Latest Posts by hicanivent - Page 2

I made my own version of a Timestuck AU!

I haven't worked out how the Mystery Twins go back in time, but they end up lost and seperated from each other innn front of a certain cabin/shack and in a random city.

I made so much more than this lol

Expect a lot more in the future. It'll be listed under the tag Timestuck AU

Next

REBLOGS > LIKES

YES

A MILLION TIMES YES

No but like the angst potential?

It's after Weirdmageddon, Bill is gone, Dipper and Mabel are back in Piedmont and Stan and Ford are sailing on the StanO'War.

Ford didn't get around to tinkering with his old projects until then, worrying about too many things around Bill and then Stan regaining his memory. However, finally, he has the time to look back.

Finding the googles all fixed up and fully working (all by accident, mind you) opened up so much potential for more discoveries.

He could look back and study the details he's previously missed or didn't pay as much time as he wanted to. He is ecstatic to have such an opportunity, all thanks to Stan.

After some time, he starts wondering about things other than research. His life, mostly. His and Stanley's. How many things have they already forgotten and could now see as if they happened the day before? It'd also help with Stan's recovery and fasten the process.

Once, late into the night, he finally decides to sit down and look back at their lives. He finds hidden details, relives the happiest moments of his life as well as the hardest. He can't say he's been the happiest throughout his life but it's been good.

Then he looks at Stanley and something breaks.

He sees their childhood from a completely different perceptive. He isn't the smart twin anymore, he is Stan. The one that was always considered less, the one that was offered for just a few bucks by his own father, the one that stood up for Ford and was there through thick and thin.

And they get older and the guilt in his chest gets heavy with every screening.

The hidden, unfulfilled dreams and ambitions, the hardships and hopes for a better future on StanO'War. All for it all to come crumbling down because of the science project which, in the end, wasn't actually Stan's fault at all. Ford finally realises it, over 40 years later.

He can't take his eyes off of the googles even despite the pain he feels from seeing Stan be kicked out. He watches his own brother be thrown around and used by people, life forcing him on his knees, as if punishing him for simply existing. The breakdowns, pain, nearly deaths, it all shakes Ford to his core.

And he feels awful when he watches himself disappear into the portal only for Stan, the brother Ford left behind for success, to take it upon himself to get Ford back. Stan spends 30 years studying subjects he doesn't understand and trying to fix a portal with a single journal, all to return his twin brother home.

The first thing Ford does? A punch to the face. And Ford can feel the punch as well, the reality being thrown at him with such overwhelming force.

Stan doesn't understand why Ford doesn't touch the googles again and becomes so much more understanding and appreciative towards him.

Sorry if it sounds like rambling, it's like 1 AM and my mind is all over the place to be honest.

Stanford Pines had been working in something amazing before he encountered Bill. It looked like a tape but it would be used to have a look at different times without interacting with them, he had a whole plan for it: Goggles, some sort of virtual reality goggles that would let you peek into the future or past without worrying about altering anything, and the tape to select the time period you'd like to watch.

It is, unfortunately, no where near complete. His muse has told him to focus on something greater: the portal.

Stanley Pines had messed up, shocker. He broke one of his brother's projects again, a measuring tape looking machine.

On nights he doesn't know how to fix the portal, he sounds ficing that tiny machine. The design is lame but he tries to keep it true to it's original form and, despite it breaking because he was an idiot, he feels accomplished when he finishes it and puts it back in it's original place.

30 years later, Stanford Pines returns only to find out his brother had accidentally created the very first time tape.

(Or: Stan fixes the time tape/watcher a bit TOO well and becomes the founder of time machines basically)

worlds slowest fanfic author tries really really hard

i'm back in my gravity falls era and have this AU swimming around in my head (there's actually more than one)

do people still even like those or not?

tbh i ain't sure how alive the fandom is rn-

The casting director said, “Give me Billy and Stu, now.”

REBLOG IF ITS OKAY IF I PUT SOMETHING FUCKING WEIRD AS FUCK IN YOUR INBOX

Everyone's Got Secrets... (House Husband AU)

A/N: When I first saw Pedro Pascal’s character rushing into battle at the start of this movie, my very first thought of him was this:

He moved in for the kill, just like a wolf.

What does that have to do with fanfiction, you might ask…? Simple. When you add to this the legend that a wolf helped create the city of Rome, my love of the 'Way Of The House Husband' show, and a chat with @braveincafleet , then you may figure out that this is how my little House Husband AU came to be.

Anyway...I hope you enjoy this just as much as I do, and if so, be sure to give it some love before you go back to your scrolling. Thanks! <3

Story Premise: This is a little intro/infodumped backstory for a modern/ex-Mafia version of General Acacius, as that seems to be a writing style I've consistently had over multiple fandoms. It's also a version where he's (obviously) retired and settled down with the modern version of Lucilla Verus, though there are still glimpses of what he used to be like here and there if one is looking hard enough.

Story Word Count: 779 words.

Special Notes: So...maybe I'll turn this into a series someday, maybe I won't. Until then, I'll try and poke around to find more Lucilla x Marcus fics as soon as I possibly can.

No Pressure Tags:

@sweetperfectioncloud @letsgobarbs @rav3n-pascal22 @lilac-boo @iseefire16

@ultra-nina-bella @lunnaisjustvibing @blueheisenbergtragedy @vichons @mysticalgalaxysalad

@hicanivent @marvelforever352 @thischarmingmandalorian and anyone else who would like to read more stories about our favorite General. ;)

Justin Acacius was, according to the neighbors of Imperator Street, a fairly cultured man who wouldn’t dare break the laws of their fair city. Indeed, all outward appearances have never given them reason to think otherwise, for any red flag moments have not yet presented themselves.

For example, by day, he keeps the household of their esteemed Head Curator, Lucilla Gherardi, in perfect working order. This includes making sure that Lucilla herself never leaves the house without a homemade lunch in her possession, because there isn’t much work that a person can accomplish on an empty stomach. During the rare moments that she does, however, it’s not long before he’s on the nearest available bicycle to catch up with her, sometimes even breaking local traffic laws just to get there in time.

(Thank goodness the nearby law enforcement have learned to let him off easy by now.)

Second, there’s what this couple’s closest neighbors have come to label as “Piero Watch”, the daily sighting of the family dog on its walk around 9:15 am every day, most often with Mr. Acacius getting somewhat pulled along behind them. After all, sometimes dogs will go exactly where you don’t want them to go.

Third, whereas some neighbors are occasionally guilty of noise pollution, there's no such disturbance from Signor Acacius' side of the street. Sometimes he brings a friend or two over for short visits, sometimes he goes out for last minute groceries like the supplies needed to make homemade pasta--oh, but never will any strange women be seen going into that house beside him.

He's married, obviously, so he's not about to throw away a good life on one foolish act.

And speaking of foolish acts…neither will anyone notice this gentleman plotting any violence behind Lucilla’s back while she’s out of the house. That’s a vice best left for lesser men, for instead of any shady dealings, he’s much more likely to get into surprise “Cutest Dog” duels with passersby like Mr. Macrinus, as there’s quite the following for groups like these over social media these days.

As Macrinus himself may tell you, these sorts of “battles” will leave no fatal wounds behind them, and all parties involved will go home satisfied.

And finally, by the time that night falls, there’s not much of a change other than the occasional smoke break, if not also the even rarer trip outdoors for a few last minute groceries. In other words, though he might be a slightly imposing figure at times…there’s absolutely nothing to fear where Mr. Acacius is concerned.

At least, not if you’re the average, well-to-do citizen…because for those who wear their sunglasses a bit darker, their skin a bit more tattooed, and keep one eye over their shoulder, it’s a slightly different story.

Should any members of this crowd pass Mr. Acacius in the streets, the title “Il Lupo” is the name they speak. Sometimes they say it with a voice full of fear, sometimes with awe, but all, regardless of their age, status, or sometimes even gender, as this is the 21st Milennia, don’t dare stick around too long.

For the individuals in charge of such groups, be they The Twins in the center to The Emperor a bit further north, they will on occasion ask Acacius’ advice on what seem like trivial matters, such as the right temperature to roast a head of garlic or what is the best detergent to wash out a bloodstain or several—oh, but always from clumsy kitchen accidents rather than any violent executions.

In case you haven’t heard, these modern people don’t do that sort of thing any more.

That’s as far as the mystery reaches, of course, for as the dead can’t reveal any secrets and the living wish to keep their honor, nobody’s ever going to consider speaking up instead. It’s highly doubtful any average person will ever know the truth about Mr. Acacius, either, as there are no known books or magazines ever published that might otherwise hint about his true identity.

If someone were to happen upon the oldest man on the same street where Mr. Acacius lives, however—specifically, the one with a faded SPQR tattoo upon one arm and no photographs of grandchildren in plain sight—maybe they’ll one day hear the story of how the one known as Il Lupo, the one who looks suspiciously like Justin, narrowly escaped life in an Italian prison. Maybe they’ll also hear all about how he became a married man not long afterward, and curiously moved to the very same street address where Mr. Acacius now lives.

But then again…a story’s just a story, wouldn’t you agree?

Name || To drink wine under the stars

Pairing || Modern!Din Djarin X NB!Reader

Summary || A date Din and you planned takes a turn before taking another

Word Count || 1.334

Tags/Warnings || Idiots in love, Angst with a happy ending, No Use of Y/N, Modern!AU, Feelings!, Unestablished Relationships, Insecurities, Grogu Mentioned, Din is low-key (very much) a simp, Probably OOC Din, A bit of a rushed ending, No Beta We Die Like Men

A/N || I present a small piece of fiction made for Bouquets of Pedro Creativity Challenge by @happypedrohours

Based on this prompt: Din Djarin & late for a date

English is not my first language

If you find any grammar or spelling mistakes, let me know so I can fix them

Masterlist

Star Wars Masterlist (Not finished yet)

It's been such a long time since he's been to a place such as this. The restaurant was luxurious, maybe a bit too much in his opinion. The staff, the food, the decorations, it all screamed expensiveness.

His suit was probably even worse. It felt tight, unnatural. He wasn't used to wearing clothes other than completely regular. The best he could usually do was a white shirt with some pants, that was it. After all, why would he need anything else?

You. It was you. You were the reason he needed something else. You didn't force him, per se. He did it voluntarily. Grogu was still small and didn't care about how he looked but you? He wanted you to see him.

You were so special to him. Kind, funny, engaging, drop dead gorgeous. In the darkness that was his life, you were the moon illuminating his path. Guiding his way home.

Home to you.

At first, it surprised him when you agreed to the date. If he didn't know you, he would think it was a joke. A cruel mockery of how he, of all people, could think he had any chances with someone so divine. You meant it however. The smile on your face, the sparkle in your eye, it all proved your words.

Sitting at the table reserved for the two of you, he both loved and regretted he asked in the first place. What if you didn't like it there? What if he made a fool of himself? So many things could go wrong and wouldn't be able to stop any of them if it came down to it.

Knowing you though? You wouldn't care less about things that trivial. His mind flickered back to the memory of you.

You.

Sweet you.

The way you held his hand when he'd asked you out because it trembled so much. The way you listened so intently to what people had to say even when you felt unheard. The way you cared for Grogu as if he were your own and not your coworker's son.

Yeah, you'd understand.

Check the time.

Check the time.

Why weren't you there yet?

You were supposed to arrive at 7 PM. He arrived earlier of course. He didn't want you to wait in case he arrived later. And suddenly, he was the one waiting. It's been, what, 10, maybe 15 minutes?

Probably traffic, he told himself. He knew how it was these days. Everyone always rushed, as if unable to take a break. You were most likely in a taxi, trapped in a traffic jam.

Everything was fine.

It's been 30 minutes now. Where were you? It was getting frustrating. Especially when waiters came and went, always asking questions about his order. He wouldn't order. Not until you arrived.

He tapped the table, eyes fixated on the candle in the middle. The fire was so bright and yet, it couldn't compare to your smile. He'd kill to see it at least once. Just for a second, not even that. Even if it wasn't directed at him, even though he'd prefer if it were.

But no.

You weren't there.

He sent you so many messages, called a few times, all worried for your possible safety. What if you were in a car accident? Were you walking and someone decided to attack you? Did you hit your head when leaving your home? The possibilities were endless, every new one worse than the last.

He didn't seem to notice when an hour passed. Nor the second. He wouldn't dare look at the time, his attention constantly shifting between the building’s entrance and your completely untouched seat.

