#Copper Round Wire

[besties-breakup-poll]

Round 3A - Match 2

[enterslicepvt]

Enamelled Round Copper Winding Wires

Elevate your electrical projects with our Enamelled Round Copper Winding Wires. Crafted for optimal conductivity and durability, these wires offer a seamless winding experience. The enamel coating ensures insulation, making them ideal for precision applications. Trust in the reliability of our copper wires for efficient and lasting electrical solutions.

[artcalledwrap]

The Whole The Whole Earth is round And we build in square The Whole Earth is round And we build in square The Whole Earth is round And we build in square Tornado’s Hurricane Look into my eyes The Whole Earth is round And we build in square No crosses at all Eyes across my eyes The sky of weathered weathering weather And earthquake Toppled down boxes Toppled down stacked boxes I’m not play jumblr Just a writing on Tumblr The whole The Whole Earth is round And we build in square The Whole Earth is round And we build in square The Whole Earth is round And we build in square I’ve smoked, it’s just walls man Justified money making again a building Helping tops earn there squares Over toppled neighborhoods Smoke screens from my viewing on tv in the 80’s screens we had knobs And building will be in square again for them I’ll take away the food and let the rats starve Or they just rebuild and move in a new territory, even kernels are cubed The Whole Earth is round And we build in square The Whole Earth is round And we build in square

[kolibribeads]

1.0 mm - 18 GA - The Bead Smith Wire Elements Round Craft/Jewellery Wire - 3.6 m (4 Yd) - Dead-Soft - Non-Tarnish Gold https://www.kolibribeads.com/1-0-mm-18-ga-the-bead-smith-wire-elements-round-craft-jewellery-wire-3-6-m-4-yd-dead-soft-non-tarnish-gold

[alienskart]

We provide the perfect solution for your home

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[saym0-0]

finished head shot of this silly little guy,,

i was going to do the full body but tbh i think i might ruin it if i go much further and i do like this a lot,,,

consider: copper wire hair & oxidised brass beard drumbot

[westkisswigs]

Technical benefits are in rectangular insulated wire over round insulated wire

In the world of electrical engineering, wires play a vital role in the transmission of electricity. These wires come in different shapes and sizes, with round and rectangular insulated wires being the most commonly used. While both types of wires have their advantages and disadvantages, rectangular insulated wires have several technical benefits over their round counterparts.

Higher Packing Density Rectangular wires have a higher packing density than round wires. This means that more rectangular wires can be placed in a given area than round wires. As a result, rectangular wires allow for more efficient use of space, which is particularly important in applications where space is at a premium, such as in electronic devices.

Better Thermal Management Rectangular wires have a larger surface area than round wires, which makes them better at dissipating heat. In applications where high currents are flowing, heat can be a significant issue. Rectangular wires are better able to handle this heat and maintain a cooler temperature than round wires, reducing the risk of damage to the wire and the surrounding components.

Reduced Skin Effect Skin effect is a phenomenon that occurs when high-frequency currents flow through a wire. It causes the current to concentrate towards the surface of the wire, reducing the effective cross-sectional area available for conducting electricity. This can lead to increased resistance and power losses. Rectangular wires have a larger surface area than round wires, which means that they experience less skin effect, resulting in lower power losses and improved efficiency.

Improved Electromagnetic Interference (EMI) Shielding Rectangular wires have a flatter shape than round wires, which makes them better at shielding against electromagnetic interference. This is particularly important in applications where sensitive electronic components are located near the wires, as electromagnetic interference can cause unwanted noise and signal distortion.

Easier Termination Rectangular wires are easier to terminate than round wires. The flat sides of rectangular wires provide a more stable base for connections, making them less likely to slip out of connectors or become loose over time. Additionally, rectangular wires are less likely to roll or twist during the termination process, making them easier to handle and work with.

In conclusion, rectangular insulated wires have several technical benefits over round insulated wires, including higher packing density, better thermal management, reduced skin effect, improved EMI shielding, and easier termination. These benefits make rectangular wires an attractive choice for a wide range of applications, from electronics and telecommunications to power transmission and distribution.

Welcome to see lp industry enamelled wires.

[suntecenterprisesblog]

Stainless steel round cut wire shot is a versatile and effective shot peening media that can help avoid ferrous contamination in non-ferrous metals. It has many benefits over other types of shot peening media, such as durability, uniformity, intensity, and compatibility. It can be used for various applications and with different types of equipment. However, it is important to select the appropriate size and hardness of the stainless steel round-cut wire shot according to the needs of the application and the specifications of the equipment

[ameleire]

Enameled wire manufacturers: Why can the paint on the outside of the enameled wire be insulated?

