. But you disappeared. And I had to sit here wondering if I made it all up."

You pause, pressing your lips together.

“And I— I missed you too, you know,” you add, quieter this time.

His mouth opens like he might speak, but no sound comes out at first. Instead, he closes the space between you by half, slow and steady, like he’s afraid of pushing too far.

“God, you’re such an asshole,” you whisper, but your tone isn't mean. Not even close.

He laughs, soft and low. “Yeah. I know.

“You promise me you’re sure? Cause Jungkook, I will fucking cut off your dick if you pull this shit again.”

He smiles but doesn’t hesitate. “I promise. I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.”

You stare at him.

Long enough that the air between you stretches taut, thin as thread.

His hand twitches like he wants to reach for you but still doesn’t know if he’s allowed. His jaw flexes, his chest rising and falling in uneven swells. You can tell he’s waiting — for a sign, for a go-ahead, for you.

And even though part of you still wants to be mad, still wants to make him sweat just a little longer, the rest of you aches. For his mouth. For his hands. For the solid, grounding weight of him.

So you move.

You step into the last inch of space between you and grab the front of his hoodie. He exhales like he’s been holding his breath for a year, but you don’t give him a chance to say anything.

You kiss him.

Not out of impulse. Not for show. You kiss him because you need to. Because your chest feels like it’s going to split open if you don’t.

At first, it’s quiet. Just lips pressed to lips — careful, slow. There’s a pause between each pass of your mouth over his, like you’re both trying to remember how this started. How you even got here.

But then he sighs against you — not loud, not dramatic, just a sound full of relief — and it unravels something.

His hands lift, hesitating for only half a second before they settle on your waist, fingers curling tight. You press closer, and his lips part beneath yours. The angle shifts. Your nose bumps his cheek. It’s not perfect, but it’s real, and when your tongue brushes his, everything tilts.

The sweetness melts fast.

He makes a sound low in his throat and drags you in like the distance is unbearable. Your hands slide up into his hair, fingers threading through the strands at the base of his neck, and the way he reacts — the little shiver he tries to swallow — sends heat straight down your spine.

You kiss him harder.

His body crowds yours until your back meets the wall. Not rough, not rushed. Just firm. His chest presses to yours, and you can feel the way his heart races. How your own pulse kicks up to match it.

The kiss deepens, turns messy at the edges. His teeth catch your bottom lip and your breath stutters, but you don’t pull back. You tilt your chin, chasing more, and the next time he kisses you, it’s hungrier. One of his hands slips to the small of your back, palm dragging slow and warm beneath your shirt. The skin-to-skin contact makes your whole body twitch.

You gasp into his mouth, and he swallows the sound, his hands tightening. His other arm slips around your waist completely, pulling you flush against him, and suddenly you’re not thinking anymore. You’re just feeling.

The tension that’s been bottling up between you two — the silence, the week of wondering, the ache of missing him so much it hurt — it all floods to the surface.

You fist your hands in his hoodie, yanking him impossibly closer. Your hips shift forward, just enough to brush him, and the sound he makes is sharp and involuntary, caught between a breath and a groan.

“Fuck,” he mutters, barely pulling back. His forehead presses to yours, breath ragged. “You’re driving me insane.”

You huff, lips brushing his. “That’s fair.”

Then he kisses you again. Rougher this time. Desperate in a way that makes your knees go soft.

He doesn’t stay at your mouth for long. His lips trail down — your jaw, your cheek, the shell of your ear. His breath is hot and uneven, and when he finds your neck, your whole body reacts. Your hands clutch at him, your back arches off the wall, and the soft sound that escapes your throat isn’t one you mean to make.

He feels it. Hears it. Answers it with a low, reverent sound that seems to vibrate straight through you.

His tongue traces the spot beneath your ear, slow and deliberate, and your eyes flutter shut.

Your fingers tighten in his hair, your breath catching sharp in your throat. You pull back for a second before lowering your mouth to his neck, right where the collar of his hoodie dips. He lets out a small sound, hands flexing on your waist, when your lips press there.

You start slow. You can feel his pulse under your tongue, the way his chest rises against yours, unsteady and warm. Then you part your lips and suck gently at the spot just below his jaw. His whole body stutters, hips jerking against yours before he can stop it.

Your fingers trail down his chest, tugging his hoodie collar aside for better access. His head tips back, eyes squeezed shut, lips parted.

You do it again, this time with enough pressure to leave a mark, and the sound of your mouth working against his skin is lewd.

He groans. It’s low and rough and barely held back, and the sound shoots straight between your legs. You feel him hardening now, undeniable through the fabric where he’s pressed against you.

“All mine?” you whisper, your lips brushing over the new mark you’ve left.

He doesn’t even hesitate. “All yours.”

His voice is breathless. Wrecked. And so damn certain it knocks something loose in your chest.

You pull back just enough to look at him — really look. His pupils are blown, his lips swollen, a flush climbing high on his cheeks. He looks at you like he wants to devour you. Like he would if you let him.

“I missed that mouth,” he mutters, hands gliding under your shirt again, palms broad and warm. “Missed everything.”

You kiss his throat in reply and drag your teeth across it until he swears under his breath.

His hips grind against you again, harder this time. You both feel it — the friction, the heat building between your bodies.

His arms shift beneath you and he lifts you clean off the ground in one smooth motion, hands strong under your thighs. A startled sound escapes your throat as your legs wrap around his waist on instinct, gripping him tight.

“Fuck,” he mutters again, forehead dropping to your shoulder. “I want you so bad it’s actually stupid.”

You smile, drunk on the feel of him.

“Bedroom?” you murmur, tracing your lips over the new mark blooming against his skin.

He hums lowly, and shifts his grip on your thighs.

He carries you through the hallway and your lips never leave his skin for more than a second.

When he reaches your bedroom, he doesn’t hesitate. He steps inside and drops you onto the mattress in one fluid movement.

You barely get your bearings before he’s crawling over you, slotting his body between your legs, His mouth finds yours again, and you moan into it before you can stop yourself when his knee presses between your legs.

Your hips twitch, grinding down against the pressure, and he groans in response, the sound vibrating through your chest as his mouth moves with yours. His hand slips under your shirt again, this time bolder, fingers spanning across your ribs and inching higher until his knuckles brush the curve of your breast.

You gasp softly, and he pulls back just enough to murmur, “Off.”

You sit up just enough to grab the hem of your shirt, tugging it over your head in one smooth pull, your hair mussed from the friction. He watches the fabric fall to the floor, then looks at you.

“You’re so fucking pretty," he breathes.

You roll your eyes automatically, even though your face is already burning. “Shut up.”

“I’m serious,” he says, and his voice drops low. “You have no idea what you do to me.”

His lips part and he kisses along your sternum — slow, wet presses of his mouth that trail up and then out, over the swell of one breast, then the other.

You inhale sharply when his mouth grazes the sensitive skin beside your nipple, and his eyes flick up at the sound, pupils blown. He kisses lower, then higher again, murmuring against your skin, “Can’t believe I went a week without this.”

The vibration of his voice right against your skin makes you arch, and he meets you halfway, grinding down slow and deliberate, like he knows exactly what you’re chasing and wants to stretch it out just to watch you squirm.

Your hands curl into his shoulders, nails biting down just enough to make him grunt softly into your skin. He rolls his hips again, slow and heavy, and the pressure against your core has your breath catching in your throat.

“Koo,” you whine out.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, lips pink and wet, hair falling into his eyes. He grins, crooked and hot and deeply pleased with himself.

“Yeah, baby?” he asks, and his voice is pure sin.

You glare, but your thighs shift open under him anyway.

“Please.”

He hums, satisfied, and starts working his way lower. Every kiss is wet and unhurried. Down your chest, across your stomach. His hands follow, smoothing over your ribs, down to your hips, dragging the waistband of your pants just slightly with them. His thumbs hook in the fabric, pausing right above your pelvis.

He looks up at you, smug and dark-eyed.

“Gonna let me take these off?”

He's so annoying you're gonna kill him. “Do I look like I’m stopping you?”

“No,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss just below your navel, “but I like hearing you say it.”

You huff, fingers threading into his hair again. “Take them off, Kook.”

He eases them down slowly — too slowly — dragging the fabric down your legs while his mouth follows in a path of heat and pressure. He kisses your hipbone, your inner thigh, every patch of skin he uncovers like it’s something sacred. When your panties go next, he makes a quiet sound in the back of his throat — more reverent than smug this time.

You’re already wet, already aching, and from the way his eyes flicker as he takes you in, he fucking knows it.

“Fuck,” he mutters. “You’re soaked. You missed me that much?”

You exhale hard, cheeks hot. “Shut up and do something about it.”

He grins again, slower this time. “Anything you want.”

His hands grip your thighs and spread them further apart, and before you can say another word, his mouth is on you.

The first swipe of his tongue is long, and delibirate. You jerk at the contact, a broken sound slipping from your lips, and he groans like he’s the one falling apart. His hands tighten on your hips, holding you in place, and does it again.

Every movement of his tongue is practiced and precise. He starts slow, almost gentle, licking through your folds with a kind of focus that makes your head spin. Your thighs threaten to close around his head, but he pushes them apart with ease, never breaking rhythm.

Your hands move to the back of his head, gripping tight. His tongue circles your clit once, then again, and the third time he sucks it between his lips. You try to stifle a moan, but it slips from your lips anyway.

He pulls back just enough to speak, breath hot on your skin.

“Keep making those sounds, baby,” he murmurs, voice wrecked. “Wanna hear every fucking thing I do to you.”

He movements turn faster, his mouth messy and hot and relentless. You’re already close, the build-up sharp and climbing, and he can feel it. One of his hands slips lower, spreading you open further with his thumb, and his tongue drags in tighter circles.

You’re writhing, panting, toes curling into the sheets. Your fingers tug at his hair, your spine arching off the bed.

“Fuck— Kook—” you gasp, head thrown back.

He groans again, the sound vibrating straight through your pussy. He doubles down, mouth moving faster, and when your hips start to stutter, erratic and desperate, he presses his hand over your stomach, grounding you.

“You’re gonna come for me?” he murmurs against you, mouth slick with you. “Gonna let me taste it?”

You nod frantically, unable to speak, your whole body wound tight and ready to snap.

He presses his mouth against you again, lips sucking against your clit, and the feeling has you squirming with pleasure.

“Kook—” your voice breaks open as you come hard against his mouth.

He moans, but his movements don't stop.

Your body arches helplessly, heels digging into the bed, one hand fisted in the sheets, the other still tangled in his hair as you ride out the wave. You’re gasping, blinking hard, your heart trying to punch through your ribs.

Only when your legs start to tremble uncontrollably does he finally pull back.

His lips are slick and swollen, jaw damp, hair messy from where you’ve been gripping it. And he looks wrecked — eyes heavy-lidded, pupils blown wide, like just being between your thighs has undone something in him.

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, then drags his lips slowly up your inner thigh, leaving lazy kisses in his wake.

You’re still catching your breath, staring at the ceiling like your soul just left your body, when he plants a final kiss on the inside of your knee and murmurs, “Yeah. I’m never ghosting you again.”

You let out a breathless laugh, too blissed out to be mad. “You better not.”

“After that?” he says, crawling back up your body, slow and unhurried. “I’d be clinically insane.”

He settles over you again, pressing a warm, open-mouthed kiss to your stomach, then another between your breasts, then finally your mouth. You taste yourself on his tongue, and when he groans against your lips, it sends a fresh jolt of heat straight through you.

His body is flush against yours, his clothed cock thick and heavy where it presses against your thigh. You let your hands trail down his chest slowly to tug at the denim loops of his jeans.

"Want these off," you mumble against his lips.

He smiles and presses one last kiss to your mouth before he leans back onto his knees. His hands go to his belt, and you watch the way his fingers fumble for just a second.

He gets the buckle undone, then the zipper, the sound louder than it should be in your quiet bedroom. You watch as he shucks them down, boxers and all, and your breath catches slightly at the sight of him — flushed and hard and achingly ready.

“Better?” he asks, voice low.

You nod, breath shallow, and he’s already crawling back over you. The heat of him sinks into your skin as his body settles between your thighs, bare now.

Your legs part without hesitation.

His weight, the press of his chest to yours, the familiar scent of him wrapped in something raw and new — it all hits at once, and your whole body shivers.

He’s warm everywhere. The kind of warmth that soaks into your bones and makes you ache for more.

His hands slide along your arms until they find yours where they’re resting above your head. He threads his fingers through yours and presses them gently into the pillow, pinning you there. His eyes search yours, and you feel the first brush of him between your legs, just the tip, teasing the edge of you.

He doesn’t move yet. Just rests there, eyes locked on yours.

“You okay?” he murmurs, voice low and thick, like he’s hanging on by a thread.

You don’t answer — not with words. You just tilt your hips up, welcoming him in with nothing but a look.

He pushes in slow — painfully slow — each inch dragging fire across your nerves as your body stretches to take him. Your mouth falls open in a silent gasp, your fingers clenching around his. When he’s fully buried inside you, he stills completely.

“Fuck,” he breathes, forehead dropping to yours. “You feel… unreal.”

You can’t speak — your body’s too full, too wrecked already — so you kiss him instead. Slow and sweet and a little desperate. Your hips rock up, seeking more.

He groans into your mouth, finally starting to move, and every thrust is so fucking deep. It’s not rushed or frantic. It’s him savouring you, like he wants to remember how this feels with every part of himself.

His hands stay tight around yours, anchoring you both to the bed, to each other.

The rhythm builds, a slow burn that spreads everywhere, and between kisses you catch the way he looks at you — like he’s seeing something he’s afraid to lose. Like there’s something he wants to say but can’t yet.

“You were supposed to beg,” you manage to murmur against his mouth, breathless. “Grovel a little.”

That crooked smile curls against your lips. “My bad, baby,” he murmurs. “You can make me beg next time.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You’re gonna regret that.”

He shifts his hips, thrusting deeper, and your breath leaves you in a ragged gasp.

“You promise?”

The challenge in his voice is smug, but his eyes are dark and glassy, his control hanging by a thread. You whimper in response, thighs tightening around his waist, and he dips his head to your throat, dragging his lips along your pulse like it’s the only thing tethering him to earth.

He starts to move with more purpose now, making you feel every second of it. His cock grinds into that spot that makes your vision blur, and your whole body tenses, fingers squeezing his like a lifeline.

The moan you let out is shameless, high and wrecked, when he tilts his hips just right — again and again, like he’s carving his name into your body from the inside.

“Right there?” he murmurs, already knowing. His hand slips between your bodies, thumb finding your clit with the kind of confidence that only comes from knowing you — every reaction, every sound. “God, you’re so fucking wet. You always get like this for me?”

“Koo—” His name slips out broken, a warning and a plea wrapped in one.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers, voice ragged, forehead pressed to yours. His thrusts get rougher now, faster, the rhythm losing polish but gaining intensity. “Let me have you, baby. Come again for me.”

The words send a bolt of heat straight to your core, your whole body winding tight. His mouth crashes against yours before you can respond, tongue tangling with yours, greedy and open and honest in all the ways his words still aren’t.

When he pulls back, he’s panting, “You feel like heaven, fuck.”

You can’t even process it — not now, not when his rhythm stutters and his hips slam harder, each thrust jolting a cry from your throat. Your legs are trembling, your grip bruising where it clings to him, and you can feel the knot in your stomach tighening.

“That’s it,” he groans, watching your face like it’s the only thing that matters. “Let go for me. Let me feel you.”

You bury your face in his shoulder, teeth catching on his skin as your orgasm crashes over you. Your body locks up, thighs clenching, and you cry out his name. His hand squeezes yours back, holding you through it.

Your walls grip him tight, and he groans loud against your skin, hips faltering. “Fuck— shit—”

He thrusts once more before spilling into you with a broken sound, voice rasping your name like a prayer.

His whole body shudders as he comes, arms locked tight around you like he needs you to stay exactly where you are — here, under him, around him, real. His forehead drops to your shoulder, damp curls brushing your skin as he exhales, long and shaky.

Neither of you move right away. The air between you is thick with heat and breath and a comforting silence.

Eventually though, he shifts just enough to press a kiss to your collarbone. Then another, softer.

His hand slides along your waist, fingertips brushing lazy patterns into your skin. You hum under your breath — not a word, just a sound — and he responds by kissing your shoulder again.

Your legs are still tangled together. His body still half-draped over yours. There’s a mess between your thighs and sweat clinging to your skin, and you should probably say something, anything — but there’s something sweet about the silence now. It’s soft. Unspoken. Peaceful, in a weirdly intimate way.

He shifts again, easing out of you with a quiet groan, and you wince a little at the loss.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, running a hand gently over your thigh like an apology.

“It’s fine,” you breathe, eyes closed, chest still rising and falling too fast.

He doesn’t go far. Just rolls to the side, still close enough that his leg stays pressed against yours, and reaches for the blanket to pull it up over you both. He tugs you into his chest like second nature, burying his nose in your hair, his hand stroking absently up and down your arm.

“You good?” he asks softly, lips brushing your temple.

“Yeah,” you say, quieter now. “You?”

He pauses. Then he nods against your skin. “Yeah. More than.”

You lay there like that for a while, heartbeats evening out. He’s still drawing shapes on your skin — fingertips slow, mindless — and you smile to yourself, warmth blooming low in your stomach.

“So,” you murmur eventually, voice still hoarse. “What now? We high-five and call it a night?”

He huffs a laugh into your hair. “I mean, I wouldn’t say no to a high-five.”

You laugh, nudging him with your shoulder. “Cocky.”

“Confident,” he corrects, grinning. “But really—” He shifts a little so he can see your face, one hand reaching up to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear. “If we’re doing this, I wanna do it right.”

You blink, caught off-guard by the sudden sincerity in his voice. “Do what right?”

He raises an eyebrow, like it should be obvious. “Us.”

There’s a pause. You look at him, and he looks at you, and it’s terrifying and sweet all at once.

“I really like you,” he says, quieter this time. “And I’m not just saying that because I just got laid.” He cracks a small smile. “Though, to be fair, that was mind-blowing.”

You snort. “So humble.”

“I’m serious,” he says, nudging your nose with his. “I’ll take you out. I’ll plan dumb dates. I’ll be obnoxiously charming and show up with flowers. I’ll be— like— a gentleman, or whatever.”

You give him a look. “You should’ve done all that before you fucked me.”

His grin spreads. “Yeah, well. Guess I got the order wrong. You gonna hold that against me?”

“Maybe,” you say, lips twitching.

“I’ll make it up to you,” he says, fingers brushing your cheek. “You’ll see. I’ll be so romantic it’ll make you want to punch me.”

“I already want to punch you.”

“And yet,” he says smugly, pulling you closer, “you’re still in my bed.”

“This is my bed, dumbass.”

He pauses. “Okay, fair. But I am naked in it. With you.”

You roll your eyes, but the smile on your face won’t go away. His arm tightens around your waist, and you let yourself relax into it — into him. For once, it doesn’t feel like something to second-guess.

He kisses your forehead, then your cheek, then the corner of your mouth.

You tuck your face into his neck and sigh. “You better bring the good flowers. Like the ones that don’t die in two days.”

“Oh, so now you’re picky?”

“You said dates and flowers. I’m holding you to it.”

“Noted,” he says, fingers threading into your hair. “I’m gonna be so disgustingly good to you.”

You laugh softly into his skin.

And he just holds you tighter.

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[unfairunknown]

And somehow Rogue's super-hell fate isn't even the thing I was most sucker-punched in the gut about, in regards to going into these RTD2 seasons with good faith and being disappointed at nearly every turn. I have to get some DW thoughts out, I think. It's a long one, so I put under the cut. TL:DR is

Disappointed by RTD2 era DW which feels like I'm being gaslit by an entire IP.

Verada Sethu is an incredible talent, and if I had a nickel for every time a prominent long running sci Fi series show horned her character into terrible misogynistic tropes in 2025, I'd have two nickels....

Ncuti Gatwa was the bright light of the season. Beautiful, effervescent, charming, what a delight as the Doctor.

"The Story and the Engine" was the best of this run.

