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thelastofhyde · 1 year

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i. the likeability paradox.

pairing. joel miller x fem!reader

synopsis. joel miller is not a man who strives to be liked, with a chip on his shoulder and a scowl on his face, until his world is flipped on its axis when the pretty young thing living under bill and frank's roof, with an irritatingly unwavering smile and the literal sun shinning out her ass, says those five damned words: i don't like you, joel.

warnings. no use of y/n, enemies to lovers, slow burn ( i have several oneshots planned for this couple ), unrequited love ( except you will never catch joel miller admitting he feels anything beyond grief, hunger and exhaustion ), pining, poor communication no communication, no seriously joel is down bad it's actually disgusting and highkey 🚩toxic🚩 but luckily red is your favourite colour, sunshine!reader, grumpy!joel aka canon joel, kinda perv!joel ( if you squint ), implied queer!tess, undefined age gap ( reader implied late-20s ), descriptions of canon-typical violence, smut ( oral- f receiving, fingering, degradation, panty stealing, hair pulling, dirty talk, dubcon due to intoxication, joel kinda gives her a wedgie at some point and honestly i don’t know what i was hoping to achieve with that, discussions of a lacklustre sex-life pre-apocalypse ). reader is a) hinted at being shorter than joel but it’s not central to the plot and b) described as lithe but the meaning intended is graceful, not thin!

word count. 12.9k

hyde’s input. half-way through, the regret of choosing to write this from joel's pov started to settle in but lmao i was too far in to not commit to the bit. don't come at me for the fact the timeline or events may not seem plausible with canon, i just wanna write this silly little depraved fic about joel in peace :( anyway, enjoy my first attempt at writing for tlou, forming a prayer circle rn in hopes that this doesn't flop because i will cry and you will hear about it

taglist. @kayleezra @newavenger + add yourself to the taglist here !

read on ao3 ! ( capitalization available )

distaste is not new in the life of joel miller.

in particular, one that is loaded, aimed and fired directly at him. he is not a likeable guy, often by choice and rarely by accident. the years of pain from a bleeding wound have now scarred over into nothing but an empty shell of the man that once was, from a world that no longer is, and he’s tried little to fill himself back up.

if anything, he’s made himself more empty.

rid himself of feelings, that which saves him the weakness of appearing sympathetic. discarded the need for luxuries, for which he’d scarcely cared for prior to his world ending. lay to rest what was left of the optimist inside him, leaving behind the danger of hope for it to rot with the rest of the infected.

an apocalyptic world brings out all sides of man that one would never dare to engage with in normal civilisation. joel learned swiftly that he was built to endure, quick to evolve and adapt to the new world order. the man who once worked his hardest to keep the peace among his neighbours, smiling that little bit wider on days he’d catch them scowling to themselves in hopes of brightening one part of their day for even a simple moment, would be at odds with the man who wears a heavy layer of enjoyment when met with the scowling glances and the hushed voices, all the watch out for that miller guys passed between cowardly members of fedra and the keep away from mr. miller's lawns spoken harshly from mother to child becoming music to his failing ears.

this plague of fear-driven dislike keeps him alone, how he likes to be, no one to lose and nothing to be taken. somewhere along the years the idea of safety in numbers has morphed into an illusion, something people say and never truly mean, to distract themselves from a reality more bitter than a snowstorm: in times of survival, people become dead-weight.

“so that’s all i am to ya, huh? dead-fucking-weight?” his brother’s voice still echoes in that damned space he calls a home, weeks or months or years since the day he’d departed for something else, somewhere else, leaving joel to do what joel does best: endure.

somehow, silence was easier than telling the man he’d taught to tie a shoelace, to shave his beard, to tune a guitar that he was the dead-weight, doomed to drag all those who remained too close down into his pit of despair.

she was an exception, his tess, buried 5-feet-under in her own swell of darkness, nothing but the tips of her fingers stretched out above her head to feel the sun upon her skin and keep her from going that last foot deeper. they’d made a home for themselves in one another, one where he keeps them fed, and she keeps them safe, and neither of them keeps the place clean.

she never asks for more, and he never offers it, both content to survive without the weight of affection smothering them. contrary to the belief of any misfortunate soul who’s encountered the pair within the quarantine zone, she is the one who holds the leash, tugging joel along close by her heel and keeping him from wandering off into the wild to surrender himself to a feral lifestyle.

which lands him here, sat at a table playing happy family, each time he dares to snark out a few words being met with the sharp kick of tess’ foot against his shin.

“... and then,” frank struggles over a cough, so excited in his story-telling that he fails to separate taking a breath from taking a sip of his wine. with a roll of eyes and a disapproving grunt, bill’s no more than two seconds away from clapping down on his back, urging the other man’s wind-pipes to unblock and welcome back airflow. “otis dragged his muddied self over the whole house. we were finding paw-prints for days!”

joel’s unamused, too keen to think of what a nuisance that would be. as if incapable of feeling the buzzing energy of disinterest, the german shepherd drops its head further up his lap, begging for a morsel of anything that sits atop the table.

“which means i was cleaning paw-prints for days.” bill, the only one at the table besides himself who wears the looks of a cynic, grumbles out before shovelling what remains on his plate into his mouth.

frank is quick to shush him.

“i’m sorry, again, bill,” he doesn’t mean to break eye-contact from the mutt at his thigh, but the voice calls to him like a siren calls to a ship in the night, like a flame dances and seduces a moth into its brightly burning touch of death, a spotlight in the dark which promises- or threatens- more light to come. “i’d no clue there was a storm coming till we were already a good few miles away, and there was nowhere to take cover to wait it out.”

there you sit, parallel to him.

the sun rests lower in the sky as time carries you all into the late noon, its rays a beacon of light bursting out just behind your head, painting you in the glow of the golden hour and staining a mockery of a halo above you. it hurts his eyes, this brightness that you so easily bask in, forcing him to squint and deepen the frown on his face.

you catch him with his sights on you, at some point, and the smile you meet his scowl with has him cursing at the sun, and the moon, and every star that sits between.

the threat of a great war looms in the air as you rush to rise up and help clear the table of the remnants left behind- none of which joel can account for, mouth to keen and body too starved to skip out on enjoying the mundane luxury of a fresh, home-cooked meal. the battle ends swiftly as you surrender to bill’s hardened stare, and frank’s disapproving head-shakes, and tess’ own plan of action to simply force you down back into the seat you’d been sat in- the one you always sit in.

“you, sit. no one should have to clean up the food they made.”

they get no fight out of him when they insist he’d done enough catching the so-called food.

silence casts its shadow over the table, dampening the light and painting you both in a mockery of greyed tones- truthfully, it is the disappearance of the sun hind a large cloud that causes such a thing.

being alone, with you, is something joel’s never mastered. the affliction of your presence is so much greater when there’s no one else to balance out your natural shine- the kind that has his head spinning and his cock aching-, no one but him.

were he not a sick bastard, he’d try harder to not make you sad.

something bumps his hands, ripping him out of his moral self-condemnation. the dog meets his gaze, eyes a widened mess of puppy-dog pleading that punctuates its existence with an impatient whine.

just like your owner, he finds himself thinking and not saying- never saying-, yet to find your bark.

the ball’s a sticky mess of slobber and dirt, and joel touches it all the same, throwing it up in the air once, then twice, before tossing it across the yard. he’s slumped back in his chair by the time he registers the dog’s departure, a ball of dark fluff bouncing its way across the garden, and all the man can think is fuck, he’ll be feeling the effect of that throw on his shoulder come the morning.

the pain is not enough to stop him from tossing the ball again, and once more, and then yet again, sending the dog in a never ending loop of chase, grab, retrieve- a parallel to his life of wake, survive, sleep.

“he likes you,” you never leave things the way he wishes them to be, bursting his bubble with the vocal reminder of your presence.

as if on queue, prompted by your addressing of it, the dog drops its interest in joel, and the ball, and the chasing, tail wagging uncontrollably by the time it reaches your side. standing on its hind legs, it collapses the front of itself into your waiting lap, and joel watches how you wrap your arms so easily around something that could cause you harm.

to envy a creature that licks it own shit off its ass is a new low for joel.

“thinkin’ he might like ya more, sol.” the nickname rolls off his tongue with ease, the safer option than uttering your name, a vice and virtue he’s only permitted himself in idealistic fantasies that play out in his own troubled thoughts.

“most people do,” whether you mean to make it seem like you’re degrading his very existence or not, he’s unsure, but it rouses a chuckle out of him.

he takes note of how you don’t protest the name he’s branded you with, not like how you’d fought tooth and nail against it every other visit he and tess have made.

“you’ve got a whole load in common, you know? i think that’s got something to do with his fascination-”

“how the hell’s a man like me got somethin’ in common with a four-legged mutt?” there he goes again, making that smile slip down your cheeks with a simple use of his voice. it helps as much as it hurts, frown loosening up and eyes no longer strained beneath the bright shine of your visceral optimism.

“well, you’re both... hairy,” he restrains himself from reacting, washing down a laugh with the help of the dregs of wine that lay collecting at the bottom of his glass. he’s let his appearance grow more rugged over the past few months and your noticing of this brings an unwanted warmth to his aching bones. “and have the most kickass women in your lives to stop you from dying.”

he’s interested to know what life would be like under your protection.

discovering the answer brings the threat of pain, and loss, and an openness to vulnerability he can not afford himself, so he takes the safer option: “‘s easy stayin’ safe when you live in this fantasy land. doubt your mutt’d last any longer than a day out in reality.”

with you as its protector.

he doesn’t say it and, still, it somehow hovers in the space between you both, a heavy, syrupy implication that slips down your throats and threatens to suffocate you. he watches you choke on it, coughing on his cruelty and feigning it to be a simple clearing of your throat. your eyes glue themselves on the dog, delicate fingers smoothing over the well-groomed hairs down its back.

survival has turned him into a man who knows when to seize an opportunity, and this is one he takes with both hands, basking in the simplicity of staring, watching, observing you without the crime of being caught.

but i could keep you safe.

he toys with the danger of uttering such a thing aloud. it’s not the first time he’s thought it. truthfully, he’s unsure when it first nestled its way into his mind.

his memory, which ails him more than it aids him these past years, would have him believe it was way before the dog had even appeared, back when it was just bill, frank and you. a few whiskeys in and a campfire lit for you all to gather for warmth around- why you’d all chosen to sit out in the gardens on a winter’s night joel remains unsure of to this day-, it was frank who’d prompted the question. “where were you all when... this started?” tess went first, braver than most people he knows, sharing stories of a version of herself he’ll never meet.

he never imagined her working in a bank.

bill, with reluctance, took the next step, keeping his account factual and to the point. “was shit-faced drunk and getting my stomach pumped.” he’d been quick to skim over the story of the young nurse who’d guided him to safety out the hospital, losing her own life in exchange for his survival. she was barely out of school. “i knew her dad, bit of an asshole, but boy, was he proud of his baby for graduating.” frank couldn’t let him swim too deep in his thoughts, afraid a current of guilt would trap him and drown him in the depths of it, and so he raised his own voice and began his tale.

joel had always been a good listener. being a single parent to a teenage girl required him to be, or so... she would have had him believe, nights at the table set for two spent listening to the playground he-said-she-said gossip. years later and he at last prefers things this way, a rare gem of safety found in the act of saying nothing and hearing everything- that his hearing will allow. all this to say, he’d tried his best to pay attention to frank’s impassioned retelling of his heroic misadventures that had lead him to the unintentional arms of bill.

but you weren’t smiling.

he watched you, you watched the dancing flames, face stoic and drained of that natural shine his eyes had only just started to be able to gaze upon without the threat of being blinded by such light.

the desire crept up on him like a tiger to it’s prey, hiding in the far off bushes until the opportunity to strike presented itself and the feeling lunged for joel’s back, gripping him in its claws and piercing his ribcage with its gnashing teeth. with each bite, it plagued him with the delusions of a wandering mind, imagination left free to run laps around his head with visions of you from another life, another time, another set of people gathered round a dining table. he’d wanted to hear about the ones you’d lost, and comfort you with all the things he hated hearing (“you’ll keep ‘em alive, in spirit and memory!” “those we remember never truly die!”). he’d needed to bend a knee and swear a vow to be the one to stand between you and death, to fight for your survival on your behalf. ‘could keep you safe. there, then, the thought did cross his mind.

he’d washed it down with a swig of lukewarm, flat beer.

“-could fix it, you know. i’m good with my hands.”

he almost chokes on his own breath.

i'm good with my hands, it swims in circles round his mind, replaying and echoing off the walls of his skull. and he knows- oh, how he knows- that he’ll be replaying it in those moments of solitude for the next few nights, weeks, months- however long it may take till he forgets the way such thought-provoking words sound on your lips.

“what?” the question leaves him harsher than he intends, drawing an enemy line between you both with the foul sound of it. in the corner of his eye, he swears he sees you flinch backwards, physically recoiling from the disdain-filled bullet he fires in your direction.

the mutt in your lap retreats, hackles rising as it turns to face joel once more.

he sees it, in the dog’s brutal protectiveness over you, this similarity you claim exists.

“your watch, it’s broken.”

“hadn’t noticed,” he’s retreating into his own space now, mentally and physically, scraping the legs of his chair against the ground as his mind works to strengthen those walls that threaten to crumble so often in your presence. “don’t need ya to fix it.”

you pull a face, brows furrowing and lips pouting. confusion.

“don’t you want to know the time?” you ask, as if time could ever be relevant in a rotten world where down is up, and up is down, and joel miller is not the overprotective father to the most delicate creature the god he’d stopped believing in had gifted him, just to force him to watch as life snatched her away.

“i don’t keep it for the time.”

you smile, and this one’s a killer, piercing straight through the cages of his ribs to carve itself into his withered heart.

the german shepherd relaxes with the rebrightening of your aura, shaking out the tension from its body before sauntering its way back over to joel, ball in mouth and tail wagging excitedly, as if it hadn’t just contemplated having its first taste of human flesh.

he’s throwing the toy in a matter of minutes, enjoying the repeated run and retrieve game, and the renewed silence that comes along with it. nature sings its tune with rustling leaves, cawing crows, and pounding paws. it’s almost so easy to leave your offer, your words, his broken watch in the rearview mirror of this otherwise pleasant afterno-

“ooh, so there’s a story to tell!” you’re blinding him with your excitement, lithe limbs leaning forward in your own chair in an attempt to reach closer, table between you be damned. “i’ve never heard any of the joel miller backstory, this should be-”

“i get that likin’ everyone is your thing, but would’ya give it a rest?”

nature falls silent.

skies grow dull.

you juggle sadness.

there’s a crash that comes from within the house, followed by the unmistakable sound of tess’ sailor mouth, cursing whichever delicate dish she’s broken into smithereens with the help of her accident prone hands. the dog’s lain itself down upon the grass, ball between it’s paws as it begins to bite, and chew, and break it under the pressure of its canines.

joel wonders what the mutt’s practicing for.

“sure,” then, with the return of your voice, all sounds resume, harmony upon planet earth once more. only, the gates have been shut in his face and joel finds himself forced to watch as everything unfolds from the outside, an unwelcome visitor forced out into exile with the fungal freaks and the inhumane. “but you’re wrong. i don’t like everyone.”

“‘s that so.” his eyes roll. the hole he’s dug for himself sinks deeper, casting you higher up on the pedestal joel will always be wiling to place you on.

“yeah,” you’ve risen out your chair, gifting him the view of how the fabric of your dress dances above your knee, a final twist of the knife in his heart that he lets you pierce his flesh with each time he surrenders himself to your existence. “i don’t like you, joel.”

the hours come and go, but your words linger like a bad tattoo, shamefully engraved into his skin and banning him to a life of noticing the horrendous thing each time he passes by his own reflection.

we’re staying, for tonight. tess had called the shots, and he’s been learning not to argue when she gives him one of her stern looks, biting down on the comments he’d wanted to make of the dangers of being out of the qz for too long, which would likely earn him nothing but a shrug and the reminder that they both were off duty the following day

the nights are beginning to grow darker as winter grows nearer, leading bill and frank- mostly frank- to excuse themselves to bed, bidding the two visitors with a final reminder to make themselves comfortable in whichever room they can find. if only joel could remember which door leads to yours.

the two women in his life remain awakened, passing a bottle of wine between each other as you both converse back and forth, catching each other up on one another’s life, satiating that craving for mundane gossip.

tess recounts the scandal of the poor boy who’d been caught sleeping with a fedra agent’s wife, you whisper that frank and bill had been fighting again recently. the memory of being ambushed by raiders- now dead raiders- comes to life once more with the help of tess’ voice, while the promise to uncover what exactly bill and frank were hiding from you as of late is sealed in your words.

at some point, he lays himself to rest atop the couch, legs stretched out and arms crossed over his chest, ignoring the squeeze of the fabric over his forearms as the too-small flannel struggles to contain the muscles forged by the need to survive. at another point, he’s lulled to sleep by the lullaby of your mingling voices, a safety blanket draping itself over his tired body and enveloping him in the comforts of having that which he struggles to care so little for, so near him once more.

-n’t tell me you’re a virgin.

the words are muffled as the man slips back into consciousness, a frown coming to rest on his forehead as he battles against the demons urging him awake, the nightmarish memories of car crashes, and soldiers, and so much red chasing him away from the sleep he longs for so badly.

a protest rings true in his head and his ears.

was gonna say. knew you were young, but not that young.

it’s the sound of your laughter that awakens him fully, saving him from the tortures of his own mind.