This is because the enameled wire is coated with a special layer of paint called insulating varnish. It contains oils, resins, pigments, fillers and solvents. In order to meet the requirements of electrical insulation, the paint film structure of electrical insulating varnish is  PEW QZ Class 130 Polyester Enameled Copper Round Wire different from ordinary coatings. High resistivity, good thermal conductivity, good mechanical properties, good moisture resistance. Enameled wire has high resistivity and good insulation performance.

Insulating varnish is a special kind of paint. Insulating varnish is an important polymer-based insulating material, which can be cured into an insulating film or an insulating whole under certain conditions. Passed UL and RoSH environmental protection certification. The main products of stranded wire and silk covered wire are enamelled stranded wire, high temperature resistant enameled wire, aluminum enameled wire and micro enameled wire, mylar wire, uew enameled wire, flat enameled wire, PEW enameled wire, etc., with many years of professional experience, serving dozens of well-known customers ,Welcome to consult!

[spockiguess]

Drunk On You || Peter Quill x Reader

A/N: So this is just a random, short oneshot. I really cannot explain myself. 

Warnings: Smut, Overstimulation

Pairing: Peter Quill x Reader

God, you loved Peter’s curls. You didn’t know how, but they were so soft and bouncy under your greedy hands. Currently, you were running said hands through Peter’s hair, tugging on his copper locks as his tongue explored your dripping cunt while his thick fingers fucked your aching hole. 

Because of your grabby hands, Peter moaned into your sensitive pussy, sending shockwaves throughout your live-wire body. As he lapped at you, your wetness began to drip from Peter’s chin and onto the floor in shiny puddles, but Peter didn’t mind, he loved getting messy. 

So he sucked at your clit while you practically screamed his name, your fingers lightly scratching at his scalp. Peter kept going and going until he could feel your body physically vibrate from the amount of pleasure he was giving you. 

Moaning, you tried to warn Peter of your incoming orgasm, but Peter didn’t even flinch. He just thrust another finger into you and pressed against your g-spot until you were seeing stars, your toes curling and thighs tightening around Peter’s head. 

You came on Peter’s tongue and he lapped all of it up, he was so pussy-drunk, he didn’t know what else to do other than eat you out. So even though you were squirming beneath his hungry mouth, Peter’s strong arms held you down and kept your shaking thighs wide open for him. 

“Fuck, Peter, I can’t–” You tried pushing Peter’s face away, too raw from overstimulation, but Peter just looked up at you with his big doe eyes and kissed the insides of your legs.

“C’mon, baby, just one more.” Peter’s words were so slurred, you could barely understand him, but with that single look, you obliged with a nod. 

Peter dove back in immediately, pressing his fingers against your clit while he thrust his tongue into your weeping cunt. You couldn’t handle the mix of pleasure and pain, your brain literally beginning to scatter. 

Still, Peter held out and fucked you silly on his tongue. The air felt so hot and cold at the same time, your body didn’t know how to react. But, once again, he was able to pull a mind-shattering orgasm from you as you bucked wildly on his face. 

Coming down from your high, you noticed with an alarming speed that Peter was still eating you out, and not slowing down one bit. You screamed his name and yanked at his curls which just caused him to moan and for another set of vibrations to ripple through your body. 

Your breathing quickened again and your third orgasm was steadily approaching, much faster than the other two. 

Your body almost couldn’t take the stimulation, but when Peter mumbled, “You taste so fucking good, I love you so much,” against your pussy, you were done for. 

A third orgasm tore through you like a tsunami, scrambling your brain and causing drool to leak from the sides of your mouth. It was too much, and finally, you pushed Peter away, whining from the overstimulation. 

Peter rested his head against your thigh and looked up at you, a drunken smile spreading across his face, “Sorry, baby. I couldn’t resist.” You watched as your slick dripped from his mouth and shined under the low lighting of the Benatar.

With a heaving breath, you collapsed against the table Peter had you sitting on the edge of while Peter kept his place between your legs, just waiting until you were ready for another round. 

[bekkathyst]

Custom Wire Wrapped Necklaces

These are the stones I have available for wire wraps, for those of you who are interested!

If you would like to claim one, please be sure to read this entire post!

So here’s the rundown. Below is a picture with each stone numbered, and below that is the name of each stone, along with the price.