My knee-jerk reaction to Rose Noble, as a transgender person myself, was deep discomfort that never quite resolved....there's something slightly *off* with how I feel RTD presented her I never quite managed to land on, beyond that I think it was really problematic to insinuate that Donna absorbing feminine magic while she had a child in utero is why that child "became" a girl...but I have lost a lot of my tolerance for transgender "discourse" because of a lack of good faith critical thought and conversation...I don't even know what I'm saying besides, did other transgender people feel that way?

Also, while DW has always been campy, it's also often made some kind of social statement. And yet I feel this entire run lacked the fangs or impact of any true statement or positionality. A problem would be introduced, as of to say 'look how aware of the social contexts we are,' only to ignore or refuse to contend with what that issue actually means or would impact. Like Rogue's arc, for example.

The "problems" I think his character seems to address:

1. That the Doctor never says they love their companions to their faces. Heavily implied to mean romantic love (see the famous Ten/Rose sequence) but not always.

2. Having a canonically confirmed queer element to the Doctor. I.e. diversity/representation, etc.

But what the narrative actually DOES is more important, to me, than saying something exists on the page. "Look, we confirmed the doctor was queer by having him kiss Rogue and say he loves Belinda to her face!' yes, and that's nice, sure, in 2025, but here's why I have a problem with these things:

1. While the longing and angst is certainly an intentional element in storytelling, the let the Doctor tell their companions they love them thing, when juxtaposed with Thirteen's appearance and commentary regarding her romantic love for Yaz, which I think was pretty clearly stated "it would be you," but I digress...if the core of these longings is romantic queerness, then the Doctor saying he loves Belinda, whose own ending is so....awful, doesn't actually address what the desire for the 'I love you" commentary actually WAS. It's a bit like saying retroactively Dumbledore was gay the whole time...and like I do think it's important to show and express platonic love, but I think that message is lost by refusing to even acknowledge the lurking spectre of queer desire present since original DW. 15 talking about his love for any other companion, especially non romantic ones like Graham, could have assuaged me here.

2. Rogue. In a lot of ways the episode mirrored Ten's "The Girl in the Fireplace," which was also heavily implied romantic/sexual that ended without Ten getting his happily ever after, too.

Except in that case, his love interest went on to love a fulfilling happy life where she was the consort to a powerful man who she seemed to hold in high regard, even if she did have true feelings for the Doctor.

And Rogue...went to hell. He isn't dead, but he isn't coming back any time soon.

And I can't help but feel like the conservative issues I had with RTD1 era and Moffat era in general have been enhanced by Disney's corporate sanitization?

'look at all the diversity' but what does that actually MEAN? The beat episode of Ncuti's run WAS written and directed by the people whose story was being told, and you could tell! It was incredible! And it wasn't *trying* to make a point without understanding what it's core context is in the world of 2025.

Finally, I have all these feelings, and I am deeply upset by these seasons of a television show, because I want to belong to the IP's I love, I want them to cling to me, too. If I didn't love it, it wouldn't hurt.

poor rogue saved the world from compulsory heterosexuality and is still chilling in gay super hell (only other occupent: castiell)

[getitoutofmymindwrites]

Something constant. | joel miller x f!reader, 9.1k

Summary: You are Tommy’s best friend, Joel’s constant complication- the one woman he can’t touch without breaking. But when years of tension finally snap, Joel has no choice but to face what he’s been running from: the fact that you’ve always been his, whether he deserves you or not.

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, ANGST (like- I'm putting them through it like my life depends on it)(it does.), SMUT, reader is 5 yrs younger than Tommy, so that leaves a 10 yrs age gap with our man, emotional and physical abuse, toxic dynamics: mentions of abusive family but nothing descriptive or graphic, mentions of abusive boyfriends and unhealthy relationships in general but nothing descriptive or graphic, substance use: mentions of gambling and intense sexual content: grinding, nipple play, fingering, cum eating, unprotected PIV, dom!Joel. Please be aware and read responsibly.

A/N: Well, well, well- what do we have here? It’s been almost a year since I last posted anything of mine. This is not some breakthrough, or something you haven’t read before. For some reason, I decided to forgo dividers and use titles instead. Where did that come from? Lord knows. The writing and rhythm feel a bit different, especially in the beginning- don’t ask me to explain, I’m not a trained professional. I also think I used dashes more than I ever have before, maybe I'm addicted, who knows. (They made sense, ok?) Anyway, I don’t know why I’m rambling; I don’t even know if you still remember me, but hey-(oh look, another dash!) I'm still here and I’ve missed you guys!

P.S.: Oh- oh and please don’t forget, as always, I hate summaries!

Dividers by @cafekitsune

They say you only get what you think you deserve in this life.

They must be gravely wrong then, because you don’t think you deserve Joel Miller. Not for one second. And yet, somehow.. here you are.

But let’s take things from the beginning.

The past.

You and Tommy met when you were young. Well, he was young. You were young..er. Which, by default, made Joel the old..er brother.

You and Tommy became fast, inseparable friends. You were both drawn to mischief and that made you almost instantly thick as thieves. He’s always been like a brother to you. You spent summers at the Millers’, crashed there during rough times.

You didn’t have a stable home life. You learned from a young age to adapt.

Actually, you learned a handful of helpful things: how to read faces, microexpressions, words unsaid and gestures unmade. When to activate your sympathetic or parasympathetic systems. When to freeze. When to hide. When to run. Especially where to run.

The destination was always the same, the Millers’ house. Tommy and by extension Joel, became your lifeline.

The one person you could never read to save your life though, was Joel Miller.

Joel, always wiser, quieter, intense. You called him “sir” jokingly. He called you “kid.” Typical.

He wasn’t warm, but he was reliable. Always picking Tommy up from trouble. Always fixing things. Always there.

You admired him before you even understood why. He never faltered. Never drifted.

As you grew up, that admiration turned into something deeper. But beyond that, all you could ever figure out was that he didn’t like you all that much. You guessed you were used to that. You’d had your whole life training for it.

The hidden love.

You never said anything. Joel treated you like a kid.

Even as you matured, he stayed distant, protective, but formal.

You kept it to yourself, how you felt about him and tried to date others. No one ever measured up. Of course they didn’t. They didn’t even give you the bare minimum.

But even when they did -rarely- your heart was singing only for Joel.

What a stupid fixation, you thought.

To crave the safe. To long for the normal. To love the constant.

But he provided. So you did.

Truth be told, you’ve never shared much with Joel. He was always orbiting your friendship with Tommy, anyway. He was the big brother. He was always around, mostly to keep an eye on Tommy, if you had to guess. So, inevitably, he ended up getting to know parts of your life, of you.

Like right now, when you wish more than anything that he never knew you at all.

You see, you’re in a bad relationship. You don’t tell Joel as much. You never would.

But Tommy knows.

And if Tommy knows, Joel does too.

Because Joel is observant. He always watches. He always has.

Like you said, to keep Tommy straight. Wasn’t his fault if you were always around. So it wasn’t that hard to figure you out. To notice things.

Like you, clinging to people who give crumbs of affection, because you grew up without real support.

Like you, staying with your boyfriend after he apologizes, crying, believing it meant change.

The sleepover.

Tommy lets you crash at Joel’s place. You don't even need to ask; it’s practically a given. He thinks it’s casual, just like always.

You feel safe there, even with Joel being standoffish. He never kicked you out, though. His door was always open when you needed it and that meant something. It had to, right?

But when you settle into the familiar room and mattress, you have a confession to make. You admit to Tommy that you forgave your boyfriend because “he cried and I thought maybe he deserved another chance.”

“Jesus..” Tommy sighs, his brows pinched in frustration. Not at you but at the lucky bastard who’s havin’ it easy.

He doesn’t know what else to say to make you see; you are enough. Enough to stand on your own. You don’t need anyone else to feel whole. Complete. Relevant. Seen.

But who is he to talk? He’s always carryin’ his own demons, makin’ his own same mistakes; always havin’ Joel anchor him to reality, like you’re havin’ him.

Tommy sits on the bed next to you, searching your eyes. “What are you not tellin’ me?”, his voice soft and caring like a knuckle brushing against a cheek.

Goddamn Miller brothers and their ability to read you like an open book.

You avoid his gaze, looking anywhere but him.

He calls your name now, sternly. Serious. Patience was never really his strong suit, but then again, you already knew that. “Done playin’ games, darlin’.”

Tommy pinches your chin, forces your eyes on his. “Spit it out.” He speaks like he’s scolding you, but his thumb brushes gently over your knuckles.

You start stammering, the words to admit your level of failure elude you, like smoke curling in the air. You pick at a loose thread on the blanket. Your knee bounces once, then twice. You suck in a breath like it’ll help you speak. It doesn’t.

“I- I-” you exhale loudly. You rehearse the sentence in your head but it comes out wrong every time. Too much. Too small. Too pathetic. You hate that it’s even real. “I think he spent all of my savings on gambling.”

Silence.

It hangs there, thick and heavy, filling the room like smoke. You don’t dare look at him. You regret saying it already. It feels too real now, like speaking it out loud makes it official.

Tommy doesn’t respond right away.

You half-expect him to curse, maybe yell. You’ve seen that version of him. Loud, angry, Miller.

But when he finally moves, it’s quiet. Gentle.

He rubs a hand down his face, exhales slowly, the kind of breath that says I don’t know how to fix this, but I want to.

Then, softer than you were ready for- “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

Your eyes stay glued to the worn edge of the blanket you’re gripping. “I dunno.” Your voice is small. Pathetic. “Guess I didn’t wanna see it.”

He leans forward, elbows on knees, staring at the floor for a moment before glancing your way. “You gonna tell Joel?”

That makes your head snap up. “What? No- no. I don’t want him to know. He’ll just-”

You stop. You don’t even know what exactly you’re afraid of. Joel being disappointed? Joel being right? Joel looking at you like you’re one of those strays he has to keep out of the yard?

Tommy narrows his eyes just a bit. “He ain’t like that, you know.”

You shake your head. “You don’t know how he looks at me.”

Tommy gives a little snort. Amused. Tired. “Pretty sure you don’t know how he looks at you.”

Your breath catches. And now you have to look away.

He sees it. Of course he does. Goddamn Miller brothers.

Tommy doesn’t press. He just shifts closer on the mattress, hand resting lightly on your shoulder. No pressure. Just there.

“You’re not stayin’ with him anymore,” he says. “We’ll figure the rest out later.”

That “we” shouldn’t hit you in the chest the way it does.

But it does.

You nod once, quietly. You don’t say thank you. Not because you’re not grateful, but because you’ve learned that some kindnesses are too big for words.

Joel’s Judgment.

Sunlight’s starting to crawl into the kitchen. Joel’s already up, nursing his coffee, sleeves pushed up, working a stubborn hinge loose on the cabinet door.

Always fixing what breaks, never what’s breaking him.

He’s got that tired, focused look, the one he wears when there’s too much on his mind and nowhere to put it.

Tommy walks in after a while, hair still a mess, rubbing sleep from his eyes. You’re not around, maybe still in the spare room, maybe hiding from the weight of everything.

Joel doesn’t ask, not directly. He never does. But he eyes the hallway, then glances at Tommy.

“Everything alright with her?”, he asks almost indifferent while still working on the cabinet door.

Tommy runs a hand over his face. Hesitates. Then shrugs.

“She always ends up with assholes, doesn’t she?” Joel mutters under his breath.

Not angry. Not cold. Just.. detached. Like he’s trying to put you in a box he can label and keep at a safe distance.

Tommy’s halfway to the coffee pot when he freezes.

His voice comes out sharper than intended.

“Jesus, Joel.”

Joel looks up, brows raised. “What?”

Tommy slams the pot down harder than necessary. “She thought she could trust him. He cried, said he’d change, you know how that goes.”

Joel watches him now, more alert. “What’re you talkin’ about?”

Tommy exhales through his nose, pacing once. Shit. Then- too late to take it back- “..The bastard drained her savings. All of it. Gambling.”

Silence.

Joel blinks once. Sets the screwdriver down slow, deliberate. Like he actively accepts he’s capable of murder right at this moment.

“You serious?”

Tommy just nods, jaw tight.

Joel doesn’t say anything at first. His face hardens, not with judgment, but with something else. Something Tommy has seen too many times before. That cold, calculating kind of quiet. Like when a storm’s just out of sight but already coming.

He glances back toward the hallway.

And for the first time in a long time, Joel Miller looks like he might actually break something.

The confrontation.

“Is she really that stupid?”

Joel’s voice cuts through the air, low, gritted, sharp like broken glass.

You weren’t even trying to eavesdrop. Just happened to walk toward the kitchen, bare feet soft on old floorboards, the kind that creak at the worst moments.

But now you’re at the doorframe.

And you’ve heard it.

They both freeze when they see you.

Tommy’s mouth parts like he might say something -anything- but Joel gets there first. He takes a step forward, guilt blooming all over his face.

"Wait-", time fractures; each fraction of a second splitting into aching pieces, stretching into eternity, as he struggles to find the right words. "That’s not-"

You flinch back. Not from fear, from instinct. Like touching him would burn.

Your eyes are glassy, breath stuck somewhere between your chest and throat.

You tried so fucking hard. For years.

To believe he didn’t despise you. That it was just the way he was, guarded, quiet, rough around the edges. Maybe, just maybe, under all that brooding, he gave a damn. Not enough to love you, but enough to keep you torturing yourself. Hoping.

You clung to scraps. Glances. The open door. The silence that wasn’t quite rejection.

But now- now you have your answer.

He reaches out and you step further back, hand half-raised like a warning.

“Don’t.”

Your voice cracks.

“You’re cruel, Joel.” His name tastes foreign, like something you were never meant to say out loud. Not in this kind of sentence. Not aimed at you.

He flinches.

“You have no idea what it’s like to be alone and still try to believe people can be good. That they’ll change. That you matter enough for someone to try.”

You laugh bitterly. Short, sharp.

“I used to think that was my strength, it gave me hope, nurtured my heart.”

You shrug, mouth twisting.

“Now I just feel stupid.”

Joel opens his mouth and this time his voice is soft. A crack in the armor.

“Sweetheart-”

It halts you.

Like something forgotten and fragile just cracked open in your chest.

He’s never called you that. Never reached for softness when it came to you. You were always kid, background noise, someone tolerated.

But this- this name, heavy with something almost gentle- it lingers.

Uninvited warmth in the middle of a wound. A wrong word at the worst possible moment.

And just like that, you falter.

Your footing slips, like the floor forgot how to hold you. You hate that it gets to you. You hate that part of you still wants it to mean something.

You snap.

“No.”

You shake your head, fast, like you're trying to physically push the word away.

“No, Joel. You made what you think of me very clear.”

You take another step back, voice trembling but strong.

“You sorry you said it or just sorry I was there to hear it?”

He looks like he’s on the verge of breaking. But you don’t let him. A quiet kind of peace settles over you- cold, final. It’s all done now. Sealed. Clear. Maybe hope was never meant for you. Maybe it ruined more than it ever gave.

“I’m sorry. Sorry for having a heart. For seeing the good in people. For thinking maybe, just maybe, I could believe in something better.”

A beat. “For thinking you’d ever see me as something more than a burden.”

Then the final twist- “But hey- I guess if anyone knows what it’s like to be an asshole, it’s you.”

Silence.

You turn around.

And this time, when you walk away, you don’t look back.

The void.

The door doesn’t slam. He almost wishes it did, something loud, something final, something that could match the sting in his chest.

But no.

It’s the quiet that kills him.

He stays there, frozen. One foot half-forward like he still thinks maybe he can catch you.

Maybe call you back.

Maybe undo it.

Too late.

Tommy doesn’t speak. He’s seen this side of Joel before, the kind that hits hard and then stands in the wreckage, not knowing how to fix what’s left.

Joel drags a hand down his face, slow. Tired.

He feels like he just handed a loaded gun to someone he swore he’d protect and it went off in his own damn hands.

He sinks down onto the edge of the kitchen chair, his elbows digging his knees. Staring at nothing. Staring at the space you occupied moments ago.

“Didn’t mean it like that,” he mutters defeated. “Not like that.”

But there’s no one there to hear it.

The room stays still.

Tommy leans against the doorframe. Crosses his arms. Watches his brother fall apart without making a sound about it.

He wants to say I warned you.

Wants to say You crossed a line you can’t uncross.

But what good would it do now?

Joel doesn’t need a lecture.

He needs a time machine.

Tommy sighs, low, deep; rubs the back of his neck.

“You love her,” he says simply. Not a question. “You just don’t think you deserve her.”

Joel doesn’t look up. Doesn’t argue.

Tommy nods to himself, jaw tight.

“Then I hope to God you figure out what you do deserve, before she’s too far gone to look back.”

He pushes off the frame and walks out, boots heavy on the floorboards, leaving Joel alone with the quiet and what he’s done.

The conversation.

Tommy stepped out onto the back porch with two beers. Joel was already out there, sitting in silence, the lamp behind him casting long shadows across the wooden floorboards. He didn’t say anything when Tommy handed him one.

They sat for a while.

“She didn’t mean to hear it, y’know,” Tommy said eventually. “Was just.. bad timing.”

Joel didn’t react. Took a sip. His expression remained flat.

“Maybe it’s better she did,” he muttered, eyes fixed on his thumb as it peeled the label off the bottle- then drifting back up again, straight into nothingness.

Tommy bent forward slightly, fingers laced together. “Jesus, Joel. What the hell’s goin’ on with you?”

Joel’s eyes stayed lost in the dark. “She’s the kind of woman who believes in second chances. Believes people can be better. Damn, she forgives the unforgivable like it’s just another Tuesday.”

“Yeah,” Tommy said softly, almost in awe. “I know.”

“But me?” Joel’s fingers tightened slightly around the neck of the bottle. “I’ve run out of people to prove wrong. And if she ever looked at me the way I look at her.. God help me, I’d take it. I’d take it and I’d never let go. Which is exactly why I can’t.”

Tommy went quiet for a moment.

“You really think you’re that far gone?”

Joel gave a hard smile. “You see the man I am now. But she didn’t see who I had to be. Who I chose to be. I’ve done things, Tommy. Not the kind that sends you to jail- the kind you do when you look out for your own. I walked away from people who needed me. I picked you over them. And I’d do it again, but that don’t mean it didn’t mark me.”

“You did what you had to do,” Tommy said sharply. “For me. For us.”

“That don’t make it right.”

“Doesn’t make it wrong either.”

Joel’s voice softened, almost a whisper. “She thinks people can change. I know they don’t, not really. And I ain’t gonna be the one to prove her wrong.”

Tommy studied his brother for a long beat. “You ever think maybe she sees who you are now ‘cause that’s who you are?”

“She’s not like us, Tommy,” Joel said flatly. “She’s strong, but not cold. Got this light to her that-”, he stopped, sighed. “I ain’t got no business even standin’ near.”

“Bullshit.” Tommy said. “You love her.”

“And that’s the goddamn problem,” Joel snapped. “I need her. And if I let myself need somethin’ that good and I lose it..”, his face shifted, darkening into something grim and unyielding, “-Lord have mercy on anyone standin’ in my way.. I don’t think I’d come back from that.”

Tommy leaned back in his chair, head tilted up toward the sky.

“She’s not gonna break you, Joel. She’s already holdin’ your pieces together. You just too scared to admit it.”

Joel took another sip as silence settled over them once again. There was something fragile in his voice now.

“I have a brother, you know,” he said with a dry quip. “He trusts me with everythin’. Even her. I can’t give him a reason not to.”

Tommy laughed bitterly. “I think he’d be more pissed if you kept hurtin’ her just to protect him.”

Joel stared off into the night, beer forgotten in his hand. Another beat of quiet. His resolve was cracking slightly. Not entirely. Not enough. Not yet.

Then, barely above a whisper-

“A man like me don’t get to want things like her.”

The explotion.

It’s been weeks.

No word from Joel.

Tommy checks in from time to time, but he doesn’t say his brother’s name. Not once.

And you don’t ask.

You tell yourself you don’t care. That the silence doesn’t ache.

Then one afternoon, Tommy texts you:

"Swing by Joel’s place. Left some stuff for you in the garage. I’ll be back in 10."

You don’t think twice. You go. You assume Joel’s at work. He always is.

But when you step inside, the air is too quiet. Tommy’s truck is gone. And then you hear a key turning in the front door.