“god, no! me and my ex, we... a few times. it was alright, i guess. i just, yeah, there’s not much to miss.”

he’s unwilling, unable to reopen his eyes, curling in on himself as he rolls over onto his side. a groan slips past his lips, one he’s hoping tess and you will dismiss as nothing more than the sleep-filled rambles of a dreaming man.

neither of you make any acknowledgement of him.

“not much to miss?! sweet christ, you’re breaking my fuckin’ heart.” he’s learnt over time the common traits of a drunken tess. each word becoming an exclamation, curses becoming more frequent, and that irritating habit she’s picked up of imitating his own accent. there’s no need to bother opening his eyes, joel’s already sure he’ll find his companion with flushed cheeks and glassy eyes. “i’d give up a hand for some head!”

you must do something, pull a face or shake your head, for the sound of tess’ renewed shock fills the room. he wonders, as the sound bounces off the walls, how late into the night it’s grown.

late enough that the cicadas singing outside the window are now accompanied by the hoots of an owl.

“you’ve got to be shittin’ me.”

“it bores me!”

“it bores you!?”

the couch beneath joel creaks as he shifts once more, turning his back on you both as the ability to contain his laughter grows harder with each word you exchange and each gasp tess gives. the last thing he needs is to be caught eavesdropping on your sex life like some dirty old pervert.

the crueler part of his mind replays your voice, i don’t like you, and the knife twists in his guts this time.

you like tess. love her, even. it’s been that way since the first time you’d met the duo, eyes giving one look over the woman before the smile on your face grew even wider, voice as sweet as honey sighing out finally someone with a pair of boobs, i’m bored of the sight of my own. joel’d gotten caught up in the thought of how he’d never tire of such a sight that he’d failed to acknowledge your greeting towards him, catching just the moment you drew your outstretched hand back to your side and offered him an understanding smile.

maybe that was the moment you decided you didn’t like him.

“must not have been doin’ ya right,” the bottle of southern comfort is working its wonders on the older woman, accent growing further and further from its true nature with each glass she nurses. joel hears the faint sound of ice smacking against glass and knows it must be yours. you’ve always struggled with liquors, slipping as many ice cubes as you can manage into a glass in hopes that they’ll eventually melt and water the alcohol down. it’s oddly endearing, you think no one has noticed. “this fella of yours.”

joel has no right to despise the idea of you and some fella.

he does so, regardless.

“well,” he imagines the shape of your meek smile and the way you shrug your shoulders. “we were each others firsts.”

“that’s no excuse! trust i left mine cryin’ into her pillow the first time i went down.” tess and he have a silent agreement to never speak of the nights joel would take refuge on their beaten-up couch while tess indulges herself between someone’s thighs in the bedroom. no discussing the sounds she pulls from her concubines, no addressing the wet patches left behind to stain their shared sheets, and definitely no speaking on how his hand winds up stained in his own cum.

you scoff and follow it up with a saccharine laced giggle, so sweet its bound to rot your teeth if you even attempt to hold it in. “what, are you offering your services?”

this he likes less than the image of you with some fella, the thought of having to lay upon a mattress on which tess had raised you to heaven while he once again remained locked out in the dark leaving his skin crawling with unwarranted rage.

“‘as sure as i am that you’re sweet all over, ‘fraid to tell you i like my women a little older than you.”

he knows he should do the same, should lust after those women his own age who shoot him carnal looks in the streets of the qz. it should be skin his own age that he longs to taste, and eyes who’ve seen as much as his own he wants to stare into, and lips as cruel as the ones he owns that he fights off the urges to kiss. but he can’t, and he won’t.

and you’re the one to blame.

you, with the glow of a thousand suns. you, with the hands that tend to flowers instead of corpses. you, with the gentle nature he’d have to spend the rest of his days fighting off every other living thing just to protect.

his own self being the first he’d need fight.

joel wonders what he’d missed in his hours- if it had even been so long- of rest, how the playground gossiping dissipated into reminiscing the pleasures of supple flesh and the sins of unfulfilling lovers. sleep steals him away once more before he can find the answers.

the next time he awakens, he’s drowning in a plight of cruel memories, a cold and brutal ocean of faces, places, and traces of the ephemeral sentiment of happiness he’d possessed once upon a time, back when the price of letting one’s guard down was not so high.

he’s learnt, with time, that losing her comes in waves. some small, meaningless little things, that ripple joel’s surface and coast gently over his dirt ridden skin. others, tsunamis. big, angry, all imposing. they’re born in ground-shaking explosions of grief, building speed, and height, and weight the closer they grow to crashing over him.

amidst the passing of time, he’s tried to keep himself busy in his awakened hours, to keep his mind occupied and avoid thinking about her too much. but the waves always come back, no matter how hard he tries to fight them or swim away from them. they catch him off guard, crashing over him when he least expects it. in the middle of a raid, lost in thought and standing ten inches deep in grime, blood, infected, and suddenly the weight of her absence will hit him like a ton of bricks.

the currents grow more violent whenever he closes his eyes.

this evening, it had been a minuscule wave, yet it’s damage still leaves him with sweat slicked skin. he reenters the land of the living choking on his own fear and shooting up-right, hardly registering his surroundings till his feet hit solid ground. the gentle, barely-there croon of a sinatra record punctuates the room alongside the dim glow of a lightbulb which flickers with the threat of expiring and leaving naught but the moonlight to wash over the dark of the night. across from him is tess, nursing a half-emptied cup against her chest and wearing tired eyes. snoring comes from below him, where joel finds he’s a mere foot away from having stepped upon the sleeping dog, curled in on itself and laying soundly by his side.

you take up no space of this room.

neither the dog nor the drunk pay him any mind as he pushes up onto his creaking knees, stretching out his limbs in a fight to undo the tension in his aching bod. languid steps carry him out into the hall, where he freezes under the self-questioning of where he’s going.

there are three answer to this: where he should, where he could, and where he would.

he should find himself a bedroom, perhaps be ostentatious enough to rid himself of those stale clothes and let the warmth of running water wash away the sins he’d committed throughout the day. a good night’s sleep, atop a mattress where springs do not dig into his back and the sheets are clean as could be, it would do him good.

he could head towards the kitchen, quench that thirst that he’s awoken with, cottonmouth and a headache to go with it too. perhaps he’ll find himself something to eat, indulge in the luxury of readily available food just this once, he’s sure frank wouldn’t mind. bill definitely would, but that’s not something he’ll need care about when he’s miles out and heading back to the qz.

he would try find you, open whichever door it is that leads into the haven that must be your bedroom. he imagines its clean, and organised, and smells of some syrupy lavender that is bound to nauseate him as he smothers his face into your bedsheets, eyes shut, and mind relaxed, the threat of those violent waves no concern to him as he anchors himself with an arm around your warm skin. skin he’s never felt, yet he stands firm in his belief it must be the most soothing thing to touch, as gentle and inviting as the heart it keeps safe within it.

i don’t like you, joel.

those words stop him from trying.

he tells himself it’s for the best.

with a mind of their own, his legs have made the choice for him and deliver him outside the opening to the kitchen. he swallows down a gulp of his own saliva at the prospect of a glass of water. the door’s already half-opened, and joel nearly thanks christ for it as the fear of waking anyone with the squeaking of the handle is eliminated. the darkness of the night encompasses the room, even with the moon’s shine reflecting off every surface it touches: the counters, the knife stand, the metal drawer handles, the refrigerator.

the refrigerator.

it’s open, a blue light shining out of it and illuminating anything it its proximity. a subtle beeping noise rings from it, and suddenly joel’s back in his thirties, dead-beat yet well-intentioned brother stealing the food off his own plate as he beckons his pre-teen daughter back into the kitchen.

keep leavin’ this open and it’s a job you’ll be gettin’ this summer, not a dog.

she never lived long enough to get either.

he catches something move beneath the artificial light. cautious at first, it’s all the more startling to find the object of his ire and the embodiment of his desire stood leaning back against the countertop, a glass full of orange liquid pressed to a mouth that parts and welcomes in the sugary sweet delight.

“why aren’t ya sleepin’?” the words rasp out his throat, catching and scratching on the parts of him that still yearn for something to wet his tongue with.

beneath the light, you shrug, “could ask you the same thing, texas.”

he curses tess for teaching you such a nickname.

he curses himself more for the way you saying it twists up his insides.

you’re teasing him, smile a little looser and eyes less focused than he’s used to seeing. whether you’re tipsy or simply delirious with exhaustion, joel remains unaware.

he grunts, daring to take a few steps further into the kitchen. the door behind him closes over and give the illusion of the space becoming smaller, tighter, more compact.

“i asked first.” you laugh, at him. full on chest-rumbling, hand over your belly, head thrown back- so abruptly it nearly crashes against the corner of the opened cabinet door. the corner of his mouth is curling upwards before he can catch himself. he hopes the refrigerator light shows less of him than it shows of you, bare legs, and messed hair, and pointed nipples all on display for his undeserving eyes. “‘s so funny, huh?”

“nothing, nothing,” he successfully fights off the urge to follow the drop of orange juice that spills down the side of your mouth, over your chin, down your neck, disappearing beneath the collar of your dress. perhaps he is not as successful as he believes. “just never heard the joel miller say something so childish. you’ve usually got your panties all in a bunch if someone so much as looks at you for too long.”

you make way as he inches closer, sliding yourself over to rest against the island counter. a fragrance of things he can’t quite pinpoint, but enjoys nonetheless, wafts in his face as he travels down the path to the sink. uncouth and unbothered, joel opens the tap and cups his hands beneath the stream of water.

“you know there’s a cupboard full of glasses right next to you, right?” you call out behind him as the man brings water to his dry lips, splashing and just about guiding his head beneath the stream. the thirst does not budge. he hums an acknowledgement of you, yet continues with his method.

by the time he switches the water off, you’ve made yourself busy, back facing him while you work at something atop the counter, a consistent chop-chop-chop filling the silence that settles between you both.

“i’m making soup,” you state, like there’s nothing quite more logical you could be doing at whatever-o’clock in the morning it is. “make sure you take some with you when you leave. tess said she’s been fighting off a cold the past few days, need you to keep her warm and fed for me.”

would you do the same for him, if you knew he’d been the one to catch that damned cold in the first place? four days of just about coughing up his lungs, and not a single soul- not even his tess- had offered soup, nor warmth, nor sympathy. he’d not needed it, until now, when he hears you gifting it to someone else.

i don’t like you, joel.

of course you would do the same. not because you care, nor because doing otherwise would way heavy on your conscious, but because you’re nice. nice in a way he’ll never be, has never been. patient, welcoming, comforting, warm. all words that spring to mind when one thinks of you. they violently oppose the closed-off, angry, dark cloud that had rolled in years ago and casted it’s shadow over joel’s entire persona.

he straightens his back, weight shifting from one foot to another as he contemplates you from behind. the sway of your dress as you move has him in a trance, beckoning him closer before he can even realise he’s taken a step. his hands drip water onto the floor in a rhythm, and the record player sings in the distance as a reminder of tess, and your sweet out-of-tune humming fills the empty kitchen with a brightness greater than the moon, but that’s not what joel hears.

i don’t like you, joel.

over and over, you taunt him without even trying, nailing the words into his head and heart, impaling him with your sweet condemnation. you’re not the first to say it, to his face or otherwise, yet you’re the first to evoke such a reaction out of him, to leave a lasting impression hours after you’d declared such a thing.

and, suddenly, joel’s angry. at you, at himself, at the sound of that damned knife in your hand slicing down onto the chopping board. the fog of his ire blurs his vision, rendering him to move blindly through the night.

only when he finds himself looming over you from behind does his vision clear.

a hand meets the curve of your hip and you gasp, leaving joel to wonder if it’s because the shock of his cold, damp touch or, simply, because it’s his touch. without a thought spared, he firms his grip, fingers squeezing tight enough he feels your flesh bulge between each one, a bruising promise joel gifts you.

you may leave your marks emotionally, but joel’s will always be physical.

“why,” he pulls in a breath, loading up the will to keep his voice a low rumble, a quiet disturbance in the night for no ears but your own to hear. “don’t ya like me?”

if not for the pause in your practiced movements, knife stilling midway through slicing a carrot, he’d believe you’re unaffected by his proximity. “why do you care?”

he scoffs, “i don’t.”

“hmm,” this hum is far less delightful than the way you’d been following along to whatever melody tess was playing in the living room. “sure sounds like you do.”

“yeah, well, i don’t,” he insists, and he swears he almost feels the way it only digs deeper the hole he’s created for himself.

joel knows he cares. it’s been burning at his skin and itching on his mind since the moment you’d welcomed yourself to a little bit of unfiltered honesty, dropping the perfectly poised and eternally polite mask you’d worn since the moment he’d first met you, an attitude he loathes as much as he anticipates surrounding himself with it each time he’s tugged along for the trek to bill and frank’s.

what joel doesn’t know is why he cares. there’s nothing to be desired about him, no traits to respect and certainly no looks to admire. he’s near crafted his entire being in a way that makes sure of this, the more undesirable his presence is, the less likely he is to be approached, be it by other people or fate itself.

maybe there was a part of him that had wrongfully imagined you being the exception.

instead, you’re stood barefoot in the latest of hours, knife working away the vegetables in front of you, dress sticking to skin beneath his damp hand, and you don’t like him.

not one bit.

joel grabs at your hips harder, his free hand curling round the shape of your left forearm. his feet shuffle forwards, until there comes a point where one would struggle to make out where you end and he begins. his chest pressed to your back, his muscular legs trapping your soft thighs, his forehead digging into the side of your head so intensely it threatens to shatter both your craniums and leave nothing but dust made by bones blown into smithereens.

he inhales, and finds you don’t smell of lavender.

“for the record,” he watches your movements over your shoulder, entranced with the back and forth sawing of the knife through unidentified vegetables. ‘s like how i sliced that raider’s throat, he thinks, and instantly regrets it. no part of him should ever be compared to you. “i don’t like ya either.”

he’s lying through his teeth, hoping you don’t notice.

the knife never ceases its movement. back and forth, back and forth. chop, chop, chop. blurs of greens, and oranges, and more greens cover the counter before you. it’s oddly soothing, this repeated and unbroken pattern, reminding joel of times he’d found comfort in the mundaneness of cooking a meal after an emotionally exhausting day. perhaps, this has the same affect on you, a momentary lifejacket to keep yourself afloat amongst the waves that haunt you awake.

the hand on your forearm travels, mind of its own, drawing up the shape of your shoulder with featherlight touches that contradict the way his nails dig deeper into the the skin you hide beneath the waistline of your dress.

“that’s not news,” you must think he’s blind to the hitch in your breath when his fingers slip over your pulse-point.

it’s his turn to respond with a hum.

“you only like yourself,” words more untrue have never been spoken before the man who’s every moment is spent drowning in his loses. his wandering touch halts. “a little selfish, if you ask me. but, that’s just what i think.”

this strikes a nerve. fury commands his hand into a fist and fingers find themselves tangled in the tresses of your hair. the realisation of how surprisingly soft it feels barely finishes registering when he’s pulling on it, dragging your head along with, till it lays flat on his puffing chest and your eyes stare up at him. “d’ya know what i think?”

even upside down, your beauty is striking.

“no, unlike you i don’t care what you think about-” joel tugs on your hair once more.

“i think you’re a brat. a silly little girl who thinks she can smile and get away with murder.” you could. he’d forgive you as you soak your hands in the blood you draw from him. knife in the heart, bullet through the brain, bat to the face, he’d slip away easily from this life if only to have you smile as he goes.

“you’re hurting me,” you whine, joel growls.

animalistic, beastly, a rabid animal sinking its claws into its defenceless prey. his gaze dances over your features, catching himself before he can sink deep into your captivating eyes, tracing the shape of your mouth, slipping down the peaks of your collarbones.

your dress- red, a colour joel miller will no longer associate with bleeding wounds and stained weapons- sits tight on your chest, squeezing the swell of your chest beneath the fabric, and gives away all your secrets.

“you like it,” he speaks in awe, unable to pull his eyes off the two stiff buds that poke against the red fabric.

“no, i don’-” dampness follows wherever his hand goes, fleeting as he makes the journey around your waist and up your side, crawling higher and higher to where he can feel your heart beating from within your chest. “joel.”

he retightens his grip on your hair, aiding you with the way your curve your spine and force yourself deeper into his uncaring, ungentle, enamoured touch. whoever joel had been in a past life must have moved mountains or performed miracles to grant him the luck to be holding you this way, the fingers he’d gifted with nothing but the cocking of guns and the feel of his own pulsating lust now expertly tweaking at one of your stiff nipples, all thoughts of the fabric scratching at your sensitive skin dissipating into the abyss as he realises you’re enjoying the pain.

“heard ya, earlier, in the living room,” at the time, he’d been mortified to be overhearing such intimate words between you and tess. the blood that insists on rushing to his crotch now wants you to know, to hear the admission of guilt be spoken from his own mouth. “ talkin’ bout your past.”

he doesn’t specify.

he doesn’t need to.

you give away your shock with parted lips, widened eyes, frozen eyelashes, pupils staring up at him like a wounded fawn he’s about to take his first bite out of and, hopefully, it won’t be the last one.

“tess turned you down,” the hand on your chest switches sides, donning your other breast with some much needed attention. his hand must still carry residue of the water, for you gasp and shut your eyes in the shock of his touch, your own fingers shooting up to scratch at his wrist. near convinced you mean to push him away, the pressure against his hand that pushes deeper into his unholy affection has him realising otherwise. “i wouldn’t.”

you say nothing. joel pulls harder.