The price includes the following: the stone wrapped in the metal of your choice (sterling silver, 14k gold fill, 14k rose gold fill), an 18″ chain finished with a handmade clasp, and it includes free shipping worldwide! 

You will choose the style they’d like it wrapped in. There are three example pics below. 

Payment is due when the stone is claimed and all the options are chosen (metal, style, etc). PLEASE NOTE - these will be completed by the end of NOVEMBER 2024. There’s always a possibility that something comes up that causes a delay, but I do try to get them done early. They take a long time to make, please make sure you’re okay with the wait before ordering. I put the utmost care into this and have extreme attention to detail, and when that combines with my busy schedule, it means that it can take a while. 

To claim: send me a message over the instant messenger with your email address, the country you’re in, the stone you’d like to claim, the metal you’d like it wrapped in, and the style you’d like it wrapped in. I’ll then send your invoice and get started on your pendant! :) 

If you'd like to purchase just the plain stone without any wire wrap, remove $100 from the price.

Here are all the stones:

Old stock Persian turquoise - $155

Old stock Persian turquoise - $130

Old stock Persian turquoise - $140

Old stock Persian turquoise - $130 Sold Out!

Old stock Persian turquoise - $130

Old stock Persian turquoise - $115 Sold Out!

Kunzite from Pakistan - $175

Kunzite from Pakistan - $145

Kunzite from Pakistan - $130

Natrolite from Russia (video) - $165

Natrolite from Russia (video) - $160

Azurite from Peru - $140

Azurite from Peru - $145

Rainbow pyrite from Russia - $135

Rainbow pyrite from Russia - $135

Hematite in quartz from Brazil - $125

Hematite in quartz from Brazil - $130

Hematite in quartz from Brazil - $130

Lepidocrosite in quartz from Brazil - $160

Dendritic quartz from Brazil - $150

Dendritic quartz from Brazil - $155

Dendritic quartz from Brazil - $150

Fire quatrz from Brazil - $160

Fire quartz from Brazil - $145

Fire quartz from Brazil - $140 Sold Out!

Copper agate from Indonesia - $165

Super 7 amethyst from Brazil - $170

Leopard aquamarine from Brazil - $195

Leopard aquamarine from Brazil - $145

Ethiopian opal - $165 Sold Out!

Ethiopian opal - $170 Sold Out!

Rare pink covellite included quartz from Brazil (video) - $240 Sold Out!

Mystery stone from Siberia* - $170

Mystery stone from Siberia* - $160

Purple labradorite from Madagascar - $165

Purple labradorite from Madagascar - $155

Blue apatite from Madagascar - $150

Blue apatite from Madagascar - $150

Rainbow moonstone from Madagascar - $145 Sold Out!

*This is a "mystery stone" because I cannot find the name of it. It came from an older Russian miner who I had a language barrier situation with but he did confirm it's from Siberia. I wish I could find the name! It's shiny and almost metalic, reminding me a little bit of sphalerite. It's gorgeous.

These are the styles you can choose from (I do very minimalist wrapping so the stone really shines through! And the wrapping is super sturdy!) 

Style #1 (prongs): 

Style #2 (symmetrical): 

Style #3 (asymmetrical):  

I will cross out each stone as they are claimed! 

Extra little note: I have some square wire if you prefer that to the round, just let me know!

Thanks, everyone :) 

[teaboot]

Out of curiosity, how does one start making jewelry themselves? You mentioned it in your hobby list and i was always kinda interested but never knew where or how to start.

One of the easier and more accessible types of jewelry you can make is wire-wrapping! Here's an example from an etsy account linked HERE

All you really need for this are some beads or stones, wire, wire cutters, and a pair of rounded pliers. If you have a wire stripper, you can even recycle copper electrical wiring ! (I used to do this to make chain.)

I personally don't wear a lot of these, but I am IN LOVE with making wire-wrap bead chains like THIS

Again, not too expensive to get supplies, and no fire or torches needed.

Although if you DO have access to a propane or acetylene torch, or a soldiering gun, some liquid Flux, and copper soldier, you can do some pretty awesome shit as well!

Like I said, I used to LOVE making industrial-style chain necklaces out of electrical wire that ended up looking like THIS

I also used to love making flowers, rings, bracelets, etc, because again, they were relatively cheap and easy to make out of recycled materials

Highly recommend, it's all so super fun!

[kayawolfhorse]

Day 2 — On the Edge of a Knife

—☾—

Etho idly paces around the froglight shop’s lobby; the day as sweet and slow as molasses as each hour trudges by in an uninspired march.