Joel walks in.

You both stop in your tracks. He blinks, like he’s not sure if you’re real. Your heartbeat drums in your ears. You mumble something about Tommy. He nods; says nothing at first. Just sets his keys down on the table.

He glances at you. There’s a hesitation, like something’s been living in his throat for too long and he’s finally decided to let it out.

"Tommy said you.. broke things off."

You nod stiffly, eyes dropping to your feet, like they could carry you away from him. Like they ever would.

He shifts his weight, almost uncomfortable. His voice is low, a little rough, when he dares-

"That guy ever lay a hand on you?"

Your jaw tightens.

Not this again. Not from him. Not when he’s the one who shattered you last.

"Not everyone’s lucky enough to have Joel Miller in their corner." you bite out before you can stop yourself.

His brows twitch and you don’t wait for him to respond. The words keep spilling now, bitter, broken, sharp.

"I don’t let people touch me or talk to me like that. Not anymore."

Your eyes flash, not with anger, with hurt.

"But you? I made an exception for you. God knows why."

He flinches. Not dramatically. Just a subtle shift in his jaw, his breath caught wrong.

Like it’s only now hitting him that being let in -truly in- came with weight. That he held something fragile in his hands and dropped it anyway.

And you?

You hate that your voice breaks on the next part.

"You were the only one I thought I didn’t have to protect myself from."

He takes a step forward. Slow. Careful. Like he’s approaching something wounded and wild.

You don’t move- not back, not forward. Just watching him, tight-lipped and trembling like you’re holding yourself together with spit and thread.

"Don’t," you say, low and hollow.

He stops. Hands hovering like he might reach for you and thinks better of it. Again.

"Kid-"

You flinch at the nickname. Just slightly, but enough. He notices. Of course he does.

That damn observant look of his. It used to make you feel seen. Now it just makes you feel exposed. Like he sees the ache he put there and doesn’t know how to address it.

He doesn’t know what to fix first.

The way he spoke to you?

The way he looked at you after?

The way he didn’t come after you when you left?

He opens his mouth. Closes it. Tries again.

"That day, I didn’t mean-"

You cut him off, voice like stone, "You never mean to. That’s the whole problem."

The silence after is raw.

He doesn’t step closer. He doesn’t step back. He just stays there, suspended in regret.

Like, he finally understands the difference between being in someone’s corner and being someone they can truly rely on.

The tension is suffocating. It coils in your lungs like smoke, thick and hot and inescapable.

Joel says nothing. Quiet again. Resigned. His eyes fix somewhere over your shoulder, or maybe nowhere at all. You can’t tell.

He won’t even look at you. You were always a ghost to him, weightless. Unseen.

A haunting he never asked for.

A slight inconvenience, someone he tolerated for Tommy's sake. Never close enough to matter. Never far enough to ignore.

And that tells you everything.

You’re not getting an explanation. Not now. Not ever.

Whatever that moment was, the truth he nearly let slip, the rawness behind his voice, it’s already retreating back into the dark.

You feel it, the distance returning, sharp and cold, like the final click of a door locking from the inside.

Of course. Of course he’d leave you standing there with nothing. Of course he’d choose silence again.

Because that’s what he does. That’s what he’s always done.

And suddenly your chest feels too tight, your throat dry, like your body’s trying to brace for impact but the crash never comes.

So you nod. Once. Slow.

You turn to leave and he doesn’t stop you.

But as you move past him, something inside you screams enough. And before you can stop yourself-

“Why do you hate me so much?” you ask, your voice cracking before you mean it to. You weren’t even going to say anything, but the way he always looks at you, jaw clenched, arms crossed, that permanent scowl — it’s been eating at you for years.

Joel’s response is a gruff, confused, “What?”

“Every time I’m around, you act like I’ve done something wrong. Like you can’t stand the sight of me. I just- what did I ever do to you, Joel?”

His face shifts. Something flickers in his eyes- not anger. Something else. But it’s gone before you can name it.

“You didn’t do nothin’.” he says quietly.

“Then why? Why are you always so angry with me?”

He won’t look at you. Something between a huff and a laugh escapes his mouth, like he’s mocking you. Silence stretches. But you keep going, your voice sharper now, almost shaking.

“Is it because I’m not your business? Because I was always just Tommy’s dumb little friend hanging around? Or is it just fun for you; pushing me away over and over until I finally take the hint?”

“Don’t put words in my mouth.” he snaps, his voice cold and defensive, eyes glittering with barely-contained rage.

“Then say it!” you bite out, bitter and breathless. “Whatever it is you’ve been holding back for years; say it. Tell me what the hell I ever did to make you look at me like I’m something you need to keep your distance from.”

You’re flushed now. Heart pounding. He still won’t look at you. So you take a step forward.

“Is it because I’m too young? Because I’m soft? Because I forgive people who don’t deserve it?”

Now, finally, Joel looks at you. Maybe he thinks this is meant for him. Maybe he knows he’s one of those who don’t deserve it- forgiveness. Your forgiveness. And something inside him snaps.

“It’s because I can’t afford to look at you the way I want to.” he says low, furious.

You blink. Whatever you were expecting, it wasn’t that.

“It’s because every time you walk into a goddamn room, I feel like I can breathe for the first time in days. And that shouldn’t be your burden.”

“Joel..” you whisper, barely audible.

He goes on, more raw now.

“You think I’m angry with you? I’m angry with myself. For wantin’ something I got no right to want. For feelin’ like maybe -maybe- there’s a version of me that could be good enough for you. But there ain’t.”

He laughs once, bitter, shaking his head.

“I push you away because if I didn’t, I’d never stop reachin’ for you. And you deserve better than a man who can’t let himself want good things without breakin’ ‘em.”

Silence. His jaw tightens. His fists clench at his sides.

“I would’ve given you everything, Joel.” you say, voice trembling. “You didn’t even have to ask.”

He looks at you like you’ve lost your mind. Like you just said something cruel. His face twists- not in anger, but disbelief. Something almost panicked beneath the surface.

“You don’t mean that,” he says, quiet, almost pleading.

“What?” you ask, startled.

“You think you do, but you don’t. You’ve always looked at me like I’m some fixed thing. Like I’m solid. Steady. That ain’t love, sweetheart. That’s just safety.”

You blink, like he’s slapped you. And he keeps going, like he has to kill the feeling before it grows roots.

“You don’t want me. You want the idea of me. What I was to Tommy. What I never was to you.”

“If I ever let you close enough to see what’s really here,” Joel gestures vaguely- to his chest, his heart, whatever broken thing still beats inside him, “you’d realize you don’t love me. You just mistook the feelin’. And I can’t be the reason you lose that part of yourself.”

But you’re steady now. Hurt, but unwavering.

“Don’t you dare tell me what I feel.”

Joel stiffens. But you don’t stop.

“You think I saw you as safe? You? With that goddamn storm behind your eyes? With the way you look at the world like it already failed you?”

You step closer. You don’t shout; you just slice.

“I’ve spent years trying to figure out why the worst parts of you still felt like home. Why every time you pushed me away, I wanted to stay. Why I kept waiting for one -just one- moment of softness from you like it might be enough to last me a lifetime.”

You laugh, bitterly, like he did earlier.

“You think I made you into something better than you are? No, Joel. I saw all of it. Every wall. Every silence. Every time you looked right through me like it would be easier if I just disappeared.”

You swallow hard. Your voice cracks, just once.

“And I loved you anyway.”

Silence. He stares at you- stunned. Maybe horrified. Maybe something else. You’d say he almost looks scared of you; if you didn’t know any better.

You continue, quieter. “You don’t get to tell me I mistook the feeling. You just didn’t want to believe anyone could see the truth and stay.”

And then you push again, sharp, your voice shaking with rage and pain as you step forward.

“So, I ask you again, Joel, because you’ve failed to answer me, how dare you tell me what I feel?”

He exhales, tired, low. “I’m tryin’ to protect you-”

“No,” you cut him off. “You’re protecting yourself. Because it’s easier to believe I’m just confused than to admit someone could really love you for who you are. Even with all the shit you carry.”

He flinches. You see it. And it only hurts more.

“I do love you.” you tell him. “I love the man who sits in silence and makes sure everyone else eats first. The man who takes the blame even when it isn’t his. The man who looks at me like he’s drowning but won’t reach out.”

You’re toe to toe now. Your voice drops.

“You think that’s not real? You think I don’t know the difference between comfort and love after everything I���ve survived?”

Your next words come softer, almost breaking.

“You’re not some ghost I projected things onto, Joel. I see you. And I still want you.”

You’re standing so close you can feel the heat of him, the weight of his breath on your face and for a second, you think maybe- maybe this is the moment he’ll finally stop holding back. You reach out, slow, your fingertips brushing the side of his jaw, tentative, trembling with everything you can’t say.

“Joel..” you whisper.

But the second your hand touches him, he flinches- just slightly. Like a breath he wasn’t ready for. Like instinct. But it’s enough. You freeze, your hand falling, your face crumbling. The air goes out of you all at once.

“Right. I- got it,” you say, pulling back, your voice thin and wrecked.

You turn quickly. You don’t want him to see your face, the way it crumples, the way your shoulders shake.

He doesn’t move at first- he’s frozen, like the breath has been punched out of him. But then-

“Wait. Wait- no. No, don’t- don’t do that,” Joel blurts out, panicked.

You keep walking. He follows.

“Don’t you dare think that was about you,” he says, more urgent now.

You stop at the door but don’t turn around. His voice is shaking. You’ve never heard him like this.

“You think I flinched ‘cause I didn’t want you to touch me?”

Your fists clench at your sides. Your heart pounds on your chest; you’re sure he can hear it.

“I don’t know what to think anymore,” you admit quietly, trying to hide your broken voice.

Joel crosses the distance between you before you can move again. His hand catches your wrist- gentle but firm, turning you to look at him. His voice is low, rough, but soft in a way you’ve never heard before.

“I flinched because it felt like everything I’ve been tryin’ not to feel for years just broke wide open.”

You finally look at him. His eyes are dark, wet, desperate.

“Because the second you touched me, I wanted to fall into it. Into you. And I’ve spent so long convincing myself I don’t get to have that.”

His hand slides to your cheek- slowly, like he’s asking for permission with every inch.

This time, he touches you. His thumb brushes your jaw, reverent. Like he’s memorizing the shape of you in case he loses the right to ever do this again.

“You scare the hell outta me,” Joel breathes, “because you look at me like I’m someone worth lettin’ in. And I ain’t. I know I ain’t. But-”, he leans in, his forehead resting against yours, his voice shaking, “-just this once. Let me pretend I am.”

You don’t move. You don’t speak. You just breathe -ragged, shallow- afraid that if you say anything, the spell will break and he’ll pull away again.

But part of you still doesn’t trust it.

Not fully. Not yet.

“Joel..” your voice comes soft, almost broken. “Please don’t do this if you’re gonna disappear tomorrow.”

He doesn’t answer, and you can see the war raging inside him; you can almost taste it. The doubt. And that silence? It kills you.

So you turn. Ready to leave, to protect what’s left of you.

But he moves, fast.

He doesn’t grab you, just steps into your path, like it’s instinct. For a moment, he considers pressing his palm to the door to stop you. But after everything you’ve been through, he knows better. Even now, even here, he remembers.

“Don’t go,” Joel says, low and aching. One hand half-raised like he’s scared of touching you, scared of what it’ll mean if you let him.

“Why?” you ask, sharp, trembling. “So you can push me away all over again tomorrow?”

He flinches, but he doesn’t look away. He looks at you like he’s falling apart, eyes dark and wide, as if just saying this next part might break him completely.

And then-

“Because if you walk out that door thinkin’ I don’t love you, I won’t survive it.”

The realization.

Your breath catches.

His words settle like thunder under your skin. You look at him -really look- and for the first time, there’s no mask. No guarded distance. Just raw, shattered truth.

He takes a slow step closer, like he’s giving you time to run.

"You still wanna walk away?" Joel’s voice is hoarse.

You don’t answer. You can’t.

Joel’s thumb brushes your cheek, his hand warm and steady now, no longer holding back. His forehead rests against yours, and when he speaks, it’s like a promise that’s already been broken.

"Tell me to stop. If you do, I swear I will."

But you don’t. You can’t. Not when he’s looking at you like this. Like you’re something he needs to survive.

"Don’t," you breathe.

That’s all it takes. The dam breaks. He exhales like he’s been holding his breath for years and then his mouth is on yours, hungry, devastated, like he’s sorry and aching and starved all at once.

His lips are rough but his hands are gentle, like he’s trying to memorize the feel of you. The kiss starts slow, reverent and builds, deepens. His hands cradle your face, your waist, pulling you closer like he can’t get enough. Your fingers knot in his shirt, dragging him down, pressing into him.

You gasp into his mouth, and he groans like it’s a sound he didn’t mean to let out. He presses you back against the wall, not rough, not aggressive, but desperate.

"Been wantin’ this for so long.." he murmurs into your mouth.

Your hips shift and he feels it- the press of you against him. His hands fall to your waist, dragging you tighter against him, grinding into you like he needs the friction, needs proof this is real.

You arch into him, needy, breathless. He presses into you, the thick line of his thigh between yours, the heat of his body unbearable. Every little grind is slow, controlled, but filled with hunger.

"You don’t even know what you’re doin’ to me…" Joel’s voice is hoarse, dark and full of disbelief.

You whimper at the sound of it. He rests his forehead against your neck, breathing hard, hips rolling into yours.

"Then show me," you whisper, soft and ruined.

He kisses you again, deeper this time; his tongue slipping past your lips, tangling with yours in a slow, deliberate rhythm. You think you’d float away, lost in a dream, if the coarse scruff of his beard wasn’t there, grounding you, prickling the skin around your lips.

His hand slides under your shirt, just skin and warmth and a shiver down your spine. But then he pulls back, just a little, breathing hard.

"If we keep goin’, I don’t think I’ll be able to stop."

"Then don’t."

Your lips part from his, breaths mingling in the heavy air. Joel’s hands don’t rush; they trace the lines of your body through your clothes, deliberate and sure, like he’s committing every inch of you to memory.

His fingers slip under the hem of your shirt, ghosting over your ribs, fingertips grazing your skin lightly before returning to the fabric. One hand cups your waist, pulling you flush against his hard thigh- the heat there like a magnet.

You shift your hips slowly, grinding against him, feeling the solid muscle beneath the fabric, the tension building with every tiny movement.

"So needy already.. what happens when I really touch you?" His voice is low and rough.

You whimper, pressing closer, needing more contact.

"Feels good, baby? Keep grindin’ just like that."

His hands slide to the front of your shirt, palms cradling your soft breasts, thumbs sweeping lightly over your nipples through the thin fabric. He feels them stiffen instantly beneath his palms, the reaction so visceral it sends a jolt through him, something raw, almost primal, uncoiling in his chest. His fingers pinch and roll them with just enough pressure to make your back arch, to draw a broken gasp from your lips.

He watches you writhe, mesmerized by the way you react to every twist of his fingers, the way you shiver and press into his hands like you need more- need him.

Your hands find his wrists, holding him close, desperate for more.

His thumbs drag slowly again over the sensitive peaks, his mouth watering at the thought of that taut skin against his tongue and he swears under his breath, voice thick.

"Joel- please.." you breathe.

He chuckles darkly, his lips brushing against your jaw. His brain is deep in a haze of desire and need; he's not in control anymore. Maybe he never was- maybe he was always waiting for you to undo him.

His thigh tightens beneath you, holding you steady as you grind harder, matching his rhythm without words. His fingers tease, flick, and pinch lightly, coaxing every sigh and tremble from you.

"You feel that? That’s mine. You're gonna come for me, right here, just like this. Show me you’re mine."

You arch into him, breath hitching, heart pounding as the friction and his teasing combine into a storm inside you. His hands roam with growing confidence, undeterred by your soft moans and shudders. You can feel the heat pooling low in your belly, spreading fast and he’s right there- steady and sure beneath you, grounding you even as your senses spiral.

The world narrows to the feel of him, the sound of your ragged breaths and the tight coil of pleasure winding up inside you.

Your breaths come faster, your chest rising and falling as Joel’s fingers trace tight circles over your nipples, every pass sending sparks of heat through you, even though he still hasn’t touched you directly. Your hips grind harder, trembling as the tension coils tighter and tighter.

You cry out softly against his pouty lips, your body shuddering against his thigh. The warmth pools low and spreads, waves crashing through you and he swallows every little whimper and moan like a man parched. Your fingers clutch his shirt, digging in as the pleasure ripples and crashes, leaving you breathless and undone.

"God.." Joel whispers, voice almost breaking.

He watches you fall apart- skin flushed, eyes half-lidded, lips parted and something inside him twists.

The love scene.

His hands freeze for a moment, not wanting to disturb you but desperate to hold onto you. He leans closer, forehead resting against yours, breath warm and steady. Joel watches -intense, silent- his gaze fixed on how your body unravels under his touch, how every shiver and sigh seems to pull at something deep inside him.

His hand stills, hovering just above your skin, afraid to break the fragile spell but desperate to hold onto this moment. His jaw tightens, eyes dark with a storm of emotions he won’t speak aloud- need, protectiveness, and something rawer he’s terrified to admit.

He wants to say something, anything, to stop the rush of feelings, to keep things safe and simple. But the words catch in his throat.

Instead, he simply presses his forehead against yours, breath warm and uneven, trying to steady himself. His body tenses beneath you, a silent war raging inside him; he’s drawn to you like never before, but his mind is screaming that this could burn everything to ashes.

Your breath stays uneven, chest pressed to his, foreheads touching like you’re both holding on to something that would vanish the moment you let go.

"Joel, look at me."

He hesitates. You can feel it- the tremble in his hands, the slight shift in his stance, like his whole body’s braced for you to disappear.

"I’m lookin’."

"I’m still here."

And you are -flushed, shaking, pupils blown wide- but still tethered to him, anchored in this fragile space between fear and want. You watch the fight flicker in his eyes. The way his jaw clenches. The way his hands, warm and steady a moment ago, are now flexing like he’s trying not to grab hold too tight.

"You shouldn’t be."

"Don’t."

He closes his eyes, just for a second. Like that word, like your voice, cuts deeper than it should.

"I don’t know how to do this without hurtin’ you."

"I’m already hurt, Joel. But not by what we just did. By you thinking I can’t decide for myself what I want."

That hits him. You see it. The flinch. The ache. The guilt sinking its claws in.

But you don’t stop. You can’t.

"You don’t have to be perfect. You don’t have to be safe. I just need you to be real."

He looks at you like he’s drowning again. Like you’re offering him something he’s too afraid to take. But his hand rises anyway -slow, hesitant- and brushes your cheek again, thumb catching a tear you didn’t know had slipped down.

"I don’t wanna lose this. Lose you. But I don’t know if I can be the kind of man you hold onto."

"Then let me decide that."

You take his hand. Place it against your chest. Let him feel the way your heart hammers beneath your ribs.

"I already am. Can't you feel it?"

One breath. Then another. Joel exhales slowly, like something inside him just gave up the fight. And what’s left is raw and exposed and his.

He kisses you again, slower this time. Less desperation, more reverence. Like a man memorizing his last breath. And this time, he doesn't pull away.

The kiss deepens again, but there’s no trembling now. No flinching. Just heat. Just his hands moving with purpose, sliding beneath your clothes, skin on skin, rough palms and calloused fingers learning you like he’s starved for the taste.

You gasp as he lifts your shirt, tugging it over your head and tossing it aside. His eyes drag down your body like a slow burn, reverent, almost disbelieving.

"Jesus Christ.."

He cups your breasts, thumbs brushing around your nipples, already raw and swollen from his earlier attention, watching the way your back arches into him like instinct. His mouth follows next, hot and open against your tender skin, teeth grazing your stiffened peaks with aching slowness.

Your cunt is pulsing painfully in anticipation, your panties soaked and surely ruining the thick denim of his jeans. All you seem to be able to do is beg for him one more time.

"Joel- please.. I can't-"

He growls -actually growls- the sound scraping low from his chest, like he’s been waiting years to hear that. His hands roam lower, finding the button of your shorts, undoing them slowly, deliberately, giving you just enough time to stop him, but you won’t. You can’t.