A sigh slipped past his lips when he finally forced himself to do so. It'd been over 2 hours. He couldn't wait any longer. He promised Grogu he wouldn't take too long, the kid needed him after all.

He hated it. The pitiful look the waitress gave him as he paid for the unexpectedly expensive wine he ordered, taking the unfinished bottle with him.

The February air chilled him more than he'd like, his hands freezing from the coldness of the bottle in his hand.

All the while, his mind struggled to come up with a reason for your absence. Maybe you were actually hurt? That was the only explanation that didn't make him question your lack of messages.

Or maybe you simply didn't like him and didn't know how to voice it.

Honestly, he wouldn't blame you. He didn't consider himself particularly likeable either. Messy, awkward, rugged and always tired. Why would you desire that?

The thought stung.

Was he really so bad that you, the kindest creature he'd ever met, couldn't accept him?

It was probably for the better.

“Din! Din wait!”

That voice. The voice so angelic that a part of his soul left his body any time he heard it suddenly called his name.

Turning his head towards where it came from, there you were. You weren't waving at him as you attempted to run, breathless with reddened cheeks from the cold.

You were a mess too to be honest. Dishevelled hair, slightly messy fancy clothes as if you barely managed to put it on properly along with loud gasps for air.

To him, you looked like a deity either way.

“I'm so, so sorry. I-I was tired from work and took a quick nap a-and I overslept the alarm and when I woke up it was already late,”

you rambled on and on about how sorry and ashamed you were for leaving him in the restaurant all alone, especially considering how expensive the reservation was. He didn't utter a word throughout the whole speech.

He didn't care if you noticed his silence. Or the tiny smile on his lips. Or the softness in his eyes. He was simply glad to see you, his day suddenly brighter than before.

And then, you fell silent. Your eyes stared up at him, searching for any sign of anger, of disappointment. There was none. Just pure unfiltered adoration.

“Don't worry. I'm just glad nothing bad happened to you,”

his words made your eyes widened, those twinkling in the soft light of city lamps. How beautiful, he thought. Then again, he thought that about every single thing you did.

His sharp gaze detected how the tension in you shoulders fell, a small sigh of relief escaping into the chilly weather.

“Could I make it up to you in some way?”

you were so kind. So desperate to make sure he wasn't disappointed, to make sure you kept your promise of joining him on a date that night.

He didn't need any persuasion.

Grogu was already dreaming away in his bed when Din joined you in the backyard of his home. You didn't notice him at first, making it the perfect opportunity to admire you.

There you were. In his garden. You were silent, staring up at the moon which felt like a shiny trinket compared to you. The soft smile on your lips as you snuggled into the blanket he lent you made his heart skipped a beat. A silent wish passed through his mind, a prayer of stopping the time so that he could worship you in his mind for eternity and more.

“There you are, I was getting worried,”

you smiled as you noticed his presence. He didn't reply as he sat down next to you, stealing part of the blanket and snuggling closer to you. You offered the wine but his mind was only on the brief brush of your hand against his. It all made his head spin.

When you rested your head on his shoulder though? He was afraid he'd faint. Or maybe cry.

You chose him. Nothing could convince him otherwise. And even if you didn't, he wouldn't mind.

He didn't need much to be happy after all. Even if it didn't last long, all he needed was to drink wine under the stars, right by your side.

Disclaimer:

I do not own The Mandalorian or any of its characters. The Mandalorian is the property of Jon Favreau and Disney. This fanfiction is written purely for entertainment purposes and is not intended for profit. Please support the original work!

this blog hates donald trump

Look how many people hate him. I’m pretty damn happy about that 😁😁😁😁😁😁

born to write angsty squid game fanfics, forced to procrastinate

Oh my, this is so beautifully written??

It's been a while since I read something on these two and I'm so glad the first fic after that time was this<33

You didn't disappoint, hope I'll read more angst like this from you<33

I very much recommend reading<33

and if you go, i want to go with you.

⋆ ౨ৎ˚ ⋆ ˚ synopsis: the sister of the empire has died, the emperors subsequently follow. (2.1k)

⋆ ౨ৎ˚ ⋆ ˚ contents: death, depictions of dead bodies and decay, mourning, buckle up for this, intrusive thoughts, angst, suicide, heart attacks and brain hemorrhaging

⋆ ౨ৎ˚ ⋆ ˚: caracalla x sister!reader x geta

⋆ ౨ৎ˚ ⋆ ˚ a/n: making my comeback with something sad!! let me know how you feel about this, as i’m slightly unsure of it! thank you all for being so patient with me, it truly means so so much to me!! a few people wanted angst, and i hope i delivered it properly!!

my masterlist!

the halls have begun to stench.

down the hall, next to geta’s chambers, the doors to their sister’s chambers are thrown open. through the doors, caracalla can see her body, cloaked by a white cloth. his hands wrap tighter around the flowers in his hands, thorns digging into his hands, yet the sting is dull. he hasn’t felt much since she died, flowing through his days as if he was stuck in a wine bottle, slushing around.

he can see geta’s hunched form, laying over their sister.

the moon illuminates the room, casting a light over the now abandoned room, dust covering the untouched surfaces. he can see the jutting of geta’s back through his night robes, the bumps of his spine protruding out as if he was the one dead. they’re the same robes that he had worn when they found their sister, curled into her bed, her soul ascended to the heavens.

it was no murder plot that took her life nor a fit of rage or a sudden spark of depression. no, it was her brain, physician after physician had been dragged into the room, crinkling their noses as they studied the deceased empress, gently pointing out the slight swelling of her head. they had murmured about blood pooling in her skull, leaking from a burst vessel.

even now, a week later, they cannot move her body.

there’s a pile of vomit next to her bed, rotting into the carpet, a sign of her struggle. next to it lies a pile of fabric she had been messing with, giggling about dresses and shawls. it pains him, to stare at the multitude of projects and hobbies littered around palatine, forever frozen in time. incomplete and forgotten. even now, in her bed, with the slight sheen of blistering and bloating, foam leaking from her nose as if she had a cold, caracalla cannot help but think she is beautiful.

he knows geta thinks the same.

even now, lingering at the door and trying to ignore the stench of his rotting sister, caracalla can see how geta holds her as if she’ll awake any minute now, clinging to her like a small child. his hair is matted from his refusal to bathe, darkened by grease as he curls into the side of the bed, refusing to leave. at night, when he sleeps in the room next to geta’s, desperate to be close to his siblings, caracalla will even hear him talking to her, crying pitifully.

but who is he to judge?

at night, caracalla curls deep into his bed, mourning the loss of his anaticula. the bed is no longer warmed by the sleeping body of his sister, seeking out comfort in the dead of night while geta works. no longer do the halls smell of berries and flowers, the curtains drawn tight as the smell of her body fills palatine. no longer does caracalla have support against geta, no one to run to when their brother gets mean. at night, he’ll cry into his bedsheets, trying to cling to the lingering scent of her perfumes.

the servants have left alongside their mother. all that is left is the two of them in their grief, guarded by the praetorian.

-

rome mourns the loss of their empress alongside the brothers.

a darkness spreads over rome, the streets no longer bustling with life and activity when the news breaks. the games are indefinitely paused, any celebrations or parties getting lost in the wave of grief.

banners are hung over every window, aristocrat or commoner in remembrance of the now late empress. a procession is led through town by the praetorian guard once her body is removed from palatine, getting taken through palatine. deification had started later, with an uncanny wax version of the empress being presented in the temple.

when they first see her, the brothers cannot look away.

not while an uncannily similar version of their sister rests upon a bed of ivory and gold, dressed in her finest robes, gold and jewels strewn over her body like garland. a laurel wreath is wrapped around the figure’s head, large and commanding of attention as people pour in to pay their respects. on the left side of her body, the senate sits, cloaked in black as they stare ahead while the brothers sit on the right, dressed in their mourning robes. their outfits are eerily similar to their war uniforms, cloaks dangling off their shoulders with gold plates pressing into their chests, yet instead of white, they’re dressed in black fabric.

on the final day of mourning, geta is the one to seal his sister away, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead before the bier is whistled away.

-

they break tradition.

there is no cremation, no pyre that raises to the skies and carries the scent of death throughout rome. instead, their sister is embalmed and entombed within the pantheon. neither of them see her body before it’s put in it’s tomb, still intact. however, caracalla is cursed to see it while her tomb is getting shut, a glass pane spread over the top of her coffin, her face staring back at him before the door is slammed shut.

he pukes in the pantheon, nasty, gagging sobs leaving his mouth as the image of his sister’s embalmed body sinks into his eyelids.

that night, caracalla dreams of too dull eyes and pale skin.

-

geta becomes cruel once their sister is gone.

he’s a mean shell of a man, screaming and launching items at caracalla as if he were a stray dog, haunted by the ghost of his sister. at night, he sees her still, curled into her side of the bed, head swollen with blood leaking out of her lips. he cannot move once the phantom joins him, unable to move or talk. he stays awake until the day breaks, the illusion of his sister disappearing once the light begins to seep into his room.

everywhere he goes, he sees her. phantom laughs echoing through palatine, flickers of tan skin and curly hair running through the garden, whispered proclamations of love flowing through the library. catching glimpses of white dresses running around a corner, forever out of his reach.

her death keeps him awake, constantly aware.

paranoia seeps into his chest as he continues on his duties, waiting for someone to take advantage of his weakness, waiting for the inevitable knife to slice through his chest. he cannot look at caracalla, haunted by his eyes that shine the same way their sister’s did. he pushes for more military invasions, not wanting to spend anymore time with the mourning look in general acacius’ eyes when they meet, pushing back any attempts of consolidation. geta wishes for pain, for suffering.

he wishes for sleep.

one night, he lies next to his phantom sister, mind sluggish with exhaustion and grief. the room is swelteringly warm, silence pressing into his chest as he thinks back to the warm nights he’d spend with his sister, sitting out on the balconies and watching rome, unbothered by their duties outside of their relationship.

and he wants to do it again.

he wants to loosely braid his sisters hair as she looks at the stars, stumbling through the stories of her day as she basks in the warmth of rome’s nights. he wants to bury his head in the junction of her neck and shoulder, to feel the comforting scratch of her nails in his hair as he cries. he wants to hear uncontrollable laughter and the slight rasp of her breath as she sleeps.

-

he finds himself standing in front of her tomb.

the pantheon is empty, bare of it’s vestal virgins and priests, the moonlight seeping in through the windows, illuminating her tomb. his fingers dig into the stone as he pushes the door open, ignoring the loud creaking and dragging of the door.

his sister stares back at him.

if he didn’t know better, he’d assume she was stuck in her coffin, still breathing. heart still beating. she looks like nothing had ever happened, like she never rotted in palatine for days, organs and muscles deteriorating. as if her vessels had never exploded. as if geta didn’t spend weeks mourning over her dead body, feeling her skin grow cold and nasty as she blistered.

he knows he should turn back. that he should slam the door closed and return to the ghostly apparition waiting in his room. but he finds himself creeping closer to her coffin, stretching out a hand to lay against the glass panel, feeling the chill of her tomb creep into his body.

and then he cannot stop.

he’s slamming the coffin door open, the embalmed body of his sister falling into his arms as he sinks to the stone floor, holding her body close.

he cries like a baby into pale skin, tangling his hands in the familiar curls of his sister’s hair. he knows deep down, that it’s not truly her body, a mess of wax and embalmed organs lying in his grasp, the remnants of her hair blended in with hair that didn’t belong to her. he knows that it’s the body from her mourning, not the decomposing mess they had removed from palatine.

but he seeks out comfort from it nonetheless.

in the morning he will be found, clutching her close, wrists sluggishly bleeding as his body is removed from her tomb, freshly deceased. weeks later, he will be entombed in the same tomb, forever next to his sister.