“too bad i’m-” you cut yourself off as he presses himself closer to you, your poor hips bound to awaken with bruises from the counter he’s got you pressed against. with a distance so small he can hear your teeth grind, joel watches you like a hawk. the twitch in your brow, the flutter of your eyelids, the bobbing of your throat as you silence what he imagines would be an otherworldly kind of moan, a whine he’d let kiss his ears and wind up poisoning himself with the torture of it replaying in his head each waking moment till he kicks the bucket, once and for all. the want to see you fall apart evolves into a need. “too bad i’m not offering you the chance.”

joel miller is a hot blooded man, at his core, weak to emotions and vulnerable to the warmths of flesh. with notches on his bedpost and a tally of lives beneath his belt, he sees little wrong with taking what he needs.

“who said anything about an offer?”

the descent to the floor is far from graceful, with bitten back groans of pain as clicking noises resound throughout the room while his joints bend and break in an effort to get him where he needs to be, where he’s needed to be for far longer than merely this exchange on kitchen grounds: on his knees for you.

a part of him would prefer it if you weren’t wielding a butchers knife.

the other part wishes you were facing him, eyes full of that repressed anger, hatred and discontent you likely harbour for him as you point the blade down at him and threaten to paint the floors with his blood. you’ve yet to do that, and so he takes it as his queue to progress.

smoothing his hands up your legs, he admires the landscapes of your body from this angle, with legs longer than any tree in the amazonian jungle and curves with peaks that resemble the mountains of the himalayas. arriving at the top of your knees, the hem of your dress both welcomes and conceals his touch, inviting him into the wonderful world it hides beneath it yet denying him the privilege of feasting his eyes on your paradise, an island of safety amongst the open ocean of his mind.

your breathing is measured, precise, too rhythmical to be natural, the subconscious action now turned into a practiced routine you mean to maintain nonchalance with. perhaps you’re yet to realise that, while he may remain indifferent to those that surround him, joel knows how to read people. and, right now, you’re a whole novel of lust, awaiting for someone to open up your pages and drink in every lyrical prose you promise to tell.

joel finds purchase mid-way up your thighs, hands sliding around to the front of them to grip the buttery smooth skin and ground himself in the reality he kneels before.

you breathe in, you breathe out.

one knee buckles, ever so slightly, the weight of you collapsing into his welcoming hold. he revels in the feeling of supporting you, in every meaning of the word, thumbs not even waiting on a command from his consciousness to begin soothing your tingling skin with a gentle back and forth movement to match the knife in your hand.

inhale, exhale.

your legs straighten once more, a hand of his winds its way back out from under your skirt and shoots up to grab your free one, dragging it down his pits of desire.

“hold,” he’s parched all over again, mouth drier than the texan wastelands on a hot summer’s day. all he can do to survive is peel up that infuriatingly soft, red fabric of your dress, skin unveiling itself to his hunger struck eyes. with the skirt bunched up, he shoves it into your awaiting palms, pinning your hand against your own waist. “don’t move.”

where he expects protest, he receives more breathing.

lace covers your skin, a delicate shade of a colour his eyes can’t quite distinguish in the dark of the night. one flicker of his sight to the very core of your body and he notices it, that tell-tale sign that you’re enjoying this little display of attention, despite what your measured breaths may have him believe. a wet patch, your wetness. the stickiest, sweetest of honeys that only a woman like you can possess, and a man like him should never bare himself witness to.

curiosity gets the better of him- one day, joel hopes, this will get him killed- and his touch is reaching for the lacy fabric, fingers curling themselves in the waistband of your panties and the fabric that covers your right asscheek before curling his hand into a fist, tugging upwards.

in and out, shaky breathing comes from above.

the lace pulls tight on your delicate skin, no choice but to nestle itself in the slit of your cunt as two pretty soaked lips peak out from each side. a heady smell he can only begin to describe as stiflingly sweet, tongue-tingling tanginess hits his nose. he makes sure to take a deep breath, letting the blood rush straight to his head- the one that sits packed uncomfortably in his tightened trousers.

delectable as sin, you keen back into his fist, back curving ever so slightly. there’s a tremor in the hold you have on the fabric of your dress. joel basks in the visual affect he’s beginning to have on you, no need to doubt if the fabric of your underwear rubs at your likely aching clit. he wonders if the sting of the lace digging into your skin hurts. he thinks it must hurt.

his fist curls tighter, pulls higher.

“ah,” at last, a ripple in your surface. though you still wield a knife, the carrot you’d been failing to chop rolls off the counter and onto the floor, lost somewhere in joel’s peripheral vision.

“shut up,” he grunts, like it doesn’t make his balls throb to hear you whine. “people are tryin’ to sleep.”

you scoff, and for a moment you seem to have rediscovered your composure. “tess is drunk as a sailor, and the old men could sleep through nuclear warfare.”

“‘s that an invitation to see how loud i can get ya,” he’s still caught in the way you mold against the lace, slickened skin carrying a reflection of the moonlight. this, he thinks, is what all them poets were writing about in their prose of love and beauty. “or a challenge?”

“it’s an invitation to stop lecturing me on volume control,-” you catch yourself, he realises, right before you can gift him some nickname a sweet girl like you would never use. asshole, dickhead, bastard, he’s heard them all and, still, he wants them on your tongue, in his mouth, condemning him for all the brutish, oafish ways he masks his obsession for you.

as coquettish as it may be, painting a picture worthy of a front-page on some playboy magazine, the sight of lace becomes a nuisance he no longer holds the patience for. so he strips you of it, hand moving to pull the garment down, down, down the length of you, till it hits your ankles. he awaits no movement of your own, taking it upon himself to lift each of your feet individually out the leg-holes.

it’s merely impulse that has him shoving the soiled lace into his back pocket, though he’s sure he’ll make use of them on lonely nights.

“you’re drippin’” his proclamation is ego-driven, pride swelling in his chest as he takes in the full sight of your bare heat. the view is a little obscured from behind you, but with the right amount of tilting of your hips at a certain angle and the widening of your legs, he’s bound to sit front row and centre for your private show. “‘s actually a little pathetic, sweetheart. is it cause ya like it when men get mean wit’ ya?”

he can imagine the way you’d roll your eyes at his words, and it has him thinking about how you’d look with your eyes rolling back for different reasons, reasons he’s about to gift you.

but first, he curls one hand around your ankle and tugs the limb along as far as he wants it. much better, he now faces no blockage in the path up to your slit, freely letting his wandering hands ascend to his newfound heaven. perhaps he’ll revisit the life of gospel, if you promise to be the altar he prays before.

cool fingers to warm skin, you swallow a gasp a little too late for joel to not notice as he drags the tips of his middle finger up the length of your slit. soft, puffy lips part for him, until he presses against that special button that’s bound to turn on your engines.

rolling his finger over your clit a few times, he refamiliarises himself with the female anatomy, with your anatomy, memorising each soft bump and meaty lump he finds along the way.

it happens so sudden, and unwillingly, the way his mind switches to thinking of tess. he wonders what exactly it is she does to those poor things she sends home on shaky legs, where she even begins to touch them. joel imagines she makes use of what she has and starts with her fingers.

so he does the same.

working over your slippery wetness, he coats the tip of his middle finger with it, till he finds what he’s been searching for: the gateways to your heaven, your entrance. he breaches your walls with that single digit and somehow that’s enough to have you squeezing around him so tightly he wonders if blood still manages to flow to his digit.

two, three, four pumps of his hand and he’s introducing his pointer finger too, pressing them both into you to witness the ways you mould around this wider stretch, the lips of your cunt a pair of cushions his knuckles collide against each time he fucks his fingers in.

“so now you shut up. ‘s the matter, huh?” he’s contradicting himself and he doesn’t even care, too busy focusing on curling his fingers inside you, delighting in the feel of that spongy tissue they press against. “am i too borin’ for ya?”

“you’re the most infuriating man i’ve ever- oh!”

a tongue meets skin.

the knife clatters onto the counter.

you lurch forward.

his hand pulls you back.

“tess was right, ya know?” he can still taste you on his tongue, nothing more than a simple lick over your slit and your salty pleasure already seeps deep into his veins, staining his very being with the memory of his new favourite flavour. he pulls his fingers out, slipping them up to your clit. three little taps to the pulsing bud- tap, tap, tap- and he’s slipping them into his mouth, tongue working overtime to clean up every last drop of you that coats him. “that boy of yours wasn’t doin’ ya right.”

the common sense that screams at him to not feel envy over some ex-lover, someone who was likely barely even an adult at the time and no longer appears to be around, is no match for the green eyed beast that commands him to tell you, without using words, that he can do better- touch you better, protect you better, fuck you better, if you’d just let him.

‘could keep ya satisfied.

that’s a new thought, one he’s never needed before yet never wanted more, a burning ache to be worthy of your trust, affection, lust. he’ll never forget the first time he thinks it, mouth salivating at the sight of you.

“is this the part you say some cheesy line straight out a porno? what ya need is a man, a man like me!” the softness of your giggle is still sharp enough to cut through the tension, god it’s never sounded sweet, and joel finds himself freely smiling into the darkness, yet still too stubborn to laugh at the deep voice you attempt to imitate him with.

“well, was you who said it,” his mouth finds it’s way back onto your soaked heat, taking his time to work his tongue up the length of it, his saliva mixing itself in a nasty cocktail with your wetness. he imagines the air is cold against your skin, and that you like it, memory of those hardened nipples hidden beneath the fabric of your dress. “but if ya insist.”

diving in head first had always been his style, from his first lover to his last, and to now, knees aching on the kitchen floor. the tip of his tongue dances round your clit, tantalising you to grind your hips to the rhythm of his sinful touches.

licking into you, he’s reminded how much he enjoys that swelling in the chest that only comes from bringing another pleasure.

he’d not been a perfect lover, far from it, but he’d liked to believe at one point he’d been trained by only experience that comes with age, years of touching wrong and kissing badly to learn the right ways to make those he shared a bed- or a counter, or a backseat, or a club bathroom- with see angelic white as they writhed and squirmed under his touch. you’re lucky to have him now, matured by past lovers and broadened by age, with all the knowledge he needs to open your eyes to how a man pleasures, kisses, loves.

he’s out of practice, sure, with recent years adding notches to his belt that were merely frantic, unexpected, barely undressed run-ins with strangers, in strange places, cock barely getting a moments affection before he’d be spilling his seed and tucking it, limp, back into the confines of his trousers and locking it away beneath a zip.

what a perfect excuse you are, for joel to remaster the arts of lust.

it’s messy, wet dripping down his chin and staining itself into the stubble of his growing facial hair. it’s noisy, his mouth openly groaning depraved joy into your warmth as you sing him a song of sweet euphoria, slowly building towards that crescendo on the horizon. it’s animalistic, barely human as he revokes all earthly needs such as rest, and food, and socialising, his mind, and soul, and heart, and cock all screaming in unison to spend whatever days he shall possess on his knees before you.

and all the while you writhe and wriggle, some times running away from him touch, other times rutting so far back into him that you threaten to suffocate him somewhere between your warm thighs, and sugar sweet cunt, and the two well-rounded globes of your ass.

his only saving grace is that he can’t see you.

hearing your pretty whines, and hand-muffled moans, and heavy intakes of breath is enough to curse him for the rest of his waking days, condemned to wander the wastelands of earth knowing the noises you make on the brinks of pleasure, with a touch-starved man satiating his hunger for flesh and blood with the sugary sins of your soaked cunt.

burrowing deeper into you, his consciousness rips through the fog of his lust to curse out his perversions as the tip of his hooked nose bumps against the puckered entrance of your ass. it does nothing to stop him tearing his tongue away from your clit, flattened as he drags it over the expanse of your cunt, and over your taint, and up the crack of your behind.

“n- ah,” you can’t deny him while sounding so eager for more, the tip of his tongue now circling your back entrance, mimicking the treatment previously given to your little pearl. “no, don’t, not there.”

next time, he thinks, we’ll try that next time.

sights returned to his previous desires, he works to rip every sigh, and every whine, and every dirty little song you’ll grace him with. the sound of whatever record tess has put on in the other room becomes a safety blanket, dousing you both in the warm protection of not being overheard.

and, then, he does it, he makes the ultimate mistake.

his eyes flicker to the left and he finds himself faced with the stove that sits within bill and frank’s- and, by an extension he does not enjoy to remember, your- kitchen. there’s little that’s remarkable about the appliance, just your standard, everyday oven that he’s sure you’ve spent countless hours cooking up those comforting meals he’s come to anticipate each time tess tells him they’re due a visit.

except, the oven door is made of glass.

glass which now paints the most pornographic masterpiece for no eyes but his own. you, with hands gripping the island’s counter like your life depends on it, and the skirt of that goddamn dress he’s envied all evening for the way it got to rest against the warmth of your thighs now bunched up in your tight grip, and your head thrown back, curving your spine in a way that has him wondering about the other ways he’d be able to bend and break you beneath his touch.

and then there’s him, down on his knees like a devotee laying himself down to worship his goddess, face burrowed in the space between your legs, mouth devouring you from behind with the help of his hands, the same ones that had strangled a man less than a day before and reigned fire down on countless others for years, that now grip the meat of your thighs to pull you back onto him, fucking his tongue into your sopping heat.

the image will haunt him more than the face of any man he’s killed.

“d’ya touch yourself, sol?” you don’t answer him, but that’s okay. in a sweet change of pace, joel miller’s perfectly fine with talking enough for the both of you. “yeah, bet ya do. late at night, right? once you’re all alone in bed. ya seem like the kind who can make herself scream.”

you back into him, smothering him under the weigh of your body. becoming his holy grail, he drinks from you like it’s the key to eternal life, and what a way of living this would be, time disregarded as nothing but meaningless while your bodies melt together in the heat of passion.

fucking his fingers back inside, he becomes frantic beneath the need to make you cry, fall completely apart with only his hands to hold you together. “let me do the honours this time though.”

you don’t scream, can’t scream, hand over mouth muffling whatever profanities and theatrical proclamations he rips from within you with the stroke of his agile tongue, the only muscle of his that’s yet to develop aches and pains. he imagines that will no longer ring true once he awakens past sunrise.

he’s unsure how much longer he works his tongue over you, slipping and sliding through the liquid pleasure, but it ends with fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him away and tilting his head up.

you’ve never looked more holy, moon casting it’s shine around you, eyes glossed with unshed tears, lips parted and swollen from the pressure your own teeth had bitten down on them with. your expression, he can’t quite read. not sad, not happy, not mad.

your eyes catch on something, abandoning his own for something closer to the floor, to which he follows and finds exactly what you’re staring at: the evidently dark patch that now stains the front of his jeans.

the discomfort of trekking back to the qz will now be tenfolds worse in the stains of his own pleasure.

“joel...” his name is nearly a beg, a prayer, an invitation. hand still in his hair, you tug, pulling him upwards off the ground. legs open wider and back arches deeper, a seductive sight that your body pleas for him with.

he swallows a groan, knees alleviated at last from the floor, and presses himself against you once more. strong arms crush you in an embrace, pulling you back into him as his head slips to rest against your shoulder. he’s capricious with the way he lets himself litter a few wet kisses over your neck, breathing in the smell of you.

“that,” you grind back into him, a torturer who takes his aged body as her victim and toys with his barely recovered cock, the cum in his trousers sticking uncomfortably to his skin. he pulls tighter on your body, grounding himself in the weight of it against his own to find the sanity to finish his sentence. “shouldn’t have happened.”

joel hopes no one awakens as he slams the door on the way out of the kitchen.

people once spoke of how the only certainties in life were death and taxes but, nowadays, the words don’t ring as true and the guarantee of life with taxes has morphed into something else entirely; a reality where death and time go hand in hand. as sure as tomorrow will arrive, death will come too, eventually. not today, however, and joel miller finds himself stood throwing a ball back and forth for a dog.

it chases and retrieves, trailing it’s happy self all the way back to him only to spit the ball down at his feet, siting and waiting to repeat the process once more. there’d been a time where this is all he’d wanted: white picket fence, dog in the yard, home-cooked meals filling a house with warmth.

that dream seems so far away now, even as he stands within it.

he cracks his back, huffing out a groan. “no, not again. my back’s fucked as it is, buddy,” with no one around to witness, joel lets himself crouch down onto his knees- both popping obnoxiously as he does so- and rakes his hand over the german shepherd’s head. it whines and makes an attempt to nudge the ball against him, protesting in the only way it can. a scratch to the ear does the trick to distract the animal, to which it tilts its head and forces itself deeper into his blunt nails. “not so bad, are ya? huh?” never in a million years did joel think he’d be talking to a dog when him and tess had set out for their routinely visit to the bill and frank’s. never would he have thought that would be the least shocking event to unfold on this trip.

he hears you before he sees you.

“you planning to make your knees familiar with every surface of this place, texas?”

he tries to rise, he truly does, but the four-legged foe he’d been petting mere seconds ago betrays him the instant it catches sight of you, charging past him and knocking him over in the process, ass to floor and head to sky.

the world above is a storm of greys, clouds swallowing one another with a looming threat of danger on the horizon and not a lick of the sun’s warmth seems to make its way through.

so instead, it sends you.

peering over him from above, hair a tangled mess, eyes a wreck of under-bags and sleepless tears, the collar of your jumper lowered just enough at this angle that he can see a tease of cleavage, you radiate a brightness like no other, more dangerous to his naked eyes than uv ray could ever be. he’s squinting again, frown etching itself on his forehead with the threat of becoming permanent soon. a few more years and his face will be nothing but frown lines and crows feet. at the very least, he considers, i’ve survived long enough to wrinkle.

the smile above him is worth a million laugh lines, a kindness laced within it that matches perfectly with the hand you hold out. when he does nothing but stare at it, you wriggle your fingers, enticing him to take a hold. he does most of the work, truthfully, but you play a part in pulling him back to his feet. upright once more, he can’t help but bask in the way he’s able to physically look down on you.