Your hands are just as greedy, tugging at his shirt, desperate to feel him, to know him the way he’s never let anyone close enough to know. When you finally get it off him, it’s almost too much. All of him -broad and solid and burning under your palms.

"Tell me if you want me to stop."

"I want you to fuck me, Joel."

A pause. A beat. Like the words steal the air from his lungs.

Then he moves.

Your back hits the wall again -gently, but firm- and his body follows, pressing against yours, one hand slipping into your panties, fingers sliding through slick heat with an almost broken sound.

"You’re so fuckin’ wet.." he breathes against that sensitive spot right beneath your ear and you can feel his hard cock grinding for relief against your hip.

You cry out as two thick fingers slide into you, curling just right, slow and deep. Your soft walls flutter around his digits, welcoming the intrusion. His other hand grabs your thigh, hitching it up around his waist. He’s grinding into you now, rutting slow, the thick line of his cock still trapped behind denim- but you can feel it. Every inch of it, hard and pulsing through his jeans.

The slick, obscene squelch of his fingers pumping in and out of your soaked cunt only makes you ache more, arousal spilling down his wrist. You’re so fucking close to snapping, to breaking apart if he doesn’t fuck you right now.

“God, Joel- need you inside me-”

"I know, baby. I know. I got you."

He pulls his hand back, wet with you and brings it to his mouth, sucking his fingers clean with a groan that makes your knees buckle. Then he tugs your shorts down, sliding them off you and undoes his jeans, shoving them low enough to free himself and—

Fuck.

He’s thick. Long. Heavy in his hand as he strokes himself once, twice, eyes fixed on you like you’re the only thing keeping him standing.

Heat spreads across your skin and you’re acutely aware of how vulnerable you are and how completely ready your body is for him. You lean forward, gently brushing his hand away and replacing it with your own. He hisses at the contact. The head of his shaft pulses against your palm, and your fingers curl around him, unable to stop yourself from feeling how rock-hard he is.

"I’ll go slow. Just.. hold onto me.", his voice is low and thick with need. Your heart lurches at the raw sincerity in his tone and you press your body closer, arms instinctively wrapping tightly around his neck.

He lifts you effortlessly, one leg hooking around his hip and pulling you flush against him. With one impatient tug, his fingers sweep your panties to the side, and cool air skims over your heated skin.

The slick tip of him nudges at your entrance, and a sharp gasp escapes you as you feel him teasing you through your wetness.

He sinks into you with one slow, steady thrust and you arch back, teeth gritting to keep the first cry from escaping. A fierce burn flares deep inside as the first inch slides in, and you instinctively dig your nails into his shoulders.

He groans, bending to press his lips against your ear, and exhales your name as he pauses. Inch by inch, he pushes deeper, every fraction of an inch driving wild pleasure through you. Warmth and fullness bloom between your bodies and a long, trembling sigh escapes as your muscles flutter around him, completely filled, leaving you both panting and still.

"That’s it. That’s it, sweetheart, takin’ me so good.."

He stays there, buried deep inside you, forehead resting on your shoulder, both of you trembling, both of you lost.

Then he starts to move.

Slow. Deep. Unrelenting.

The song of your bodies meeting- skin against skin, the slick, filthy rhythm of it- fills the room. Your moans spill into his mouth as he kisses you again, tongue tangled with yours, every thrust more desperate, more real than anything either of you has ever known.

"Wanted this.. fuck, wanted you for so long-" he mumbles and you don't know if he's talking to you or to himself.

"Don’t stop. Please- don’t stop-"

He doesn’t. He can’t.

He’s fucking you like he means it, like this is the first and last time he’ll ever get to love someone like this- with everything in him, without apology, without restraint. His hips snap into you with purpose, rhythm deep and relentless, like he’s trying to bury himself in you, like he’s trying to leave part of himself behind.

You can feel the tremble in his arms where they hold you steady, the sweat slicking between your bodies, the way his breath stutters every time you clench around him.

Your name spills from his lips like prayer- wrecked, reverent, desperate. He dips his head into the crook of your neck, mouth open against your skin, teeth dragging over your pulse point like he needs to anchor himself before he loses it completely.

"You feel so fuckin’ good," he groans, voice raw. "Shit- don’t know how I ever lived without this."

Your nails dig into his back, trying to pull him closer, trying to keep him right there- inside you, on you, with you. You meet every thrust with your own, chasing that edge together, breathing each other in like oxygen.

Your drooling cunt chokes his dick with every pulse, soaking him all the way down to the base, slick spilling down his balls and ruining his jeans. The sounds of skin slapping skin make you both feral with lust. Your breasts bounce with every hard thrust, your nipples dragging against the coarse hairs on his toned chest, slick and flushed from the effort.

His hand snakes from the small of your back to the base of your neck, wrapping firm- grounding, claiming. You feel your walls flutter instantly under his grip.

“Not yet,” he breathes- simple, sharp, possessive- against your pleasure-parted lips. Like he knows your body better than you do. Like he knows you'll obey.

“Not till I say. You hear me?” His breath is hot against your lips. “You come when I take it from you.”

Everything in you screams to hold on, to never let go of this feeling- this heat, this fucking need. It’s too much and still not enough. Your vision swims with unshed tears, pleasure cresting into pain, into surrender.

His other hand grabs your thigh, spreads you wider and he drives in deeper, his cock hitting so deep it knocks the breath from your lungs.

“I need to hear it.” he snarls, forehead pressing to yours, eyes wild. “Say it. Say you’re mine.”

Your jaw falls open on a gasp, but no sound comes. You can’t. You can barely breathe. He fucks into you harder, his grip tightening.

“Say it, baby. Say it or I stop. Say who this pussy belongs to.”

Your eyes fill with tears- overstimulated, overwhelmed but your voice still breaks through.

“You- Joel, fuck- you- I’m yours- please- don’t stop-”

He groans, deep and guttural, like that was all he needed to unravel.

“That’s right. You’ve always been. Even when I couldn’t have you. Even when I told myself I shouldn’t touch you.”

He drags his mouth over your jaw, your neck, breathing you in like a man starved.

“I’m gonna ruin you for anyone else. I want you so fucked out and full’a me, no one else ever stands a fuckin’ chance.”

It’s too much- the pressure, the stretch, the heat, him. You try to hold back, to obey, but your walls flutter dangerously around him and he feels it.

“Now.” he growls, voice tearing through the air like a command from God. “Come for me.”

And when you finally fall apart around him- walls pulsing, thighs trembling, stars bursting behind your eyes- you gasp his name like it’s the only word you know, clinging to him like you’ll never let go.

“Mine. Fuckin’ mine.” he growls before he follows you with a broken moan, hips stuttering, his whole body seizing as he spills into you, holding you so tight it’s almost bruising. His face is buried in your neck, breath ragged, heartbeat thundering against your chest like it’s trying to match yours.

Like maybe, for a moment, they’re the same.

The aftermath.

He doesn’t move for a long time. Still buried inside you, still trembling- not from release, but from everything after.

His arms are locked around you, your chests pressed together, heartbeats still thundering in unison. You feel the sweat cooling on his back, his breath uneven against your neck. But it’s not the aftermath of sex that makes him shake.

It’s you.

The fact that he finally has you and the sick, gut-deep fear that he might still lose you.

His hand slides up your spine slowly, until it cups the back of your head. He kisses your hair. Your temple. The curve of your jaw.

“You okay?”

His voice is hoarse- too soft for a man like him and yet it holds the weight of a warning. Like he’s asking if you regret it. If he should start bracing for impact.

You nod, whispering his name into his chest.

His jaw tightens, and you feel it- the wildness under the surface, the animal in him that’s never known gentleness without loss. He kisses you- slow at first, then harder, like he needs to claim the truth on your lips.

“You’re mine now,” he mutters, almost to himself. His hand slides down to your thigh, gripping it, pressing you closer, even though you’re already one body.

“You got no idea what that means, do you?” he murmurs against your mouth. “No fuckin’ clue what I’d do for you.”

You look at him -really look- and suddenly you do.

Because this isn’t about sex. It’s about Joel and how, for once in his life, he wants something enough to stay. To fight. To keep.

He brushes his nose against yours. A soft, strange thing from such a hard man.

“You’re not just mine,” he says, barely audible. “I’m yours too, if you still want me.”

He knows he’s done for. He can’t go back- not after this.

The choice is yours now.

It always was. It always will be.

You lift your head, eyes glassy, lips trembling.

“I always did.”

“Then I got you. I swear to God, I got you.”

And for the first time, you believe it.

[bullet-prooflove]

what do Charlie and Emery get up to in their free time? Do you do physical stuff like paint balling, or going out and camping, or maybe prefer to stay home and do nothing together?

So this basically became a character study on Charlie so apologies for the long one.

It’s very dependent on different things because of the secrecy behind their relationship so it’s a bit nuanced. Here’s a bit of a break down:

Charlie really enjoys domesticity - not woman barefoot and pregnant in the kitchen, he’s far beyond that but more like the simple act of coming home to someone. He enjoys cooking for Em, and enjoys when they cook together even though she is more of a hindrance. She usually ends up sitting on the counter with a beer of glass of wine because of her mischief. (pulling his apron strings, stealing a bite of something, seeking out his ticklish spots, chilled hands under his shirt) That’s where Charlie puts her in kitchen time out so he can actually work.

After his mom died I don’t see his father as really being ‘present’ too much so Charlie had to look after himself and maybe even his father as he became severely depressed. He ended up doing the cooking and the cleaning, making similar dishes to his mom’s to try and feel that closeness to her and to bring his dad out of it. I imagine him and his mom used to cook and bake together all the time so he had good memories of being in the kitchen and likes to recapture that.

I also envision that his father killed himself eventually, not being able to deal with that grief so Charlie spent some time in foster care – as he was a later life foster kid (teens) and he had already had a family who loved him, he couldn’t really assimilate into another family. He basically put in his time before he aged out and went into transitional housing until he was old enough to claim his parents estate from the city. (the house had been sold after he went into care and the money was put into a trust. It eventually became a condo site when Charlie returned to the location.)

Why am I telling you this? Because having a home now, is extremely important to Charlie because he was taken away from his, and then it sold out from underneath him. It’s his safe space and that plays into his enjoyment of domesticity with Em. He enjoys simple stuff like having someone to curl up on the couch with and watch whatever Netflix show is on, he likes watching old movies his parents used to watch because it reminds him of happier times and makes it feel like he’s honouring them. He enjoys fixing shit for Em who is terrible at DIY because his dad taught him how to do that, he likes to utilise those skills.

Both are also big readers so are constantly swapping books, reading in bed together, lying on the couch, talking about books. Sometimes Charlie receives a mystery Amazon package to his desk which is usually a book he has mentioned in passing or something that Em thinks he would enjoy. Both like to attend author events.

Playing Pool – Playing pool started as a way to hustle money because his weekly foster allowance didn’t cut it but Charlie really enjoyed it because it gave him a sense of control he didn’t have in his life at the time. It’s something he’s done consistently through the years after leaving care to help him find balance. Him and Em still play pool regularly, it usually becomes a competition where they place bets for things they want in their relationship. A particular meal Charlie makes, something Charlie wants to buy her but Em insists is too expensive, something Em has read in a magazine she wants to try, somewhere Charlie wants to go, at one point it was meeting Em’s family – something Em was resistant to. Sometimes they go pool sharking, Em runs her own table hustling and Charlie runs his and whoever makes the most money wins.

Going Out – Charlie actually really enjoys going on dates, again it plays into the domesticity thing. He enjoys having  sense of home and he’s found that in a person. The problem is they can’t just go to a bar or restaurant in their district because they may run into someone they know. So dates usually take place outside of Charlie’s catchment area which actually adds a little more excitement and variation because those places are fresh to the both of them, there’s no ghosts of old lovers or anything like that. They go the movies for film festivals - Em’s into 80s horror, whiskey tasting, gigs – again Em’s into music. Mini golf, which Charlie excels at, bowling, axe throwing, etc. They try a lot of different things to see what works for them because in a way it’s completely new. Charlie’s never been with someone like Em and Em has never been with someone like Charlie.

[vienssunshine]

Lying Through His Fangs

pairing: Miguel O’Hara x fem!reader cw: nsfw, smut, bondage, paralysis, non-con elements wc: 6.6k author's note: this took me forever but i'm happy with how it came out. hope this helps tide you all over until we get more miguel content in 2027 description: You have the upperhand when Miguel O'Hara breaks into your lab, but not for long.

Last week your name was added to the Spider Society’s watchlist. According to them, your experiments are ‘illegal’ and ‘harmful’ for influencing the canon. It's too bad they hold such a naive perspective; if they were a little more open-minded, they'd see how your attempts to stabilize verse-hopping will revolutionize the modern way of life. 

But the intruder slumped against a pillar in your lab isn’t open-minded. Far from it, Miguel O’Hara is a stubborn, arrogant man who’s come to destroy you and your work for not aligning with his worldview.  

That’s why it’s so cathartic to tie the control freak up, strapping him to the column with cording and ropes from around the lab. You add three, no, four zip-ties to his wrists for extra assurance and then step back to admire your work. Yes, you like this sight quite a lot. 

His head shifts and he softly groans. He’s not fully awake since that ever-present nasty expression of his has yet to appear.

You cross your arms. “Doing okay, Miguel? Hope I didn’t electrocute you beyond repair.” 

Though he is restrained, you keep your remote tight in your hand. One click and the two metal arms extending from the ceiling would home in on his body and tase him unconscious again. Or, you could up the voltage and finally rid the world of this insufferable spider. You’ll just have to see how he behaves.

“Though, it’s not like you wouldn’t deserve it, breaking into my lab so late at night.” You tilt your head to the side, looking to catch his eye as he wakes up. “Did you really think I wouldn’t be here? You’re supposed to know these things.”

His chin raises and his eyes crack open. 

You take a step forward, entering the space between his spread legs, and nudge his foot with your shoe. “Finally with us, handsome?”

His dark eyes travel up your towering form, lazy and unfocused, until he tries to lean forward and finds thick rope preventing him from doing so. That gets him up. 

“What-?” Miguel says, now tense and alert. He looks down at the rope and then up to you. He whispers your name. His eyes narrow. There’s that nasty expression.

“Hi there, sleepyhead,” you say, “How’s my favorite prisoner feeling?”

“How did you-? What the-” He growls and flexes against the bondage, trying to break free. The ropes shift under his efforts, so you’re quick to engage the mechanical arms above. They surge downwards and lock around Miguel’s neck, buzzing with electricity centimeters from his skin. He freezes.

“Behave, Miguel,” you tut, “Any more funny business and I’ll start my first ever human experiment: determining the highest voltage a spider-body can withstand.” You frown insincerely, “Now we wouldn’t want that, would we?”

Miguel’s struggling ceases, but not his ferocious glare. Another click and the arms retract.

“Untie me,” he demands.

You crouch down, lab coat pooling on the tiled floor. “Please, tell me why I would untie the crazed intruder that just broke into my lab?”

Miguel answers, “Because you can’t even comprehend the mass destruction your work will cause. Disrupting the canon is–”

You roll your eyes. “Spare me the melodrama, Miguel.”

“It’s not melodramatic. The fate of the multiverse–”

“All right, all right, my fault for asking,” you say, waving your hand, “Let’s just agree to disagree.” 

Miguel scowls. “This is why I came here in the first place. You’re too delusional to be reasoned with.”

You laugh, but it’s more of a scoff. “Delusional? You’re the delusional one.” You push the end of the remote into his chest. “You think your opinion is the only one that matters, so you go after anyone who thinks differently. You tell yourself it’s justified, that you’re doing a good thing, but you’re just holding all of humanity back,” you say, words coated in poison. “And for what, Miguel? Are you scared? Scared that someone else might be right about your precious spiderverse?”

Miguel looks down and shakes his head. “I didn’t want you to be a lost cause,” he says, “but it seems you’re too far gone.” 

Your hand shoots out and locks around his chin, forcing him to look up into your eyes. “You think being a dick to the ‘delusional’ person who has you tied up is a good idea?”

He growls and tries to buck his head away but you don’t let him, tightening your grip on his jaw. “I need you to remember who’s in charge here, m’kay? You’re not in your office surrounded by yes-spiders who will lick the ground you walk on. You broke into my lab and now you are my prisoner.” You drop your hand from his chin and lean back with a huff. “Got it?”

Miguel glares at you, no doubt running through all the awful things he wants to do now that you’ve manhandled him. The sentiment is shared. But, he finally grunts his affirmation. You take a deep breath through your nose. That’ll have to do. 

You tap the underside of his jaw with your remote. “Then, like the good little prisoner you are, you’re going to answer my questions or I’m going to fry you to the point your spider-friends can’t recognize your body.” 

You’ve decided to do that anyway, but getting information out of the man who broke into your base would be invaluable—a lady learns from her mistakes. 

He looks up at you through thick, furrowed eyebrows, “What do you want to know?”

You sit criss-cross in front of him. “You’re usually surrounded by your spider-goons. Why are you here alone?”

Miguel sighs, looks off to the side and then back to you. “I didn’t think I needed back-up,” he mutters.

“Are you lying, or just stupid?”

“I thought I could handle you by myself. As you can see, I was wrong.”

You laugh. “Not lying, then.” So, only one spider to deal with tonight. “It seems like underestimating me is paying off for you.” You tap your finger on the tip of his nose and delight in the way his eyes darken with rage. 

“Is that all?” he forces out. 

You hum. “No, not everything.” You tilt your head. “Which of my employees leaked the door code to you?” 

Miguel’s expression hardens. “I got in by myself. No one leaked anything.” 

So annoying, how all handsome men also have to be liars.

“Miguel, I spent too much time designing my lab’s security for someone to get by without raising any flags. So, you must’ve had help.” Though irritated to do so, you repeat your question. “Who was it?”

Miguel presses his lips together and keeps his eyes locked on yours. “You know I can’t tell you that.”

“Aww, I think you can,” you say, “And I think you’re going to if you want to get out of here.”

His gaze doesn’t falter. “It’s classified.”

“Come on, rule-follower,” you say, “It’s just us here. I won’t tell them you told me.”

“I know what you’ll do to them.”

“That’s not very nice.” You plant your hand on the pillar behind him and tilt his chin up with the remote. “Didn’t I tell you to behave, Miguel? Be a good prisoner now and tell me what I need to know.”

“Don’t speak to me like that.”

You lean closer, your face inches from his. “Miguel, I’m not hearing what I want to hear.”

His voice is rough. “You’re not going to.”

Headstrong, impossible man. You take one more stab at using honey over vinegar when you move to his left ear and coo, “Tell me, Miguel. And maybe I’ll reward you.”

Miguel makes a choked sound and turns his face from you.

You pull back, eyes roaming his expression. It’s not the condescending, angry look you’re used to. Frankly, he looks embarrassed. Worse, he still hasn’t answered your question. 

If playing nice isn’t getting you anywhere, you’ll just have to go back to what you know. You jab the remote into his chest, threatening, “Are you forgetting what this thing does?”

He still can’t meet your eye, focused on the space on the floor to the side of him when he says, “No–I–I just need a second.”

“How hard is it to answer one simple question, Miguel?” you say, exasperated. No wonder interrogators resort to torture. 

You sit back on your heels with a huff and that’s when you see it. The suit around his crotch looks uncomfortably tight.

No. Way. 

“Miguel.” A grin spreads across your face. “Are you-?”

“Cállate,” he hurries out, “Don’t say a word.”

Oh, you’ve hit the jackpot. This must be humiliating for him.

“Hah! I can’t believe it,” you gloat, “Here I am, yelling in your face, threatening you, and you’re getting off to it?”

“I’m not getting off to it,” he protests.

“I wish you’d stop lying to me,” you say, kicking off your shoe with a mischievous smile, “Makes interrogating really–”

“What are you–”

You press your foot against his bulge. “Hard.” 

A shuddery breath is pulled from Miguel’s mouth. He presses his eyes shut, like he can force himself to forget making such a sound, but you don’t let him.

“You like this, don’t you, Miguel?” you taunt, “You like that I’m touching you down here?” 

“Shut up,” he says, “You don’t–fuck–just wait a second.”