-

caracalla is left by himself.

there is no one for him to lean on, no comfort to be found in the sprawling halls of palatine as he mourns the loss of his older brother and younger sister. the weight of rome rests upon his shoulders now, cruel and demanding as he plans for geta’s mourning, for his brother’s embalming.

enemies have begun to press into rome, hearing whispers of the back to back loss of the empire. riots break throughout the streets, the people angry with the lack of consideration, with the lack of support and leadership. but caracalla cannot bring himself to face the masses of people, selfishly wishing that he could still hide behind geta’s demanding attitude. to be safe behind his brother’s iron throne and his sister’s popularity with their people.

hallucinations haunt him at night, twisting his preexisting sickness into something crueler.

terror seeps into his bones at all hours of the day, his heart forever seized in terror as he waits for his inevitable return to his siblings. every creak and whisper of wind within palatine sends him into a fit of terror, hiding underneath geta’s bed like a small child, curled around the linens that used to comfort his brother.

it’s with one clamber of a sword that caracalla is sent over the edge.

his body grows heavy with something he cannot explain, head spinning wildly as he curls into the linens deeper, terror spreading through his chest. he can do nothing but grasp the linens tighter as his body grows heavy, the world spinning as the pain in his body grows deeper.

in the morning, the praetorian guard will find him seemingly asleep underneath geta’s bed. the physicians will whisper about a broken heart and stress as he’s carried off to the temple, body being placed upon the same bier that held his brother and sister. caracalla will join them in the tomb, placed on the other side of his sister.

maybe in another life, they are not emperors and empresses, instead they will be small children once more, unburdened by power. every life they will find each other once more, together even in death as they’re reunited again and again. in some lives, they will be siblings, in others they will be classmates or soldiers in a war. in some they will be born to royalty once more, facing the same tragic fate of sudden death. in every life, their sister dies first and they follow suit, forever chasing her through time.

-

ohh i get it now ! you can never be too careful on this app so i just wanted to double check ahah

thanks so much for clearing it up ! <3

- p.c.a 😵‍💫

Don't worry about it at all<3

I'd do the same if I were you<3

It's important to be wary, especially on social media<3

Glad I could help<3

hi ! i just read your intro post and first i want to preface this by saying im not attacking you, im just genuinely curious and unsure

ok so, in your post it says you might write pedophillia and then that you don’t agree with pedophillia and that if ppl who are attracted to it outside of fiction should seek help (totally agree) but does that mean that you’re okay with getting off on/others getting off on fictionalised pedophilia or did i misunderstand? genuinely confused, sorry if that’s not what you meant

- permanently confused anon 😵‍💫

TW: Pedophilia mentioned under the cut

Hi!

Don't worry at all! I'm glad someone asked so I could explain it a bit more.

To answer your question, no, I'm not okay with it.

I don't get off on any of it nor other similar themes and neither should anyone else. Preying on children of any age is strictly against my moral code and, again, anyone who feels that way should get some professional help.

However, I am a person who also firmly follows canon unless it's absolutely necessary for the fanfic. I'm pretty sure there are more writers/readers who have that mindset too.

That said, I put pedophilia in 'might consider writing' because I realise some people might simply want pure canon, even if it comes to age.

I will decline any requests involving pedophilia if I deem them too triggering or realistic but I am still willing to consider because of people like me, who want to have as many accurate details as possible.

That tag will also be considered only for the Game of Thrones and House of the Dragon fandoms which I'm pretty sure are the only two which have canonical pedophilia.

I'm not sure how much you know about those but, sadly, it was normal for people to marry/be intimate before the age of 18 during that time period. That is, in my opinion, pedophilia either way.

That's why that's the only exception, which will mostly come in the form of mentions rather than actual actions anyway. Any request like that for other fandoms will be deleted immediately because it's just sick, honestly.

To put it simply, I'm just willing to write canonically accurate fics, even if they consider such horrific themes in the original work. However, I don't want anyone to get off on that type of stuff.

Honestly, If I ever write about it in the first place, I might write about pedophilia to raise awareness when it comes to child abuse, especially sexual abuse.

I hope that somehow clarified it<3

I'm speechless

I love good angst but the best ones are just heartbreaking

The ending made me cry so much from how beautiful this is

<3

Golden - A Javi Gutierrez One Shot ☀️

Written for @perotovar 's Frith Writing Challenge. I adopted Javi G for this challenge, and he's paired with the Norse God Baldr. Gorgeous mood board created by @perotovar - thank you, Erin! 🖤 Read all the other stories in this challenge here.☀️ Read my other Offering of Frith story with Pero Tovar here.

Summary: He's always there, just like the sunshine, cutting through the fog. Even if you can't remember him, he makes sure you'll always find your way.

Pairing: Javi Gutierrez x F!Reader (No name, confirmed age, ethnicity or physical description of reader, except a brief mention that they have hair. Otherwise, it's you, bub.)

Word Count: 6.7k

Scoville Smut Rating: None, it's fluff. You're safe. A little drizzle of angst.

Check out my Scoville Smut Ratings here.

Warnings/Triggers: Mentions of death and references to dementia.

I write for me, and I share with you. If this story isn't to your taste, that's fine. Just slip quietly out the back door. No need to make a fuss. It's just a work of fiction.

Author’s Note: My silly sunshine man, I just love him! 🥹☀️ I personally didn't know too much about Baldr before writing this, but I leaned more towards the mythology about him where he guides you into the afterlife, so I hope this makes sense.

MAIN MASTERLIST | JAVI GUTIERREZ MASTERLIST

Enjoy! 🖤

Spring is here. Or at least, you think it is.  

There's a faint whisper of life humming in the air, though it feels hazy, just out of reach. The sunlight pours through the large bay window, its brightness pooling in familiar, golden honey patterns across the floor.

You squint, eyes watering as they struggle to adjust, a sensation both new and strangely familiar. There’s a sharpness to the light, a crispness that makes you pause, wondering if it’s always been this way, this intensely bright.

Outside, the world looks warm - pleasant, even. Trees sway gently, their branches crowned with delicate buds. You watch them for a moment, admiring the way the green seems to glow in the sunlight, though you can’t quite place if they’ve been like that for days or if this is the first time you’ve noticed. There’s a sense of renewal beyond the glass, a quiet unfolding of life, though the details are slippery, hard to hold onto.

You think you’ve felt this before - this soft warmth bathing you, this feeling that makes everything feel a little lighter. It’s familiar, isn’t it? Spring, that’s what this is. You’re sure of it, or at least you think you are. The sun looks like it does in the springtime, and the trees have that vibrant newness to them. But the clarity of the moment feels distant, as if it's been borrowed from someone else's memory, one you’re only half-remembering.

You glance again through the window, trying to focus on the outside. The light plays tricks, shifting in ways that make it hard to tell if it’s morning or afternoon. Time has been doing that lately - stretching, bending, losing its edges.

The distant hum of life beyond the walls feels muted, as though the world has tiptoed away without you. What time is it? Has it been morning for hours, or is the afternoon already fading? You can’t tell. The light that filters through the window is soft, timeless, offering no clues.

But it’s spring, isn’t it?

The warmth on the other side of the glass is unmistakable, inviting you out, calling you to feel it for yourself.

Yet, there’s a flicker of hesitation. It feels like spring, but the certainty of it wavers, like a thought that slips away just as you reach for it. The room around you feels still. Silent.

How long has it been this quiet?

You close your eyes, just listening to… nothing. The stillness presses in, thick like fog, and you try to remember if there was ever any sound here at all.

You glance down at your hands, clasped loosely in your lap, and for a moment, you stare at them, puzzled. They don’t look like you remember. The skin, thin and papery, stretches over knuckles that seem too prominent. Veins snake beneath the surface, tracing lines you don’t recall having seen before.

These hands - they feel like someone else's. But no, they must be yours. You can feel them, the faint, dull sensation as they rest against your knees, but they don't seem to belong to you in the way they once did. When did they change?

When did you change?

Something catches your eye on the sill. Petals, once radiant in their brilliance, now slouch in weariness, drooping with the quiet dignity of inevitable decline. Their smooth, silken forms have lost their youthful reach, folding inward as if yielding to an unspoken melancholy.

You try to summon a memory, something simple, like them holding a cup of tea or brushing your fingers through soft hair. But the images that come to mind are blurry, like an old photograph that’s been handled too many times.

You blink, shaking your head lightly, as if that will clear the crowd of butterflies that flit around obscuring your thoughts from something tangible, coherent.

A few, unable to hold on any longer, have detached themselves and have drifted soundlessly to the windowsill. There, they lie in gentle disarray, fragile vestiges of what they once were - pale spectres of fleeting grandeur. Their edges, brittle and curling, crackle faintly in the warmth, like the crumbling vellum of ancient manuscripts whose tales have long slipped from human grasp. 

The leaves, still clinging to their verdant hue but drained of their former vigour, the way they bend and curl is not frantic, but rather, resigned. Their movements, subtle and serpentine, suggest a quiet struggle, a dance with the inevitable.

You can't quite recall how long these flowers have been here, or where they even came from. They appeared one day, and you never questioned their arrival. Or did you? Did you thank the bringer of them? Who was it?

Was it you? 

You lean closer to the flowers. They’re neither fully alive nor fully gone, caught in that fragile in-between state. It feels as though they’re not just fading, but evolving - changing into something else. Something quieter, perhaps, but no less meaningful.

Their pale, crispy yellow petals, delicate and unassuming, have a softness that seems to speak directly to you, though you've never considered why. It’s a hue that feels timeless, like a colour that has always belonged to you, though perhaps you only realise it now. There’s a quiet warmth in it - a subtle radiance that doesn’t demand attention but gently insists on being felt.

Yellow. Yellow. Yes, it feels right.

It settles into your mind like an old, forgotten favourite, resurfacing just when it’s needed most. Comforting in a way you can’t put your finger on.

"Oh," comes a gentle cadence from behind, and it startles you.

You reach out to touch one of the petals, your shaky fingertips grazing its surface. It’s delicate, almost translucent now, but still holding onto some small semblance of what it once was. As you lift your hand away, a petal comes loose, drifting down to the sill below.

You watch it fall, weightless and unburdened, as if it’s always known this moment would come. It lands without a sound, settling amongst the others, and you feel an odd sense of peace.

You hadn’t heard him enter, but now he’s here, his presence announced only by the subtle trace of vetiver that lingers in the air between you and a sad sigh that escapes him.

"Oh wow, this is dreadful!" he exclaims, his voice laced with a mix of exaggerated concern and the soft click of disapproval.

His large hands reach for the vase, fingers brushing delicately against the brittle petals as if afraid they might disintegrate further under his touch. 

You can’t help but notice the way his bouncy curls tumble into his face, almost concealing the glint of his eyes, which seem to catch everything - even the details you always somehow miss.

His name escapes you, slipping away like so many other details lost in the haze, but his face - his face is always there, a constant amid the swirling fog that clouds your thoughts. Somehow, through the blur of forgotten moments, he remains a steady presence, a fixed point in a world that often feels untethered.

You blink, trying to place him. He’s in there, somewhere. You can feel him. He’s in yellow. The others are always in white, bland and so stark, but his shirt is always yellow. Yellow, your favourite, you think.

There’s something achingly familiar about him, a sense of recognition that hovers just beyond your grasp.

There’s a quiet reassurance in him, like the echo of a memory you can almost, but not quite, reach. He coaxes a smile from your thin lips. You can feel the corners of your mouth lift, a slow, tentative motion, as if your muscles are relearning the gesture. The sensation is strange - your skin stretches in unfamiliar ways, and your face aches with the effort. 

"Haaa-veee," you murmur, sounding out the name like you’re trying it on for the first time.

Your eyes drift down to the tag pinned neatly above his breast. Hello, my name is Javi, it reads, and just beneath it, a little smiling sun sticker beams up at you, its cheerful simplicity somehow cutting through the swampy fog in your mind.

There’s something about the image - so unassuming, so optimistic in it's holographic glimmer - that tugs more of a smile from your lips. 

"Yes. I am Javi," he replies warmly, his lips curving into a smile of his own that feels genuine and unhurried.

There’s something calming about the way he stands there, not rushing, not pushing for answers, just letting the moment settle between the two of you. His voice is soft but carries a sense of assurance, like he's been through this before, like he's used to being remembered only in fragments.

The room settles into a soft silence once more, broken only by the gentle rustle of withering petals as they shift with his movements. You find yourself pondering how many times you’ve uttered his name before, or how often he’s graced you with that disarming smile when you did. The specifics blur like watercolours running together, each detail fading into the turpentine as it strips it all away.

Yet, curiously, those particulars seem less significant than the warmth of the connection that lingers between you. It feels tangible, almost electric, a fleeting yet profound thread binding you together in this moment - reminding you that somehow, the details don’t seem as important.

It feels like you know him. He has a face that makes you smile and doesn’t frighten you. 

"Good morning, señorita," Javi says, cradling the vase gently against his broad chest. His voice is light, playful, and it pulls you out of your thoughts, if only for a moment. "Breakfast, I think, yes?" he asks, tilting his head slightly as he waits for your response.