“thanks for tiring him out,” you’re the first to talk. you’re always the first to talk, and he curses you for it. “won’t need to walk him as far tonight.”

a queasy feeling overtakes him at the thought of you walking the dog alone at night, nothing but the moon to light your way. he’ll need to remember to tire the dog out next time he visits. “no problem, thanks... for feeding tess and i.”

“no worries!” you’re so kind, so good, smiling at him with a cheerful chirp in your voice. he can’t wrap his head around how you can bring yourself to treat him this way. “oh, actually, that’s why i came out here, i was looking for tess-” of course you were, when would you ever be looking for him? “hold on!”

you shoot off back inside so quickly that otis just reaches the doorway by the time you return. with an idle pet to his head as you pass by, joel once again sees, in the way such little affection can have the dog so elated, that resemblance between them you’d spoke of. in your hands, you carry an array of containers full of food- soup- each filled to the brim.

“i wanted to give you these, before you guys leave,” you’re explaining yourself, and joel wonders if it’s nerves that bring you to need constant babbling to fill any gaps of silence. he can’t imagine how he could make you nervous and therefore that thought is quick to be discarded. “i know the journey up here and back can be long, consider them a token of my appreciation towards you both for-”

“why don’t ya like me?” he cuts you off.

pathetic, he knows, but he can not stop himself, a deer caught in the headlights of your brightly burning, too-good-to-be-true, too-pure-to-be-fake personality.

you show no signs of hearing him, smile unwavering as you continue to hold out the boxes to him, “there should be enough to last you a few days, if you watch your proportions.”

it’s too much for him to handle- the food, the smiles, the sweetly glistening eyes-, and joel just has to know, needs an answer before the heat of his confusion consumes him entirely in its flames and leaves nothing but his smoking remains.

so he tries again, louder.

“why don’t ya like me?”

“and i’d probably say you’re best to heat it up, especially for tess,” you ignore him, again, lips stretching what can only be described as uncomfortably wider. “winter is sure coming in faster than last year, isn’t it?”

he grabs at your arm, fingers curling round the swell of your bicep as he speaks through gritted teeth, "answer me." like a frightened dog backed into a corner, he bares his teeth and yells his bark.

"for someone who doesn't care,” you try his patience, knowingly or not, and his grip tightens. you don’t flinch, welcoming the sting of his blunt and bitten nails against your flesh. “you sure do talk about my opinion a lot."

"answer the damn question, girl.”

“or, what?” you’ve got him there, he’ll admit, holding no real plan as to how to punish your silence. “you gonna give me the same treatment as last night?”

had he known you’d be so unabashed to mention the events on the kitchen floor so flippantly, as casually as one would speak about the weather, he’d never have dared to get on his knees. truthfully, he’d not given things a second thought, disregarding the later for the now, living in the moment with caution thrown to the wind over what the morning would bring. perhaps he’d hoped you’d been intoxicated enough to dismiss the memory as a nightmare, maybe he’d wished you’d keep away from him to free him of the volatile grip you have on his soul.

instead, you stand tall, proud, eyes fiercely staring back at his own as you challenge him to retaliate, mock you with none of those saccharine smiles you hide harsh tones behind.

joel says nothing.

“how about this, let’s make a deal, like the ones you and bill make.” inching closer, crowding in on his space and forcing him to take note of the smell of freshly cleaned clothes mixed in with your own fragrance. clean, warm, inviting, scents he’d never given meaning to before now. “you get me something, i’ll tell you what you want to know.”

he grunts out a response, hands meeting his hips as he juts out one knee, the shifting of weight between feet a perfect distraction to the rising tension in his worn-out jeans. “what d’ya want? ‘cause if it’s somethin’ like a gun, think again. i ain’t messing with none of bill’s strange politics on you havin’-”

“a dress.”

“a dress?” the statement has him quirking his brow, burning questions swimming in the depths of his eyes as he stares back at you.

“yes, and don’t look at me like that!” it’s hypocritical, he believes, for you to berate him for the looks he sends you when all you do is cast stones his way with your gaze yet shake him to his very core each time you smile. “i need a new one, my favourite one got ruined whilst making soup.”

unaware he’d even began to lean closer, joel’s quick to recoil, as if your words are bullets and his skin the target you hit on the bullseye every time.

“joel!” his name resonates from somewhere in the house.

neither of you dare to break eye contact. again, his name is yelled. this time, he manages to identify tess as the owner of the voice. habits have him used to running to her whenever she calls, but habits have never been caught between the choice of tess or you.

his feet remain glued to the ground.

tess yells once more and, though you speak up, you don’t dare look away. “think you might be needed inside, macho man. your missus is calling.”

“she ain’t my-”

“you two just gonna stand and stare at each other all day, or will you help a woman out already?” tess enters the scene somewhere behind you, a blur of her familiar shape standing out the front door.

only when your head spins and he no longer finds himself lost in the black of your eyes does joel take her in completely, hair clearly damp and complexion a little paled by her hungover body. in her arms, she struggles with the weight of a folded table. you approach first, he follows, his two hands aiding in carrying it out into the front yard as you retighten your grip on the boxes of soup in your arms.

“i should probably,” laying the containers down on the now unfolded table, you fidget with the sleeves in your hands, eyes downcast with something he can only read as guilt. he decides he much prefers the fire they hold when you berate him. “go check on the food, before it burns.”

you’re in the door and out his sight before he can so much as ask you to stay.

tess and him hit the road by noon. earlier than predicted, later than he’d wished for. the bite of cold already marks the air, despite the sun heating the world with its rays. he walks a little ahead, feigning ignorance to the repeated coughing coming from tess and racking his brain for answers.

answers to why he’d never noticed how hoarse she’d been sounding till you pointed it out. answers to what awaited them both upon returning to the qz. answers to when will be their next chance to visit the safe haven bill’s created. answers to why you don’t like him.

i don’t like you, joel.

it motivates him to walk quicker, faster, racing to put as much distance between himself and that damn kitchen floor, miles upon miles not enough to rid him of the dull ache in his knees that goes hand in hand with the throb within his too-tight-jeans. if he were alone, he’d break out in a sprint. but tess is here, he’s not alone, and home will simply have to wait on the passing of time to drag him back to it.

till then, he needs to find a dress.

#joel miller smut #joel miller x reader #joel miller oneshot #joel miller fic #pedro pascal smut

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andhumanslovedstories · 1 month

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Hi,

I’ve seen your posts recently about struggling to return to nursing and wanted to send you some encouragement from someone who is a paramedic and has dealt with similar related to my anxiety. If you don’t find this helpful, please feel free to ignore this and delete and either way I wish you all the best!

I think one of the hardest things about healthcare when you’re struggling with mental health is being told over and over again by people ‘I couldn’t do your job’ and how much of a ‘hero’ you are. It gives the impression that you somehow have to be superhuman and then makes it so much harder when you reach a point where it becomes very clear that you are in fact only human after all. Within healthcare you get almost the same message that somehow health-care providers are naturally ‘more resilient’ which also isn’t true.

If you choose to go back to nursing I believe you will continue to do a wonderful job, I know I personally have been inspired by a number of your nursing posts over the years. I remember the hurdle of that first shift back being a nightmare, but you might even find that it’s easier than last time you were at work because you’re not dealing with the degree of overwhelming depression at the same time (at least that was my experience once I got my feet back through the door). That said, if you need more time to face that hurdle, it doesn’t mean that you’re too depressed to nurse, because that first shift back is hard, much harder than when it’s your routine vs recovering from an increase in your depression.

Also if you do choose not to go back to nursing, that is okay, and far from your only skill or value! It’s so easy to in healthcare to make it a big part of your identity, but it’s your compassion and skill that you bring to nursing, not the other way around, and you will still have that in any job you do.

I hope this didn’t come across as a lecture or platitudes. And regardless of what you end up doing, I hope this time to rest is helpful and that the depression brainworms shut up for a while.

This is such a kind and profoundly insightful message that I will think about for a while. Thank you.

#nursing post

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fresne999 · 11 months

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Half way through the journey of our analyses

I feel like roughly half of the analysis I'm reading about OFMD S2 is folks who clearly fixated on a character (it's Izzy, it's always Izzy that inspires this kind of analysis) write analyses that cause the 2nd response of, "Um…did you ever study literary analysis in school."

Now I come at this from a slightly odd place in that I did study literary analysis in school (30+ years ago) where I learned it's possible to interpret anything about any way, because we're all bringing different lenses to the analysis. Which isn't to say that an author can't have an intended interpretation.

Dante in Canto V of Inferno (Divine Comedy) would still like folks to understand fixating on the two damned-lovers and ignoring the details that the artist is putting in there for you to catch about how they are damned because they won't change the toxic patterns that got them there in the first place. Also, they can't because they are in hell, and hell is like that. That Dante-the-writer had Dante-the-character swoon over those same two damned-lovers (because Dante-the-character is on a journey of moral correction) is hilarious, but doesn't make it any less the point of that section of the work, but I digress.

As a career, I am very aware that folks love to misinterpret what is meant to be very clear instructions. Of course, I'm writing policies and procedures, which is a bit different from writing fiction, and is worlds away from creating a t.v. show. But that's the life experience that I always bring to literary analysis. Frequently, people choose their interpretations to fit what they want to see, and that's part of being human.

I've seen a fair number of folks interpret Izzy's redemption arc in S2 as one of a queer man struggling with disabilities and mental health issues whose struggle is made meaningless by his demise. Which sure, you could interpret it that way and in that it's coming from I'm sure an emotional place, I get it. And hmmm… I might give this interpretation more credence if I hadn't read a lot of Izzy analysis for S1 that was wildly different than the text.

So let's take a step back.

First, know the rules of the literary universe: OFMD is a show where the reality is not ours. It is either the Core Universe or something very close to it. BTW: If you've never heard of Core Universe or read the seminal BtVS+HtLJ "When Hellmouth's Collide" (https://www.ltljverse.com/index2.htm), a Core Universe is one where everything lines up. Row boats are magic, and where there is a Badminton, he will accidentally stab/shoot himself.

Terminology more befitting of that fancy literature degree might be to say that OFMD functions along the logic of Magical Realism. Characters will appear briefly for the purposes of the story and then disappear not to be mentioned again (Nana, Calico Jack, Mary Read & Anne Bonny). Things align because they are meant to align. It is a universe where the Gravy Basket is a real place, and meant to be taken seriously. It's also a universe where a man may become a seagull, because he loves the sea. You change for love, but the ways you change may be positive or toxic.

They can result in a bird that never gets to know rest. Always flying over the sea. Or they lead to becoming a bird, who can float in the sea or land on a unicorn's leg.

Transformation.

Anyway, S1 - Stede commissioned a ship with secret passageways. It did not have a buxom mermaid on the prow, nor something more befitting a ship named the Revenge. He commissioned a unicorn prow and went off to become a pirate.

A not particularly violent pirate. But a pirate who didn't have a problem with the violence of piracy. See Stede telling Lucius (hardest working man on the ship in S1) to take notes during a violent raid where the show's logo was literally carved into the chest of a dead man.

BTW: The tone about violence is darker in S2, but the violence was there in S1. It was just presented in a more whimsical way. The nose jar was full of noses in S1. We heard about Blackbeard's violence. A man was skinned alive off screen, but we focused on the Prussian (but also sort of French) party.

What Izzy needed to be redeemed from was established in S1. The problem is that folks who interpreted Izzy as a) the central focus of the show and b) a put upon manager just trying to do right by his crew (or as one Tumblerina referred to him as the man/father of the family going out to hunt - excuse me while I vomit - and support his family as men must do), are not going to understand what Izzy's S2 arc was all about.

Ed and Stede are the main characters in a romantic story. There are other characters with their own arcs, but they are the main characters.

In S1, Stede created a safe space where characters had a chance to breathe for the first time. Possibly ever, and as a result revisited parts of themselves they'd lost. Wee John got back in touch with his roots as the son of a seamstress. Frenchie got back to what he loves, scamming the rich. The Swede sang like a siren of the sea, because it doesn't always have to be scary.

Ed had his first good time in years. After expressing suicidal ideation to Izzy because of his terminal boredom in S1.E4 - Discomfort in a Married state, Ed found himself some balance. Some sweet marmalade.

Ed and Izzy were in a toxic relationship that only reinforced their toxic behavior. And yes, I'm going to overuse the word toxic. While piracy is a place where you can go be yourself and shag whoever you want (whatever happens at sea stays at sea), it's not a place where you can be soft. Gentle. Emotionally open. Available.

Ed's only path out that he could see at the time was to plan to skin the face of the man who built a ridonculous boat with a unicorn on the prow and wear it for the rest of his life. A plan to send Stede to Doggy Heaven.

BTW: This is why Izzy uses the line in S2.E3 - the Innkeeper, that they put Ed down like a mad dog, so that Stede could reply that they sent Ed to Doggy Heaven. Reiterating this concept of piracy as violence, as taking away faces / identity / lives, but also losing one's own. Forgetting even what day of the year it is. Also revealing that Stede knew about Ed & Izzy's plan to murder him, send Stede to doggy heaven, and had moved on.

This is also why the respite in S2.E4 - Fun and Games is so critical. Mary Read/Anne Bonney are portrayed as direct parallels to Stede/Ed. They are selling what are, no doubt, the spoils of their piracy. But they've chosen a remote location with no community, but each other and a life where they are not actually communicating. Which on its surface is where Ed and Stede end up, and yet…the Revenge can sail back. They are on the shore facing the sea, not in a jungle lost from a clear view. I'll quote the relevant Dante in just a bit, never fear.

Ed and Stede's new inn has the potential for a solid foundation, because the unicorn has been planted firmly in the ground, and if we get an S3, I firmly expect the unicorn leg to have transformed into a tree, because I've read a lot of medieval literature and that's how that sort of thing works.

Well, it could be a penis tree (this was a thing in medieval marginalia), but somehow I don't think it will be.

But I'm getting a little ahead of myself.

Back in S1, the plan to murder Stede and take his identity broke down despite Izzy trying to perform an intervention to get Ed back into the toxic soup, and ended with Ed curled up in a bathtub and opening up about murdering his father. An image the show chose to flash on the screen multiple times in S2 just in case folks forgot that this was a traumatizing event for Ed, and was itself the culmination of years of traumatic abuse at his father's hands.

Just as Stede kept flashing back to the moment his father tells him what it is to be a man, and kills an animal, the blood splashing on Stede's wee little face.

That this is the point of the show. Transforming past trauma. It's there. You always carry the scars. Sometimes, you decide to tattoo yourself with the image of the thing you fear, and then the thing you fear is always there, but you've got to keep moving forward. To stay in one place, to stay trapped in the same emotion/action, is hell. I've read a lot of lit crit of Dante's Inferno. Trust me, it's the same thing.

Izzy's redemption arc is firmly based in the events of S1E6 - Here Dragons Be, because it's where the pustule of his relationship with Ed breaks. His attempted intervention fails to get Ed to kill Stede, so Izzy tries to kill Stede. Not realizing that a) Stede is a main character and b) this is a Core Universe show. Where it's possible to win a duel by being stabbed in the left side of your gut and stay there for many hours and not die. So he loses the 1 thing that defines him, his job.

Izzy's redemption arc is firmly based in the events of s1E8 - We Gull Way Back, where he enlists Calico Jack to lure Ed off the boat (with all the toxic masculinity that entailed) so that the British could show up and shoot the head off the unicorn, and kill Stede. So Izzy can crawl back into his old patterns / job / life.

Izzy's redemption arc is firmly based in the big drama confrontation in S1E10 - Wherever You Go There You Are, when as a person whose entire identity is tied up in being Blackbeard's First Mate and after realizing that he couldn't cut it as a captain on his own, he does whatever the f- he can to get Ed back into the toxic soup so he can get his old role/job back.

This isn't to say that Ed's off the deep end actions in S2.E1&2 aren't his own choices. He is a main character. His emotional arc is one of the driving forces of the show. But they are the choices of a man who wants to die. After a lifetime of violent action that had been increasingly drowning him, he wants to die in the violence of battle, but the enemy are never good enough. He wants Izzy to kill him, but Izzy won't. Until he does…sort of. He wants to die in a storm. He's carving notches on his wall hoping to lure Ned Low to him so that he can die in pain. But Ed is the devil and does not die.

Except Ed's not the devil. He doesn't have a head made of smoke. He's a man. Not a fisherman. Not a fisher of men, and what an interesting attempt to go Christ himself off into the wilderness only to be fired for not being that good at it, and then receive his letter from the deep.

Because in a show full of magical realism, the bottles with messages will reach the intended recipient eventually.

"In the middle of the journey of our life, I came to myself in a dark wood for the straight way was lost. Ah, how hard a thing it is to say what that wood was. So savage and harsh and strong, that the thought of it renews my fear. It is so bitter that death is little more so. But to speak of the good that I found there, I will tell of the other things I saw…and like one with laboring breath comes forth from the deep onto the shore, who turns back to the perilous water and stares, so my spirit still fleeing turned to gaze upon the pass that has never left anyone alive." Dante, Canto 1, Inferno.

Instead of dying, Ed goes not to Purgatory (sorry I'd quote the opening lines, but Inferno actually works better here), but to the Gravy Basket, where he confronts the spirit of Hornigold. Dead spirit. Aspect of Ed's self. Both. Neither. Hated. Self. Unkillable.