“It sure feels like you do,” you say, punctuating your statement with a roll of your foot over his crotch. You should be getting answers, but the embarrassed flush spreading across his face is becoming its own reason to keep going. 

“It’s not like that,” he weakly argues, “I’m just–”

“Needy? Desperate for my touch?” You push down again and he winces. 

“No,” he insists, “It’s just been a while since I…”

“Aw, poor Miguel.” You pull your foot back and move onto your knees to replace it with your hand, spreading your fingers over the warm bulge pressing against his suit. “Must be all those long, pointless hours at work.” 

“Don’t–ah–don’t say that.” There’s a strain in his voice as he speaks, “The work I have to do is more important than chasing physical pleasure.” 

“You can do both, Miguel,” you say, “Just cause we’re scientists doesn’t mean we can’t fuck around.” You squeeze your hand on his erection and his knees bend up. The eager reaction pours warmth into your core.

“No one who runs experiments like yours can call themself a scientist,” he rebukes.

“Then I’ll prove my scientific nature to you.” You grin and take on an air of exaggerated professionalism. “After making a few observations about my subject,” you say, running your hand over his pelvic area, “I now have a hypothesis to test.”

“Congratulations," he says, lip curled, "You’ve heard of the scientific method."

You hum, unbothered. “My hypothesis reflects a simple cause-and-effect pattern: you’re not getting laid, and because of that, you’re unbearable to be around.” 

“You sound insane,” Miguel says. 

"I disagree." Your hand returns to his throbbing erection, slowly stroking along it. “It's reasonable to hypothesize that you'll stop being such an asshole if”—you lock eyes—“I make you come.”

He looks bewildered before his face returns to its unpleasant baseline. “Try to find out and it won’t end well.”

“You say that”—you take your hand off of his erection and watch how his hips kick up for your touch—“but your body is telling me to continue testing. I think you want to find out.” And with the way a tingly heat is shifting around your lower abdomen, you do too. 

“Even if you were serious, you know I can’t. If the others heard–”

You tap the remote on his chest. “Do they even know you’re here?” 

“They didn’t need to,” he says, grimacing, “You weren’t supposed to-ngh-” You quicken your strokes along his clothed erection, your movements precise and rhythmic, wearing him down like a soldier on a battlefield.   

“Hmm, that’s convenient," you say, “So how does the big, strong Miguel get himself trapped in my little web?” 

His breath hitches as you pay special attention to the tip of his penis, which is leaking pre-cum and darkening a spot onto the blue fabric. “It was a miscalculation.”

“I think it was something more.” You settle onto his lap. He’s letting you settle onto his lap. “I think it was intentional." You drape your arms over his shoulders, leaving him little room to avert his eyes and not find you in his ashamed gaze. You wonder if he can feel your warmth through his suit.

“This is why I called you delusional,” he counters, “You’re imagining things.” But then he tilts his chin, exposing his neck. Imagined or not, you take your finger and run it over his pulse, eliciting a very real shiver from the body underneath you. 

“Well, how else could I explain,” you say, pressing a kiss to his neck and indulging in the low moan that rumbles through him, “how the esteemed leader of the Spider Society”—you start grinding into his lap—“fucks up this badly?”

He buries his head into your shoulder, heavy breaths ghosting your ear. His body is running so hot against you and every slow rut of your hips is met by one of his own—each gentle thrust a desperate bid for connection. “It makes me wonder,” you continue, and he tilts his head down, running his lips up your neck, “if he actually, desperately wants this ?”

Two sharp pains erupt from your neck, right where Miguel’s face is nestled. You gasp and pull away, falling backwards between the man’s legs. 

His tongue runs over his bloodied bottom lip, baring canines that are more animal than human. 

“What the-?” you say. Superhuman abilities, spider webs, high-tech gadgets, that was all in your file on him, but nothing about fangs.

Shit, the remote. You try to contract your fingers, try to press that button down, but they won’t move.

Miguel flexes against his restraints. The four zip ties around his wrists snap off, flying around the room and landing on the floor. 

Your hand goes limp and the remote clatters on the ground. Trying to reach it, you go to push yourself up with your other arm, but your bicep falters, and you fall back on your elbows. Then your shoulders go, so you come crashing down onto the lab floor.

What the fuck?

You try to sit up, but your body doesn’t respond. 

Miguel’s claws rip through the loosened cording around his chest. 

You’re screaming at yourself now. Get up. Fucking move, god damn it. Please, he’s coming, please just fucking–

Miguel is leaning over you, blocking out the harsh rays of the laboratory's fluorescent lights with his broad frame. “I told you it wouldn’t end well.”

You are an idiot. The biggest in the world. How could you let your guard down? 

It’s hard to talk, like your mouth got shot full of novocaine. “‘uck you,” you slur.

“You got what you deserved,” he says, “If you hadn’t been so…frustrating…I wouldn’t have had to use my venom.”

“Keep telling yourself that, asshole,” you force out, willing your hands to come up and push his chest off of you, but your body remains on the floor, dead weight.

He sighs, his breath uneven. “If that’s all, I need to do what I came here for.” He picks up the remote beside you. 

“Don’t–”

He crushes it with one hand and lets the bits and pieces fall onto the floor by your limp fingers. “You shouldn’t have gotten in my way.” 

Your stomach drops. With the remote gone, your only hope is the manual switch under your desk, which is on the other side of the lab. In your immobile state, you’re never reaching it before he destroys everything. Without a doubt, you’re screwed.

Tears prick your eyes which you quickly blink away. Fuck, the wound in your neck is searing. He seriously had to fucking bite you?

He moves to get up but pauses, and as if reading your mind, says, “It probably hurts a lot right now.” 

You can’t bear to confirm, so you just glare at him. 

“It’ll wear off in a couple of hours but–”

He leans down, planting two big hands on the floor on either side of your head, and presses his flat tongue along your neck, licking the two puncture wounds. His tongue is so warm and wet against your sensitive flesh, so, despite your paralyzed state, your body shudders, ever so slightly arching into the man above you. And then, the pain is gone. 

“That should help,” Miguel says into the crook of your neck. He doesn’t wait for you to thank him, which you weren’t planning on anyway, and pushes himself off the ground. 

He heads to your desk and the rustling of paperwork tells you he’s rummaging through your lab results. Since starting work on the multiverse, you’ve had a hard time getting your experiments off the ground, so losing the progress you’ve made would be catastrophic.

Damn it, this was not how it was supposed to go. He should be the one subdued and humiliated, not you. 

No, it doesn’t have to end like this. You won’t let it. But that means you need to think straight right now. There must be some way to get him to stop, or stall him enough for you to get to that switch on your desk.  

Drawers open and close as your mind races, searching for a solution, but you keep coming back to one strange observation—that when he licked his tongue up your neck, your body physically responded. And now, you can recreate the movement in its most basic form, able to engage your lower back and hips enough to press them a few centimeters towards the ceiling. It hurts, and you barely move, but it’s something. With this evidence, you craft a new hypothesis: his paralyzing agent may restrict voluntary movement, but not necessarily the innate, natural reactions of the body. Which means, if you stimulate enough of those reactions, it could get your blood flowing enough to flush the toxin out of you. 

In crude terms, he needs to fuck you. 

You grit your teeth. Yes, Miguel is a stunningly attractive man and you’re still wet from jerking him off earlier, but he is also rude, condescending, and wants to destroy everything you’ve done to make a real change in the world. But that’s why you need to do it, the bottom line is that you need to protect your work, and you’re not above debasing yourself to do so.

So you give it a try. 

“Didn’t you like how I was touching you earlier?” It comes out less sexy than you would have liked, and, to be fair, it’s hard to feel sexy limp on the floor. 

A drawer opens and a stack of paperwork is dropped onto your desk.

“Don’t you want more?” you try again, “I know you do.”

He scoffs.

“Miguel?” 

He slams a drawer shut. “If it gets you to stop talking about it, no, I didn’t like it.”

That’s not how it felt when you had your hand on his throbbing erection. 

“I think you liked it more than you want to let on,” you push.

“Even if I did, it doesn’t matter how I feel. I have one job to do.”

“Well, what about how I feel?”

“Inconsequential.”

“Is it really?”

“Yes,” he insists.

“Well, what if I told you…” You trail off, weighing whether it's worth sharing the truth.

“Told me what?”

That curiosity is enough for you to vote in favor. “That I liked touching you,” you say.

The rustling stops. “You did?”

“Mhmm,” you hum. 

“Don’t waste my time with lies. It was a perverted way of ridiculing me.” 

“Maybe a little,” you confess. “But only at the beginning. The longer it went on, the more I wanted it…wanted you.” It all comes flooding back: his little whines and whimpers, the way his thick eyebrows knit together, his hot breath on your shoulder and—“Until you fucking bit me.” Shit, maybe you shouldn’t have said that last part.

A deep sigh. “I had to.”

You fight the urge to dispute that claim, opting for the path of least resistance to accomplish your goal. “I wish you didn’t have to,” you say, “I was enjoying seeing where things were going. When I was on your lap, I even regretted tying you up.”

He drops the stack of papers in his hand back down on your desk. “Why shouldn’t you have? I broke into your laboratory.”

"That's true," you say, "But in that moment, I didn’t want your hands behind your back, I wanted them on me, your lips and your tongue too." You let out a weak laugh. “It doesn’t make a lot of sense, does it?”

“No, it doesn’t,” he answers, but you think he understands anyway. There are a few footsteps towards you.

“Even just now,” you say, “I’m angry with you for biting me, but when you licked up my neck, it felt so infuriatingly good.” 

Miguel crouches down by your side. Time to seal the deal. 

“And you wanna know a secret?” 

He won’t answer, his pride won’t let him, but he remains by you, waiting.

“It made me want you to taste more than just my neck.”

He stiffens. “I don’t know what you mean,” Miguel says. 

Playing coy, cute. So you lay it all out. “I want you to taste me,” you purr. 

Miguel lets out a heavy breath, but only moves his eyes, which rake over your face. If you weren’t paralyzed, this is when you’d wrap your hand around the nape of his neck and pull him into you, giving him that extra push he needs. But you can’t; he must decide to give in on his own. 

Miguel looks down at his watch before returning his gaze to you, weighing his options. He could end up calling you delusional again, go back to his mission of destroying your life, but still, you think there’s a chance he might–

Miguel moves down to your legs, lifting one and placing himself between them. 

Could it be? 

He runs a big hand over your midsection, pushing the lab coat back and away. “I’m not supposed to…” he says, trailing off as he takes in this new angle of you, splayed out in front of him in a beautifully disheveled way—your hair messy, chest panting, lidded eyes focused on him. 

“It’s okay, Miguel,” you say, “There’s no one here but us.”

He plays with the waistband of your slacks, fingers just grazing territory he’s desperate to explore. “You actually want this?” he asks, dark eyes flickering over your face, “There’s a lot on the line for me. I need to know you’re telling the truth.”

“Miguel”—he shudders at the use of his name—“I need it. I need you.”

You’ve got him.

With a growl, he kisses your knee as he pulls off your other shoe, letting it drop to the floor. His hands find the button of your plain slacks, undo it, and pull them down. There’s nothing you can do to help him, but he lifts you up where he needs with superhuman ease. He’s much more gentle compared to when you had him at your mercy. 

Your underwear is plain and unassuming, but the way a labored breath leaves through his fangs, it’s like you're wearing your black lacy fuck-me panties. He slips your legs onto his broad shoulders and moves forward to press three, wet kisses to your inner thigh. It's fascinating how you can only feel yourself where he touches you. 

Then his nose is nuzzling your clothed cunt, sending a tingling sensation throughout your body. Your fingers quiver. For this, you reward him with a throaty moan, encouraging him to keep going. 

“Fuck,” Miguel says, “I can smell you.” His kisses are dangerously close to your core, and you’re trying to ignore how your clit is pushing through the fabric of your soaked underwear, desperate for more.

Your fingers twitch, now half-listening to the commands your mind is yelling at them until your thoughts are blanked out of your head when Miguel pushes your underwear to the side and licks his tongue up your folds. 

Your breath stutters and Miguel hears it, “You like this, hermosa?”

Oh, what a petty spiderman. But he’s not wrong either.

You laugh dryly. “You feel good,” you admit, corroborated by the arousal leaking out of you that he’s eagerly lapping up. 

“And you’re so fucking wet,” he drawls, tonguing through your folds. 

“'Cause of you,” you say. He groans into you.

The venom's effect is fading from your hips, which now angle up to meet his tongue every time it rolls over your sensitive clit. This is good, it feels nice, and at this pace, you should be able to wake everything up slowly but surely. 

And then he tilts his chin up, capturing your clit with his mouth, and sucking. You let out a surprised gasp, eyebrows knitting together. “Such a pretty voice,” he groans between movements. 

“Fuck, Miguel,” you say, eyes pressing shut as he slurps and sucks on you like a depraved animal. It has your abdomen clenching and releasing, unable to keep up with the powerful currents of pleasure he’s pushing through you. Damn, you didn’t know he had this in him.

"You look so beautiful like this," he says, his eyes on you even if you can't meet their gaze. Strangely, you want to, want to be able to sit up so you can see what expression is on his face as he's buried in your cunt. You shove the stray feeling down, redirecting the energy towards moving your fingers. Your knuckles are bending now, that’s progress.

Then he sucks on you again and it’s hard to think about your knuckles bending. Your mouth drops open and he pushes his tongue, lips, nose, everything all over you. You’ve never been eaten out like this, never this desperate, this hungry, this good. 

He hums into your core. “I did like it. I like you.” Another roll of his tongue. "More than I should."

"Should is a dangerous word," you say.

"It's fitting," he responds, "I should be stronger than this, but the way you taste, the noises you make..." he trails off with a heavy breath, returning his attention to your vulva. 

"I like it when you're honest," you say, and he responds with another suck of his lips on your clit. Your elbow bends, bringing your hand up by your shoulder. You wish you were on a bed, had sheets to twist in between your fingers. "But not when you crucify yourself."

"It's not crucifying myself, hermosa, I just, as the head of the spider-"

"Stop it, Miguel," you say. You want his lips to stay on you; there's a pressure building in your lower stomach.

"-I shouldn't want someone who tried to kill me."

Your eyebrows narrow. "The voltage wasn't high enough for that, you big baby. And let's not forget that you bit me."

He laughs a huff of warm air onto your core. “Well, aren't I making it up to you, cariño?” The term of endearment has your stomach flutter. 

"Keep going and we'll see if I forgive you," you say.

He takes you up on the challenge, fingers digging into the flesh of your thighs as he returns to his animalistic licking and sucking. Your head tilts back, enduring the dizzying pleasure his tongue pushes through you, making it so hard to think. Everything is much more sensitive and it makes you wonder if it's a side effect of his venom. "Okay, it might be working," you admit, "This feels so good."

He breathes into you, hands moving down your thighs as he pushes his body closer to yours.

You can move your arms along the floor now, though they’re unbelievably heavy. Miguel notices when, with great effort, you move your right arm up to your thigh. He slows his movements, watching with alert eyes as you move the limb closer and closer to him. You settle your hand on his head, pushing him back down into you. “Keep going,” you say, voice hoarse and pleading, “I’m–ah–close.”

His eyes nearly roll back and he returns to lapping his tongue all over your pussy. Your muscles are responding, clenching around nothing.

“Put your finger inside,” you say, hand knotting into his thick brown hair, “Please.”

God, you’re demeaning yourself, but it’s hard to feel bad when he complies immediately, phasing out a finger from his suit and circling it on the rim of your entrance, dipping the tip in and out. 

“Yes, please, Miguel,” you whine, and he pushes it inside, curling up inside you while he licks.

God, it’s so overwhelming. That a man who’s been hunting you, trying to destroy you, is now working so hard to make you feel so fucking good.  

And he succeeds. An orgasm rampages through you, one that has your body breaking through the venom’s chains, writhing around underneath him as pleasure pushes through your veins. 

You cry out his name as your fingers tighten into his hair. He anchors you to the floor with his strong arms, keeping you in place so you can ride out your orgasm on his tongue. 

“There you go, just like that,” he says as you whine through it, “Mi linda angel.” 

Soon the pulsing and clenching slows, and in your bliss, you almost forget your goal. Almost. You rein in the urge to pull Miguel into your arms and instead test your hypothesis. Though unsteady, you find that you can plant your forearms on the ground and flex your abs to sit up halfway. 

For the first time, you can fully see him down there. His eyes are blown with lust, and underneath your slick shines all over his nose and lips. He’s panting as roughly as you are right now, but closes his mouth, tense, as you sit yourself up all the way. He watches, careful. He doesn’t know if he trusts you yet. For his sake, he shouldn’t.

Your muscles are shaky, body significantly weakened by the venom. You doubt you can outrun him to the switch, so you tell another half-truth. 

“I want you,” you say, placing your hand on his broad shoulder and pulling him in, “On the desk. Now.”

Without question he picks you up and walks you over to your desk, now covered in a blanket of your notes and lab results. It’s going to be a nightmare to reorganize, but it looks like he hasn’t shredded anything yet. 

Miguel grabs the seat cushion from your chair, throws it on top of the desk, and sits you down on it. He situates himself between your legs before bending over to sloppily kiss up your neck. 

“This is how you want me?” he asks into your ear, his voice husky.

“You know I want more than this,” you say, tilting your head back as he kisses you.

You run your hand down his chest, abdomen, and then to just above the bulge pressing through his suit. “Take this off,” you say. 

The suit flickers and disappears, leaving his toned physique uncovered. You run your fingertips over his lower abdomen, exploring the dips and curves of the pronounced muscles. Traveling down, you take his length in your hands and he crumbles over, leaning his weight onto his palms on the side of the desk. “Fuck, Miguel,” you say, “This just hurts so bad, doesn’t it?”

He nods against your shoulder. 

“‘Cause of all of my mean teasing?” you say. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know how much you liked me then.”

“You must now,” he says.

You give his cock a few pumps before angling your hips up and aligning him with your pulsating hole. “Let me show you how much I like you back.”  

He grabs onto you when you bring him inside, getting him in until he can take over with his hips, moving deeper into you. 

“Is this okay?” he says, “I don’t want to…hurt you.”

“Such a hero.” You smile. “You’re doing a good job, Miguel.” You place your hand on the back of his head, threading your fingers through his hair. The other lands on his hip, and a gentle pull tells him to keep going. 

He pushes into you with little resistance and you gasp when he’s fully inside. Yeah, it’s been a while for you too, but it feels so different this time, the addition of his body to yours is impossible to overlook. 

“Mierda,” he says, taking a second to understand his new reality. “You feel so…so good. I can’t,” he draws himself out, and pushes back in, “I can’t stand it.” 

“Perfect,” you coo, your breath stuttering with every slam of his hips, every thrust shaking your weakened body. You look up to him and take in how that chronic, nasty expression of his is nowhere to be found; his lips are slightly parted and a prominent flush decorates his tan skin. Fuck, you love him like this. He looks so beautiful, looks like-

“Such a good boy,” you say and he whimpers. The sound sends a wave of tingly pleasure through your core. 

You comb your fingers through his hair and his eyelids flutter. “You work so hard, taking care of your team, taking care of-” you almost say ‘the bad guys’ but decide not to pull him out of the fantasy-“the people you need to. But I wonder, is there anyone taking care of you?”

You grab his hips, guiding him through his thrusts. “I want to. I want you to feel good,” you say, “I want you to come inside me.”

He growls at that. “You want that from me, hermosa?”

“Please, Miguel.” Fuck, that didn’t feel like another half-truth to you.

He pulls you over to the short side of your desk and lays you down, the sweat sticking the paperwork beneath you to your back. Then he pulls the undersides of your thighs so your hips slam into his, pushing him all the way inside of you once more. You groan, at this angle, he’s hitting it so much deeper now, and every inch is being felt and adapted to by your walls.

The switch. It’s beneath you, hidden on the underside of the desk’s edge, like a panic alarm. Your hand is dangling off the desk, inches from it. What you should do is press it. But the way he’s whimpering in your ear, it’s the most persuasive sound he could ever make. 

“Dios, you feel…feel so fucking good,” he says, words undercut with an animal-like primality, “So warm, so fucking wet.”