There’s plenty he could be doing, sure—the shop’s exterior is begging to be built, though the glory in an inside-out base is that the outside is merely a suggestion.

He could rework Ravager Rush’s wiring to accommodate four-digit scores, or he could build the farm that’s been itching at the back of his mind ever since he finished the game. He could even work on his base to appease the endless teasing over his (perfectly adequate) roof.

His mind churns with ideas but his motivation to act upon any of them lulls. He counts the lily pads as he steps over them and fidgets with a zipper on his vest.

Eventually, after a tick or a minute or a day, the unmistakable sound of someone taking a landing too steep against the grass outside cuts through the silence.

“Etho! Etho-ooooo!” Gem’s voice, even less mistakable than the tumble Etho assumes she took, rings out.

“In here,” Etho says, and Gem meets him at the top step of the right wing. Her hair is messy around the edges of her bandanna, and there are fresh grass stains on her knees, almost invisible against the dark fabric.

“Etho! Wonderful, yes,” Gem says, with an odd expression that smooths itself away almost immediately. “Are you busy?”

“Nah, did you need something?” he asks, scuffing his sandal against the copper stair.

“Up for some sparring?”

Usually, they spar in the evenings, swords glinting in the reflected sunset until the bugs that gather around the edges of Gem’s river become unbearable.

Etho considers his productive day leading up to this point. “I’ve got nothing better to do.”

—☾—

Gem dumps Etho’s sword into his outstretched arms after he respawns for the third time with a grin that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Five hearts,” she informs him, and Etho groans.

“You’re too fast! It’s hard to get hits on you,” Etho complains, but beneath his mask, he’s smiling too.

“Looks like you’ll just have to try harder,” Gem says, before widening her stance and steadying her blade. Etho mirrors her, and a slight shift of Gem’s boot against the sandstone of the beach is the only warning Etho gets before she’s racing up on the offense.

Etho parries her first blow; her second. Her third swing slices through the fabric of Etho’s left sleeve, and the gash stings, but not enough to stop him from lunging forward, closing the opening Gem leaves by lifting her arms too high and catching her in the side.

Gem grunts, but leverages ahead, pushing into Etho’s space in a furious whirl of movement that has Etho stumbling back a step. He snakes in more hits than he had in their previous round, but has no time or space to get in crits; most of his efforts are concentrated in avoiding Gem’s blade.

It’s over in a second. Etho’s vision goes black, and then he’s sitting up in the respawn bed nestled within a faux-shipwreck.

“Again?” Gem asks when Etho’s sword is back in hands.

Etho shrugs. “Sure.”

Gem’s fighting style is quick, cutting, and brutal; her movements leave no room for hesitation and her strikes land true a considerable amount of the time. Despite that, she maintains a fluidity that twines through her limbs like how waves break apart the sea’s surface, and she’s smooth as she transitions from one move to the next.

Tension strings across her frame now, in the tilt to her shoulders and line of her mouth and too-tight grip on her sword. Her swings are sloppier than usual and she brings them down harshly, almost desperately.

Sweat beads on Etho’s brow; he can see how it similarly runs down Gem’s face. An aching tiredness seeps into his limbs, but he’s not about to call it quits; Gem needs the company at least.

In a twist of sheer luck, Etho gains the upper hand, and he uses it to crit, before slashing again and driving Gem back. In a flash, she’s pushing ahead and twisting to the side with the ferocity of a cornered animal, and the set of teeth she bares is the edge of her blade suddenly pressed against Etho’s throat.

They both freeze. Gem’s hardly one for headshots.

The cool press of metal is gone before Etho has the chance to speak against it. Gem sheaths it at her side, looking troubled.

“You okay?” Etho asks, putting away his own sword.

“Yeah, I’m just… suddenly really tired,” Gem says, and her voice is pinched in all of the wrong places. “Thanks for sparring with me.”

Etho waits a couple ticks to see if she’ll continue. He wonders if he should press further, but she doesn’t look like she wants to talk. Gem turns to collect her stuff.

“It was a good session,” he says.

Gem tugs on her armor and equips her elytra. She offers him a tight-lipped smile before taking off.

He touches a hand to his neck. The blood there has already started to crust. Etho stands alone on the beach and watches Gem’s figure disappear over the horizon.