Is saved by a goldfish incarnation of Stede.

But just as the imaginary as Stede's vision of what / who he thinks he needs to be for Ed, this is not true. Life being what it is, Ed and Stede rush when they need to go slow. They break apart because they are saying words, but the other person is hearing based on their own interpretation.

BTW: The clue Dante-the-writer gives the reader in Canto V of Inferno is how one of the damned lovers, Francesca, explains how she hooked up with her brother-in-law, Paulo. She describes reading an Arthurian romance. She and Paulo kissed when Gwenevere and Lancelot kissed in the story. Except the version they are reading (and Dante tells the reader which version this is) was intended as a cautionary tale. Also, Paulo and Francesca were real people who were murdered by Francesca's husband when he caught them together. So there is that too.

I always like it in fiction when characters misinterpret each other because they hear based on their life experiences and don't hear the things that are said/unsaid based on the life experiences of the other person speaking. That's good writing. It's also how we end up with wildly varying interpretations of works of fiction.

But I digress.

Izzy's S2 arc is that he must let go of his relationship with Ed and turn to others. He must learn to let go of toxic masculinity and let in softness. Not weakness. Water is not weak, but it is soft. Calypso, goddess of the sea, is not weak. Her birthday is whatever day you need it to be. She is vast and deep and soft and relentless.

In Ro-sham-bo, it's a shame that there is not a gesture for water. Because it is not paper that defeats stone, but water that wears away the stone. Of course, scissors wouldn't do much to water either, so that would sort of break Ro-sham-bo, so I suppose it must stay as it is.

It is through a craft's project that the crew of the Revenge find healing. Turn Izzy into the unicorn. A unicorn that Izzy's own actions caused to be decapitated with a British cannon ball in S1. That Izzy rendered legless (drunk). But the Revenge is a boat. They just need to swim/sail. It is through a craft's project that Izzy is able to offer healing to Lucius, who in turn is then able to turn their art away from fixating on Ed, and the trauma that he's been through and back towards love, and Black Pete.

But it's not possible to see Izzy's S2 arc, if you didn't interpret S1 Izzy as needing to go through his own gravy basket.

That Izzy dies because his transformation is necessary. He can't leave Ed, and if he doesn't leave Ed, then Ed can't stop being Blackbeard. The kracken. He literally tells Ed this as he chooses to transform. To free the world of Blackbeard, so Ed can be Ed. Yet, I've read so many posts by folks saying, "But why did he have to die?" Which sure, you can choose not believe what the character says while dying.

Which is a narrative privilege. To get a good dying speech. "There he is" get to be transmutted from an attack to an actual seeing. The larger than life concept of a smoke headed pirate can waft away.

Stories are hard to kill. They live on long past us, and as long as someone is remembered, especially in a universe like OFMD, we live.

Though always reject the gift of a clock. That's someone telling you that you've only got so many hours left of life. If you are a character in a story.

Thus the other parallel in this season is Izzy to Auntie and Ed to Zheng Yi Sao. Auntie must allow Zheng softness. Izzy must go through a sea change to something new and strange. Also, this would be a case of Doylistically the writers needed to line up Olu with Stede for that to work, and thus the new configurations of Olu and Jim's relationship, which, shrug, could be poly. Could be friends to lovers to friends. Woulda, coulda, had more time, but that's on Max for not giving us 2 more episodes.

Prince Richard was trying to become a concept, but was too in love with the mechanics of it. Stede was trying to become a concept too. Found his fame, and all too quickly the toxic end of that particular route. Magical Realism was on his side until he tried to face down Zheng Yi Sao, the Queen of Pirates, and then the rules of the story weren't. Because those clocks were ticking. Everyone was in a very dark wood. The memory of blood splashed on Stede's face as a little boy was a warning. It was a reminder. It was the wrong lessons we take from our childhood and must unlearn to become whole.

Having the final shot of the show being Buttons landing on the unicorn leg as a reminder that this is a show about transformation. One thing becoming another thing. Somewhere the dead are dancing in Calypso's court. A dance below the sea and on the sea and with the sea. While the living keep sailing on their magic ship to do…I don't know.

Because the Golden Age of Piracy is coming to an end. They'll go create new worlds and new places to be. Transforming.

If we get no more of the show, this is a resolution.

Since I've been quoting Dante, I'm going to end this with the final vision in Paradiso. Because folks who haven't been reading my analysis for the last 30 years / read it, may not realize that the Divine Comedy (a story that begins in sorrow and ends in joy) ends with the vision of a 3 way rainbow.

"In the profound and shining Being of the deep Light, three circles appeared, of three colours, and one magnitude: one seemed refracted by the other, like Iris’s rainbows, and the third seemed fire breathed equally from both. O how the words fall short, and how feeble compared with my conceiving!…Power, here, failed the deep imagining: but already my desire and will were rolled, like a wheel that is turned, equally, by the Love that moves the Sun and the other stars."

#ofmd #ofmd s2 spoilers #ofmd season 2 #ofmd analysis #ofmd meta

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late-to-the-party-81 · 5 months

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Answer the questions and tag five fanfiction authors you know!

Thank you @metalbvcky. NPT for @mrs-illyrian-baby @doasyoudesireandlive @km-ffluv @labella420

🍓 How did you get into writing fanfiction?

As a teen I was a voracious reader and tried to write my own stuff based on other books I'd read. I also loved ST:TNG and wanted dearly to be in an episode and had lots of the books. I wrote my own ST stories with OC's (gratuitous self inserts), but they never went anywhere. In my late teens I read some Xena fanfic on the internet. But that was it for a great number of years.

At the beginning of 2021 I sat and watched the entirety of the MCU films in chronological order (I'd seen most of them before and was mainly a Thor gal.) I fell down the Stucky rabbithole. Deep. I decided to look up fanfic. AO3 was now a thing! I wrote (a very poor) Stucky fic and here we are, almost 3 years later

🍇How many fandoms have you written in?

As my ST stuff never made it further than my parent's old PC in the days of dial-up, I won't count it.

I've written for MCU, various Chris Evans and Seb Stan Characters and one fic for RWRB. I've been toying with writing a one-off Criminal Minds fic as a gift for a friend.

🍈How many years have you been writing fanfiction?

Three in July since I first published anything on AO3.

🍎Do you read or write more fanfiction?

I try to balance it out. If I have a period of hyperfocus writing I try to then go through a period of reading. I read on both Tumblr and AO3, so try to keep that even as well.

🍌What is one way you've improved as a writer?

Getting betas to pick me up on tense changes, overuse of words and rogue commas. Reading more. Practising. Writing outlines for longer stories so I don't go off-piste.

🍑Do you have any bad habits as a writer?

Getting bored half-way through a long fic, especially if the first few parts haven't had a lot of interaction. Which is why I try to write the whole thing before I start posting.

🍍 What's the weirdest topic you researched for a writing project?

Engineering courses at MIT and, for a separate fic, Violet wands, including the ways to use them and the differnt types of accessories you can use with them. I even watched a Youtube video.

🍉What's your favourite type of comment to receive on your work?

Any comment! Anything that gives me the validation I need!

🍐What's the most fringe trope/topic you write about?

I wrote a transformation into Tsum-tsum fic that was both cracky and smutty. That's pretty niche.

🥭What is the hardest type of story for you to write?

Action scenes. I loathe them. I'm constantly wondering if they are long enough, and make sense.

🍏What is the easiest type?

Short things that are either PWP or fluffy slices of life.

🍑Where do you do your writing? What platform? When?

Mainly on my elderly laptop on G-Docs, and in every moment I can - normally afterwork before dinner and on Mondays when I don't have work.

🍋What is something you've been too nervous/intimidated to write, but would love to write one day?

There are a few characters and ships I haven't written that I'd like to. And I suppose I'd like to write a proper long, over 100k fic at some point.

🍇 what made you choose your username?

When I made my AO3 account I felt as though that at 40, and only really starting in Fandom in this way, I was late to the party, so that is who I became.

#tag games #getting to know you #jen answers

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crookedkryptonitebeliever · 8 months

Text

Best and worst of both worlds (part 12)

Tw: injury, yandere and monty just being a creep

the University option was 60% wben the votes were 20, idk y suddenly u guys decided to favour 5 blocks away from ur house too

Damn from what i seen theres like distinct team monty and team Yves, ngl as writer i am biased towards Yves he my favourite

Part 13

You told him that you need to go to class.

Montgomery frowned. "If ya' say so." He shifted his gears and began driving away.

You looked at the scenery around you. This place is definitely not somewhere you visited before, you see a few buses driving by. But none of which you recognize.

"You free during the weekends?" He asked.

You said no.

Montgomery pouted. "Well, when are you free?"

You shrugged and said being a university student is demanding.

He sighed dejectedly. "What do I know, I only have a high school diploma. Wasn't one for the books, I'd rather git' out there and make me some cash."

You stayed silent.

"You ain't built for that, it really ain't for the faint hearted. So you gotta stay in school and try your hardest, sweetheart. Follow your dreams of becoming... whatever you wanted to be."

You nodded in acknowledgement. But Montgomery kept talking.

"I came to the city 'cause I heard I can make it big there. I didn't really have a plan, I was hopin' I'd make big bucks and start my own business." He switched his blinker on as he readies himself to make a turn.

"It was totally harder than I thought. I moved from city to city, was broke in every single one and I had to live out of my car if I wanted to eat. The people, all of 'em were mean as hell no matter where I go. They're nothin' like the people back home."

Curiosity gets the best of you and you asked why didn't he just return to base.

He laughed. "I didn't wanna hear an 'I told you so' from my family. I had to fight to get out of that damn farm. I can't imagine the humiliation if I come back home, tail between my legs, empty handed."

The air between you became quiet after that.

"So... what are ya' studying?"

You tried your best to explain your degree and the profession that you're hoping to work as. Montgomery hummed in response.

"I dunno much about that. But it sure sounds stressful and too brainy for me. You're such a smart kid."

You said thanks.

"A little lackin' in the brawn department though. That's why you need me to protect ya'." He grinned. "We sure are such a great match! When I get that business idea of mine up and runnin', you're gonna be handling the books. I'll be handlin' the shop- the physical part. We're gonna be swimmin' in riches, in no time!"

You didn't respond to that, making his excited laughter die down quickly.

"...Or you could just choose what'cha wanna do. Fine by me, I'll fund it the best I can." Montgomery is starting to look uncomfortable, it seems like he's trying to make some conversation with you. But you didn't want to give him any more of your attention.

The rest of the ride went by smoothly.

"Sixth period, I guess." He stopped in front of the entrance. You wonder if he's confused as to why he barely sees anyone around now.

You looked at the time. It's 11:45AM. The bus is coming in 5 minutes.

"Here." He shoved something into your hands. "Treat yourself to something nice." You uncrumpled it to reveal two $20 bills.

You thanked him and pulled the handle of the door.

"Wait! I want your number!" He got out of his car and ran up to you.

You said that you don't remember and you don't have your phone with you.

"You don't remember your own phone number?" He stared in disbelief.

You said that with the advancement of technology, no one needs to remember any phone numbers. It's all stored in the smartphone.

He scratched the back of his neck. "Well, I think you should memorize at least a couple of em'. What are ya' gonna do when your phone breaks, huh? You're gonna be doomed!"

Yeah. Like how you are right now.

You tried to end the conversation by agreeing and saying bye.

"I have an idea." You yelped as he grabbed you by the wrist. He pulled out a pen and uncapped it, Montgomery wrote a string of numbers on your arm.

You can only watch as he decorated your entire forearm in horror. How are you going to explain this to Yves?

"There, that's my number."

You pulled your arm away and told him that you're going to be late for class.

"Don't forget to call me!" He hollered as you move far, far away from him.

Finally, $40 richer, 100% more disturbed, 200% sweatier, you reached your house. 20 minutes late.

You dragged yourself onto the porch and struck your arm repeatedly against the door. Panting with your tongue out like a dog.

You wiped the sweat off your brow as the door opened. Thinking it's one of your housemates, you tried walking past them, only to be grabbed by the shoulders.

"(Name)!"

You looked up and saw Yves with the most haunting expression you've ever seen on his beautiful yet bruised face. Half it was still concealed by his hair. There was a mix of worry, sadness, anger and relief. It was an expression that guarantees you're in trouble.

You stared at him for a few seconds, his dilated pupil never left yours. You felt like you were on a court trial during those 20 seconds, Yves seemingly scrutinizing every aspect of your soul.

You burst into tears, sobbing loudly and pathetically. You didn't know where to start, you had so many unmet needs at the moment.

You're roasting in your own skin and sunburnt, you don't even have a wink of sleep, you feel violated by Montgomery, your stomach hurts from eating the greasy fast food, your muscles are aching from that epinephrine shot, you have a headache, you don't like how your clothes stuck to your body and Yves is mad at you.

One of the needs was immediately met when he pulled you into a hug.

"I'm not upset at you." He whispered, pressing kisses on your head. You cried harder and sunk into him deeper.

Of course, he knew what happened, where you went and what Montgomery did. All of it was caught on surveillance cameras and they're easy to hack into. He heard the conversations between you and him, Montgomery should upgrade his phone, it didn't even put up a fight when he tried accessing it remotely.

All because he didn't predict that you would be anaphylactic to your new medicine. If you knew he's virtually everywhere and watching your every move, Yves would have immediately intercepted before you could even put a foot down on the floor.

Yves let you wet his clothes until you calmed down enough for him to pull you into the house, where it is much cooler and dimmer. Your nosy housemates were peeking from the hallway, but this time Yves wasn't acting so nice. He shot them all a death glare, which made them promptly retreat into their rooms.

He closes the door and leads you to the sofa. Where he allowed you to let your emotions out on his chest, while sitting on his lap.

A hand stroking the back of your head, another pulling you close to him. Yves placed his lips on your forehead as snot drips down your nose and onto Yves. He doesn't mind your sweat or skin flakes.

Yves does appreciate that Montgomery was there at the right time. When you started to rub your eyes excessively, Yves was already on the highway, doing 120 miles per hour on an 80 limit. He knows something is wrong.

Unfortunately, though, he was too late and Montgomery already drove off with you. So he had to do a detour and tailgate him instead.

He did all the calculations and thought of all the possible outcomes in his head. And... to his dismay, the best one was to let everything that happened to you happen. Yves lets go and allows Montgomery to be the hero for today for the sake of your life.

But you were never in any real danger. Yves was following closely behind this entire time. Of course, you're definitely going to be uncomfortable. However, he knows you're not stupid, he could not slip a single "coincidence" that will allow him to save you from Montgomery. It's going to be too implausible to happen given that Yves is still a relatively "normal" person in your eyes.

You hiccupped in his chest, apologizing over and over again. Yves assured you that you did nothing wrong. He reached for his bag, taking out a packet of wet wipes and dry facial tissues.

He began cleaning you with the damp towel. Yves did not flinch when you coughed right into his face and had thick, opaque mucus land on his eyelashes. He continued wiping away the snot and tears while letting a glob of green rest on his eye.

If you had lingered at the university longer, Yves would have 'coincidentally' bumped and picked you up instead. Under the guise of him searching for you because he arrived early at your place to find the front door unlocked, your bag in your room and your phone on the table. Very unusual behavior of you.

But he underestimated your desperation to catch the next bus. You have broken his records, that was the fastest you ever ran since middle school and he has the data to back it up.

Now that you're slowly relaxing, Yves removed the goop from his eye using another wet wipe. His long eyelashes clumped together from the moisture. He continued by drying you using the facial tissues, which includes drying the sweat from your back and to your rear. Who gives a damn if Yves has his hands up your shirt and down your pants, it's Yves. You trust him.

You didn't pay enough attention to wonder why he brought some aloe gel today out of all days. Yves snapped the lid open and applied a pea sized amount on his fingertips. Yves spread it evenly on your now peeling skin, you let your shoulders sag as the gel soothes the burning pain.

Montgomery proved himself useful, twice. First, by saving your life. Second, by helping Yves look much more appealing to you. Doesn't his feather-like touches feel nice? It's nothing like that brute's talons.

Yves only wished that he had half a brain to feed you something appropriate and not an artery-blocking lump of fat and sugar. Four, of them plus two grease saturated hash browns, to be precise. God, Montgomery is spineless, he should have stopped you or at least found a way to make you eat slower.

You fell limp onto him as he skillfully massaged your scalp with his fingers. Your eyes rolled back into your head as the tingles travel down your spine, causing you to forget about the soreness you've been experiencing.

Yves had a look of disdain when he caught a glimpse of Montgomery's phone number written on your arm in pen ink. He doesn't know when to quit, does he?

You never once stopped to wonder how he knew to prepare a pack of ice wrapped in a towel even before you came back. He brought the chilly item to your neck, cooling down one of your crucial points.

Yves continued massaging your head to relieve you of any tension. He ticked off his mental checklists on your needs, another thing is going to be off his list very soon.

He watches your eyelids droop until your eyes are fully closed. Now draped across his lap, you're starting to snore and drift into slumberland.

He sighed. Caressing your tender leg as you sleep.

"You are such a troublemaker." He quietly hissed. Scooping you into his strong arms.

Yves carried you into your room, where he lowered you onto your bed. He didn't put the blanket on you, because you will overheat, wake up and panic again.

He went out and retrieved his bag. Yves took out his portable fan and placed it near you, so the moving air could cool you down further. If you weren't so bashful and considerate, he would have installed a portable air conditioning unit in your room already. But he knows you will find the gesture too extravagant and start to spiral out of control with your self depreciation.

He closed the curtains, turned off the lights. The only thing illuminating the otherwise dark room are the holes in your curtains and his laptop screen.