You bring your hand from the desk’s edge to just underneath his jaw. His eyes flick up, wild in nature, but tame for you.

“Spit on it,” you say, and he does. You move your lubricated fingers to the area just above your connection and rub your needy clit as he pounds into you. 

He throws his head back, wincing at the sensation as he gets closer. You’ve done too good a job working him up, so it can’t be much longer.

“Come here, Miguel,” you say, tugging on his veiny forearm. He leans forward and you pull his large body down on top of you. He buries his face into your shoulder, and you wrap your legs around his waist, locking him in.

Each hot breath following a thrust warms your skin. You moan back at him, arching your hips up so his cock rubs against that special spot of yours while your fingertips circles the other.

He can barely speak. “I’m-fuck-I’m-”

“I know, baby,” you coax, sinking your fingers into his sweat-soaked hair and drinking in his musky scent. “You’re doing so good, okay? Such a good job for me.”

He nods in the crook of your shoulder. “Can I, really?”

“Yes, Miguel,” you say, tightening your grip around his torso, “I want you to, need you to.”

With your permission, he whines in your ear and unravels. His thrusts lose their rhythm as he fills you up and his arms wrap around your head, keeping you right where he wants. He swears a string of Spanish words you haven’t heard before so you stroke his back, soothing the white hot release and calming the quaking of his body. 

He gasps and pants through it and after one final uneven stroke, he settles down on top of you. He’s heavy, but it’s comforting in a way, evoking a sense of security. You stay like that for a little bit, his weight on top of you, your arms around his slicked back, before he pulls away. Immediately his suit flickers back on and he takes a step back, putting his hands on his hips, still catching his breath.

“Miguel?” you call.

He doesn’t answer, dropping his head down. 

Your stomach shifts. You watch his back, waiting for him to turn around, to smile at you, to tell you how much he likes you again. But he doesn't.

You should’ve known; he won’t leave without doing what he came for. And you can't let that happen. 

You reach under your desk, fingertips grazing the back-up switch hidden beneath it. 

“I’m sorry, Miguel,” you say. His eyes flick towards yours and widen, but before they can reveal insight into his heart, he's out cold.

——————

Miguel wakes up in a field. The sun is right above him; it must be around noon. He launches up, eyes blazing with rage as he takes in the rest of his surroundings. He’s not too far from the entrance to your lab, so he races to its location. The waterfall is just past the treeline, so he ducks underneath the water and travels through the dark passageway until he finds the steel door with a keypad.

He tries the code he has. 

Access denied.

Miguel snarls and pounds against the door before turning to his claws, tearing a hole through the thick wall of metal. With his hands, he bends the steel gap open until it’s big enough to fit his frame inside. He steps through, but the lab’s empty. No paperwork, no computers, no you.

Miguel taps his watch and a holographic AI appears. "Lyla, push the starred file to the whole team," he orders, "There's a threat to the multiverse that needs to be brought in immediately."

"Got it, boss," the hologram answers, "Pinging everyone now. When will you—"

Miguel ends the call. He looks up at the ceiling, his jaw clenched and his hands in fists.

It was all a lie. And against his better judgment, he let himself believe it. 

Miguel glances over to the desk you shared last night, resentful, only to notice that there's something he missed on the first pass. He steps closer. It's a small note with his name on it. 

He marches over and picks it up.

Thanks for the night, Miguel. I’ll see you next time you find me xoxo

He grabs the side of the desk and flips it over, splitting the wood on the tiled floor with a loud crack. Then, he holds the half-crumpled note in his hand, running his eyes over your messy penmanship once more.

He’ll find you. He always does.

[magicalqueennightmare]

One Night

Corporal Lewis Ford (John Walker) x Reader

I’ve seen one too many “Overlord in MCU” aus 🤷🏻‍♀️

He just wants one night in your arms in exchange for signing what life he has left over to the government.

Fluff with some suggestiveness and angst

“We can’t” you knew this was a losing battle. Ever since they’d pulled him out of the ground in France, ever since you’d been assigned to help him “adjust” to the world since he’d been down since 1944 you found yourself drawn to the man in front of you. At first it was simply a curiosity on both of your ends. He was a super soldier of likes no one had ever seen. You were a woman born with abnormal healing capabilities. Two moths drawn to flames.

The more time you spent together the more that simple curiosity faded into friendship. He would tell you stories of the life he lived before the draft came knocking. He’d tell you of the horrors he’d seen in world war two and on one particularly rough night he finally told you about the day he died. You listened, sitting close to him on your couch and when you realized he had tears in his eyes and was expecting you to judge him that broke your heart. He was young when he’d been drafted and yet that day? He’d led his men, comforted the one he lost through death and still made a choice to sacrifice everything.

Not for the first time you wished your capabilities extended beyond physical injuries. You curled up next to him, falling asleep in each other’s arms and when the morning light found you still entangled it was a silent acknowledgement that everything had changed. 

He would ask for stories of your past, how you’d come to learn of your capabilities. He asked about your work, your exes. He was the most amazing man you’d ever met. Those bright blue eyes, dark blonde hair that would fall into his face if he moved just right and if you pushed it back a light blush would grace his cheeks. The scar that was under his right eye was slowly fading with the new serum on top of the previous one he’d taken. 

Now here you sat, three years after he’d been pulled out of the ground. Three years you’d been at each other's side every day and you were now facing being separated. He pulled you closer, tugging you into his lap. You gladly straddled his waist, hands going to his shoulders. He tilted his head to catch your eyes, that soft smile that as far as you could tell you’d been the only person to receive plastered on his face “Please Honey. I’ll be their golden boy puppet. I’ll do whatever I have to for you to have a future and for them to not replicate this damn serum that brings me back but for tonight, can I simply be a man in love with a woman?” 

Any and all pretenses fell at that moment. The thought of what his name was supposed to be escaped you. The only thing you could think about was how your heart was crumbling to bits in your chest. How you wished you would’ve known him then or that he would’ve been born now.  “Oh Lewis” you whispered and he pulled you into a slow kiss, lips devouring yours like you were the sweetest thing he’d ever tasted and he wanted to memorize it so if he never experienced it again. 

“My name sounds so damn good coming from your lips” he murmured against your mouth. He pressed another hard kiss to your lips before dipping his head down to your neck, tongue flicking out across your collarbone “You’re the only person that cares to use my real name. I know after tonight I can’t be Lewis Ford anymore” he pressed a kiss to the hollow of your throat before leaning back to look you in the eyes “But can I please see how many times I can get that pretty little mouth to say my real name before it fades away?”

You nodded and he shook his head “Now honey, we talked about this. I don’t know how men do it now but I want to hear you say it” you laughed lightly, fingers tangling in his blonde locks “I want you Lewis, please” he groaned, gripping your hips tightly and a gasp left you when you felt how his body was already reacting to you “You have me darlin. Everything I am. You have” he promised and stood with your legs wrapped around his waist and your arms around his neck to walk towards your bedroom.

When the morning light found you, Lewis was wrapped around you. His arms were holding you against his chest, like he could somehow protect both of you against what was to come.  “I got something for you” he spoke low, voice still rough with sleep. You turned to face him with a small smile “Lewis you didn’t have to get me anything. Last night was amazing” he nodded “I know but still” he reached over to the nightstand and picked up his dog tags and turned to hold them out to you. You could feel tears in your eyes as he placed them in your hand “I want you to have these. That way you know that I’m yours. The real me, my heart will always be yours”

You slipped them around your neck and he ran a finger over the chain before using two fingers to tilt your chin up for a kiss “I love you” he spoke against your mouth. “I love you too” you replied and he laughed low “Lewis Ford or John Walker?” you ducked your head to rest it against his chest, fingers finding the long healed scar that killed him that first time “Anyone and anything you are. I love with everything I am” 

[cxptain-capsicle]

Beyond the Sea | Luke Castellan | VIII

Pairing: Luke Castellan x Unclaimed Poseidon!Reader

Warnings: angst, fluff, established relationship, minor blood/gore, Gods being terrible parents, time jumps

A/n: Two chapters, in two days. I hope you're feeling spoiled. It is a short one though.

Series Masterlist Taglist

Luke didn’t say goodbye when he left.

In truth, you never expected him to. Didn’t want him to. It didn’t feel like a rejection; it felt like a mercy. A goodbye would’ve made it real. A goodbye may have forced the two of you to recognize the real possibility that Luke might not come back. And neither of you were ready for that. So instead, the two of you said goodnight from your respective bunk beds, fell asleep, Luke woke earlier than you in the morning as he always did, and he left. This way, you could pretend it was a normal day. Luke was leaving to spar or train somewhere, and soon he would be back at the cabin to collect you for breakfast. Luke had told you the night before that if he kissed you, he knew he wouldn’t be able to leave. The selfish part of you wanted to pull him in again. You wanted to cry, beg him to stay, force him to look you in the eyes as he left. But you couldn’t do that to him.

Still… you wanted to see him one last time. You laid in bed listening to the sounds of campers cheering and singing as they sent Luke off. You waited for the sounds to grow distant before you got up from bed, slipping on your boots and fumbling with the laces. You didn’t have time to change out of the shorts and t-shirt you had worn to bed, but you grabbed an old jacket that hung on the post of the bunkbed and threw it on. At this point, you couldn’t remember if it was your or Luke’s.

You stayed hidden at the tree line near the boundary and watched the group of campers escort Luke and his two questmates. Chiron and Mr. D were with them, shaking their hands, Chiron probably giving his words of wisdom, and Mr. D probably counting down the seconds until he could go back to the big house. Campers came up and hugged them goodbye, clapped them on the back, and threw their arms around them. 

After a few moments, the three boys threw their bags over their shoulders and made their way to leave. Then, just before they crossed the boundary line, Luke paused. Turned. His gaze swept over the woods. Not hurried, just soft. Searching. He didn’t see you. But you think he knew. He lingered for a second too long. Just one. Like if he waited any longer, he might change his mind. And then he turned back, took a breath, and walked out of camp.

You stood there for a long time after he was gone. You watched him disappear into the distance, until his figure was nothing more than a speck in the distance. And you felt him take a part of you with him.

The sun was just now peeking up over the hill, but you and Luke had already been up for hours. The Hermes cabin and the rest of the camp was absolutely trashed from the bonfire. You forced Luke to wake up early with you to collect the red solo cups and miscellaneous litter from the night before.

“I think I was too hard on him.” You sighed, slightly embarrassed over your outburst on the beach.

“I don’t.” Luke shrugged. This response slightly surprised you, considering Luke was typically trying to control your outbursts. “You’ve been here for three years, you’ve fought and bled for this camp and gods, and he gets everything you’ve fought for in three days.”

“Yeah, but it’s not his fault.”  You felt strange arguing against your own side.

“I know that, but still your anger is justified.” It was nice for Luke to defend you but you couldn’t help but feel the guilt build in your stomach.

“Yeah, I think I’ll say something to him before he leaves. Try to make things right.” You decided. Luke froze. “What?”

“I think it might be a little too late for that.” Luke earned a questionable look from you. “Annabeth said they were leaving camp at sunrise.” He pointed to the sun that had crested over the hill by now.

“Shit.” You muttered. You weren’t sure when it happened, but suddenly there was nothing more important in the world than getting to Percy. You broke out into a sprint, Luke called out your name, but you didn’t have the time to respond. You ran past the Big House and continued to run until you reached Thalia’s pine. When you reached the boundary line, you realized you were too late. You could see Percy, Annabeth, and Grover still, but they had left camp. You didn’t know what came over you, but you took one big deep breath and you ran out of camp.

“Percy!” You shouted, your voice echoed in the distance. The three of them turned around to look at you, each one more puzzled than the last.

“Y/n, you can’t leave camp, what're you doing-” Annabeth was shocked. In three years at camp, you suddenly realized that you had never left without permission. 

“Percy, can I talk to you?” You asked, your voice came out more pleading than you meant it to. “I’ll be quick, I promise.”

Percy shifted uncomfortably on his feet, surely unsure of what you had to say after last night. But despite this, he made his way towards you. Annabeth and Grover turned away, trying to give the illusion of privacy, although you were sure they were eavesdropping.

“Hey.” He said awkwardly, looking at his shoes.

“Percy, I-” Your mouth went dry looking at him. He looked so young and so naive. So much like you did when you first came to camp. So much like Luke did before he left for his quest. Luke had told you the goal of Percy’s quest, the missing lightning bolt, the war between the gods. It suddenly hit you how much danger he was walking into. “I’m sorry about last night. I’m sorry I acted out.”

You suddenly wished you had planned this out a little better. “I was just... I was angry. Not at you.” He met your eyes now, and it surprised you how soft they were.

“At our dad?” He questioned. It made you cringe slightly for him to call him your dad. The familiarity made your stomach twist. Poseidon may be your father, but surely not your ‘Dad’. Still, you nodded.

“I get it.” He said to you genuinely. “I’m still not sure how I feel about this whole thing.”

“Yeah, I don’t know if that will ever go away.” You chuckled.

“I’m not going on this quest for him,” He spoke in a way that made you know he wanted your approval. “I’m doing this for my mom. She’s my family, not him…” You recognized his silence as a pause, so all you did was nod. “Do you think we could be family?”

You couldn’t help but smile. Your chest felt warm, and you felt the weight of a loneliness you’ve felt your whole life be lifted off of you.

“Yeah, Percy, we’re family.” He grinned at that..

“Can I ask you a question?” He asked shyly. You nodded. “How’d you do that with the wave?”

You laughed at the question. “I-uh, I don’t know, I just kind of do it. I used to only be able to do it when I was mad, but I couldn’t control it. Now I can do it whenever, but it’s still easier when I’m mad.”

“I don’t think I get mad enough for that.” He laughed under his breath.

“That’s good.” You told him.

“Why’s that good?” Percy cocked his head.

“Because that means you’re not like him.” You wished you could say the same for yourself. “That’s a good thing, don’t change that.”

“Hey, I- uh, hate to break up this family bonding time, but we are in a bit of a time crunch.” Annabeth shouted.

“Really, Annabeth, they’re having a moment.” Grover said in a hushed voice.

“Okay, listen to me carefully.” You put your hands on Percy’s shoulders and made him look at you. “The monsters are going to come for you, always be ready to fight, never let your guard down. You might not know how to use any powers yet, but you’ll be stronger near water. Remember, it can heal you. Trust Annabeth, I know she’s not warm and fuzzy but she’s smart and she won’t lead you astray. Stick together no matter what, I don’t care if you guys fight or argue. Stick together. The monsters will try to split you apart; do not let them. If you need anything, reach out to me, Annabeth knows how. Most importantly, make sure you come back. The gods, their war, none of it matters. Get your mom and get out. I’m gonna be waiting for you.”

Percy nodded as he listened to you carefully. “Like a big sister?”

You could feel your eyes prickle with tears that you blinked back.

“Yeah, like a big sister.” Instantly, Percy dove forward and wrapped his arms around your middle. You were shocked for a moment, but then you hugged him back, wrapping your arms as tightly as you could around him, savoring every second until you had to let him go.

Feel free to leave feedback, suggestions, and headcannons in the inbox. I love incorporating your guy's ideas!

Taglist:

@fudosl @lenasvoid @light-23 @petrichorvzlia-blog @heartzflwers @vampsaddicted @bbgkaykay @shiara04 @teigo-the-explorer @number-onekidqueen @niktwazny303 @bonnie-tz @purplerose291 @yarnify @louieluvly @lemonberryberry @ahh-chickens @inkpot-winters @kk6987 @jimnam @emotiandon

[holy-moly-dawling]

Fly Me To The Moon | Five

Hermes x Fem!Reader (Modern)

(Art Credit: Zieru)

"So, what's it like? Being a God I mean?" Asked Y/n. She and Hermes were on the couch in the living room. They didn't sit too close to each other, not like they have been before. Hermes wanted to make her comfortable, to give her space. He didn't want to risk frightening her.

"It's..." Hermes began. "It's complicated, to put it simply..."

But Y/n, she felt the urge to move closer to him. To full admire him in his entirety, his true self. Her eyes kept wondering to the feathers. They were pressed tightly closed against his head, tense.

His clothes fit perfectly to the era he was born into. There was a lavish appearance to them, however. They were also comfortable, easy to move around in. And considering the amount of running and flying he does, he'd needed clothes that would allow him to move freely.

And from where she sat, she could see now that his once hazel eyes, were now pure golden. His gaze was lowered at his hands, that never seemed to still. He was nervous.

Y/n didn't think Gods could be nervous. And yet, here Hermes sat as if readied to be scolded or yelled at. But she didn't blame him for acting this way. It was obvious to her, that Hermes valued her opinion of him. More than that, she knew how much he cared about her.

"Complicated how?" Asked Y/n.

And this sudden news might have been what tears them apart. But it wouldn't be. Y/n didn't want it to be. She was confused, still a little shocked, but she didn't by any means dislike Hermes now. She didn't even hate him.

Hermes had no say in his Godhood, he was born into it. He had his reasons for hiding himself in the modern era.

Because of exactly this.

Y/n couldn't help but wonder, if Hermes had done this for any other human before he met her. Did he ever tell them? If he didn't, did he simply break things off with them? Disappear forever, continuing to live on while they grew old and die?

Never to see each other again...

Y/n felt relieved. Hermes could have easily left her before she ever knew about who he really was. Someone as amazing as Hermes had came into her life, and in an instant, he could have been gone from it for the rest of her life.

And yet, he chose to stay. He chose to tell her. And for that, Y/n couldn't have been more grateful.

"We Gods have lives like any mortal would, however, our lives never end." Said Hermes. "And of course, we have abnormal abilities. Controlling the elements, inhumane strength and stamina, creating something from nothing, powers beyond all mortal comprehension, and so on."

Hermes continued. "And you'd think once you are given your purpose, life would be easy. You know what your place among the divine is, and it will continue to be so until the end of all things..."

"But?" Y/n prompted.

"But it gets boring after millennia." Hermes sighed. "I might be the only one who feels this way. But I am so glad you humans evolved like you did. Made things less dull, for me that is."

Y/n scoots a little closer to him, Hermes looked up at her. Yes, she could see it clearly now. His eyes. Were all Gods' eyes this beautiful?

"I guess it would get boring, if you had to deliver mail forever." She joked. Hermes cracked a smile. "Come on now, you know me better than that." He said. "I did much more than just deliver things."

Y/n laughed lightly. "Yeah I know. You stole Apollo's cows when you were minutes old. You helped Odysseus save his crew from Circe, and you got him off of Calypso's island. Oh and, don't you guide souls to the Underworld?"

"Yes, I've done it all." Hermes nods. "I also invented the telephone, you're welcome."

"You did not!" Y/n laughed. Hermes laughed as well. "No, but I did persuade the man who did. Just a little divine intervention is all it took."

Their laughter died down after a moment, and once again, silence took over. Y/n lowered her gaze to her lap, she wanted to say something. There was one question that bugged her more than any other right now, but she wasn't sure how to ask.

But she had to know. So, Y/n took a breath, and summoned the courage to just say it.

"Why choose me? If there's Gods, then there has to be other divine creatures, why not someone like that? Why just...me? A human?"

Hermes paused a moment to think before answering her. "Because I like you." Y/n furrowed her brows. That couldn't have been it. No way it was that simple. She looked to him, a serious look on her face as she spoke. "I mean it." She said firmly.

Hermes met her gaze, just as firm, just as serious. "So do I."

Before she could doubt him again, he continued. "I've always prefered humans over Gods, or nymphs, or whoever else. Humans have a certain way about them, that draws me in every time. I've always enjoyed their company, whether it be platonic or romantic. You are no different." He went on.

"I chose you, because I like you. Yes, I found you attractive when I first saw you. Then, I got to see that your personality matches your appearance. Beautiful. I found myself wanting to savor the time I had with you, unlike so many other of my flings." Hermes takes her hands with his own.

"I really do care about you, Y/n. Which is why it was so hard for me to tell you about myself. I didn't want to scare you away. Those days we were apart was agony, I couldn't bare it a second longer. I wanted nothing more than to be with you again."

Y/n nearly teared up at his words. She couldn't tell if it was his thousands of years of experience, or if it was just his divinity making his words feel so much more impactful. She never knew a guy could be so loving with just words alone.