[hellowoolf]

on strawberries and masonry: chapter iii

series summary: you atone for your sins, now, in a jackson garden, learning to care for soft things and yourself. joel miller is a lethal sort of similar, and misery loves company

OR

you live in jackson and meet joel and you’re both damaged little babies and fall in love (but i’m drawing this shit out🫶🫶)

warnings: angst, age gap (reader late 20s/early 30s, joel 50s), blood & gore, scars (NOT self inflicted), knives, guns, SMUT!!, unprotected p in v, fingering (if i left out any, let me know!)

word count: 9k

authors note: the fucking. at long last. thank god. (this is my first time writing smut omg goodbye)

series masterlist | masterlist

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

joel speaks to you like copper oxidizing in the sun. it’s slow at first, a shiny amber thing you covet, bestowed every once in a while on patrol or in the dining hall. but when the green catches hold, the gloss of it gone but easier, softer, it’s only a week or two from start to finish. he remains taut with you, strung into a tight wire you weary your hands trying to soften. even still, his prevailing silence makes him a vault, and at every moment you deem appropriate, you store your secrets there.

you tell him about the strawberries first. of the redness of that first one, and the way you’d wept with tommy and noah over the soil. of your hoarding of them, too. you recall to him your brisk walks in the biting air with ellie, smuggling handfuls stained red in the warmth of your coats, to deposit the bunches of them in your kitchen. 

he doesn’t ask you again, after his vulnerability on your porch that night, about ellie, but regardless you tally your moments with her to recite for him. you watch him grip to them like a wounded animal in the snow, though still he is joel, and so mostly he is quiet as you recount your greenhouse conversations. you’re certain, now, that he isn’t her father, but she mirrors him to a degree of uncanniness, what with her constant bristling. this you do not say to joel, but mostly because you suspect he already knows.

you pull from joel what he lets you. you learn he lived in austin, before. you learn he worked in a boston qz most recently, up until the trek with ellie to wyoming (the motives of this are strictly off-limits, and though you enjoy pushing him, you allow this omission to stand). you learn he loves music, and played the guitar a lifetime ago. and you gather scraps of him in the moments between the stories, too; he is performative, despite himself, and runs inhumanly hot, and reaches still for his southern manners like he’ll someday be rewarded for them. most of all, though, you learn he is not very good at covering the craters of himself. the small set of moments from his life before jackson he allows you to see are censured, punctured through by his own tongue, you deduce to muzzle the voices of the characters of his past he won’t let you meet. but his recollections remain wounded by his carving of them, and so the ghosts of his memories, unnamed as they are, are clear to you. there is one in boston, and another set along the path to jackson. most incurably, there is one in austin, but unlike the rest, joel carries this specter with him. 

the dining hall is always bloated with townspeople when you return from your rounds. the warmth of them overcomes the cold of the outside (it has persisted into late january this year) and as you find a table with joel at your side, the buzzing heat tickles at you from under your coat. you sit down at an empty table with joel on your left.

“but i do think they’re being weird. quiet, i guess, and tommy isn’t ever quiet.” you turn to joel, whose mouth is full already, and he leans back in his chair. tommy pulled away from you, and joel, too, over the last two weeks or so. maria has kept her distance—you have learned to expect this—but tommy is so insistently social, and so his waning outings in town seem odd to you.

“i dunno. tommy’s tommy, ain’t he?”

“yes, tommy’s tommy. but tommy hasn’t been tommy. you see what i’m saying?”

joel shrugs, stabbing again at his plate. “i guess,” but his thought isn’t finished, so you don’t respond quite yet. the brown of his eyes flickers when he’s let the tail of his sentence go, and you’ve learned to make space for them. “i…i don’t think maria’s too comfortable with my bein here.” he won’t look at you, but still it’s as vulnerable as joel ever is with you; he thinks tommy is distant because of him. you’re thrown to that night with maria in your kitchen, asking (demanding, really) that you patrol with joel, to the unyielding truth that your forced proximity to him begins and ends with your proclivity for violence. you aren’t quick to guilt, but it lays its clammy hand on your shoulder while you watch him eat. you’re reminded of how hot the room is, and begin to pull your arms from your jacket, turning your head slightly to lay it across your chair.

“maybe not, but she’s never been too excited about me, either. maria’s protective, very protective. but tommy’s different, too, he–” you don’t know if it’s the looking or his finger that comes first, but in any case you’re jolted somewhat ungracefully into silence. joel’s face has contorted into something unrecognizable as he looks down at your arm, bare in a tank top for the first time in months, and you watch as his pointer finger follows his eyeline down the scar on your left bicep. oh fuck. the callous of his touch just barely dances along the top of it, padding his fingertip along the skin in what feels like disbelief and disappointment and something else entirely. the mark closed up years ago, but the feeling of joel’s hand along your skin nearly burns the thing off. your sanity and your wanting of him are so flammable, and the spark of his touch sets the whole of you in smoke. after a few seconds of it, of the looking and the touching and the silence, joel remembers himself and stiffens again in his chair.