You nod, though there’s a flicker of uncertainty. Are you hungry? You can’t remember if you’ve eaten already today. Maybe you have, maybe not - it’s hard to tell. The days confuse you like that sometimes.

The sound of squeaking wheels cuts through the room, and you watch as a trolley is pushed in. Javi busies himself with the vase, carefully placing it on the table with a soft thud. His fingers skim the wilting petals again, his brow creasing as he studies the dried-out flowers.

"Oh dear," he sighs, almost to himself, "too much sun and not enough water for the crocus, I think."

Without thinking, you mutter, "No such thing as too much sun," but the words feel distant, as though they belong to someone else. Your lips don’t quite feel like your own as they form the sentence, like they’re moving on their own accord.

Javi freezes for a moment, then his face lights up with a broad, delighted grin. "That's right!" he exclaims, clapping his hands together in an enthusiastic burst of approval.

His joy is infectious, and before you realise it, a laugh escapes your mouth. It’s a crackled, sweet sound, the kind that feels unfamiliar but comforting, almost like it’s coming from a part of you that hasn’t been touched in a long time. Delicate, easily torn. Your laughter feels all gummy around your tongue, your smile wide and easy, and for just a second, everything feels lighter.

Javi beams at you, as if your laughter is the best thing he’s heard all day, and in that small moment, the wilting flowers, the fading memories, and the fog in your mind all seem to recede.

"Let's see now, oh, dios mio! We have a feast this morning!" (My god) Javi announces cheerfully as he positions the trolley right in front of you.

He pulls the lid off each dish with a bit of flair, revealing eggs, golden pastries, yoghurts, fresh fruit, and something else - something that smells both tart and sweet, the scent so familiar that it makes your eyes light up. You can almost taste it in the air before you even see it - dusted with powdered sugar and topped with glossy, ruby-red fruit. The smell wraps itself around you, pulling you back to a place you can’t quite name but feel deep in your bones.

"Is that-?" you begin, the words catching in your throat as the scent envelops you.

It lingers at the edges of your memory, teasing you with its familiarity. The sweetness, the warmth - it brings with it a sense of ease, of laughter that flows effortlessly, of sunlight warming your skin as you throw your head back without a care in the world.

"French toast!" Javi coos, as though he’s revealing a treasure, his hands deftly tucking a napkin into the collar of your blouse with the care of someone who’s done this many times before.

You can almost feel it now - yourself, younger, lighter, sitting at a small café table, the air thick with the smell of fresh bread and cinnamon, your hands cradling a cup of coffee as the world bustles around you.

You remember the sound of laughter - yours, carefree and unburdened - and the way your fingers would brush over the edges of the plate, collecting a bit of powdered sugar that had fallen onto your dress.

You smile softly. "Gosh, I haven't had French toast since..."

"Since 1992. At least, authentic French toast," Javi interrupts, his voice gentle yet certain, weaving through the air like a soft melody.

His smile holds a knowing quality, like a cherished secret he’s delighted to share with you as you look at him in wonder. "Paris, if I’m not mistaken," he continues, his eyes sparkling with the joy of the memory. "Le Petit Café. Montmartre. You had it with a raspberry compote. Your favourite."

As he speaks, your mind flutters, trying to catch hold of the image in your butterfly net he conjures. You can almost see the cobblestone streets of Montmartre, the golden glow of sunlight filtering through the leaves of the trees lining the sidewalk. You can hear the distant laughter of patrons, the clink of cutlery against porcelain, and the low murmur of conversation that dances around the cosy café. 

You’re there, you can feel it as you smile at the plate. Sipping your café au lait on the sun-drenched terrace, you savour the warmth of the morning sun. The air is rich with the scent of fresh pastries, and the decadent melodies of distant conversation. As you relish your French toast, you glance up and catch sight of a man across the street.

It’s the kind of smile that teases the edges of something thrilling, as though in this moment, time itself might pause, and you could slip away with him into something frivolous. A whirlwind romance, perhaps - of stolen kisses in shadowed corners, laughter spilling recklessly as rain drenches both of you in the streets of the city of love.

He leans casually against a lamppost, dressed simply yet stylishly, with tousled curls that dance in the gentle breeze. The sunlight catches his aquiline features, creating a soft halo around him that gives him an almost ethereal quality. For a fleeting moment, your heart quickens as his eyes lock onto yours, your breath stolen from your lungs.

He smiles, as if he’s holding onto a delightful secret that you’re just about to uncover.

You remember standing beside him, fingers intertwined, the air thick with the promise of forever, though even then, perhaps, you knew nothing lasts. Still, the memory remains, even if the details have begun to slip through your grasp. 

You can almost feel it - his skin, golden from the sun and warm under your touch, the subtle rise and fall of his breath as you press your nose against his neck, inhaling that familiar, intoxicating scent. Sea salt lingers in his skin too; heights that are jumped from hand-in-hand, cliff faces, splashes and giggles. Wild euphoria.

The soft glow of the afternoon sun filtering through half-drawn curtains, casting light pools on wrinkled bed sheets tangled beneath the both of you.

There’s the echo of laughter, intimate and carefree, punctuated by the rhythm of hands and lips and the headboard creaking - a love spoken in many languages that feels weightless and eternal. The last sunset you watched together flickers at the edges of your mind - golden light sinking slowly below the horizon, painting the sky in fiery hues that seem to blur now, like that watercolour paint bleeding into paper.

He holds your gaze for just a second longer, and you sense a shared understanding, a fleeting recognition that transcends words. Like he, too, can see your chapters together writing themselves in the air above you. Then, with a playful grin, he lifts his coffee cup in a silent toast before turning to walk away, disappearing amongst the crowd.

You blink, your heart fluttering with something unnameable, but as the throng of people swirls around him, his figure begins to blur. He melds into the lively parade of tourists and locals, each person absorbed in their own narratives, and suddenly, he’s just another face lost among the bustling streets of Paris.

You strain to recall his features, they slip away like sand through your fingers, leaving only an inexplicable sense of longing. The vibrant city feels both alive and distant now, a romantic kaleidoscope of colours and sounds that vibrate around you, yet the image of him remains just out of reach, like a dream you’re struggling to remember less and less each day you wake. 

Yet, just as quickly as the memory rises, it slips away with the taste, leaving you with only the warmth of Javi’s smile and the echoes of his words.

"Raspberry compote," you murmur, letting the syllables roll off your tongue as if trying to anchor yourself to the moment.

It feels significant, somehow - a thread connecting you to a past that exists just out of reach, woven together by the richness of experience and the gentle guidance of someone who remembers.

"Yes," Javi nods, his expression encouraging. "You loved it. It was a special day, full of laughter and sunshine. You wore that yellow dress with the white polka dots."

"I had a polka dot dress?" you inquire, the thought seeming almost absurd, as if it belongs to someone else’s story rather than your own.

"Yes," Javi chuckles, the sound warm and inviting, wrapping around you like a favourite blanket. "You had it just above your knees back then, scandalous.” He titters. “A cheerful yellow. It is your favourite colour.”

“It is?” You ask, flummoxed. 

"I’ll share a little secret, mi sol," (my sun) he leans in conspiratorially, his eyes sparkling with mischief. "It’s my favourite colour, too." Javi smiles. 

"Yell-ow," you muse, letting the word linger on your tongue like a drop of honey. “I like… yellow. And raspberry compote. And Javi.” You beam.

The sun warms your skin as you savour the first bite of French toast, its texture pillowy and light. A dollop of raspberry compote glistens atop, the tartness contrasting beautifully with the sweetness of the bread. You can taste the delicate balance of flavours, the way the warmth of the dish complements the coolness of the berries.

"Precisely!" Javi exclaims, nodding enthusiastically, his expression brightening even further. "Now," he says, his voice light as he carefully slices into the French toast, cutting it into neat, bite-sized squares.

He holds up a forkful, offering it to you with a gentle smile. "Today is another very special day. Do you know what day this is?" 

But his question lingers in the air, pulling you back into the present, even as the memories and the taste swirl together. What day is it? You think hard, the answer just out of reach, hovering like a foreign word on the tip of your tongue. You try to grasp at it, but it slips away, lost in the haze that clouds so many things now.

You chew slowly, savouring the taste, and a quiet moan escapes your lips, the pleasure of it almost overwhelming. It’s as if the flavours unlock something deep inside - a feeling of comfort, of familiarity, of being cared for.

Of mornings spent with French toast served to you on a floral plate by strong hands and a smile as blinding as the sun. Crocus flowers gifted in a vase. A cardigan placed neatly on your shoulders, a kiss pressed to your cheek and temples. Walking with arms linked, your body wrapped up in a soft towel, and dancing. Always dancing. 

Javi watches you closely, not rushing, giving you time. His presence is calm, steady. Finally, you shake your head slightly, not trusting your voice.

He doesn't seem disappointed, only nods with that same understanding smile. "It’s alright," he says gently, cutting another piece of toast. "It’s Wednesday. The second of April. But more importantly..." He pauses, his eyes searching yours, as though willing you to remember, though he never forces it. "It’s the day we always have French toast together," he continues.

"We do?" you ask, the words hesitant, fragile, as though you’re unsure of their weight.

Javi’s smile softens as he responds, "Yes, mi sol. We always have it on Wednesdays."

He holds out another piece of French toast, patiently waiting for you to take it, as though this ritual - this simple act of feeding and sharing food - could somehow bring clarity.

"I can't... remember," you whisper after swallowing, the words sticking in your throat, thick with frustration and sadness. It's like trying to grasp at smoke, the harder you reach, the quicker it slips away. 

You chew slowly, each bite feeling heavier than the last, the sweetness of the compote doing little to mask the dull ache of something missing, something lost. A hollow space where memories should live.

But they’re not there - at least, not fully. They flicker, shadows at the edge of your consciousness, close but just out of reach.

A dry cough escapes you, and before you can react, Javi is already there - handing you a glass of water, his fingers brushing lightly against yours. His touch is warm, grounding, though your own hand trembles as you take the glass.

You sip slowly, feeling the cool liquid slide down your throat, but it doesn’t wash away the heaviness.

“You’re alright, mi sol. Just drink, slowly. Breathe.” He reassures. 

As your fingers grip the glass, another memory bursts to life, sudden and sharp. Not yours, but his - his sickness. The smell of antiseptic fills your mind. You see his pale, sweaty skin, feel the way his body convulsed as he coughed and retched, helpless in your arms. The image is vivid - the sterile hospital corridor, the muted beeping of machines, the tubes that surrounded him, keeping him alive.

You remember your own hand stroking his back in slow circles, trying to soothe him, trying to calm him, telling him to breathe too, though terror had already settled deep within you.

His fingers had gripped yours so tightly, as though letting go would mean something irreversible. His eyes, wide and terrified, had locked onto yours, pleading without words as they wheeled him down the corridor. Wheeled him away from you.

He hadn’t wanted to let go, and neither had you.

The glass trembles in your hand as the memory fades, leaving behind a cold, hollow silence. You blink, but the weight of that moment lingers, pressing against your chest. You glance up at Javi, who watches you with an unreadable expression - calm, steady, as if waiting for you to find your way back to him.

The memory sharpens - his eyes, watery and desperate, disappearing behind the doors as the metallic hum faded away. And then, the sound of your own voice, cracking with wails and screams, when he wouldn’t wake up. When you couldn’t pull him back.

When you couldn’t say goodbye. 

"It’s alright," he murmurs softly, brushing a stray curl away from his face. "You don’t have to remember everything. That’s what I’m here for." His words wrap around you, offering a comfort you can’t quite grasp but are grateful for nonetheless.

"Haaa-veeee. Javi." You smile up at him. The sun seems to shine from him, casting a glow that makes everything else seem less heavy. "Javi. My sunshine man," you murmur, and the words come easily, as though they've always belonged to him.

Javi's smile deepens as he gently wipes at your lips with a napkin, his touch light and careful.

"Yes. That is me," he says with a playful warmth, and with a soft laugh, he boops your nose with the napkin and it pulls a giggle from you. "Come on now, eat up," he encourages, nodding toward the last few bites on the plate. "I have a great day planned ahead of us, mi sol."

Your eyes widen in surprise, the excitement bubbling up inside you. "You do?"

"Yes!" Javi grins, his eyes twinkling with mischief and promise. "We’re going on an adventure today."

Your heart skips a beat at the word, your curiosity piqued. "Where?" you ask, your voice filled with childlike wonder.