"I didn't like being away from you either, Hermes." Said Y/n sadly. "I was just...so confused. And, I might have had a bit of an existential crisis about it, but once I calmed down and had time to think about it...I realized, you are still you. Even if you were some ethereal being, you were still the same charming guy I met that day at the museum."

Hermes felt his heart still a beat, his hands that held hers tightened slightly in anticipation. "So, does that mean we can still be together?" He asked her. Y/n smiled warmly, then leaned in to kiss his cheek.

"Yes, we can. But I want nothing but the truth from now on!"

Hermes could have died a happy God right then. He stood from the couch, lifting Y/n into his arms as he did so, and spun around while laughing. "Oh, darling! You have no idea what this means to me!"

Y/n giggled and held onto him tight as not to fall. "Hermes! Calm down!"

Hermes stopped, but did not let her go. "Calm down? The most lovely woman alive just gave me a second chance! I'm going to be ecstatic about this for the next century!" He said before kissing her temple, then whispered softly to her.. "Darling, so long as I'm here you will know nothing but love and adoration."

After Hermes revealed himself a God, life for him and Y/n couldn't have been better. Y/n had never seen Hermes so happy and carefree. He could finally be himself around her, he didn't have to hide anything from her anymore.

And because of that, their relationship blossomed that much more into something beautiful.

Hermes would bring her gifts and trinkets from all around the world, even from his home on Olympus. Speaking of,

Y/n grew more curious about Olympus and it's divine beings. She wanted to know more about them, and Hermes was more than happy to tell her. For starters, she learned that she has already met another God from Olympus without knowing.

Hermes's younger brother, Dion. Or, Dionysus rather. Y/n was half thrilled and half worrisome. Did she make a good first impression? What did Dionysus think of her?

Hermes assured her that Dionysus liked her fine, and not to think about it too much. However, he thought it might be a good idea for the two to meet, properly this time.

So, Hermes sought out his half-brother to make arrangements. When the idea was brought up with Dionysus, he was immediately on board.

"Bring her here, to Olympus! We can show her a wonderful time here, she'd love it! Didn't you say she was fascinated by us Gods?"

Dionysus' words replayed in Hermes head as he hurried back to Y/n's home. From there he'd tell her of the news. And while Y/n was over the moon to go to Olympus, she was also cautious.

"Am I even allowed up there?" She asked Hermes.

"Well...Technically, no." Said Hermes, before quickly adding. "But! I can sneak you in. It won't be a problem, trust me." Y/n was hesitant. What if she and Hermes gets caught? What then? Hermes would be punished, and Y/n...she didn't want to think about what might happen...

"Now let's get a move on. Dionysus likes to pregame every party he throws. He might be plastered by the time we get there." Hermes chuckled.

The two left the house, Y/n locking the front door behind her. Thankfully it was late enough where no one would be outside. The soft chirping of crickets added to the silent night air.

Hermes then scooped Y/n into his arms. Y/n felt her heart flutter around in her chest. Hermes held her so effortlessly, as if she weighed nothing at all.

"Uh...Wait. Hermes?" Y/n asks, looking to him. "How do we get to Olympus?"

Hermes snickered before saying. "Hold on tight, love." Then took off running. Y/n did as he said, her grip tightening when Hermes took a leap into the air. She gasped sharply and her eyes shut tight. She felt her stomach drop as they went higher and higher into the air.

"Have you never flown before?" Asked Hermes with a laugh. Y/n, without opening her eyes, answered. "Yes! But in a plane! With walls! Not just in open sky!"

"I won't drop you, darling." Hermes tells her. "Open your eyes, enjoy the view. It's a lovely night, you can see the stars so clearly from up here."

Slowly, hesitantly, Y/n opened one of her eyes. Only to immediately shut it again when she caught a glimpse of the sky whooshing past her. She took a shaky breath, calming herself, before opening both eyes.

Hermes was right, the stars could be seen so much clearly now. Y/n seemingly forgotten about her fear, and took in the scenery, and all it's beauty, fully now.

"It's so..." Y/n trailed off, distracted by the calming colors of black and blue, mixed with glittering and shimmering of the stars. "Dazzling?" Hermes finished. Y/n nods. Then something else captures her attention.

In the distance, a large mountain, that towered all else, could be seen peaking out from the clouds. Y/n's eyes widened in amazement. "Is that Olympus?" She asked aloud.

"That, it is." Hermes confirms. "Time to take a more stealthy approach. Sorry you won't get much of a scenic view." He dips low, causing Y/n's stomach to drop once more. She held onto him tight as Hermes skillfully soared around back of the mountain.

He eventually landed in the crest of the mountain, and set Y/n on the ground. Y/n held onto him, still feeling a bit dizzy after the flight. "Now." Began Hermes. "You'll need to fit in. No offense, but your modern fashion sticks out here like a sore thumb."

Y/n playfully rolled her eyes. "Well, it's not exactly like I had time to make a outfit change."

"Not to worry, I have that covered." Said Hermes. Before Y/n could question him, he dashed off in a blink of an eye. Then returned after a few seconds, this time, holding a white chiton dress.

"Where did you-"

"Don't worry about it." Hermes hands the chiton to Y/n. "Now hurry and put this on." Y/n takes the chiton, then looks to Hermes, who stared at her expectantly.

"Hermes." Y/n said bluntly.

"Yes, darling?" Asked Hermes.

"Turn around."

Hermes sighed before turning his back to her. "Oh will I ever get to see my beloved in her full naked glory?"

"Someday, maybe." Y/n laughs before undressing. She quickly puts on the chiton before giving Hermes the ok to turn around again. When he did, the biggest smile formed on his face. "Oh darling! You look outstanding!"

Y/n smiles bashfully. "Oh, you." She playfully swoons.

"Right, now onto Dionysus." Hermes said before leading Y/n. "Now, I have to warn you. A Dionysus party, for an inexperienced mortal, can be a bit...jarring." He tells her. Y/n looks to him curiously. "I've heard tales of his cults. I have a bit of an idea..."

"Yes, well, I made sure he knew to keep things simple this time. Thankfully he agreed. But knowing Dionysus, his meaning of simple could be vastly different from what I intended."

Y/n smiled and held Hermes' hand. "Thank you for looking out for me, Hermes." She says warmly. Hermes smiles and gives her hand a gentle squeeze. "Always, my darling."

As the two walked, the sound of festivities could faintly be heard. And as they grew closer, it was clear that they were in the right spot. Hermes lead Y/n through the bushes and into a clearing. There, many people, mortals and divine beings alike, were enjoying the party. Dancing, drinking, laughing, there wasn't anyone who wasn't having a good time.

And at the center of it all, was Dionysus.

[dcdreamblog]

I know I’ve already got an ask in the queue, so just getting this one in before I forget…

What’s up with the change in Doctor Fate’s helmet? All of a sudden he’s wearing a half helmet and socking bad guys like some regular flying brick instead of doing fancy magic, and then just as suddenly, he’s back to the full helmet and ankh effects.

Point of order if having more than one ask in the queue at any one time was against the rules I could have @krinsbez shot at dawn by now.

Anyway.

(An image of Kent Nelson wearing his "half helmet" in a war time propaganda comic circa 1941)

To explain it we need to understand the main "tools" that Dr. Fate uses to conduct his work. Like many mages, Kent Nelson does not hold a purely academic level of arcane knowledge. Arcana of that nature is esoteric and hard to conduct bare handed, there's a reason most wizards in history used tools like wands or orbs. In Nelson's case he wielded.

The Cloak of Destiny: Chiefly a protective garment, able to shield the wearer from earthly and magical attacks

The Amulet of Anubis: A multifaceted item that can enhance a magician's strength, produce a small list of basic spells by itself and even store items, people or souls within it.

And, most importantly.

The Helmet of Fate: Containing the soul and mind of the ancient wizard Nabu, empowered by the occult and cosmic spirits known as the Lords of Order. Wearing the Helm not only allows the wielder to communicate with Nabu for advice and guidance it also grants access to the power he had in life as well as the power of the Lords of Order.

The problem lies with that 3rd item. The Helmet of Nabu cannot be overstated in its importance. In the magical community (thank you Gwen, as always <3...not sure why you needed me to prick my finger on a cactus fruit for this research but you were helpful as always), the Helmet is considered THE most powerful artifact that currently exists in human hands. To bear the helm makes one not just AN Arch Magus but THE Arch Magus, responsible for the protection of all mankind from the threats beyond this realm, the holder of the mantle of Dr. Fate.

The problem is that the helmet's 'inhabitant' and its 'suppliers' do not always have humanity's true best interest at heart and certainly not always the interests of the helmet's wearer.

Nabu is...well he's a sorcerer from the mid Bronze Age. His understanding of justice and protection is that he, as a man who "understands" such things should impose his rules and protection upon those beneath him. It's not really a problem if he's stopping someone from getting crushed by a dragon's toenail but one can imagine it causes personality clashes when more contentions moral or political topics are in play.

And the Lords of Order are, as I have been warned, not Lords of JUSTICE, not Lords of LIGHT. They are Lords of ORDER. And any one of you that has read a slightly complex fantasy story can pick out the issues in that. When the forces of Chaos are mostly made up of demons and imps trying to cause death and suffering for the sake of returning the world to an era of barbarous bloodletting opposing them is almost always the right call but the Lords of Order are not above trying to impose their vision of "Order" upon the human race at large.

Kent Nelson was NOT a millennia old Arch Mage, but he was a man of unshakable responsibility and unbroken moral principle. When Nabu and the Lords of Order began to push him, attempting to manipulate him, attempting to overtake his actions or his will through their mystical might. he did the only thing that was available to him...he took the helmet off.

For the majority of the war, in fact, Nelson wore the helmet as little as possible. Wearing a "regular" half helmet (we have some of them here at the Perisphere, they're adequately machined but not exactly antiques, depending on which helmet it is you can see the seams rather clearly). And getting by with the powers granted to him by the Cloak, the Amulet and what mystical knowledge her could apply in the heat of battle. He could fly, he could increase his own strength, he could shoot beams from the amulet. For 99% of problems it was perfectly workable, if all he had ever had was the cloak and the amulet no one would have questioned Dr. Fate as a hero of his era.

Some situations did indeed call for wearing the Helm, when a more intensive form of mystical power was required but because of Nelson's reluctance and resistance to Nabu's influence over time their relationship became more and more strained, and Nabu's attempt to assert his will when Nelson donned the helmet became more and more forceful, increasing Nelson's reluctance to wear the Helm.

When the Keane Act disbanded the Justice Society, one can only imagine that Nelson was all too ready to place the helm upon its stand and lock it away in the dark for a few decades.

[ravs6709]

Personal criticisms of tbhx I have (so far? Maybe this will get updated?) as of ep12

I debated on making this for like 2 weeks now, but the queen arc really got me to do it (spoiler alert I am. Not a great fan of ep12)

Because tumblr loves to piss on the poor, I'm reiterating that these are personal criticisms (possible that not all of them are fully warranted), and fans are allowed to criticize a show (because I've seen people make posts hating on people who remotely criticize something)

Anyways that will all go under the cut

Nice arc

Wish we got to see more of wreck, and xiao yueqing in a sense of what do they think of nice (or wreck as himself without nice)

I dont need full backstory cause I know it's being vague rn on purpose, but I'd at least like to know what it was that drew wreck to nice (and a little more of what xiao yueqing hated about nice, though at least we did get a glimpse of that)

I feel like there should've been like. At least 5 minutes dedicated to lin ling and his feelings of being a hero in between firm man and God eye. We did get a moment or two super minor bits showing the ocd, but i wish they weren't minor

Does lin ling miss his old appearance? Are there habits he had previously that he has to now break because he was nice? Are there new habits that he ordinarily would have hated? How did he feel in the moment, being that popular and in the top 10?

Xiao yueqing. Her whole arc. The way her death was handled. What do you mean here's a woman who was forcibly tied to a man and her letting herself become free was framed as a tragic moment because she got trapped on an island where she needed help? To make her regret leaving lin ling (a man) behind???

Cause when God eye happened, it rushed his arc and while cool and fitting his motivations revolved around xiao yueqing and he said he didn't feel like a hero when he reached top 10, I wanna know *what* made him not feel like it (i mean ig we sorta got that staring into the window moment, but it was such a small amount of time)

Like in general I thought the directon of his growth was good, i just wish there was more of an in between for maximum impact

The fact that she has to be saved by a man on the island. And then her death is treated solely as a shock for lin ling and his arc. Despite everything in her character being about being free, her death was for the sake of a man

Don't get me wrong i like lin ling & xiao yueqing's dynamic. In fact, I view them as growing close and as a qpr. (Aro xyq seems very fitting, though ofc that is an hc, and moonling was very apparent in the show)

E-soul arc

I dont have as many criticisms, but I also don't feel as strongly about this arc as I did with the nice arc

Xia qing seemed pretty... i dont wanna say passive but I do wish she served more of a role than just crush

That being said I'm actually satisfied with the way they ended things off with her

Pomelo didn't play like any role beyond the first ep, which was pretty disappointing, considering he was yang cheng's first supporter)

The actual e-soul fight was... idk. I don't think enough emotional impact was put into it until like the very end with the revelation of yang cheng's hesitation, but that's less about e-soul and the fight

Opening scene with e-soul and yang cheng, e-soul asks yang cheng for his name, which served zero relevance to their fight. What was the purpose in asking for his name, then, if nothing was going to come out of that?

One of the eps had a document that when translated stated what went down with zero (I think), and while I'm cool with hinting at events future or past lore through easter eggs, I don't think giving out an entire situation within an easter egg is good world building. It's a very inorganic way to go about it

Lucky cyan

They did noooot do enough with luo and his bad luck. I thought his bad luck would come into play for the finale, but it wasn't even mentioned iirc? Why did no one at the orphanage blame their literal bad luck kid for shit falling apart?

The media I get why they would, I imagine they don't even know luo. But the Dean???

Middle episode was very. Nothing of an episode. They should've actually added in a scene where cyan went back and she got told luo was dead cause leaving that implied was very. Weak of a writing decision. If just that scene was added in, I could forgive that middle episode to be a nothing transition-er

The Dean & cyan conflict was pretty anticlimactic from an emotional standpoint, the fight was sick though. Also same with cyan & luo ish, but the plane scene is vv good <3

Why does cyan continue to be a hero..? It kinda just feels all go with the flow for her. Entering dos because luo wanted to be a hero + she wanted to save him sure, but what drives her to be more than a singer beyond that..?

This one could still get addressed in the future

Queen arc

Beautiful first episode. Brilliant setup of its themes. Queen did feel more background in her own arc (esp compared to x) but fine. It's setup. Whatever I still loved it

What the fuck was the second episode

Look, the 8 minute queen and bowa fight was gorgeous. Stunning animation, camera work, usage of environment, everything

Why was there no emotion in that. We can't pretend to treat a stunning fight to be inherently equivalent to narrative payoff

Very sparse dialogue (at least with the e-soul fight, the lack of interaction is much more fitting), bowa throws a couple accusations and queen... doesn't respond much?

She says some stuff at the end of the fight that had literally no relevance like okay queen say some cool lines but what the hell are you on about

The moment in the first ep where bowa almost breaks through queen's rules (whether through bowa strength or queen being weak) should've had a second moment in this fight (bowa using loopholes was cool but what I'm suggesting works better from a narrative standpoint)

Why did we never go back to that moment

In fact that second moment should be bowa actually breaking through her rules

And then a third moment where queen finds her resolve

(Actually. Well I didn't time it but why did it take FOREVER for queen to issue her first command. More of the fight should center around her rules)

Cause while they did do bowa's backstory good to setup the effort vs talent idea, there's no reciprocation of it from queen's end. Does her fight prove hard work? I mean maybe vaguely but there's no internal character growth there

They don't have to become friends in the end, but they should've gained a better understanding of each other

0 addressing the blatant manipulation to pin women against each other. Or of the women in male dominated fields. Point is nothing set up from the first ep has payoff in the second. It's actually disappointing ep11 might be my fave ep, but ep12 feels like it spoils it

I feel like it would've been worth actually addressing that while queen is the symbol for women as heroes, she herself never brought up gender. But this one is more okay to leave implicit compared to others idk

While we can get more in the future (likely much of what i ask is tied to the childhood queen waves off), why does queen want to change the world? Even a hint would do. Or better yet—what was her plan if she did change it. Her speech while ambitious is actually really really vague with her plans

[lightlycareless]

warnings: hs au. slight fluff. like very tiny.

On things that happened to me that I just gotta warp with my delusions…

Imagine going with your family to a sunny place for the holidays; probably to beautiful Okinawa and its beaches or perhaps an international location—it doesn’t really matter.

All that matters is that you’re back with an obvious indicator of where you spent the holiday much to Gojo and Geto’s satisfaction, and your chagrin.

“Oh oh, looks like someone had a disagreement with the sun.” Satoru would say the moment you stepped into his view, your absolute nightmare becoming true—for the moment you saw yourself in the mirror and realized the consequences of your vacation, you knew they’d be no end to it.

Everyone would stare at you, point out the obvious, perhaps give you unsolicited advice on how to prevent it (you should’ve used sunblock, Y/N… I know!!) but all of those things you’d be able to tolerate.

Just not Satoru’s and Suguru’s relentless teasing.

“You didn’t wear sunblock on a beach holiday? That’s a rookie move, Y/N.” Suguru would say, making you clutch your books tighter, and your cheeks even brighter, frantically hoping the earth would just swallow you whole right then and there.

“It wasn’t intentional… it simply happened.” You say, but no number of excuses would free you of their grasp once deciding you were their next victim.

“Look, she’s getting even redder!” Satoru grins. “You look like a radioactive tomato now—”

“Leave me alone!” you gasp. “You’re not funny! None of you are!!”

And you’d try your best to disappear, from burying your face into your books, to going as far as considering skipping school altogether… you just couldn’t handle the mortification any longer!!

Until a certain someone persuaded you otherwise; of course, the only one capable of seeing beauty in what you solely consider imperfections.

“I want to be left alone, Sato—oh. Sorry.” You mutter, growing quiet and embarrassed upon seeing Naoya walk into your premises and how close he was to receive your ire. Your gaze then falls on the small, blue package he carries, a cooling towel, which he then hands over to you. “Hello, Naoya.”

“Here, take it—it’ll help you with… that.” He says.

“Oh, um… thank you.” You say, hesitant to take the towel because… well, it’s difficult to explain the relationship the two have. Probably because of his precedents of being an awful human being which once managed to shift your perception on him, mostly because you had the misfortune of experiencing such side.

However, it wasn’t always like that. When Naoya decided to be decent, he was quite… nice. Attentive even, down to the smallest details that reveal he’s not as disconnected as others claim. It makes you wonder if he’s ever shown this side with anyone else, probably at home with his siblings you suppose, which leads to another inquiry of his personal life.

Naoya, beyond the rumors that plague him, was a complete mystery to you.

Solely to you, of course. To everyone else his affection for you is nothing but clear—as well as his dislike for his family, and those that tease you.

In other words, only you get that amicable side of him.

“I know my face is burnt, you don’t have to stare…” you quietly add upon noticing his prolonged silence, making him blink, startled by your misconception.

“No, I wasn’t—I mean, I saw staring, but not because of…”

“It’s ok. In a few days it’ll be gone so you don’t have to look at it any longer.” You add, frustrated. Why does everyone appear to make a big deal out of this?

“Let me speak, will you? Now you’re just putting words in my mouth.” he says, you press your lips together, his words stinging. Guess you got the rude version of him today.

“I already have enough with Satoru and Suguru… if you don’t have anything nice to say, then maybe—”

“No, it’s—let me talk, will you?! I’m not here to make fun of you like them!”

“Then what are you here for…?”

Naoya swallows. It’s a hard moment for him, to be candid with the girl he likes when all that he’s known and done is make less of others.

But he wants to try, for you. More so after seeing you suffer by the incompetence of others. It’s not your fault that others don’t appreciate you like he does.

Can’t you see just how much you mean to him?

Thus, once in his life, he wants to do something nice, even if the means to get there had become less than desirable.

Better than nothing, some suppose.