“i’m sorry, darlin, i-” he stops himself. “i'm sorry.”

and him calling you darlin is entirely unfair. you flush, across your chest and down your spine and down through your sex. there is something truly wrong with you. “no, no. it’s okay. i didn’t realize you hadn’t seen it.”

though he’s retracted his hand, joel’s stare remains clutched across your bicep. his fists curl in on themselves in his lap, and he stays there, firm and looking at you and cupping on nothing in his palms. you fill the silence.

“it was a long time ago. i don’t think about it much anymore.” this is only halfway dishonest.

“i shouldnta touched it.” he almost sounds bashful, boyish. he finally looks away from the scar and back at his food. “shouldn’t be starin either.” the depth of his voice tears through you despite the softness of it now, a whisper nearly unintelligible under the sounds of the dining hall. it strikes you that he thinks you a victim, and the thought nearly makes you sick. by maria’s fear of him, you’re certain joel has as blood-stained a past as you do, and late at night you tell yourself he would understand. still, you haven’t had the heart to tell him. what would you even say?

joel shakes his head slightly side to side like he’s reprimanding a child, though the child is him, now, and you could laugh at how awful and sweet and misinformed it is. you’d like to forgive him again, but you think he’ll excuse himself if you say any more about it, so you let the whole thing dissolve away.

“you like strawberries, sting?”

joel groans. yes, along with the lusting and your little fruits, the nickname is a luxury you cannot deny yourself.

“‘n so i played, but never out at bars or anything. tommy sure as hell wanted me to,” he said, securing his horse back in the barn.

“so who’d you play like?” you called from your stall in the stables. 

“nobody,” he grunted back.

“you play like sting?”

noah found an old record of his on a run once, and you sat by jesse’s record player for hours at a time listening to it. in truth, it was some of the only music you really knew by heart. as you asked it, the both of you stepped out from your corners of the barn, and he stood with his hip cocked. you grinned at him, but he looked incredulously back at you.

“like sting? are you serious?”

you crossed your arms over your chest. “i’m asking a question. can’t i ask a question?”

“jesus. sting played the bass,” he said, exasperated, as he turned from you to walk out. you thought of his thorniness and guitar playing and the colors of his voice. sting. you decided you’d call him that as you followed out after him.

“i think so. i think i used to.” he seems far more relaxed in his chair now, and it makes you sink further into yours.

“i just have too many now. i’ve been thinking of giving some away,” you say, looking at him. “would you take some?” and it’s true; they’ve been overflowing into your sink and onto your windowsill. your little plant has been bountiful, and you had insisted her harvests were yours, but watching them mold on your counter has not proven as indulgent as you had thought. another, quieter and much more dangerous piece of yourself, tells you that really, you just want to give something to joel, to give anything to joel, but you cite instead the rotting by your fridge and allow yourself to ignore that little voice.

joel eyes you. “you really askin? or you bein courteous?”

“am i ever courteous?” you laugh. he smiles a little and laughs, too.

“no, no. i guess not.”

you’re giddy with the shake of his chest and his grin. he doesn’t laugh all that often, you suppose because it exhausts him so, but when joel laughs it’s an anatomical revelation. the whole of him wrestles with it. you’re wet, again, (it’s nearly constant for how often you’re together), and you eat what’s left of your lunch.

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

your favorite of the group before jackson was danny. you’d met eliza first, in the salt lake qz, but danny was your age, and beautiful in a delicate sort of way that struck you as unnatural. you remember the stories your father told you from the bible, of the angels with eyes and wings and bloodlust, and danny was of that sort. it surrendered you to him, you think, and so you let him fuck you when the moon wasn’t out. he never made you come, really, but it wasn’t about the coming then. you were teenagers and guilty, so heavy and ashamed and good at the killing, and so the rub of a tree at your back as you let him put his cock in you was an escape from your being and the blood on your hands. 

in his back pocket danny kept a polaroid, folded up and frayed around the edges, of him as a child, much of the same abnormality and prettiness, and ellie reminds you of that photo. for a thing you’re certain has seen death on and about her, ellie remains strange and stunning. she sits to your left with her legs out in front of her, sorting through your stock of seeds. you spin your knife along your knuckles as you sort through a pole bean plant to harvest the ripened pods, the orange light of sunset filtering through the leaves and quilting shapes along your skin. 