Javi leans in slightly. "Ah, well, that’s part of the surprise. But I can tell you this: there will be ice cream." He winks, and the sparkle in his eyes feels contagious, lifting your spirits.

"Ice cream?" you ask, the excitement rising in your voice. You watch as he jumps up and heads over to your closet. He rummages, searching through hangers.  

"Of course," he chuckles. "What kind of adventure would it be without a little sweetness?" 

"Do I like ice cream?" you ask, a touch of uncertainty in your voice.

Javi smiles warmly over his shoulder, without a hint of hesitation. "You love ice cream," he replies, his eyes soft with affection. "With chocolate sauce. Always with the chocolate sauce."

“A-ha!” He coos as he pulls an item from your closet. You look at it as he holds it up. A yellow dress with white polka dots.

His voice is so sure, so filled with certainty, that it feels like the truth - even if you can’t quite pull the memory forward yourself.

For a moment, you try to remember the taste, the cool sweetness of ice cream melting on your tongue, the rich chocolate sauce dripping down in velvety swirls. It’s faint, like a shadow in your mind, but Javi’s words make it feel real. You smile at him, trusting his certainty as your own.

You stare at it, the colour catching your eye, soft yet vibrant. It feels familiar, and yet it doesn’t. You tilt your head, studying the fabric, trying to make sense of the strange pull it has on you.

“Is that… mine?” you ask, your voice laced with genuine curiosity, as though the dress is a long-lost artefact from a life you’re not sure you lived. He steps closer, bringing it over, the faint scent of lavender clinging to it.

“Yes. Your favourite," Javi replies, his voice tender. “You used to wear it all the time. You said it made you feel like sunshine.”

You reach out tentatively to touch the pretty fabric, running your fingers over the soft cotton. There’s a flicker in the back of your mind - a flash of sunlight, laughter, the sensation of wind on your bare legs, and the feeling of warmth that wrapped around you whenever you wore it.

"Is it my birthday?" you ask, your voice carrying a quiet hopefulness.

For a brief second, you catch the way Javi’s smile dips - just a flicker, so quick it almost goes unnoticed. But you see it, and something in the air shifts, though only for a moment.

You can see the man smiling at you again from across the Parisian street. He’s so achingly beautiful. 

"No," he says softly, his voice gentle but sure. "It’s not your birthday. But..." He pauses, his smile returning, this time softer, more thoughtful. "It is a very special day."

"A special day?" you echo, curious but uncertain.

"Yes," Javi replies, his eyes steady on yours, as if to anchor you in the moment. "A day just for us. For adventures, for smiles, and maybe even a little magic." He tilts his head slightly, his grin widening again. "Doesn’t that sound like something to celebrate?"

It’s hard not to feel comforted by his words, even if you don’t understand all of it. The fog in your mind feels a little less dense with him here, and whatever this special day is, you trust him.

"That sounds wonderful," you say, a smile blooming on your face.

"I thought it would," Javi replies with a playful wink. There's something in the way he looks at you - like he knows just how to make the heaviness feel lighter, how to fill the space between the forgotten and the remembered with little moments of joy.

And it is a joyful day, one that has you laughing so hard your chest tightens, the kind of laughter that steals the breath right from you, leaving you gasping in the most wonderful way.

There’s an ease to the day, a rhythm to it, as if time itself has bent to the shape of your happiness. The air feels different - crisp, yet soft around the edges, as though the universe is conspiring to keep you in this bubble just a little longer. The dress, light and airy against your skin, flutters with your movements, as if it too is caught up in the laughter.

The sun is high, warm against your skin, and the world feels light, almost weightless, as though nothing dark could ever touch this moment. You can hear your own laughter ringing out, bright and full, mingling with the breeze.

It’s a sound that seems to come from a time when everything was simple and pure, when joy was something you could reach out and physically hold in your hands as it stroked you back.

“Just like that! Let the music in your heart guide you!” he encourages, his eyes sparkling with delight, and you can’t help but laugh, the sound ringing out like a bell.

He said there would be magic, and it is indeed magical - the way he has you up on your feet again, twirling and spinning with him on the pier after the delicious ice cream he promised you; the wooden boards creaking beneath your weight.

The sun hangs low in the sky, casting a golden glow that dances upon the water, reflecting the light like scattered yellow diamonds. Each step feels as if you’re floating, your worries fading into the breeze as Javi pulls you closer, his laughter mingling with the sound of the waves crashing against the posts.

The world around you blurs into a kaleidoscope of colour as he twirls you - blues and yellows, the cerulean sky mixing with the sun-soaked wood, and in this moment, nothing else exists.

“Up there,” Javi nods towards the cliff face, its rugged edges glistening in the sunlight, a chalky challenge painted against the clear blue sky. “We’ll climb it.”

“I can’t climb that, not with these knees anymore,” you grumble, an edge of frustration lacing your voice.

“Just hold on tight,” he says, his tone playful yet reassuring. “I’ve got you.” You wrap your arms around his neck, feeling the strength of his embrace, and suddenly the daunting cliff doesn’t seem so intimidating.

But before you can voice another protest, Javi has already scooped you up into his arms, effortlessly lifting you as if you were weightless. You’re caught off guard, surprise bubbling up inside you, mingling with laughter.

The world tilts slightly as he starts walking, your heart racing not just from the unexpected lift but from the thrill of his unwavering confidence.

“How did you get so strong?” You ask admiring his arm around you and his shoulders, so broad.

“Years of practice,” he replies with a wink, a playful smirk curling at the edges of his mouth. “It won't be the last time I carry you up this cliff."

You chuckle, feeling a warmth spread through your chest. It’s moments like these that remind you, the memories fluttering back in, of the countless adventures you’ve shared, the way he’s always been your anchor, lifting you when the weight of the world felt too heavy to bear and navigate through on your own.

Soon, you’re both sitting on the edge, feet dangling with the ocean below and his arm is still around you keeping you steady and nestled into his side. 

“You are just as beautiful as when I first laid eyes on you, mi sol.” Javi whispers to you, his hand gentle on your hip, but reassuring. 

You turn to meet his gaze, and in his eyes, you see a flicker of something timeless - a spark that ignites a flutter in your chest. It's as if he can see beyond the weakened, wrinkly surfaces of you now, past the layers of forgetfulness and uncertainty that have settled in like dust. 

And in his eyes, you’re not the old, forgetful crone you’ve become, but the young woman back in Paris, entranced by a man glowing like the sun, with chocolate curls and dark, excitable eyes that seemed to dance with life.

All the years slip away like shadows fading in the light, and you’re that spirited girl again - full of dreams, laughter, and who once danced through the streets of Montmartre, belly full of French toast and in love.

He takes your hand in his, and the touch feels both fragile and grounding - your fingers are once again papery and thin. The warmth of his presence is tinged with a quiet resignation as it settles between the both of you.

The world around you transforms; the cliff fades, the salty breeze becomes the fragrant Parisian air, thick with the scent of fresh croissants and blooming lilacs. You can almost hear the distant strains of an accordion playing a lively tune, the sound weaving through the air like a magical thread that pulls you into the past.

The cobblestone streets of Paris materialise in your mind, each stone a reminder of the adventures you shared with him - moments filled with spontaneous laughter, whispered secrets beneath the stars, and promises made with the enthusiasm only youth and love can muster.

“It is time,” Javi says, and though he smiles, the warmth doesn’t quite reach his eyes, which are clouded with a depth of emotion that makes your heart ache.

A sense of impending finality hangs in the air, heavy and charged. But you’re not afraid. You study him closely, searching for any hint of reassurance, and as you do, you can’t help but feel a deep sadness welling up within you.

“You look sad,” you say gently, your voice breaking the silence that feels almost sacred in its weight.

“I am sad because I am really going to miss you,” he replies, and the truth in his words hits you like a wave.

You can see it in the way his smile falters, a flicker of something deeper dancing in his eyes - a longing that mirrors your own.

“Are you not coming?” you ask, and his brow furrows slightly as if the very thought pains him.

“No, I can’t,” he murmurs, swallowing hard against the tide of emotion rising within you. “I have to stay here. But I will see you again soon.” 

He shakes his head, and with that simple motion, your heart sinks. You feel the weight of his words pressing on your chest suffocating you.

The thought leaves a bitter taste in your mouth, as if you’re being pulled in two different directions - between what you want and what you must accept.

Javi's hand lingers in yours, the warmth between you a fragile tether against the backdrop of the reality that looms ahead.

“But I don’t want to say goodbye,” you confess, your voice trembling as you grapple with the impending separation.

He holds your gaze, a myriad of emotions flickering across his face - sadness, acceptance, and a profound understanding. 

“Neither do I. Each time we do, it does not hurt any less,” he admits softly, squeezing your hand with a tenderness that makes your heart ache. “You have been my sunshine for such a long time.”

“Paris,” you murmur, the word slipping from your lips. “You were there in Paris. You've always been there with me, haven’t you?”

“Take me where?” you ask, a mix of curiosity and trepidation swirling within you.

“Yes,” Javi replies, his voice resonating with a depth that sends shivers through you.

"I... remember you, Javi. I remember that I love you. And that you love me, too." You say, and his eyes water, sparkly and big.

His hand cups your cheek delicately. “I have been equally waiting for this day, where you would remember again. And dreading this day, because I will take you forward myself.”

“To your next life,” he says, and the weight of his words hangs in the air, heavy yet shimmering with possibility.

His eyes hold yours, a deep well of understanding and promise, as if he’s offering you a glimpse beyond the veil that separates what is known from what lies ahead.

The thought sends a cascade of emotions through you - fear, excitement, and an overwhelming sense of inevitability. But more confusingly, peace. 

“I will hold your hand all the way,” Javi says, his voice soft yet firm, an anchor amidst the uncertainty swirling around you. “There is nothing to be frightened of. It will be easy, painless. We can just watch the sunset together, like we used to.”

“My next life...” you echo, trying to grasp the enormity of what he’s saying.

You can feel your heart quickening, as though it understands something you don’t quite comprehend yet.

You turn your gaze to the horizon, where the sun dips low, a hue that bathes the world in a warm embrace. 

“It’s really pretty. Golden,” you say, a smile blooming on your lips as the sky transforms into a canvas of vibrant oranges and soft pinks.

The colours dance together, a beautiful farewell to the day that has been indeed special. Javi helps you to your feet and stands beside you, his gaze fixed on the horizon too, and for a moment, you can’t tell if the colours of the sunset reflect in his eyes or if they're simply just a part of him.

He looks serene, with his name tag fluttering in the breeze on his yellow shirt, as if he’s found his place in this world; a guide, a carer, a husband... and you can’t help but feel a sense of gratitude wash over you.

“Thank you for this life, Javi,” you say, your voice barely more than a whisper, laden with emotion. “Thank you for loving me in every lifetime.” 

He turns to you, his expression softening. “It has been an honour to share it all with you, mi sol. Every moment we’ve danced, every kiss we’ve shared, it’s all been magic.”

You nod, feeling the truth of his words resonate deep within you. Each shared experience, each memory, feels like a thread weaving your lives together, rich with laughter and love - gosh were you loved! - even amidst the struggles of losing him over and over. 

“Even the hard moments?” you ask, seeking reassurance that the shadows were just as meaningful as the light. 

“Especially those,” he replies, a glimmer of mischief in his eyes. “They taught us how to appreciate the sunshine that follows.”

The sun dips lower, long shadows stretching, and you feel that sense of peace enveloping you again. 

“Close your eyes, mi sol,” Javi whispers, his tone soothing. “Take a nice long breath in and out, and then, we will jump, like we used to.” 

You smile, allowing the corners of your lips to curve upward as you close your eyes, leaving yourself with the final image of him - his dark curls catching the fading light, his smile radiant, as bright as the sun. 

“Will you find me there, Javi?” You ask, blindly.

“I’ll always find you.” He promises. You feel him press a kiss to the back of your hand.

Nodding, you take a deep breath. The air fills your lungs, cool and refreshing - expanding. You hold it for a moment, savouring the beauty of the life you’ve shared, the laughter, the love, the adventures that have painted your existence in vibrant colours.

All the shades of stunning yellow. Golden.

The last thing you remember is Javi Gutierrez - the man who loves you in every lifetime - standing across the street in Paris, smiling fondly at you. 

Then, slowly, you release it, letting go of all the worries, the uncertainty, the foggy shadows that have clouded the edges of your mind.

You wonder where he’ll be in the next life. How he’ll come to you again. How he’ll love you again. How he’ll take your hand and lead you into the afterlife again. You giggle and he laughs with you. 