“To—to say that you look cute like that, ok?? The—the color suits you.” He suddenly reveals, making your eyes widen, and your redness even deeper, though he didn’t get the delight of seeing such for he instinctively looks away while confessing. “Satoru and Suguru are idiots, they don’t know what they’re saying so just ignore them.”

“Oh, that—I…” you stammer, trying your best to comprehend what just happened. Did he just… compliment you? When have you ever heard Naoya compliment anyone?! Perhaps that one time he labeled Satoru as his sole, worthy rival.

But outside of that, Naoya is not known for sharing his consideration for others… or even comfort.

Is there… something going on much deeper than what you assumed? Far beyond his given mystery?

Most definitely so, but after your lengthy silence you’d have difficulty reaching any conclusion, for it was now Naoya’s turn to feel humiliated, and naturally, offended. Giving you the one version you were all to acquainted with.

“Fine, whatever. Just use that thing to keep cool, or don’t. I don’t really care.”

It’s a long, difficult road before the two eventually become the lovey-dovey couple everyone dreads to see around—but his intentions are genuine, and your feelings pure.

The two just need to be a bit more vulnerable with one another.

Or perhaps assertive is the right term.

[broodwoof]

Inquisition's "Bad Future" and its Relationship to Solas' POV

please do not add hate to this post, bring up the art book, or bring up the books/comics. thank you!

if you decide to recruit the mages to help seal the breach, then the inquisitor and dorian will be plunged into a "bad future", going forward a year

there is no way to proceed without "resetting" the timeline, without putting it back to the moment that they were flung into the future. but during the bad future, leliana says - accurately - that while dorian and the inquisitor see this almost as a bad dream, a thing to be undone, that it was real. their hurt was real. their joy was real. they existed in that year

and we as players are made complicit in erasing the entirety of that existence

this puts us in solas' position! this shows us his fundamental perspective!

he woke a year before the events of inquisiton, to a world that he, too, felt needed to be "reset". like the inquisitor and dorian, he saw the current state of the world as an intolerable deviation from what should be, and was willing to sacrifice people - as the inquisitor and dorian did - in order to put it back on the right path

granted, the world was in great peril in this bad future. the inquisition itself was destroyed. maybe many of those in southern ferelden would have welcomed the chance to have this all "undone"...

but what of those beyond? somewhere, a child was born in that year, and then erased. not killed, to be remembered, but fully erased from the course of history, made into something that never existed. somewhere in the world, someone did something that meant a great deal to them or to others in that year: again, that action was erased. they cannot be remembered, it cannot be remembered, it is gone

so, did the world need to be reset? i mean... that was probably the safest bet, if you want the world itself/the cultures as a whole/the people as a whole to have the best chance of survival

which, again, is kinda solas' thing. he's not out here just mercilessly killing for its own sake. he openly resents having to kill anybody, even enemies, although resenting it has certainly not stayed his hand

solas thought it would be necessary, which is something i've talked about before:

Solas and Veilfall: Why it Was Necessary... Until it Wasn't

Solas and Veilfall; Not a Hero, Not a Selfish Monster

"People are always dying. It is what they do." (contains an analysis of this bad future timeline as well!)

and what he was doing was necessary - perhaps not all of it (was tearing down the veil necessary or desired? it's unclear!) - but certainly dealing with the evanuris was necessary. even flemythal, who discouraged him from tearing down the veil, admitted that dealing with the "gods" was a necessary action. even the veilguard believe that what solas did in the time of arlathan was just and right

in the bad magic future, we are solas. we are waking to a world rendered horrible, a miserable experience compared to that which we knew. but, really, what all do we see? redcliffe castle. we hear about more, but it's just hearsay. in-game, it clearly doesn't take more than a day to erase that year in its entirety

what if the corruption was contained? what if there was an effort being mounted against it, one which might have been successful? what if all that remained of ferelden and orlais had joined forces? what if the dwarves had regained their ancestral magic somehow? what if spirits freely interacted with the world outside of this area of prime corruption?

hell, put all that aside: what if the corruption was false? what if everything we experience in that bad future was the work of a demon, or of alexius himself? what if having the inquisitor and dorian "undo" what he had done was his final effort to save felix? what if he created a horrific showpiece that presented a nightmare as reality and forced them to change it back?

is any of that likely? probably not! but the thing is: the inquisitor and dorian do not and cannot know

just as solas did not and could not know... in the beginning!

had his initial plan succeeded, he would have been as willing as the inquisitor and dorian to take that step. as confident that, even with the costs, it was right, it was just, it was necessary

i'm pretty sure more people do the mage route than the templar route. but whatever the analytics may say, certainly many people have done the mage route and have played through this entire narrative, up to and including erasing it and then continuing on with the game

and, narratively, it prepares us for solas' announcement. and it draws a comparison between the inquisitor and dorian and solas himself

and the thing is... the inquisitor and dorian remember that. as two individuals opposed to solas in some manner in canon, they also have to carry forward the knowledge that, in somewhat similar circumstances, they made the choice that solas tried to make. it is entirely likely that they bury this awareness, that they cover it, that they try to forget... but their actions remain, and the unknown cost remains, even though it has been erased

[loremonster]

Roy's insulin can be found if you search in the broken pipes around the rig, along with a case of darts that I choose to beleive belonged to Finlay, since she was the Dominant Player on the rig according to notes around accomodation in the base game and her offer to set up a board with a picture of Rennick to help Caz blow off steam.

The photo of the Boxer in Caz's room, whom we assumed was Of Caz, actually belonged to Brodie and seems to have been gifted to Caz. When its found, in perfect condition in Caz's room, the dialog is "Its you, but not in your room..." letting us know Brodie boxed in his youth, well enough to have a nice photo taken, and He Gave His Momentoes Away Readily To Help New People Feel At Home. That photo in Caz's room is symbolic of a frienship and mentorship Brodie extended to him, giving him the feeling of a Sea Dad.

Sea Dad is navy slang, often used when one sailor guides a recently posted fellow around base and helps them get settled. Brodie has Sea Dad energy from here to the deapths lol

If one is Obsessively Thorough, coral formations can be found of the infected that shows their bodies were Still Distinct Within The Shape. And that The Shape Itself Isn't The Only Thing Perserved In Rocky Corals-- the billows of smoke from the explosion and fire seem to have Frozen At Point Of Impact Into The Formations rather than Exploding Outwards. Despite Caz's actions, There Is No Evidence Upon The Dead Of An Explosion and Archie's is the only BURNT body.

The Shape would not tolorate its extensions being blasted into fine red mist, and instead Encased The Bodies In The Stone Of Its Own Corpse, suggesting the infected were not Disposable but treated by The Shape like its own limbs... and preserving the individual within the mass after death, their bodies appearing dessicated like they dried in the sun but Intact. Unburnt. Not blasted into pieces.

We never found Trotz cause he's the glowing mass beyond the ridge where the seabed drops off that runs the risk of being a mothlight in the final stretch of the game if one mistakes it for the bell's blue-white lights and swims in completely the wrong direction while Maihri is Actively Choking On Unbreathable Gasses In Her Suit. Time is taken with how hard he fought infection, and further effort is taken to show Trotz Is Part Of The Shape That Didn't Die. Like a seaslug, The Shape dropped its damaged mass and is curled up around some vital nuculus and healing from the explosion, and Trotz Is Part Of That Nuculus. He is still part of the Living Shape, while Mairhi only gets to see the dead clearly and one active entity in deep shadow and red flarelight

The EMPTY cassette tape case makes me think Addair only Knew how much trouble Caz was in during the base game because He Was Stealing Evidence To Cover His Own Ass. This may be why Rennick was Already Angry and his tirade included a complaint about theft; which means in Rennicks mind Addair and Caz are The Same Kind Of Person; a reminder that the poor are judged by the behavior of The Absolute Worst when looked at from above, and If You Don't Speak Up And Say You're Not With The Neonazi, You Will Be Assumed To Be Just Like Him; oppertunistic, dishonest, and selfish beyond all reason.

Finlay complains she cannot find her lighter, suggesting that asshat in the vents STOLE THE LIGHTER GIVEN TO HER AS A PRESENT REFERENCING SHE'S A MOTHER, probably for the bragging rights. Sounds like someone Addair would get along with x.x it also means Finlay was holding up under regular hererassment, theft, and possible damage to her personal belongings.

With Finlay's position on the deck, and the way suction works around sinking ships, its likely she got sucked into one of the pipes or empty containers while every unseal void filled with water. The water directly above a sinking wreck is ultra dangerous for that reason- suction from the wreck will pull you right in along with everything else as water rushes in to fill the space no longer held by sealed compartments and air. If a person was not in a closed room at time of sinking, their remains are likely deep in the rig's machinery as pipes burst open and flooded. In a way, the Biera Ate Their Momentos and their remains as she died.

SO MUCH LEGIT ENGINEERING STUFF AAAAAH sorry I love maritime engineering even when its a fictional rig

Figured I'd compile all the things I found/noticed/learned during my playthrough of Still Wakes The Deep Siren's Rest.

SPOILERS BELOW!

Innes wasn't Muirs deputy/supervisor. It was a man named Cor van der Bijl, who, from what I could tell, died uninfected.

Archies' body can be found, along with the helicopter. Not to far from it is a life boat, presumably the one Caz tried to use that fell.

Sunil was Hindu. He and his wife had matching idols. She still has hers.

The Shape mutated into coral underwater? Not sure what terminology to use.

Rennick was a grandpa to twins. He was meant to be off the rig caring for them that Christmas. Cadal had put him on notice due to underdelivery.

Scooby was eighteen, and his body can be found still holding the phone he used to talk to Caz.

Turns out women other than Finlay worked on the rig! One was a lawyer named Nicole. An empty cassette tape for a disciplinary meeting with Addair can be found in what was her office. You can also find a mug that may have belonged to her in a cabinet.

Roper can be found in Marine Control. The room is also upside down. His name was also John.

I personally was really hoping Mhairi would be Addairs daughter. Like a Mhairi growing up and knowing that, even though her dad was a pretty mean person, her dad still loved her. Brodie being her dad is great, and I do love it, though.

RIP to whoever it was that died with Finlays lighter.

I honestly have no clue as to what the monster is comprised of. It looks like it has human skulls or something embedded into it, but I'm half blind and it's hard to make shapes out when it's dark. I'd sure love to know who or what it was.

"To My Ewan" Diary: Exists

Muirinnes Shippers:

The scene of Mhairi turning and seeing all the crew workers standing behind her literally gave me chills, like they're all standing in solidarity together despite everything that led to their deaths. Another way to see it is that they were all ready to welcome Mhairi as the newest victim of Beira D. Phenomenal either way.

In all, one thing I really wanted to see was more mentions/mementos of the characters we knew of already. I didn't see one mention of my beloved Trots. There was barely a hint of Roy and I would've loved for Mhairi or Rob to mention Suze. Or at least say some of their names out loud. All that said, it feels like a worthy addition to the original game!

[vaguely-concerned]

I really really like that lucanis reaches the 'there must be some way through this' realization 'off camera', so to speak, while presumably looking at rook explaining the situation to spite. it just. hits right. he gets that moment to himself after 'this place is a nightmare, why would I want to stay here' to come back into focus, to gather himself and think it through in peace, outside of the demands of anyone’s gaze (including the player’s!), while rook takes care of spite’s confusion and urgency and distress as he can’t himself in this shattered state. they're inside his soul, but he still gets that moment of privacy, with rook and spite there and supporting but not intruding. idk there's just something so good and right-feeling about it. rook's presence in lucanis' mind at its most vulnerable and frozen could have felt SO invasive if the quest wasn't written as skillfully as it is, and I get skeeved out by that kind of thing incredibly easily so it's a testament to how well it's done that it always feels safe and supportive. lucanis has had both his bodily and psychological (slash spiritual/existential) integrity and autonomy violated so brutally and repeatedly, and having even the way the camera perceives him here grant him the dignity and respect and privacy of soul he hasn’t experienced in a long time… it’s a whole thing huh. No wonder it’s taken me a while to put it into words lol 

(also what a contrast to what solas and rook have got going on, and what a sly way to slide the point of comparison in there to build to the thematic whole. the solas version of this IS of course wildly invasive and skeeves me out but in the intended delighted horror movie way. solas, too, was let into someone’s soul through the cracks in the wake of a traumatic event, and he IMMEDIATELY sought to turn it to his own benefit and use that trauma as a weapon against them fhdsja I’m sorry but it’s just such a character-revealing instinct for him to act on without hesitation and I love how terrible he is, it’s all so unforgivably premeditated and consistent.

rook acting out of the desire to make sure lucanis is ok vs. solas going ‘well. When life gives you oops killed my friend, make dead friend poisoned lemonade and make his loved ones drink it. this sunk cost fallacy isn’t going to perpetuate itself’ is such a neat contrast and it’s not in your face about it but it’s still there, deep and solid down in the thematic narrative. rook doesn’t do anything to or in lucanis’ mind, really — they negotiate their way through the layers of defense and are let through, and they help him make the whole thing more explicable, but they never exert any force or go rooting around for anything that doesn’t present itself to them first. solas goes about gathering ammo for when he's going to nothing personel kid this person from like the first moment fhdskh doesn't waste a second before he's on that gaslight gatekeep girlboss grind. the fact that the game goes out of its way to show there IS a respectful, non-selfish and kind version of this process makes what solas is doing even more deliciously awful (glee) and rook and lucanis’ relationship (platonic, romantic, whatever it might be in any given playthrough) all the more moving to me)

[dxxtruction]

Not to psychoanalyze (Yes, to do that), but given Armand's history, his only preconception of what love is, is to view it through pure desire. Love - and more broadly accurate, his life purpose for like half a millenia - as only he's ever known it, has only been experienced through transactional wish-fulfillment fantasies, of which he was the one typically sought after to complete such an exchange. And so naturally, in his own seeking, he replicates it. Though to some degree he also replicates the fantastical existence of fictional romances to compensate.

This lack of true experience of love without desire or fantasy, making his always unfilled 'objet petit a' - his object of desire - (a partner he desires a particular love from but does not receive to his fulfillment) - the catalyst for believing there is no other form of love to be had. That he can simply love the person, and be altruistic to their personhood, without them filling a role or desire for him, just would never occur. He's egotistical and overly pragmatic towards others by the fault of formative experiences denying him his own personhood. In being groomed into the object of desire, he no longer sees anyone else but as such. It's equal parts lack of self-awareness, meaning he simply has no way to counter-reflect upon himself the way one should behave, and developed coping mechanism, either consciously or unconsciously, taking on the role of those who inflicted upon him their desires to gain a sense of control over it.

In never escaping this cycle of love as desire, he always denies himself his full person, and simultaneously denies the personhood of others.

[radioiaci]

"If cooking in tandem is something that interests you, I've no reason to not offer. One of my favorite places to be is in the kitchen, after all. A fine meal to craft with fine cutlery and fine ingredients is as zen as any meditative isolation, I find. As long as there are no spectators that disrespect the sanctity of the practice is all."

And if Lucifer is cooking, he will not be spectating. Nothing to worry about in that case.

"But if you are to have me try anything with that amount of sugar in the future, I think I will pass." Sour, even, is more palatable. Sour, spicy, salty... All things he can manage. Sweet is just too... much.

But for now, Alastor returns back to his own coffee, listening silently with interest as the devil goes into his usual yammering session, though he will admit that the topic is of interest. Without thinking too hard about it, his gaze travels upwards, though it's only met with the ceiling of his room rather than anything else - he can't see Heaven from here. But he can imagine what it might be like. Charlie's tellings of it had painted something of a picture, but not enough for him to really form a proper image in his mind. Lucifer's own descriptions help to build upon it, though at the mention of snubbing, the radio demon gives a slightly amused chuff in response.

"How nice. I imagine that's changed since then?" Eyebrows raised, it's an obvious answer. But he will take satisfaction in hearing it from the horse's mouth, as it were.

Back to the topic of food, Alastor silences once again to listen, head tilting at the mention of eating lava and wondering what that might possibly taste like if he were at all capable of it. Mysteries that will go unsolved. But the lack of eating meat is nothing that surprises him entirely. That requires killing - something he does not think angels might do without some other significant purpose, if at all.

"You made orchids?" He hones in on, finding some surprise in that. Maybe he shouldn't. Angels, of course, are mostly beings of some kind of creation. It makes sense that all things on Earth may have some sort of heavenly origin.

Extending a hand of his own - the one not holding the cup from which he sips - he begins to manifest a similar looking flower in his palm, forming from shadow and taking on a form that is somewhat recognizeable. But the colors are all wrong - not a soft pink or red or purple - but instead it is a near neon blue, the tips of its petals dark and tinged purple.

"I could never really capture the likeness of flowers very well. There are not many of them in the bayou." Or any beyond an occasional cattail. Ferns, grasses, and moss are much easier. "Demons, unfortunately, are not as gifted for creation. But I imagine you know that." His palm shuts in curled claws and the flower vanishes in a few wisps of shadow. "And I do not think it's something that can be practiced."

Alastor sighs, somewhat wistful.

"If I had the capacity to make spider lilies, that might be all I would make."

“Oh, are you volunteering to cook together some time so that I might see first hand?” Raised eyebrows for that, not entirely sure he interpreted that right, but game to try, at least. If only to use it as an opportunity to get to know the other man better. Nothing like food to bring people together, and he’s noticed that Alastor always seemed much more agreeable after he’s gotten something in his stomach to eat.

It’s his turn to laugh now, dimples flashing as he eases back into his chair, watching the other man carefully accept the drink to himself. Lucifer’s kind enough to wait until the other man has had his sip, delighted by the look on the poor bastard’s face. He doesn’t cackle, but his shoulders are suspiciously shaking as he takes a point gulp of his coffee right away. Death would be too merciful after a sugary punch to the face like that.

“I’m now very tempted for you to try morsels of other dishes I make on the more extreme ends of the flavor spectrum I try when I want to feel alive for the rest of the day.”

Just the thought of Alastor trying a citrus sorbet, and seeing the man’s face twist up from the sheer sour flavor was worth any attempt to have him agree.

“To answer your question, ‘food’ as you would define it came after Eden’s creation and was more of a… curiosity. The first angels such as myself don’t expressly need to eat. Don’t even have the guts for it really, just something a person could classify as a stomach, or a strong gizzard, and that’s that. Etheral juice might have been closer than you think for the really early days. Clouds and rain, sunshine, divine grace, a fresh breeze, that sustained us. Offering drink is more appropriate, and often was as symbolic as preening another’s wings in terms of closeness or establishing bonds.”

Lucifer gestured to their teacups and offered a rueful smile. “Part of my... disinclination to sharing a drink with you, other than not wanting to partake in alcohol, was my way of snubbing you. It was already rude on just the face of it, but culturally for me, I was drawing a distinct line in wanting nothing to do with you.”

It had felt too big a risk, and it was gratifying to deny something that appeared so small to the other man, unaware of the significance.

“A-Ahem, mm, on a lighter note, however, yes, there are foods that are likely familiar to you, though prepared differently. Humans were always particularly clever with reinventing the culinary wheel. Aromatic meals were popular, mainly fruits and vegitation, or animal byproduct such as honey or milk. Flowers. Crystals were popular with some angels with a stronger jaw. There was one that quite fancied lava, molten or hardened; they later made it popular to strike sand with lightening and share the results of that as a fanciful treat with those that had gizzards."

A thought seemed to occur in concerns to present cannibalistic company, so he adds;

"Eating meat was not done in respect to Gabriel, the Garden’s Keeper. That had been his Gift and his efforts, not to mention ‘death’ was not a concept widely known or understood at that point.”

The fallen was staring fondly off into the bayou, gaze somewhat unfocused as his eyes followed the path of a few scattered fireflies. Recalling eons ago, time long past and gone, forgotten by many. “Though, I had been an exception since I worked with him there for a time and understood his love for the place in a way few others did. We made such wonderous things there, all manner of life by encouraging it to grow and change, evolve into some splendid and new. When I first made orchids, I was so proud to show him and the look he gave me back then… Well, suffice to say we had fun teasing the flowers to gain all manner of configuration and color…”

If Alastor had any questions he might seek in finding out more of the early days of creation, now was as good of a time as any while Lucifer appeared to be in the sharing mood and reminiscing.