Yves took a seat, put on his reading glasses and began typing away. One hand keying in the information, the other holding the wretched medication that hospitalized you.

#yandere #yandere x reader #yandere oc #yandere male #yandere concept #tw yandere #yandere x you #yandere oc x reader #male yandere oc x reader #oc yves #oc Montgomery

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jacevelaryonswife · 2 years

Text

► Modern Headcanons | 「AU」

pairing: Jacaerys Velaryon | Aegon Targaryen | Aemond Targaryen x Fem!Reader (the famous big three).

a/n: This is situated in college and I hope you all like it. English is not my first language, sorry for any mistakes.

warnings: mentions of alchool, drunking and sex.

Modern headcanons masterlist

— Aegon ↺

We must begin with Aegon. The dude changes of graduations like he's changing clothes. He never knew what field to choose, he never had a big dream to fulfill or an aspiration to something — perhaps because his family was flying in money.

In high school he was the typical popular boy who part of the team and dated one cheerleader a month, in college it's no different.

He's a fuckboy, living in a frat (even though he doesn't have to) and throwing a thousand parties. He loves all girls, but freshmen, exchange students or super smart girls get his special attention. And some boys.

When I said that he changes courses like he changes clothes, I wasn't exaggerating.

First he tried physical education (why? He don't know), then computing at Luke's insistence (lots of numbers, he fucking hated it), then he tried law (WHY DOES A BOOK HAVE 800 PAGES?), he considered international relations and end tourism.

He wanted to do an exchange, but Alicent forbade it until he settled on something.

He just wanted to be an heir :(

He would probably meet you at a party and flirt compulsively. He wouldn't rest until he had your number, or kissed you, or better yet, performed obscenities in his room.

Eventually he would rent an apartment to have more privacy for his one night fucks.

Aegon would try to steal Jace's girls — why not?

He's used every drug you can imagine.

He would wake up drunk in the middle of campus.

He's a himbo.

— Aemond ↺

You know that handsome and mysterious guy that you would definitely have a crush on? Well, it's probably Aemond.

Among the areas he could choose, in addition to history and philosophy, I see physics or some impeccable academic career.

Unlike Aegon, the opportunity to run the family business would eventually excite him, so studying business administration is also a high possibility for our boy.

He would attend the best colleges.

He's intimidating at first sight and likes to do things alone, which makes you reluctant to try to get close.

But damn, he's super charming and seems to give off attractive pheromones and you can't pay attention to anything but him.

It's like Edward — you thought he was a vampire too.

He is super stylish and has an impossible presence to divert attention.

He would NEVER live in a frat. The idea of sharing a house with other guys his age is a nightmare. Seven Hells, he thinks he'd throw up at the smell of alcohol, drugs, and bed sheets after sex. Fucking gross.

He would rent an apartment close to university and other things that can enrich his routine.

He goes to some parties (not like Aegon) but getting drunk is not an option.

Maybe he'd try marijuana at a certain point, just to prove it.

He would always be with a book or phone in hand, or just contemplating the environment.

You'd meet him at some party or the library or any other part of college.

He was the best kiss you've had in years.

He makes you feel stupid with his intelligence and eloquence, even if he doesn't mean to. When you tell him you feel inferior, he'd take your hand and grope your face and say there's nothing that makes you any less than him.

— Jace ↺

I confess that choosing an area for Jace was the HARDEST thing about this headcanon, so he was the last.

I see him as a sports guy, but it would hardly go from a hobby. He could do business administration like Aemond to take care of the family business, but I also see him doing architecture. (If you have another option please enlighten me).

He would be a frat boy, BUT, with BIG caveats. He would be the boys' dad, guiding them not to drink too much, use illicit drugs and not take girls to his room (the latter mainly).

He's all sweet, kind, and protective with girls, unlike most frat boys.

He loves parties but tends to stay sober at most of them (sometimes he allows himself to get so fucking crazy and he turns cute and red when he's drunk).

He would smoke marijuana a few times and would definitely be a smiling high. Afterwards he would feel a little guilty.

You would also meet him at some party and be suspicious of him. Respectful, sweet and handsome? Just one low blow to get into your pants.

However, he's kind of hard to resist and by the end of the night he has your number and Instagram. Maybe even an excited kiss.

He's such a great kisser, it's so fucking unfair.

He would take you to a candy store or anywhere you want to go. Totally a good boy who treats you like a queen.

He would try to hide you from Aegon's clutches at family meetings.

#jacaerys velaryon x reader #aemond targaryen x reader #aegon targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen #aegon targaryen #jacaerys velaryon #jacaerys velaryon headcanons #headcanons #aegon targaryen headcanons #aemond targaryen headcanons #modern hotd #modern aemond #modern jace #modern aegon

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disasterbuck · 23 days

Text

FanFic Ask Game

So I saw this post (linked above) and decided to answer all the questions instead of just reblogging and waiting for asks. Enjoy getting to know a bit more about me as a writer!

💖 What do you like most about your own writing?

I love how fluffy it generally is and how my fics always have a happy ending 🥰

😐 What embarrasses you most about your own writing?

I don't think I'm embarrassed about my writing? Maybe sometimes I'll write a kiss that feels a bit cringe?

👻 What is one WIP you think you may never pick back up?

'the heist wip'. Inspired by the episode Ocean's 9-1-1, I wanted to explore what situation could make them ACTUALLY turn to crime. I had a vague idea of a woman's dog being kidnapped by her abusive ex, and Buck gets all obsessed over it and eventually asks the rest of the team to help him break the dog out or something. idk. I don't have a solid enough idea and I feel like it would end up being a long fic which I just can't commit to atm. (If anyone reading this is inspired by this idea, feel free to write it!! But please tag me if you do! I would love to read it!)

👀 Do you have any WIPs that you would never let see the light of day? If yes, what are they about?

... I don't think so?

Yeah I've just had a skim through and can't find anything that I would never share if I managed to finish it.

📥 What is your fave fic to receive comments/messages on?

Ooohhh, I love getting comments on ALL my fics but I guess if I had to choose I'd probably go with Friends Don't (8.5k) because it has a special place in my heart.

✏️ Do you write every day?

Not strictly, but most days yes.

🖊 Post a snippet from a current WIP.

"Back to my point," Chimney said once Hen's laughter died down. "You two are codependent. I bet you couldn't even go a day without having to touch each other."

Buck's face flushed a darker shade of red.

"Yes we could," Eddie argued, suddenly stubborn and confrontational. "We could go a week."

"You wanna bet, Diaz?" Chimney asked, raising an eyebrow in challenge.

After a quick glance to communicate with Buck, Eddie nodded and said, "You're on. What are the terms?"

don't say his name wip

🏅 What is something you recently felt proud of in regard to your writing (finished a fic, actually planned for once, etc).

I wrote 4 drabbles exactly 100 words each!! It took quite a bit of editing and revising but I'm really happy with how they turned out! You can read them here if you're interested: buddie month | four drabbles

😈 Is there anything you enjoy doing that you think your readers hate?

fhdskjfhs I HOPE NOT 😅

🌙 What time of day do you prefer to write? Why?

I don't really have a preferred time of day?

👖 Are you a planner, plantser, or pantser? Is it consistent?

Yes. And no. lol

📊 Current number of WIPs

............................ 104 🙈

👨‍👧‍👧 Do you tell people in real life that you write fic?

Depends ENTIRELY on the person. But generally yes. This does not equal letting them read my fics though lol.

🌝 Who is one character you haven’t yet written for that you would like to?

Hm, good question. Maybe Athena?

📝 What is one growth area you have for your writing?

Uhhh I don't know. I feel like I'm constantly learning about writing and just generally trying to improve in all areas.

📚 Do you read your own fic?

YES ALL THE TIME. I looooove reading over my fics. Makes me so happy!!

🤔 What is the hardest part of writing fic?

Writing kisses. Or endings. Both. Every time Buddie are about to kiss I tend to abandon the fic for a while lmaoooo and then whenever I have to wrap it up it takes me 3-5 business days.

🧠 What’s an idea you have that you can’t quite call a WIP yet?

Up for anything. All I've got for it so far is this:

Buck: No, I mean it. I'm up for anything. If you can come up with something I won't do you win. But I'm telling you right now I never back down from a dare.

💻 Do you do research for your fics? What’s the deepest dive you’ve done?

fhjskfh I hate research. My deepest dive is whatever happens in the show. I'll rewatch or maybe read wikis to make sure I get show details accurate but anything else? I'm making that shit up bestie 😅

✨ Choose three adjectives to complement your own writing.

🙈 sweet, emotional, aaaaaand heartwarming? idk

💭 What is a headcanon you have about your own work?

I don't have headcanons about my own work! Everything is canon! They're my works! My reality! YOU can have headcanons about my works lol.

🍰 Name one of your fave comfort fics (doesn’t have to be your all time fave).

Of my own or someone elses?

Of my own fics, I love you (4k) is my fave.

Someone else's, the first that comes to mind is The Best Lie is a Truth (My Best Mask is My Face) (43k) by @letmetellyouaboutmyfeels uggghhh it is chef's kiss!! Fake dating my beloved! 💕

👩‍🏭 If one of your fics was going to get you arrested, which one and why?

Lazy Mornings (1k) for being so freaking adorable 🥰

⏰ Do you spend more time reading fic, writing fic, or do you do both equally?

I think it's fairly equal? But maybe a bit more time writing, because a lot of the reading I do is of physical books rather than fic.

taglist because there's a sneaky snippet hidden above:

@dluoser @taketheplanspinitsideways @loudenthusiastic @wallywise @mxrcjqckspnchqsc

@therosesaredying @stillfuckingtired @classtrialguru @smolfunpenguin

@awesome-igi @natnuszsstuff @olliesrants @crazyfangirlallert @delirium1995

@brah3280 @meanceclosetohell @anythingeverythingallofthetime @sunflower-eddiediaz

@darkrose6578 @veronae-buddie @steadfastsaturnsrings @loveyouanyway @inell

@spicyrottingbrains @gnoeltop @idealuk @donationwayne @lemotmo

@smilingbuckley @realpersonwithrealfeelings @superlock-in-the-tardis @mjthe14thdoctor @strxwbereee

@idontknowwhatimdoing777 @ashleigh2658 @mari-lwyd-fannibal-blog @mineyneedsmoney

@spotsandsocks @unlifeira @pirrusstuff @buddiedaydreamer911

@littlevampireprincessuniverse @misshiss727 @i-put-the-star-in-bastard @hermioneindisguise @dangerpronebuddie

@specialbrownieeater @blue-winged-boy @bucks-daddy-issues @lightningmcqueer8

Let me know if you'd like to be added or removed 💕

p.s. I'm updating my taglist, check out the info on this post

#buddie fic #writer #fic writer #buddie #buck x eddie #evan buckley/eddie diaz #usermoonsharky #ask game #fanfic ask game #disaster snippets #don't say his name wip

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shadowmaat · 1 month

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Jedi Service Corps

The Legends-fueled propaganda of "bad students get sent to the Agricorp/Services" has always bothered me. First of all, forcing kids into a career not of their choosing isn't the best way to encourage them to perform well.

The Services in general seem to get a bad rap, and TBH it's kind of bizarre to assume that every kid who winds up being taken in by the Jedi wants to grow up to be a cop. LOL!

There is so much untapped potential being ignored, and even within the four pseudo-canon branches there's a lot to explore.

Agriculture. Farmers Without Borders. LOL! It isn't just about growing plants, it's about analyzing trends, understanding ecosystems, geology, climatology, politics, etc. There's mechanical engineering so you know how to fix the machines that do the hardest labor (often illegally, given corporate software locks and so forth). Probably a lot of fiddly stuff with plant genetics, too, given similar issues with seed corporations.

Being Jedi, I'm sure they're also aware of the need to include "ornamental" plants to help with the emotional welfare of hurting/devastated populations.

Education. This field must be fucking wild. Sure, you have your future creche masters and archivists, but I imagine there are those who do public outreach, too, and go to schools to teach kids about what the Jedi do beyond waving laser swords. There's probably also a need for teachers in isolated/rural areas to help with basic things like reading, writing, and maths. Ditto areas devastated by wars and natural disasters, where kids need a safe distraction from trauma. I bet Educorp and Agricorp team up more often than people might think.

There's also the sheer variety of topics. Even something basic like history will have a wide net. Galactic history, region-specific, planetary, etc. And then there's the arts. Music, singing, dance, physical media, holo media, theatre, and so much more. There will be differences between species, understanding what they need to know, how they learn best, and what their aging process is like. Teachers to cover the full range of mortal maturity, from teaching toddlers to old-timers. And don't get me started on teaching "forbidden" topics in repressive communities.

Medical. LOL. Every. Single. Species. And often subtypes between them. So many specialists needed. And again, you probably have a number that specialize in helping in disaster areas. Hello, Educorp, let's help teach these people how to best care for themselves. Maybe Agricorp can help with showing folks how to purify their air and water. There must be SO many diseases, some of which have inoculations and so that don't. And again, figuring ways to smuggle medicine and supplies to those who need it despite the extortionist rates corporations charge. Repairing faulty equipment, finding work-arounds when the parts aren't there. Triage. Using the Force to help heal is all well and good, but sometimes they still have to get hands-on.

Even with non-emergency stuff, I imagine they're still kept busy. The idea of a Jedi "country doctor" settled in some remote area sounds delightful. Communities that get "lost" in the shuffle or otherwise overlooked. Veterinary medicine as a sub-specialty.

Jedi having a special "knack" for determining what's wrong with someone, finding early warning signs before it's too late, etc. Comforting the dying. Comforting the survivors. ALL the mental health stuff and neurodivergence.

Exploration. Jedi Starfleet. LOL! It isn't all about discovering new worlds, though. Sometimes it's rediscovering planets and cultures that have been forgotten. Charting new hyperlane routes and hoping the end doesn't pop you out in the middle of a star.

I betcha you could fold so many things into this one. Botany. Archaeology. Xenoanthropology. Medicine, of course, since new worlds/people means new poisons, venoms, and diseases. New or ancient languages? It'd help to have someone around who could work on translating. Diplomats to help you talk to people. Geologists. Zoologists. A bit of everything.

Sure, there'd be room for solo missions, but I imagine there'd be bigger ships that they'd launch from. A place to come back to so the brains can pore over everything you brought back and see what they can determine from it. And big ships (or any ships really) means pilots, engineers, general crew, logistics, and all those fun things.

Anyway, I can see plenty of room for additional corps, too, but of the ones that get mentioned in Legends there's still a huge playing field.

#worldbuilding

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xwritingdixonx · 1 year

Text

Till Death Do Us Part | Chapter 1 |

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series masterlist

Summary: Daryl struggles to call Alexandria his new home, a bitterness lying in his heart of his late wife.

Warnings: language, slight mentions of a panic attack, mentions of grief / loss

Word Count: approx. 3.3k

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The cherry wood coffee table was littered with a messy stack of UNO cards, the last card being a bright yellow, reading the number 7. Carl paused for a second looking at the cards in his hand that he held before putting down a green 7. "No fair" Tara retorted reaching to grab a card. "I'm winning" Carl teased wearing a shit eating grin, showing off the two cards left in his hand.

Aaron had stopped by a little bit ago dropping off a deck of cards, a puzzle, and a pack of UNO cards that looked like they’d never touched a speck of dust. Carl and Noah were quick to choose UNO. Tara looking just as excited to play the game, convincing Rosita to also join.

It was only the second night in Alexandria but Rick couldn't help but smile for just a second, seeing his son playing games, laughing, making jokes. Had he not still been so on edge and his walls so built up, it could've felt normal, comfortable. The rest of the group sat around the same living room, some comfortably lounging on their sleeping bags and pillows, others on the couch, making jokes about who they were rooting for.

"You know, me and my friends used to do this"

Tara began, "we'd uh-" Tara smiled and paused for a second "have game nights, order a pizza, just talk. Like people." Tara chuckled but there was a hint of sadness to it. "Oh god i miss pizza!" Rosita joined in, attempting to tear Tara away from the sadness.

"I’d come home smelling like it every. day. Makes me sick just thinking about it" Glenn's face lit up with a smile.

Soon almost everyone in the room was sharing things they missed about the old world, things that would most likely never exist again or would be extremely difficult to achieve now.

Daryl however was perched up by the window, the cool night air flowing in once in awhile. Daryl was trying to figure out just how cold the breeze was, the colder it was, the closer Fall was, then after Fall came Winter. Out on the road Winter meant trouble, it was the hardest season to survive in the wild. But that wasn't a worry now. So Daryl didn't know why he was still worrying.

"Daryl"

Glenn's voice broke him from his thoughts, snapping his head around to look at him. "Hm?"

"What do you miss?" Glenn looked at him with pure intentions just wanting to know a bit more about the man, as did everyone else. Daryl was so closed off. Some days it felt as if he wasn't even alive before the outbreak, it was like the world ended and poof, Daryl Dixon appeared, ready to take it on. Everyone's eyes seemed to be on him now, anticipating a response. Which, to no surprise, Daryl didn't particularly like. Daryl scoffed and turned his attention back to the window, resting his head on his fist "Nothin'".

Daryl heard Glenn quietly apologize before continuing the conversation with someone else. Once again, Daryl retracted back and away from connection, sheltering himself like a turtle in a shell.

What do you miss? Daryl knew the answer, it was on the tip of his tongue. He just couldn't bare say it, couldn't let himself slip into that hole. You were a memory he had pushed so far back in his mind, it was as if you never existed in the first place. That's how he survived, forgetting you. If not, he would've fallen in that hole of depression and grief a long time ago. So instead of that, he built up walls. Built a wall of brick. Then built a wall of steel in front of that one and he allowed himself to hide behind those walls, angry and alone.