“okay, mainly you’re almost outta radishes. everything else you gotta pretty nice setup on,” she says, setting the box down next to her. ellie had broken her outstanding silence with you, and you determine quickly that she isn’t disillusioned with who you have been. she’d told you once that you hold your knife like you’re worried someone will take it from you. she’d laughed and laughed, conjured scenarios of your vegetables rising against you, and you laughed with her. still, she sees your practice with it, the disjoint of your grip against the unmoving of your plants, and inherits the knowing of the damage you’ve done.

“alright. i’ll see if anyone going through the set of cabins down south can find anything,” you say back, sifting still through the bean leaves. 

“and what do you say now?” ellie’s voice lilts with her smile, all childlike wickedness, and you turn to her, grinning back.

“thank you, ellie.”

with a grunt and a stumble she stands back up and gives you a half bow, echoing self contentedly, “thank you, ellie.” you snort.

as she leaves, you watch tommy approach through the greenhouse walls. you think he’s frightened of her, hides himself in his coat as though she may reach out and tear him apart, but still he tips his chin to her as he makes his way towards you and crosses her path. you can’t help but smile, tracking the peeking green of a few pole beans she’d stolen bounce from her pocket as she walks away. you walk out the doors to lean on the outside greenhouse wall.

“i see you’ve risen from your crypt,” you say as he arrives fully in front of you. 

tommy grins tight lipped, his arms cradled to his ribs as he keeps his hands in the pockets of his jeans. there’s an anxiety to him, to the way he rocks back and forth before you. “yeah, yeah. i already heard it from damn near everyone i’ve seen today.” 

“i’ve been more social than you these past two weeks. you know how fucked up that is, tommy?” you’re trying your hardest to show him you’re joking, coax him into honesty. he’s come to confess something to you, you think.

“oh give me a break,” he replies.

you raise your eyebrows slightly and holds your arms out in front of you; you have the floor. a beat.

“well i came to tell you the news.” you hum. “maria and i are, well i guess maria is, shit,” he says, but he’s smiling now, coy and wistful, scratching the back of his head as he asks, “how did people used to do this?” you say nothing, still. “maria and i are having a baby.”

and something between your lungs shifts out of place. they are going to have a child. a child. your first thought is that they will be good parents, tommy and maria; their flesh and blood is warm with sun and work and something lovely, and it will make for something worth growing, you’re certain. they will be of jackson, like your plants and the snow, and maybe the whole of humanity is forgiven for children like this, born into safety and wood cabins.

your second thought is so horrifically selfish you can hardly stomach it, let alone recite it. you swallow it back down.

“tommy, that’s amazing,” and you hug him there, a copy of your embrace standing in the reflection of the greenhouse walls. “how are you feeling about it?”

he pulls back grinning. yes, he will be a good father. “well shit, scared out of my mind, you know,” he chuckles, “but real excited. maria, too.”

you give him a smile that you mean. “well, you guys let me know if i can do anything,” you say, and gesture towards the garden, “if there are any herbs or things that could help maria with any of it you just let me know.”

tommy nods and puts his hands in his pockets, nodding. “i thank ya for it.”

for a moment, the two of you stand there in the waning sunlight, watching what you’ve become. tommy, you think, is precisely what he was meant to be. he has always been far too content with existence, molded over as it might now be, to deny fatherhood. you wonder what he sees in you. 

“well, give maria my congratulations. lord knows she’s doing the heavy lifting,” you chuckle as you move to go back into the greenhouse, “and come knocking if i can help.”

you make it to the door before tommy calls your name and you turn around.

“how’re you doin on patrol with joel?” he asks you from his spot, letting the words cross the now sizable distance between you. you’re thankful for how far he is, hoping whatever grin is laying itself across your face is too subtle for him to make out.

“we’re doing okay, i think. he’s a little tense…and can be fucking terrifying.” and now you really smile. “but i can handle him.”

tommy barks out a laugh and begins to walk backwards towards the town square, calling out with a palm cupped to the side of his mouth, “you’re good for him!”

and you let yourself be jovial, laughing as you kneel to your beets, but really you might never forgive him for saying something like that. 