And then, you jump.

Thank you so much for reading this offering of Frith. I'd love to hear your thoughts, and as always a re-blog is very much appreciated. Thank you! ☀️

MAIN MASTERLIST | JAVI GUTIERREZ MASTERLIST

-> Read my other Offering of Frith story with Pero Tovar here.⚡

I have no regrets

Rb if u agree, spread this meme- 😭

resources for anyone struggling 🤍

i’m reposting this from a deactivated account but many links were broken or uk-based, so i’ve verified links and resources ~ og post ~ please let me know if anything needs to be added/updated

suicide & crisis hotline: call or text 988 (800-273-8255)

trans lifeline: 877-565-8860

depression hotline: 866-903-3787

eating disorders helpline: 800-931-2237

rape and sexual assault: 800-656-4673

domestic violence hotline: 800-799-7233 or text “START” to 88788

child abuse hotline: 800-422-4453 or text “HELP” to 800-422-4453

grief support: griefshare.org or text “HELLO” to 741741

runaway safeline: 1-800-786-2929

after abortion hotline/pro-voice: text exhale pro-voice at 617-749-2948

trevor project

alternatives without harming yourself:

holding/squeezing ice

splashing your face with water

getting a rubber band and snapping it against your skin (this could hurt, though it’s better than other ways that people usually choose to self-harm)

take a hot shower or bath

eat something sour. it will take your mind off the urge. (lemon, sour candy)

massage where you would self-harm

get a red pen or red paint and draw/paint over where you usually self-harm

remind yourself as to why you shouldn’t do it (scars, harms organs, leave memories etc…)

describe what you are feeling (is the urge/pain in your chest, fists, legs, arms, head?)

killing yourself will not help. it is not a solution.

you have your whole life ahead of you. you have so many more years that you can accomplish things in.

for example;

having a family

getting married

to watch the sun rise

to watch the sun set

to save someone else’s life

finish school

get your dream job

to laugh

to smile

to go camping

travel to new places

to wake up every morning to the person you love

friends

family

to keep that promise you made

to accomplish a goal

to meet your idol

to listen to new music

theme parks

video games

chocolate

to be able to look back and say “i made it”

what you’re going through is temporary.

in case you need to hear this:

you are loved.

you are wanted.

you are needed.

you are beautiful.

you are handsome.

you are important.

you are not alone.

you are okay.

you are strong.

you are worth it.

you are smart.

you are not a failure.

you are useful.

you are going to be okay.

-> read full resource page here <-

Name || Write my name like a poem

Pairing || Jackson!Joel Miller x NB!Reader

Summary || Thanks to your favourite student, you might just find out the one whose heart you've been guarding

Word Count || 3k

Tags/Warnings || Idiots in love, Fluff, Joel is probably a bit OOC, Feelings!, Joel is a pookie, Ellie was adopted by Joel, Acquaintances to Lovers, Flustered Joel, Hinting at Sub!Joel, Age Gap, Insecurities, Unestablished Relationship, Joel struggles with confessions, No Beta We Die Like Men

English is not my first language

If you find any grammar or spelling mistakes, let me know so that I can fix them

Masterlist

Advent Calendar 2024 Masterlist

“Have a good day; and Merry Christmas!” called back at you the children as well as their parents as they left your class. It filled your heart with joy to see them so excited for Christmas. You already got used to it after the past three years you had spent in Jackson. Nonetheless, it still somehow felt unreal.

You saw the world fall, being just a child back then. Despite your young age at the time, you remembered it all. How life had been before the Infected took over. After surviving for years and years on end, dreaming about a dead future of your childhood self, living a somehow normal life in Jackson seemed almost laughable.

These kids, they weren't of how much they had missed simply by being born too late. They would never dream of the world you and the other people from the world before knew. Even though you acknowledged it every single day, you tried. You tried to teach them, showing them the wonders you remembered. You wanted them to see. To let them know there was a future once and that there might be one again, even if slightly different.

Being a school teacher in Jackson made it easier. Otherwise, you would probably be the talk of the town. The lunatic who couldn't stop thinking about the past. Of course you could. Letting go was simply…. hard from time to time.

Teaching on the other hand gave you the space to express yourself. To shift the kids’ minds towards something bigger. Greater than they realised. It was a power which shouldn't be held by one person alone and you knew it. However, you never acted upon it. Those children were the world's future. Your legacy. You couldn't ruin it for selfish wants, no matter how justified they might be.

Because of your kindness, the kids loved you. Adored you. Their favourite teacher? You, without debate. Their English, history and arts teacher. Unlike their other teachers, you were much more understanding. Or maybe you had that parental instinct your colleagues lacked, you weren't sure. Either way, you were their number one.

Honestly, even Ellie liked you a bit more. Ellie. Ellie Miller. Your newest student. She was a bit older but learning never hurt anyone. Especially since they hadn't been taught everything they should. You had to admit, she could be hard to deal with at times. She wasn't stupid or anything, quite the opposite. She was highly intelligent, skilled and competent, too. She was simply her own person. Then again, so was her father.

Her father, Joel, wasn't as familiar to you. Yes, you knew each other and talked when given the chance but had you actually properly hung out with him. You were both busy, mostly seeing each other at parent-teacher meetings. After all, you had students to look after while he gathered supplies for the settlement.

Honestly, when you first met him when he and Ellie arrived a few months ago, you assumed he would be, to put it lightly, an asshole. Surprisingly, he wasn't. He was actually kind of charming. Sweet, caring personality hidden underneath a rugged, reserved persona.

You had seen through it though; on many occasions. The way he talked to Ellie, how he helped out with the kids when you were losing control and he was around. How he knew exactly what to do when it came to the smallest of your pupils. Truth to be told, it made your heart flutter a tiny bit.

You heard enough rumours to know a few pieces of information about him. It was fairly obvious Ellie wasn't his, at least not biologically. You had assumed he took care of children of some of his friends, back in Boston QZ. When rumors of him losing his daughter rolled around, it suddenly made sense. Of course, no-one ever voiced it, but a few people still knew, maybe 10 people at best. Those were the closest to the family anyway and knew they shouldn't spread such things around. You didn't either.

You pitied him but at least he had Ellie now. The girl was truly something and she matched him perfectly. The change from once they had arrived and after those few months of staying in Jackson was palpable. At first slightly detached, they now couldn't handle being gone, away from each other. They were each other's way to heal from the scars and pain of their lives prior to living in Jackson.

As you cleaned your desk, vibrating with excitement at the thought of settling in front of your fireplace with cocoa in your lap, a soft knock came to your door. Turning around to see the newcomer, there stood Ellie. You swore the kid was getting bigger every day. She most likely was; now almost as tall as you. She gave you a smile as she came closer, seemingly beaming.

“Hey, sorry to interrupt, I just wanted to give you something,” she spoke quickly, barely giving you time to greet her back. She opened her backpack, it being filled with all sorts of stuff, before taking out a card. She handed you the blue holiday card, a shrug following her words.

“Sorry if it's wet. Those assholes from lower years thought it would be funny to throw snowballs at me.” she scoffed. You on the other hand shot her a quick look to remind her to mind her language. That is if she even noticed it. Then again, the holidays were officially on and that meant you weren't their teacher anymore. You were simply another anonymous part of the community. If kids had foul language, their parents had to deal with it. You were having a break after all. Maybe the lack of reprimands considering Ellie's language outside of class were why she liked you so much. You were never quite sure.

“Thank you Ellie, it means a lot,” you dipped your head as a thanks, a genuine smile placed upon your face. You weren't lying, it did mean a lot. Even though many kids and their families adored you, there were just a few who actually ever gave you something outside of the end of the school year. It was nice knowing that some of them thought about her during the holidays. It meant a bit more now, since Ellie was the only one who actually gave her something other than wishes of health and joy.

“You're welcome. I gotta go, we're supposed to pick a tree today and Joel's gonna be grouchy if I come late. Merry Christmas!” she said quickly, giving you a small wave. With that, she disappeared out of the door. Once again, you didn't even have time to wish her a merry Christmas. She was so uncatchable at times.

Turning your attention back to the cleaning, you finished as soon as possible. Your mind was all over as you walked home. The town was already feeling festive but you had better plans. Your absence would probably not be noticed anyway. Coming to your lonely home at the edge of the commune, you cleaned up a bit more. Even if you didn't have many festive things around at your disposal, you could at least try to make your home pretty.

Later into the day, the sun slowly nearing the horizon, you finally sat in your armchair by the fireplace. Sipping on your hot cocoa with a marshmallow or two swimming at its surface, you simply relaxed underneath a blanket. You were reading one of the books you had borrowed from the town’s library, it being written by Erich Maria Remarque, as your mind shifted to the card Ellie gave you earlier. Honestly, your eyes only ran over it back then and now you were getting curious.

Putting the things in your hands aside at a nearby coffee table, you move towards your bag. Searching through it for a bit, your hands came into contact with materials, pens, important documents and whatever you actually had in there, some of those things long since forgotten. Finally, your finger flickered against the card. You took it out without any further delay, immediately starting to read.

It was the typical mindless text which had always been on cards such as this. Still, it was the thought that counted. Gaze flickering over the names of Ellie, Joel, Tommy and Maria, your attention was brought back upon Joel's name. That handwriting. You saw it somewhere before. Not on any documents, no, it was familiar from somewhere else. A sudden thought  to you, making you freeze for a second in your spot. Next thing you knew, you were running up the stairs to your bedroom.

You immediately headed for your desk, opening its drawer without hesitation. Searching through its contents, you quickly found the thing you had been looking for amongst the amounts of paper and office supplies. There, in your hands, was a thick envelope, filled to the brim with letters. Taking one of them out, your eyes widened.

For weeks, you had been getting letters. Not threats though. Poems, it almost seemed. Declarations of love and devotion, the sender never signing their name. Now, seeing the letters right next to the holiday card, you were left speechless. It was Joel's handwriting. To be completely honest, the letters sometimes sounded corny enough to be from no-one but him. Still, you appreciated the gesture. Who could say they got love letters in the first place?

“Focus, focus right now,” you told yourself. Shaking your head to at least somehow clear it, you tried to gather your thoughts. Joel Miller. Joel, the guy you had never even hung out with without it being a social event had been sending you love letters for weeks. Would you ever find out if Ellie didn't give you that card? Did she know? Was it on purpose? Was she playing matchmaker? Was it all just a joke? You weren't sure. However, you definitely knew you needed to speak to Joel.

You were ready to go when it suddenly started seeming like a bad idea. Would he start ignoring you? Would he deny it? What if you were wrong and they weren't from him? What if what if… All sorts of thoughts were running through your head as you paced around your living room, flames in the hearth making your shadow dance on the walls. Eventually, you decided what to do. You would wait until the tree in the town's square was lit before making a move.

The weight of your plan was getting more suffocating with every passing minute. The insecurities and uncertainty swirled in your chest like snowflakes in the air, pressing down on you. You shouldn't had slept until 3 PM. Yes, you had less time to stress but it suddenly seemed so near. The dark came quickly and the gathering happened even quicker.

You stood in the back of the crowd, not too far from where Joel along with Ellie and his brother with his wife stood. The lump in your throat wouldn't go away, no matter how many times you swallowed. What was happening to you? You were an adult, a teacher, an apocalypse survivor, and you were still terrified to talk to a guy about some letters that he most likely already knew about? It was almost shameful.

Your eyes didn't stray far even after from him even as the biggest tree in town had been lit, it somehow grounding you with its light. It was a beacon of hope for many in the community and yet, you could only focus on how it made Joel's eyes sparkle. You had noticed it before, his eyes. You refused to acknowledge how easily you could get lost in them. How he selfishly stole every single thought from your head, words from your tongue and breath from your lungs with no more than one look.

For just a second, you let yourself get lost. It had been so long since your mind went silent, simply swimming along your heart's surface. You should had been more careful but as your heartbeat got less and less steady, the soft hum in your ears soothed any worries you had. You didn't even register Joel's eyes meeting yours. Neither did you really pay attention when he completely disappeared from your view, only to appear by your side.

“You okay? You looked as if you were putting a curse on me,” he jested, dark eyes fixed on the tree in front of the two of you. His gaze flickered to you for a second from the corner of his eye, watching your reaction. You had already looked away, joining the other townsfolk in watching the beauty of the tree. Joel's mind was elsewhere however.