It just took one thought of you to completely blow a hole straight through those walls. Every single thing that the group listed made him think of you. Didn't matter what it was.

Tara bringing up pizza made him think about your favorite pizza spot that had $1 slices. He still remembers the day he watched you down 4 slices after a long Saturday night shift at the bar.

He thought about you when Rosita talked about missing makeup and feeling pretty. You were the prettiest thing Daryl had ever seen especially when you got all dolled up. He remembered your signature lip colors, remembered the brand, the name of them, remembered how pretty they looked on you.

"i don't get it" Daryl heard your distant laughter from the bathroom down the hall. You came walking throw the door, clipping your silver chain bracelet around your wrist. "What don't you get?" Daryl looked at the lip product in his hand, encased in silver packaging "the hell's it called black honey? ain't even black"

You shook your head at Daryl and snatched the product from his hand, taking a seat on his lap. Daryl happily wrapped his arms around your torso, resting his head on your shoulder. "Because it's-" you let out a sigh and took the cap off glancing at the dark plum tinted lip product. "Jesus i don't know D." You put the cap back on with a click, glancing at him through some of your bangs that had fallen in your eyes. " Before i forget" You left Daryl's grasp and made your way to your wooden vanity, "On your way home from the shop," You grabbed 2 small black tubes from the surface and tossed them over to Daryl. "Please please pick up those exact same shades from the store" Daryl recognized what they were immediately, flipping them around to see the name on the bottom. "Rum raisin and black cherry?" You hummed to him in response, "from Revlon?" you hummed an agreeing response again. "Good job handsome"

Daryl remembered everything that made you so uniquely you. Cherry perfume, tattoos, the silver jewelry you wore every single day. Those damn lipsticks, he never forget those ridiculous names. Your hair, god your hair. You had the most gorgeous head of hair, so full and thick. And that smile. When you smiled, your whole face smiled. You got complimented almost every single day on your appearance, not even just from Daryl, from strangers who saw just how gorgeous you were.

His chest tighten and ached, as if his heart was physically hurting. Hands clasping into fists to stop them from shaking. And his mind, spiraling. He could feel the lump in his throat form, the lump of tears, sobs. He cleared his throat and abruptly got up from his perch, racing to the front door. He couldn't stand to be in that room any longer, he felt like he was suffocating.

He sat himself down at the top of the stoop to the house and shakily tried to light a cigarette to forget about his racing mind, taking a long drag. Sitting in fresh air seemed to immediately calm him but the sadness still remained.

Daryl didn't look to see who sat beside him but he heard the creek of the wood panels and felt the presence. "What's going on?" Ricks words were low, as if he was asking him in a whisper. Daryl blew the last bit of smoke from his mouth and and flicked the cigarette away, that's when Daryl broke. The emotions he was trying so hard to push down just over poured at the question. Quiet sobs broke past Daryl's lips, hanging his head low in shame at the vulnerable state he was in.

Rick put a hand on his back to show he was there, giving him comfort through his presence. Rick didn't know what was making Daryl break but he knew he had to be there for his brother, allowing him feel whatever he needed to feel.

"I miss 'er"

Rick wasn't exactly sure what to say, he just nodded. Not once had Daryl ever brought up someone, especially not a woman. "Wanna talk bout' her?"

Daryl thought for a second, he had never been asked to talk about you. He knew he could, could talk about you till the sun rose in the East and set again in the West. But all he could say was "i'on know". He looked at Rick his eyes still glassy with tears.

Rick nodded at him again and gave him a reassuring smile.

Silence settled over the 2 men but it was comfortable, a calmness the night air provided. Daryl had calmed down, feeling slightly embarrassed at the sudden outburst of emotions. Thinking of what the rest of the group members might be thinking of him now.

Rick was lost in thought, it had just been a tiny detail but it opened up so much about Daryl as a person. He had someone, someone he cared for and they obviously weren't here. It explained some of Daryl's intense behavior at times, explained the way his anger led him, and his passion for saving people.

"What was her name?" Rick was testing the waters, seeing if there were anymore details he could get out about this now mystery woman. She could've been his girlfriend, his best friend, hell could've been his goddamn sister. The way the corner of Daryl's mouth almost turned into a smile told Rick that the waters were warm. "Y/n"

The next bit was what set Rick back, definitely not on the list of could've's.

"My uh...my wife."

Memories and nightmares had become a blur to you. At this point, they were practically under the same category. Both equally as haunting. Both equally creating a shallow feeling in your chest. Both keeping you up at night. Just like it had been tonight, the events of the previous day still haunting you. You never thought you were exactly a good person but you could at least try to justify your actions. Racking your brain for hours and nothing. Not one excuse, not one good reason for why you pulled the trigger and why so quickly? You opened your eyes, trying to not allow yourself to fall into that hole any deeper.

You had been in and out of sleep the entire night. Hearing the crickets and lightning bugs turn into early chirp of birds in the early morning. Most of the night you'd spent laid your side watching the fire from the previous night turn from orange glowing embers to nothing but black ash and coal. The only thing exciting you at the moment was getting back to your kitchen in Alexandria.

To be able to cook whatever you wanted and not having to survive off of canned goods, beef jerky, and protein bars. You had promised everyone when you all made it back home you'd cook up a nice big dinner and you'd all sit around the table like how it used to be. It was the longest the group had been away from Alexandria since arriving.

The sun hadn't quite risen yet but it would soon, the sky becoming a light blue- gray color. That's when you called it quits with attempting to catch anymore sleep, you wouldn't and you knew that. Everyone else would be up soon anyway and you'd be hitting the road again. Alexandria was only few more hours out but after what happened, everyone needed to rest. The group could've easily made it there late at night but decided it was okay to make it there by early afternoon today. You let out a deep sigh and sat yourself up, stretching out your arms and back.

You spotted Tommy who was in the same spot as he was the night before, sat up on the tailgate of one of the trucks from his turn on night watch. You slipped your leather steel toe boots on and made your way to him, deciding to give the both of you some company. "Heard ya comin'" Tommy's southern drawl never failed to amaze you, he didn't look like he'd sound like that but he sure did. When people met Tommy for the first time, the faces they'd pull were comedic. Especially the people of Alexandria.

You let out a scoff as you made your way up onto the road that was a few feet away from where you had set up camp for the night.

“Heard ya all night actually" You hopped up on the truck, taking your place next to Tommy and comfortably resting your elbows on your knees. "Was it bad?" You asked looking at him slightly embarrassed. Tommy knew you struggled with sleeping, he had been there to deal with most of it.

Since being in Alexandria it wasn't as bad as when you were on the road, almost like your body knew it wasn't in your safe comfy bed anymore. Tommy looked at you and gave you a soft smile and shook his head. "You weren't shaking or breathing heavy or doing that teeth grinding shit, just heard ya tossin' and turnin' all night"

You were listening to Tommy but watching the point in the sky where the sun was going to be peeking up at any second now. "Hey" Tommy nudged your arm with the back of his hand, pulling you away from zoning out and thinking too much. You averted your gaze to Tommy, "wasn't your fault". You scoffed a laugh and looked away, your eyes wondered to where everyone else still lay asleep in their sleeping bags. Specifically your eldest brother.

"Tell that to Eddie"

You and Eddie had been going at it over the past few months. You weren't exactly sure why and how it started but at this point, you didn't make it through a day without some sort of dispute or sarcastic remarks.

You heard Tommy sigh and put down the sniper rifle he had been holding.

“We got a lot of good stuff. Especially with winter coming. I mean shit, look at this." Tommy was trying to change the subject, make it seem more positive. You sat up and looked over your shoulder. The trucks bed behind you was piled high with crates and boxes, some bigger stuff just lying around. Like a Kitchen- Aid mixer, which you already called dibs on. The other truck that was parked next to this one was the exact same way.

None of you expected the run to go this well. You had found weapons, food, clothes, kitchen appliances, medicine, books, and so much more. There was so much that you actually had to leave some stuff behind. Hidden. Of course. But you still slipped in a few things for Jace and Luke. "We're gonna have to come back for the rest soon" You commented, receiving a nod of agreement from Tommy. "We got the whole route mapped out right?"

"Yes ma'am"

"Good" You and Tommy made eye contact and smiled at each other. The sound of shuffling made you both break contact, looking back to see the other 3 waking up and beginning to pack up. Nellie caught your eye and gave you a wave and a sleepy smile to say Goodmorning, you returning one. You made eye contact with Eddie who, in return, shot you a stone face glare.

Once everyone had packed up, it was time to hit the road. You drove one truck with Nellie in the passenger seat. Tommy drove the other, with Eddie and Henry squeezed in the front. The sun was at its peek in the sky when the gates of Alexandria came into view. You beeped the car horn twice giving whoever was on watch the signal to open up the gates. The 2 trucks came to a rolling stop safely inside the walls of Alexandria. "Home sweet home" You remarked, taking the keys out of the ignition.

The closing of the trucks doors rang in your ears as everyone stepped foot on the concrete. You saw Deanna making her way down the road to the group with a blissful smile on her face and pep in her step. "Wonder what she did now" Henry sarcastically remarked, quickly going to the bed of the truck to help begin unloading, Eddie right behind him.

"Thank goodness!" She planted her hands on her hips, taking stand in front of you, "you should've been back last night did something happen?"

The sun was glaring directly in your eyes so you tried your best to smile at her while also shielding your face from it. "No, we just got tired so we set up camp a few miles out" You did your best to reassure her, Deanna worried about your family probably more than she worried about her own. Alexandria relied on your group. And she relied on you.

"The run went amazing Deanna" Nellie joined putting a reassuring hand on Deanna's arm. "Well I can tell!" She threw her hands up gesturing to the full trucks behind you, "I mean look at this, this is more than we expected" The smile that beamed on her face showed that she truly was in a joyful mood. But there was something else there, a slight hesitation in her eyes. There was something she wasn't saying.

"Dad!"

Before you could begin to question Deanna, Luke's sweet voice rang through out the air. Luke was jogging towards Tommy with a excited look on his face. Tommy's face lit up at the sight of his son, his eyes widening and a smile forming. Jace and Cecilia weren't far behind him also coming to give everyone a welcome and looking equally as ecstatic.

A sense of relief washed over you, all your worries and racing thoughts vanishing in that moment. Cecilia welcomed you and Nellie into a tight embrace, wrapping one arm around either of you. "I'm so glad you're okay" She planted a kiss on both you and Nellie's cheeks, earning a laugh from both of you.

Oh, Cecilia. Sweet sweet Cecilia with her dark brown curly hair, big emerald eyes, and dimples. She had been the one to offer to stay with Jace and Luke while the rest of you were away, she didn't like being on the road and fighting. Not that she couldn't do it because she could, you'd seen her. She just chose not to.

"We got these for you, we went over the walls...with Cecilia. I hope that was alright" Luke timidly handed you a bunch of wildflowers tied together by grass. "Ah haha! These look like the perfect ones" Your voice sweet and smooth giving Luke a wide smile, reassuring him that you weren't upset with them.

Luke was shy and stuttered when he'd talk but he was also the kindest and softest spoken person you knew. His brown curly hair and dimples in his pale cheeks added to his soft composure. Jace, on the other hand, was older, taller, and had lost most of his baby face. He still sported the signature curly brown hair. "Come here, sweet boys" It was your turn to embrace them both in a warm hug.

Neither of them were quite as tall as you yet but Jace seemed to be getting there. Most days it seemed like you were eye level with him.

"Did you get your father some?" Glancing over at Tommy, he held up his bunch of flowers. His were shades of blues, greens, and whites. While the bunch Nellie and you were given we're shades of white, purple, and yellow.

"Boys"

You had forgotten Deanna was there, getting too wrapped up in your conversation.

"Why don't you help unload the trucks? I’ll go grab you guys notepads so you can help" Deanna meant well, she always did but you and Tommy expressed that you didn't want Jace or Luke in any of the dirty work the rest of the group did. They're children, they deserved to be children. They had already been through enough. But they still had responsibilities around Alexandria and training. You looked at Tommy for approval who gave you a nod. "Walk with me Y/n"

So you did. Walking side by side. Some days you felt like you towered over Deanna because of her small height. If someone saw you walking together they would think you were in charge, not her.

"Is there something you wanna tell me?"

"We brought in a group" She didn't miss a beat, as if she was waiting for you to begin questioning her.

"What?" You stopped dead in your tracks at the bottom of the steps to the pantry, she had already made it to the top of the steps with her foot in the door when she turned around and smiled at you. "Yeah a group of 15" She disappeared into the pantry "Of what ?!" You were hot on her tail, stomping your way up the stairs and swinging open the door but you still muttered a polite hello to Olivia as you passed her.

Deanna sighed and turned to face you. "This is their third day here, Aaron tracked them for a week to make sure they could be trusted" She tried to reassure you but it wasn't working. That was a big group. Bigger than your group. "Deanna that's a lot of people, you don't know them."

She ignored you, turning her attention to a stack of memo books. The memo books were used to count and write down everything that was brought into Alexandria from trips. Everything was documented and accounted for so if anything was stolen or taken out, it would be known. She picked up a black one and blue one, along with 2 black pens.

"We need the man power Y/n. I appreciate everything your family has done for Alexandria but its too much and you know that. The entire group was gone for 2 weeks, what if something had happened? No one was here to protect Alexandria. You need the weight off your shoulders and I need it off mine."

You knew deep down she was right. Your group held all the responsibility in Alexandria, they relied on you. Even though most of them hated you, the ones that listened to all the gossip at least. Deanna could see the mixture of doubt and worry on your features, the way your eyebrows crinkled and your lips turned to a frown. "Go home, get cleaned up, i'll be waiting at mine and we can talk more, alright?"

"Alright."

#daryl x you #daryl dixion x reader #daryl dixon fanfic #daryl dixon series #daryl dixon x female reader #the walking dead #twd #daryl dixon fanfiction #daryl x y/n

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takingback-thepenguin · 10 months

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This isn’t exactly an NPMD AU per se, but it is a concept. I hope you guys like it!

So here, have some thoughts on the NP characters + hypnosis. This idea totally didn’t come from the line in Dirty Girl when Max says “I swear you’ve got me hypnotized” and moves his finger in a circle while Grace follows.

This concept would likely take place in a timeline where Max either chooses not to be a bully or chooses to become a better person post Waylon Place, and as a result, is a bit nicer, but still has that quarterback/leader of the pack mentality. Additionally, I think the characters would be out of high school and in college.

So, starting with Max…if Max was going to be the hypnotist, here’s how I think it’d go.

He’d be firm but he’s sort of gentle. His voice has power to it. There’s a bit of an assertion of a kinda “focus on me” but it’s not loud. He makes people want to focus. He charms and captivates.

He doesn’t use pocketwatches or pendulums or spirals. Because while yeah, they work, he feels it’s easier for people to focus if it’s all coming from one spot (plus…he likes the focus all on him). Because of that he’ll use solely his voice or he’ll use his hand or his eyes as a focal point. If someone wants like a pendulum or spiral kind of induction he’ll try to replicate it with his finger.

There are points where when he’s guiding his subject, he’ll tell them to repeat him.

A lot of the people he encounters are because they’re stressed and want to turn the thoughts down a bit. They need a bit of order and instruction for a little while, and he’s happy to provide that.

A friend of mine also came up with a thought about Max that I agree with: even if he’s not a bully, he still does have that leader/top of the social hierarchy energy about him, and they thought a good way to keep that characterization is that he can get a little…for a lack of a better word…commanding, making induction loops and bringing people up, only to drop them down. To add on to that, induction wise I bet he makes his subject keep their eyes open/keeps them from dropping until he says so. He keeps the induction going for a while, maybe he even makes them count themself down (and maybe makes them start from the top if they miss a number). But they don’t go under until he tells them to sleep.

Now for the flip side, where Max is a subject:

The hardest part is to get him to let go but if he does, he's out. Even if he’s not a bully, giving up control is still hard for him because of his status and school and the pressure of being a quarterback and just general stress. Life isn’t easy and because of where he is in life he feels pressure to strategize and watch his every move. And once you’re in that kind of mindset, it’s hard to get out, even if you want to.

I also think once he’s under all he’d want is to let himself be vulnerable, take a breather, and be himself and not the front he puts up.

Additionally, I once made a joke that he could be the "I can't be hypnotized" *cuts to the character hypnotized* trope…if it didn’t take him so long to actually get there.

Next here are my thoughts on Richie, if he was the hypnotist:

I think Richie definitely went through a wanting to play hypnotist phase as a kid (which is not as common as my childhood led me to believe). He likely saw it in an anime and decided he wanted to try his hand at it.

Richie as a hypnotist would be the opposite of Max in a way. He’s not loud per se, but he likes all the different ways you can put a person under. And since he likes all the things you see in the movies and on tv, he’d have an array of inductions up his sleeve instead of one specific one like Max.

He definitely would say the “you’re getting sleepy” line at some point.

I think he’d post videos about it. They’d range from informative to him being silly.

I think he’d lean into showmanship a lot as a hypnotist.

Now for the flip side:

If Richie goes under as a subject…he goes under really quickly. Part of it is Richie is really creative and imaginative, and the other part is school and life can be stressful so he’d want to not have to deal with that for a bit.

I also don’t think he’d really have an issue with letting go. I don’t think he’d be as in his head about it as say Ruth or Pete would.

Next up is Pete. While Pete would most likely be the subject, I do have thoughts where he could be the hypnotist:

He would only do this if one of his friends asked him to put them under.

Pete likely wouldn’t want to use spirals or watches or anything unless asked. He’d probably solely use his voice and have his friends stare at the ceiling while he reads from a script, because he’d probably feel goofy doing it.

He doesn’t want the focus on him, but Pete would do anything for his friends, and if this helps them get out of their heads and deal with their stress, he’ll gladly help.

On the other hand, Pete is a tricky subject:

Pete (at least NPMD wise…at first) is closer to Max as a subject. He's smart and strategic. He carefully plans things to avoid certain situations happening (even if they don’t always go according to plan). But if someone he trusts pitches the idea, he may just give it a go.

He wants to let go because it'd be nice to not have to worry about what everyone else is thinking for once. But that's also the reason he's afraid to. He knows that he might say or do something he didn't plan on even if he knows he's in control. While he wouldn't do something completely out of character, if someone asked him what he was thinking while under, he might say it without filtering himself and that's scares him. He’s been burned before and he’s afraid if he lets his guard down, it could happen again.

Ruth is more likely to be on the subject side of things, but like Pete, she’s a tricky one too:

Ruth, like Pete, has a tendency to get in her head and let her worries and anxiety win.

I think she might want to go under because it could help her with her anxiety and stress. But I also think it would take a while because she has to get out of her head and push her anxiety away. We’ve seen her do it before, but it’s not an easy task for her. She may want it to work, but I feel that there’s a part of her that would hold back.

If she manages to get over that hurdle though, I think she’d be happy to not have to worry about everything that’s stressing her out.

Grace is also interesting to think about as a subject:

Grace I think would be similar to Max. She’d be the “I can’t be hypnotized.” *cuts to the character hypnotized* trope if she’d let herself let go. She also has issues letting go because GOD FORBID she feels herself slip.

She’s also very strategic in watching her (and everyone else’s) every move, and I think it’d be hard for her to let go of that. Even if she’s told it’s okay. I think she’d be too focused on that and she’d get in her own head.

Like Max though, if she does let go, I think she’s out.

Last but not least, we have Steph:

Steph doesn’t really believe in it. But she’s there for support if her friends want someone there. Maybe if Pete asked her to put him under, she’d do it? If not, she’d be there holding his hand the entire time.

#here’s the au concept i’ve been hinting about #the hypnerdy prudes concept/au #hatchetfield #nerdy prudes must die #npmd #pete spankoffski #richie lipschitz #ruth fleming #grace chasity #stephanie lauter #max jagerman #my au #i speak

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musings-of-a-rose · 2 years

Text

Love at the Top

Pairing: Teacher Ben x f! Teacher reader

Word Count: 3200+

Rating: Mature - 18+ ONLY!

Warnings: Just like ao3, “creator chooses not to use warnings.” If you click Keep Reading, that means you agree that you’re the age to handle mature themes. Also by clicking Keep Reading, you understand warnings may not be complete in order to avoid spoilers for the story.

Notes: This was an ask that was pm to me from @fishingforpike and I couldn't pass! I hope it's what you want (and if you want a smutty part 2 I may be down for writing that)

**If you want to be added to the taglist, join here or let me know!

Main Masterlist

Teacher Ben Masterlist

Love at the Top Part 2

Graduating wasn't easy. Interviewing for my first big job was harder. But the hardest so far is this. Teaching high school English fresh out of college - and I know no one at this school.

I moved to a new city right after graduation after accepting the English teaching position so not only was it my first real degree job, but it was in a new city with a whole new culture. And I was teaching high school. Which shouldn't be an issue because I'm 24 which means I can still relate to the youth of today, right?

I hope so.

I completed all of the new hire orientation at the district building. Today I finally get to see my classroom and start setting up while navigating all of the back to school meetings and having everyone point out "the new teacher". I hope there aren't any ice breaker games.

"Welcome back everyone!" The principal starts the all staff meeting with a typical speel of announcements.

"Before we continue, let's do some ice breakers to get us into that back to school spirit!"

Damn.

He starts to pair us up, trying to match people outside of what they teach.

"And Ben, you'll be with the new English teacher." He gestures between me and a man I've not met yet.

Ben turns to face me and my stomach jumps into my throat. He is gorgeous. All dark eyes and graying dark hair, button up shirt tucked into his dress slacks with a tie that says "Science ROCKS!" on it with pictures of rocks all over it. He has black framed glasses which he's taken off his face to fiddle with nervously as he stands, walking to me.

"H-hi. I'm Ben." He holds his hand out and I shake it, noticing that his palms were slightly sweaty.

I tell him my name. "Nice to meet you."

We get through the ice breaker game and I find myself crushing hard on Ben with his shirt tucked into his pants.

The meeting resumes and everyone goes back to their seats. I find myself stealing glances at Ben across the room and I swear I catch his eyes a few times but there's no way he's looking at me, right?

The meeting ends and I gather up my things, trying to remember how to get to my room from here when I feel someone walk up to me. Turning, I see Ben, shifting nervously from foot to foot. He leans in and speaks quietly to me.

"Need help getting back to your room?"

"How did you know?"

He smiles and now I know I'm in trouble. "Happens for all of us. What's your room number?"

"Uh…" I check my paper. "148-B."

"Oh that's not far from me. I'll take you there.. if…if you'd like?"

"I'd love that, thank you."

Ben escorts me to my room and looks around at the bare walls and boxes stacked everywhere.

"You have some work ahead of you."

I sigh. "Oh yeah. I haven't had a moment to unpack anything."

"Do you want some help?"

"Oh. Um.. I don't think so." Really I'd have him stay but this is my first room and I'd like to set that up myself.

He smiles but it doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Ok. Well if you change your mind, I'm in 140-A. Just at the end of the hall."

"Thanks."

"You're welcome."

We stand there for several awkward moments before he gives me a little wave and heads out the door. What the fuck was that? I can't have a crush on a coworker already.

I start to unpack, the room slowly coming together. I find myself thinking about Ben and when I can't take it anymore, I decide to set aside some posters that I'll say I need help with.

I head down to his room and take a breath, gently knocking on the door.

"Come in."

I push open the door and have to pause - his room is heavily decorated, earth science posters plaster the walls, stacks of books around the edges, bins and bins of rocks are everywhere. It feels like organized chaos and I love it. Wait, is that a lightsaber in the corner?

"Oh hey. How's the room coming?"

"It's..nowhere near as cool as yours."

Is he blushing? "I - my room's a mess. Especially compared to yours I'm sure."

"I think it's wonderful."

"Th-thanks."

A few moments pass before I work up the courage to ask.

"I- could you help me hang a few things? I just don't want to fall off a chair."

"Y-yeah. Of course!" He walks towards me.

I point to the corner. "Is that a lightsaber?"

Now I know he's blushing. "I uh… yeah." He sounds embarrassed.

"I have Ashoka's. What color is yours?"

His eyes snap to mine, a light igniting behind them. "Green. You have a lightsaber too?"

"2, technically. I'd love to get my own at Disney one day."

He smiles wide. "Oh it's a great experience! That's where I got that one from. So you're a Star Wars fan then?"

I nod. "Absolutely."

"Are you old enough to see them in theaters?"

I laugh. "Well not the original ones, but yeah. I was little and they were re-releases but that's when I fell in love. They were my first movies in theaters."

We chat about Star Wars all the way back to my room and while he puts up the posters I could've easily hung myself. Once he finishes, he turns to me, dropping his voice quieter than normal.

"Ok, want the real low down on the school?"

"Ooo yes!"

He chuckles. "Ok my young Padawan." He launches into a mini Ted talk about the best bathrooms, which stairs cases to avoid, the sticky elevator, which lunch lady will sneak you extra food, although I have a sneaking suspicion that applies to Ben only.

"Thank you so much, Ben! What would I have done without you?"

He waves a hand. "I'm sure you would've been fine."

"Can I buy you lunch tomorrow?"

He starts coughing violently but waves me off when I move to help him. "What?"

"As a thank you. Can I buy you lunch?"

"Oh really you don't have to."

"Of course I don't. But I want to. What are the good spots?"

"You don't want to go to lunch with an old man like me."

I blow a raspberry at him. "Please. You aren't old."

"I'm 47. And you're what, 20?"

"24. And stop acting like you're 120. You're only 47."

"It's a 23 year difference."

"So you've done the math between us?"

What did I just say?

He blushes hard, hands not sure whether they want to settle on his hips or cross his broad chest. "N-no. I mean it's simple math."

I nod, trying to hide my own embarrassment. "It is. But it's not bad. We get along just fine, don't we?"

He opens and closes his mouth a few times. "I-yeah but…wouldn't your boyfriend mind?"

Is he fishing?

"It's a thank you lunch so it wouldn't matter even if I had a boyfriend. Or a girlfriend."

He says nothing, studying me. "A simple thank you is just fine, Padawan."

"No matter how much I insist, you're going to turn me down aren't you?"

He nods. "Afraid so."

"Suit yourself. I was going to see if we could catch the early bird special."

He puts his hand on his chest in mock shock. "Is that an old person joke?"

"It would be if you were old."

—----

That first week back for teachers flies by, mostly thanks to Ben. He's helped me decorate and setup nearly my entire room, helping me with every vision I had as "It's your first classroom so you decorate it how you want."

Then it's time for students.

Ben comes in early that first day and drops by my room, quietly handing me a cup of coffee he'd brought me from a local coffee shop, telling me I'll be brilliant on my first day after seeing the nerves in my eyes.

"You've learned so much, Padawan. They'll love you. Just don't show them any weakness and you'll be good."

"What?"

He waves, giving me a smirk as he heads back through the door. "You'll be great!"

Somehow I make it to lunch without vomiting. The kids were actually not too bad so far. And I get to see Ben at lunch.

He's saved me a seat, sliding me a peanut butter cup when I sit across from him in the teacher's lounge.

"How did you know I needed this?" I ask him, eagerly peeling back the paper and stuffing the entire cup into my mouth.

He smiles. "I just had a feeling."

—----

We settle into a routine, spending our lunch time chatting about anything and everything, popping into each other's classrooms with some random excuse to just say hi, students or not.

A couple months later, one of my students approaches me, handing me her class work as I take a sip of water.

"Miss, are you dating Mr. Ben?"

I choke on my water, throwing my hands in the air. "I-what?"

She's smiling at me. "You're dating aren't you?"

"Uh… no we aren't. We're just good friends."

"Uh huh."

"Why would you ask that?"

"You're just always with each other. I thought you were together."

I bring this up to Ben when I drop by his room during planning period. He blushes furiously, red creeping up his cheeks as he removes his glasses to wipe at them nervously.

"What, uh what did you tell her?"

"That we weren't dating. Just good friends."

He nods, his eyes looking a little sad. "I can't believe they'd think you'd date an old fart like me."

I laugh. "You're not that old, how many times do I have to tell you that?"

"You're closer to them in age than to me."

He's not wrong.

"That's just numbers. Besides, none of them have those little gray hairs in their hair."

His fingers come up to run at his hair. "Is there something wrong with it?"

"Not at all. Trust me, it works."

His eyes meet mine and they shift ever so slightly down to my lips before flicking back up. He opens his mouth to say something bit then the bell rings, extinguishing any sort of spark we felt in that moment.

—-----

The State Fair comes to town and it's all the students can talk about. Apparently it's a big thing here and so, I decide not to give them homework and even push back their planned test, which earns me a class full of whoops and hollers every period.

At lunch, I mention this to Ben who chuckles and says I may have surpassed him as favorite teacher now.

"Oh please, all the kids love you."

He chuckles and shakes his head. "I have no clue why."

"Really? You're a fantastic teacher and really take the time to get on their level so they understand the subject."

He stares at me. "You- you think?"

"I love watching you teach. It's obvious you care and the kids can pick up on that."

He blushes, red dusting his cheeks as he turns to his sandwich, mumbling a "thanks".

"So this state fair is a big thing?"

He nods, swallowing the bite of sandwich. "Huge. It's not small either, has concerts and livestock shows, typical fair food and rides, and a bunch of other stuff."

"Sounds fun. I've never been to a fair."

He chokes and I jump, moving around the table to thump him on the back.

"Y-you've never b-been to a fair before?"

I shake my head. "Nope. Parents didn't want to pay for it."

"Well you have to go then!"

"By myself?"

"Fairs aren't fun alone. I'll take you."

Silence stretches between us as his eyes grow wide when he realizes what he said.

"I mean as friends, of course."

I smile, letting it not reach my eyes. "Of course."

"I uh… I'll pick you up Saturday morning?"

"Sounds perfect."

—----

I swear I've tried on everything I own and I can't settle on something to wear. It's not like it's a date, but it feels like something… more. I don't know how to explain it but I know I want to wear non school work clothes.

I finally settle on a sundress, pale green with embroidered flowers and vines running across it and pair it with some short boots, not wanting to walk across dirt in sandals.

The knock at my door comes promptly at 11am, exactly when he said he'd pick me up. I grab my bag and open the door, smiling wide at his choice of black slacks and a light blue top that somehow brings out his eyes. I've never seen this man in a color that he can't pull off.

"HI Ben! Wait…does your bow tie have little Earths on it?"

He smiles nervously, fingers twisting his bow tie. "Yeah it does! Do you like it?"

"I do!"

His smile is brighter, but then his eyes rake down my body and something shifts in him, his eyes becoming darker.

"Y-you look…"

"Oh. Is this not fair appropriate? I can change-"

"No! I mean, no. It's perfect. You're perfect."

"What?"

"I uh said come on let's go."

—----

He wasn't kidding - this fair is huge.

He insists on paying, buying parking and my entrance ticket, helping me decide which fair foods to try as I'd never had any of them. We hit up the petting zoo, a livestock show that one of our mutual students was competing in, and looked at all of the vendors, some selling some really unique things.

Then it was time for rides.

We went on several different ones before I needed a break, noticing the relief on Ben's face when I insisted we rest. The sun was starting to set, so Ben said we should rest on the ferris wheel.

"You have to catch the sunset from the ferris wheel," he insists.

I don't have the heart to tell him I'm not a huge fan of heights.

We get in the cart and pull the bar down and I think I'm doing OK…until we move. The second we start to ascend, my hand flies out and I grip Ben's thigh, trying to basically insert myself into his lap.

"Are you ok?" He asks as we continue to climb, cart stopping every few feet to let someone else in.

"I… I'm g-good."

"You're gripping my thigh."

I try to let go but I can't. "Ok… I'm terrified of heights."

We make it to the top and the wheel starts to move slowly around and I think I'm going to lose it.

Ben hesitantly puts his arm around my shoulder, pulling me into his side. He squeezes me slightly, adding just enough pressure to calm me. His other hand lays on top of mine, which is still gripping his thigh. He manages to slide his fingers around mine, the warmth from his hand grounding me in the moment. He rubs his thumb along the back of my hand, trying to comfort me. We stay like that through 2 rotations of the wheel before it stops, us at the top.

"Why is it s-stopped?"

"It's to take in the view. But you don't have to."

I nod. "I think I'm doing b-better."

"Can I ask you something?"

"You just did."

He chuckles sarcastically. "Ha-ha. But seriously, why did you agree to the ferris wheel if you're not a fan of heights?"

The cart rocks and I squeeze him harder, unable to think clearly. "To be with you."

He stiffens. "To..what?"

The cart sways again and my grip tightens.

"I want to see the sunset."

He rubs his hand up and down my arm. "You don't have to."

"No. I want to."

I take a deep breath and open my eyes, immediately starting to breathe faster as my eyes take in the height.

"Hey, padawan, look at me."

My terror filled eyes find his, soft and warm and comforting, and I find myself relaxing, getting lost in those brown eyes I love so much. His hand comes up to tuck some hair behind my ear and his fingers brush my cheek.

I sigh, the tension leaving my body the longer we stay like that. His eyes flick down to my lips and linger for a few seconds before meeting my eyes again.

I take my hand from his and place it on his chest, gently, hesitantly, gripping his shirt and tugging slightly on it to pull him toward me. He acquiesces, slowly lowering his head to mine, but then he pauses, lips an inch from mine.

"I'm 47."

"I don't care."

I tug him ever so slightly again and a moment later, he pushes his lips to mine, mustache tickling me as he kisses me. It's gentle, restrained, as if he can't believe he's kissing me. He pulls back, dark eyes finding mine, wide and asking if that was ok.

I slide my hand up to his cheek, rubbing my thumb over his patchy stubble before sliding it behind his head, pulling him down to me, deepening the kiss the second our lips meet. I feel his hand come up to cradle the back of my head and he sighs into me, pulling me as close as he can, a slight moan in the back of his throat.

He pulls back, but stays close, eyes meeting mine.

"Are…are you sure? I'm such an old man."

"I really like you, Ben. Like a lot. But I don't want to make you uncomfortable-"

"I don't want you to be uncomfortable."

My finger traces a pattern on his cheek and he closes his eyes briefly before finding mine again.

"You could never make me uncomfortable. You're the only person I've ever felt like I could be myself with."

Oh God, his eyes are like a puppies' and I don't know what to do.

"Really?"

"Really."

"Would it be bad of me to make out with you before the first date?"

I mock thinking, finger poking at my chin. "I'll allow it."

"Oh thank God."

His lips pressed to mine and the kiss is more frantic, deeper, more emotion behind it than before. Like he's relaxing and allowing himself this chance at happiness.

I clutch him to me, my leg sliding over his as I try to slide into his lap, forgetting about the lap bar. And the fact we're in public. Ben chuckles, placing his hand hesitantly on my bare thigh.

"Not here, sweet girl. Too many eyes. And I want you all for myself."

-------

Love at the Top Part 2

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