Joel wouldn't admit out loud but he somewhat wished you hadn't looked away. He wished to see the way you looked at him when you talked to him. It was the way you looked at most of your friends and yet, it was somehow different. Or maybe, his mind was just making him too hopeful.

“Oh, sorry. I got lost in thought,” your attention flickered to the cup of tea in your gloves-clad hands. You felt Joel's eyes on you, gaze intense as he watched you. You didn't know why he was so fascinated by you at that moment and it made you shift in your spot.

“What, do I have something on my face?” a tilt of your head and you were staring at him again. Why did you look like that? That look in your eyes, how the air made your cheeks and nose rosy, a snowflake on two stuck on your eyelashes. You looked so cozy despite the weather, snuggled up in your warm winter coat.

“No, of course not,” answered Joel, casting his gaze elsewhere. He prayed the cold was enough to make you believe he was redder from that and not you. After all, he was capable of unwitnessed violence but you were the line of what he could handle? Even he had a hard time believing it.

“Alright then,” you hummed before blowing onto your drink. Taking a small sip, the two of you settled into a comfortable silence. Everyone else around you was unaware of the tension brewing between you. To them, it came across as two acquaintances sharing a quiet moment.

“Thank you for the card,” you mumbled suddenly, catching him off guard, “I appreciate it.”

The smile you sent him mirrored in his own expression as he recalled the holiday card Ellie forced him to sign the morning before. He hadn't been aware it was for you but, seeing your smile, he didn't consider anyone a better receiver than you.

“Don't mention it. Besides, it was Ellie's idea,” Joel shrugged, pulling his jacket a bit more over himself to get warmer. Everything else was freezing compared to the heat in his face. The need to escape, to swim up and get out of the ocean of unsaid emotions you posed was a bit too much. And yet, he would drown if you asked him to.

A smile tugged on your lips, a tiny flickered of amusement flickering through your expression. Glancing down to his jaw, you watched the way he thickly swallowed. Were you making him uncomfortable? Maybe he knew about the topic you needed to discuss. Taking a shaky breath, you took in your shoes, covered in a white blanket.

“The letters weren't written by Ellie though, were they?” the sound of your voice, your words, they made Joel tense up. The man stood there like an icicle, mind slowly processing what you just told him. You knew. He had hoped you wouldn't find out, not until he was ready to come forward himself. What coward hid behind unsigned letters? Joel Miller, apparently.

“No, they weren't,” shaking his head, he once again surveyed your face, searching for at least something to catch on to assess your opinion. For the first time since he started talking to you, your eyes met. His brown ones stared into yours while a lump formed in his throat. You gave him a look you hadn't given anyone else and it was reserved for him and him only. He was hooked.

“Should I... stop? Sending them, I mean,” the sound of his voice made you chuckle. He seemed embarrassed, desperate to assess your mood. It made you smile to know how easily such a ruthless man could get flustered. The uncertainty was basically flowing out of him. With a smile, you shook your head.

“No, it's okay. I actually kinda like it,” at your words, Joel's expression softened to the point where he reminded you of a puppy. Those huge brown orbs, staring at you as if you were an otherworldly being. He nodded, immediately listening to your words. He would send as many letters as you wished if that's what it took.

“Can I get you a coffee?” he blurted out without hesitation. A sudden fear penetrated his mind; what if he was too rash? Was he trying too hard? He was worried, quite a lot. Joel wanted anything but to blow it. However, a tiny voice inside told him you would accept. And, indeed, you gave him a nod, your smile somehow even widening.

“Sure, I'd like that,” you nodded, a warm feeling running through you. You weren't of that but you both felt butterflies fluttering inside you. How could they not? You liked him and Joel, well, Joel voiced his thoughts in his letters. He let out a sigh of relief, a lopsided grin spreading on his face. For just a moment, he let himself enjoy the feeling of your acceptance. Composing himself once more, Joel cleared his throat.

“Alright. I'll uh, pick you up tomorrow at 8?” a call from Tommy slightly interrupted the moment of vulnerability between the two of you, but Joel didn't seem to even notice. He glanced Tommy's way but his attention remained on you nonetheless. His mind was filled with you for the time being, the only person he truly cared about outside of his little family.

You managed to agree to his proposal before he was pulled away from you by Ellie, the girl forcing him to come along with her back to their original spot. Waving him goodbye, your smile still lingering. Maybe those holidays wouldn't be so lonely after all?

Welcome!

Since December has just begun and I finally started writing fanfics again, I decided to spread some holiday cheer and write my own Advent Calendar, starting on December 1 and ending on December 25 2024.

Due to my hyperfixation on TLOU for the past few weeks, I've prepared 25 fanfics centered around Joel Miller.

I hope you enjoy!

Masterlist

MDNI for certain days!

I do not know which warnings will be needed for individual fanfics so check each one just to be sure!

Days:

Day 1 - Frost (Explicit)

Day 2 - Card

Day 3 - Christmas Tree (Being edited)

Day 4 - Bells (Being edited)

Day 5 - Candle (Being edited)

Day 6 - Star (Being edited)

Day 7 - Fireplace (Being edited)

Day 8 - Gingerbread (Being edited)

Day 9 - Reindeer (Being edited)

Day 10 - Wreath (Being edited)

Day 11 - Mistletoe (Being edited)

Day 12 - Eggnog (Being edited)

Day 13 - Snowman (Being edited)

Day 14 - Bow (Being edited)

Day 15 - Hot Chocolate (Being edited)

Day 16 - Shopping (Being edited)

Day 17 - Stocking (Being edited)

Day 18 - Sweater (Being edited)

Day 19 - Wishlist (Being edited)

Day 20 - Gift (Being edited)

Day 21 - Manger (Being edited)

Day 22 - Ice Skating (Being edited)

Day 23 - Snowflake (Being edited)

Day 24 - Mittens (Being edited)

Day 25 - Carol (Being edited)

Disclaimer:

I do not own The Last Of Us or any of its characters. The Last Of Us is the property of Naughty Dog and Sony Interactive Entertainment. This fanfiction is written purely for entertainment purposes and is not intended for profit. Please support the original work!

Name || Advent Calendar 2024 - Day 1 - Frost

Pairing || Post-Outbreak!Joel Miller x F!Reader

Summary || As winter rolls around, it brings freezing weather in which Joel finds a way to warm you up

Word Count || 2.8k

Tags/Warnings || 18+, MDNI, Explicit Language, Smut, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff Hypothermia mentioned, P in V, Fingering, Unsafe Sex, Outdoor Sex, Established Relationship, Daddy Kink, No Use of Y/N, Age Difference, Size Kink, Creampie, No Beta We Die Like Men, Ellie doesn't exist, Joel is probably a bit OOC

English is not my first language

If you find any grammar or spelling mistakes, let me know so I can fix them

Masterlist

Advent Calendar 2024 Masterlist

The weather was getting colder and colder every single day. Warmer autumn days gave space to harsh winter storms, the nights getting darker. With darkness also came freeze. It was much easier to get sick nowadays and with the lack of medication at their disposal, how can you stay at peace?

On many occasions, you got sick. Both Joel and you, his travelling partner. Lucky for the two of you, it was mostly just a runny nose, sometimes even cough. Still, the thought lingered. What if one of you got severely sick? Hurt? Lost and hurt? There were so many things to worry about.

Joel was getting paranoid once November rolled around. For a good reason, too. After being raided not too long ago, you were left with barely anything to get by with. Food? You could hunt something down. Clothes? The ones you had had to suffice. Medicine? None. Weapons? Two guns and a knife would have to do. It was much harder to survive out there in winter after all, much less find supplies.

Not to mention the Infected. With 20 meters of snow underneath your feet, how could you possibly escape hordes of fungi-covered monsters when you were struggling even without them? They could hear much better as well. Cold air would make each snap of a twig travel so much further than it had when you escaped Boston QZ.

It scared you both. Scared him. Joel was afraid to lose you. He wouldn't handle it after so much death following him around. Especially since it was just a few months since Tess’s death. Even though he wouldn't say it out loud, her sacrifice hurt him more than he'd care to admit. She had been his friend, partner, friend, how could he just forget?

Well, he had you and he wouldn't give that up. He grumbled and complained at first but, now, after so much time, he couldn't find himself to say goodbye. He probably wouldn't do so even once you finally got to Tommy. You were too precious to him.

Another thing was the slowly blooming relationship between the two of you. You were both so used to being alone that just a sliver of attention got you hooked. He lost too many people and the thought of having someone by his side? A flickering wish, now burning bright thanks to your presence.

And you, you who grew up as a future FEDRA soldier. Being all alone in this world, knowing nothing but the cold walls of the school and training, it felt like a miracle to be free, with someone that cared without wanting nothing in return.

You worried too. Winter was quickly approaching and so was the cold. From how quickly nature started changing, you could already tell the coldest time of the year wouldn't go easy on you. It got even worse than you predicted though.

At first, it was just a bit cold. Then came the freezing. Snow was coming much sooner than expected and you were running out of the time to get supplies. You didn't have enough to go through the winter. Your sleeping bags were barely fit for such weather and so were the other clothes.

Joel searched through stores, homes now long abandoned and even vehicles for at least a piece of clothing that would keep you warm. He would like to stay warm as well but he would handle the cold if it meant you were safe and sound. However, it was as if the entire world had burned all winter clothes before the spread of the infection.

Having nothing to warm yourselves with other than the fire, Joel refused to let you be on your own at night. Every time the two of you went to sleep, he would lay down as close as possible, arms wrapped around each other. For body warmth, he'd say. Still, you sometimes felt his length poke your lower back; even if neither of you mentioned it.

In the middle of December, the cold got too much to bear. Even snuggling up to each other at night didn't help most of the time. It bothered Joel. Especially since he started noticing the signs of sickness in you. The lack of warmth and food and excess of stress weren't doing either of you any good. Especially you. You had always been more sensitive to the weather changes and he knew it.

On one of the harsher nights, as the two of you spent the night hidden in a cave somewhere far from civilization, he watched you with keen eyes. It worried him, your state. You were exhausted, stressed, hungry. Your eyes simply watched as he prepared dinner above a fire, barely blinking in fear the meat would disappear.

“You should rest,” Joel mumbled suddenly, eyeing your expression. His deep voice almost made you fall asleep right then but you knew he wouldn't want that. At least without eating dinner first. Even though he wanted you to rest, he didn't dare leave you unconscious without having his arms wrapped around you. It was too much of a risk in his opinion.

He wondered about either of you getting hypothermia too many times and immediately shrugged it off each one. How would he even handle that? Losing you to something like that? Considering their predicament, you both knew you wouldn't be able to save the other one in case something happened. It was mostly why you had been so careful up until then.

“I'm not tired,” you whispered back with a shrug, shifting in your spot a bit to get at least a tiny bit of warmth in. Your eyes closely followed Joel's much bigger hands as they poured the soup-like substance into a bowl before handing it to you. With a muttered ‘Thanks’, you dug into the food without hesitation.

“I'm just cold. But I suppose you already knew that,” you breathed out, the words leaving your trembling lips as a breath vapor. Joel watched as the steam travelled further up before becoming one and the same with the air, its temperatures dropping significantly in a matter of seconds.

With a silent nod, Joel settled for simply watching as you ate, his own dinner sitting abandoned in his lap. He couldn't care less about eating at the moment. Of course, he appreciated all the food you had at your disposal but on that particular night, his mind was elsewhere.

Despite struggling to survive, he couldn't help but think about how nice you looked, all cuddled up in your warmest clothes, your sleeping bag pooling in your lap. Of course you were cold despite having so many things to keep you warm, it was probably the most freezing night yet since winter started. But he didn't voice his thoughts. They would be practically pointless at the moment.

The silence stretched on even as you finished eating. The flame of the fire continued to burn, warming up the bare minimum of its surroundings. From what you felt, it wasn't practically there. Just like Joel's warmth pressing against your back underneath your sleeping bags, it seemed nonexistent compared to the frost coming from outside your hideout.

“Still cold?” whispered Joel, his breath hitting the nape of your neck like ember. It sent shivers down your spine, goosebumps spreading over your body in the way the Cordyceps spread underneath the world's surface.

You hummed in agreement, a soft exhale escaping through your nose before inhaling once more. The action made you huff, the icy air violently pinching your nose from the inside. Taking a deep breath, your lips quickly turned stiff, lacking warmth. You felt Joel grumble underneath his breath, his chest pressing further against your back. It didn't help much but it was something.

For what seemed like eternity in the eternal night filled with thousands of lights, you laid next to each other, trying your best to rest. It was proving more and more futile with every passing second.

Just then, a touch against your covered lower abdomen. It was so subtle, so gentle you barely noticed it. Next came a press against your clothes, the warm hand slipping downwards. Your breath hitched, hot air on your lips a stark contrast to your surroundings.

“This might help,” Joel's voice vibrated in your ear, warming it up for just a second. You heard as he thickly swallowed, almost embarrassed to be doing such things to you in the dead of the night. The unsure words spilled from his lips, almost afraid to voice them, “If you want to, of course.”

He let out a breath of relief at your quiet nod, the shame falling off of his mind now that you agreed to his proposal. His thick fingers slipped underneath the waistband of your ice cold jeans, settling down on top of your mound. He could feel the heat surrounding your body, much more faint than it usually was.

You breath hitched, entire body stilling as his fingers dug beneath your panties, gently caressing the pubic hair on top before running down, towards your entrance. You shivered in his grasp, too sensitive to his advances after such a long time without relieving all the stress from your body. Although he didn't properly touch you yet, you were already quivering.

You had missed his touch. It had been so long since he did so. It was too dangerous, too risky; and he refused to risk your health and wellbeing just to get laid. He had his priorities straight.

Your breath shook, a silent gasp on your lips, as his fingers dipped inside you. The familiar stretch felt delicious. So familiar yet still able to take your breath away. Especially once he hit that special mushy spot inside you. It made your head spin, stars dancing in front of your eyes from how good it felt.

You heard his heavy breathing right next to your ear as his fingers worked to bring you to climax. His hips softly rutted against your backside, desperate for some action as well. Joel was patient though.

Besides, he enjoyed preparing you. Seeing the delight in your expression, your entire body melting thanks to nothing but his hands and tongue. There was something utterly captivating about it; about knowing how easily he made you give yourself over to him and only him. He loved knowing you were completely his and only his.

“Ya like that sweetheart? You like how my fingers feel?” Joel hummed into your ear, a smirk grazing his lips as you nodded. You let out a moan, eyes closing blissfully, once his lips connected with the back of your neck. His teeth dug into the soft flesh, sucking the flesh in as he shifted in his spot. A part of his body pressed you against the ground, it being a comfortable weight against you.

“Y-Yes daddy,” you whispered, eyes falling shut as you arched your back. Squirming underneath him to get his fingers to that one spot which made you see stars, you whined. The knot in your stomach was getting tighter, almost painfully so.

Your actions and words made him chuckle, the sound vibrating from deep within his chest. In his opinion, you were adorable like that. So needy and desperate for him, a complete mess underneath him. He would love to keep going, to tease you and edge you until you were a soaking mess, begging for him to bring you to your high. However, Joel was pent up just as much as you were.

You whined as soon as his fingers left your tight wet heat, slipping out with a squelch. You were about to sit up to look at him, a bit too ready to beg for his attention. Before you could however, his hands pinned you down against the bottom of your sleeping bag. You felt his weight press against your back, his thighs on both of your sides. A bit of shuffling and his pants were pooling at his hips, just like yours.

You didn't have time to react before the head of his cock pressed against your entrance, nudging against it to get in and hide in your tight hole. It slipped into you quite easily, you leaking more than you had in a long time.

The penetration took air away from your lungs. His cock felt much bigger on the inside than it seemed on the outside after all. For a second, it was too much to bear. Even after so many times you had felt him inside, you needed a moment to adjust which he'd gladly give you.

“Fuuuuck…” he breathed out, head falling back. He loved the way you gripped him, milking him before he even started moving. The squeeze on his cock felt heavenly, your walls fluttering around his hardness in a way that made his cock twitch and breath hitch.

How you could feel this nice, he wasn't sure. It was as if you had been made for no-one but him, your body and soul intertwining with his own. It was at those moments of vulnerability, when he was deep inside, holding onto each other, eyes connected, that he felt closest to you. It was then that nothing else mattered. Nothing but you.

He bottomed out into you with one swift movement, settling in comfortably. He didn't move until you gave him a sign, allowing him to proceed. When he did, both of you let out a sigh of relief. You both needed that. Wanting to be even closer, he laid down on top of you, keeping some of his weight off of your body. His own body pressed you down, his chin resting on top of your head, his hips still pistoning in and out of you.

You moaned and quivered underneath his weight as he whispered praise into your ear. He told you everything he knew you liked to hear. How good of a girl you were. How nice you felt. How you were taking him like a champ, better than anyone he had had. How much he loved you.

He did. He did love you. More than anyone. Even though he didn't admit it nor mention it too much, it was true. More than you could possibly imagine. During those little moments of unfiltered passion, those were the ones when he told you over and over. It was almost as if you'd leave him forever if he didn't.

That thought had always lingered in the back of his mind. Would you leave him? You had every right to. He wouldn't even blame you. He was too old for you. Too rough, too broken by the world. He had seen too much to ever heal.

You on the other hand? You were an angel walking amongst mere mortals such as him. A perfect doll, unaware of the pain and suffering of the world. Of course, he knew you were of it but compared to him, you were innocent. A bit too innocent for such a life. And despite everything, you stayed kind and selfless. He didn't deserve you. He knew it.

However, looking down at you, he knew the truth. He wouldn't let you go. Not without a fight. You were his and no-one else's. He'd do everything he could to make you happy. To see your smile and the light in your eyes when you looked at him during dawn.

The connection between you was overwhelming, threatening to swallow you whole. Hands intertwined, you turned your head to meet his gaze. There was no crushing lust which made you jump into his lap. There was simply pure, unadulterated adoration and love that promised nothing but eternal devotion. Joel looked at you like you had hung the moon and stars themselves.

With a groan and a sigh, you both reached your peak, his seed coating your insides. You collapsed onto your sleeping bag, flushed and panting, as his softening cock slipped out of you. You barely registered what was happening even though you felt it so clearly. Joel gently cleaned you both up before fixing up the clothes around your body. Pulling you into his arms, his face hid in your hair.

“I love you,” Joel whispered, his breath hot against you. It warmed you, definitely more than before. He had been right, it actually helped. The body warmth you shared was more prominent, making the cold not as unbearable.

“Love you too,” you retorted, a tired smile on your lips. You were tired, sleep coming to you easier than it had in a few days. Yawning, your eyes fluttered closed. Joel's arms tightened around you, a heated blanket upon you. It lulled you into sleep after than either of you expected and, for once, you could actually ignore the frost surrounding you.

not gonna lie, i LOVE this<333

i recommend reading it SO damn much???

also that photo of joel made me think of this-

feelings are a lot of work

Joel Miller x f!reader

summary: Joel knows a way to help a girl through her heartbreak warnings: unconcensual groping; dirty talk; an age gap as thick as Joel's cock (20+ years decide for yourself); fingering; implied PinV and creampie wc: 800 a/n: my own submission for the 24 hour moodboard writing challenge! hope you enjoy, please leave a comment and reblog if you do

He smelled of beer when he invaded your personal space, planting a meaty paw on your skirt covered ass and boldly grabbing a handful. "Damn, sugar, you should wear something more modest in a place like this. Some drunk dipshit might think you’re offering more than you can handle."

By a 'place like this' he meant a bar on the outskirts of Texas in the middle of a heatwave. Looking around, you saw that your skirt and a white cotton t-shirt with a budweiser logo was amongst the most conservative outfits that women who were present wore.

"Some drunk dipshit already did," you gritted through your teeth, sinking your nails into his hand and trying to pry it off. You didn’t even need to turn your head to know exactly who it was. A tall, broad-as-the-horizon man who had been watching you all evening. His mostly gray beard and the deep lines etched into his face by time suggested he had already celebrated his fiftieth birthday, maybe even a while ago. That made him more than twice your age. That also made him hot by your standards.

When you had walked into the bar a couple of hours earlier, you barely noticed the quiet observer. But as your fight with your now ex-boyfriend escalated, your gaze had shifted from Malcolm’s infuriated face to the corner of the tiny establishment, where the older man sat, cluttering his table with a growing collection of Coors cans. He lingered after Malcolm stormed out, watching you drown your heartbreak in obligatory tequila. And when he decided you’d had enough, he abandoned his post in favor of approaching you.

You had been on the brink of punching the smug smile off his face when you turned around, refusing to let him squeeze the plush curve of your ass any longer. "Name’s Joel," he said, his voice deep and unapologetic. "And whoever that fucker was that left you? I promise he’s worth less than a donkey’s ass."You didn’t know if it was the alcohol, his words, or Joel’s staggering confidence that you wouldn’t scream for help or kick him in the balls, but when you met his whiskey-brown eyes up close, a shiver ran down your spine, stopping right where your cunt pulsed along with your rising heartbeat. His gaze dropped to where your thin white shirt betrayed you, letting him see your hardened nipples that begged for his attention. Taking it as an invitation, Joel caged you against the bar, his arms bracketing your body and making you feel small. The salty tang of his sweat mixed with pine-scented deodorant invaded your lungs as unceremoniously as the rest of him.

"Who the fuck do you think you are?" you demanded, narrowing your eyes, trying and failing to stay unbothered by the sharp cut of his jaw and the curve of his lips.Joel leaned in slowly. His teal polo strained over a big stomach that pressed into you, trapping you in place. Then you felt it—a significant bulge poking insistently against your lower belly. His stubbled cheek scratched yours as he murmured in your ear. "I’m someone who’ll help you forget why you’ve been salting your tequila with tears for the last hour. I can’t promise you feelings—that’s too much work for an old guy like me—but I can promise you a hell of a good time. At least for as long as my cock’s buried in your belly."

The words were outrageous, filthy, and the most forward thing anyone had ever said to you. They were also the words that had you whining in his arms, pathetically begging for release.

He didn’t even take you home. The second you climbed into his battered red pickup that looked older than its owner, his rough hands were on you again. And Joel didn’t lie. When his fingers pushed your panties to the side and slid into your drooling entrance, any thoughts you had of Malcolm, heartbreak, or anything beyond the dizzying burn of Joel’s touch vanished. Unbothered by the people outside, you moaned like a well-paid slut, writing on his thick digits that were scissoring your cunt. Watching two of his fingers slide inside you with ease, he hummed in approval and added a third.

"Have you ever even had a cock up this tight little cunt, darlin’?" He muttered, his wet tongue gathering the sweat off your neck before he sank his teeth into the tender skin. "Snatch so tight, I’m startin’ to think I’m about to deflower ya."

You moaned in response, and Joel chuckled darkly. "Thought I’d fuck the heartbreak outta you, not your whole damn vocabulary."

His fingers curled inside you, petting your sensitive walls relentlessly and coaxing a pathetic whimper from your lips as he pressed his palm into your swollen clit. Every movement of his hand gave you the stimulation that merged pain with pleasure, bringing you closer and closer to the edge. You threw your head back, hitting the seat with a dull thud as you came. Wetness gushed over his hand, he didn’t stop until you were crying from overstimulation, your trembling hands pushing weakly at his wrist.

"Now," he drawled, low and hypnotic, settling back in the driver’s seat and unbuckling his leather belt, "climb over here, darlin’. I’m far from being done with you."

By the time Joel finished fucking his third load into your used pussy, you couldn’t remember the reason you were heartbroken in the first place. Later, curled against his chest in your bed, you decided to save a few tears for the morning—just so he’d have another reason to make you forget.

and they were roommates

Requests are currently:

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Even though I might write for some characters more than others, the other characters are still available as well!

Do not be afraid to request anyone from the current open form of media of the Fandom!

Works

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hicanivent's Masterlist

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Some of my works might include triggering themes such as non-con, dub-con, abuse, manipulation, suicide, self harm and other themes, depending on the work.

Only fandoms which have such themes in canon might include mentions of incest, pedophilia, necrophilia. Such themes will NEVER be fully explicit and will only be there for educational or character lore purposes.

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Request anything! Be it headcannons, one shots, multiple chapter stories, songfics, crackfics, anything!

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"Everyone says that kids these days are terrible. Why though? The truth is, kids are still the same. Parents are the ones who change."

- My accountant professor

reblog if you’re gay, shy or a fucking idiot

i was watching tv and the greatest showman was on and girl i-

my country doesn't have english as its official language and i swear hugh's dub was so bad😭

reblog if you believe fanfics are as valid as books that were published and sold by authors who write as their main careers. I'm trying to prove a point

This year keeps testing me by seeing how much it can throw at me until I give in and kill myself

kinda tired fighting for a life i don’t even want