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

joel still hasn’t come to visit your garden, though you’re grateful for this now. the warmth of the greenhouse has become your respite from the constant wanting, and you think if he materialized in the doorway you’d melt there in the soil. pacing through your kitchen, you eye the little basket of strawberries on your counter. you’ve named them joel’s already, but each time you’ve made to bring them to him your resolve disintegrates down your thighs.

but oh, they are so perfect now, reddened into a vivid blush, and if you don’t hand them off today you’ll have to throw them out. you grab the basket and slip out the door, doing your best to avoid spitting up your heartbeat on the walk to joel’s porch.

it’s nearly dusk, and when he opens the door he has a glass with about a finger of whiskey in his right hand. it sloshes as he looks you over, eyes measured a little with surprise and something else, but you stay tied to the wrap of his fingers around the glass and lock your knees to keep from dropping to them. 

“hey, sting,” you grin (or grimace, more like).

“uh,” he leans a shoulder on the doorway and the movement brings his chest closer to you outside of the threshold. you smell the whiskey and the pine of him as he continues, “hey.”

his voice is deeper, now, hoarse with the weight of the day, and you conclude that you are, in fact, doomed for madness, if he keeps looking at you like that. you bring the basket of strawberries up to your chest and gesture them to him. “i just wanted to drop these off. they’ll go bad in a few days.”

joel peers down into the basket and grins a little, turning to put the tumbler on a table behind him before stepping more fully out of the house. you think he expects you to take a step back to make room for him, but you allow his chest to crowd yours, tilting your head further back. “well shit,” he laughs, “these are real.”

“yeah, well, now they’re real and they’re yours.”

joel lets his eyes circle once more over your face before extending his hands to take the basket. the warmth of his fingers as they brush yours along the weaving makes you clench and expand in the span of a moment. “thank you, really,” he says softly, sincerely, and the basket is so much smaller, now, held to his front. 

you shove your hands into your back pockets. “eat them soon, though, please.” 

joel turns around again to put the basket inside just beside the whiskey glass, and says to you behind him, “can always make jam or somethin if i can’t go through em all.”

your stomach twists up and it pushes what can only be described as a giggle (an awful thing) from you. “jam? you know how to make jam?”

he shifts back around and cocks his hip, sticking a knee out. “the fuck you mean by that tone?”

you laugh harder, earnestly, nearly folding over with it as he grips the door, ready to close it. “jam?” 

“yes, jam. it ain’t that hard.”

you keep laughing just for the sake of it now, but as joel begins to swing the door shut with a quiet jesus you hold your hands out. “i’m sorry, i’m sorry, you just don’t look the type is all.”

with a tilt of his head he asks, “oh yeah? so what type am i?”

this quiets you. please, do not give yourself away, do not bleed your hand, do not. you narrow your eyes at him, dramatizing your assessment, pleading with yourself to construct an answer suitable for near sunset, but you take too long, boots nearly reaching his. he grunts, bringing his thumb and pointer finger up to hold your chin and twist you away from him. you feel the calluses on the pads of his fingers for the moment that he grasps your head between them, and your pussy drools a little. still, you begin to make your way down his porch; this is far from the most aggressive way joel has decided the conversation has ended, and so despite his push of your chin from his palm you make it to the final step pleased, the warmth of his skin still licking where he touched you. 

“goodnight.”

you stop, take a deep breath in, the silence behind you petting down your spine. he hasn’t closed the door. he’s waiting for you to say it back. and you die a little death there, with one foot on the road. “goodnight, sting.”

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

the air is noticeably warmer this morning as you drag it into your mouth, padding along the beginnings of spring towards the stables. joel has prepared his horse already when you walk in, giving you a mornin, and he’s leaned up statuesque on her side with an elbow. the sling of his gun’s strap hugs his chest through his flannel, and the barrel peeks up over his shoulder, but only just. you salute to him as you saddle your horse.

“morning yourself.” you feel him stretch behind you as he mounts his horse (you are always so painfully aware of his body) and smirk, “rough night? did the jam give you trouble?”

“christ, i didn’t make any, darlin i’m just tired.” 

you mount your horse. darlin. jesus.

“well you rest up, cowboy, i’ll cover you.”

joel grunts and says nothing as you trot out the gates together. he doesn’t think you capable of protecting him; in all, it is your best kept secret.

as the both of you wind through your northern route, you notice again the opening forest floor, weeds and flower beds resurfacing again beneath the trees. elderberries start to bloom out here this time of year, and in years past noah has uprooted the bushes for you to replant and harvest. the flowers are edible, too, and beautiful, and you wonder if joel will let you stop a moment to look for them. you wait until the trees grow thick and quiet around you before asking.

“joel,” he makes a noise in response, “could we stop here for a little? there are berries that grow around here and i want to see if i can find any to take back to the greenhouse.”

joel looks at you from his horse, affectless. “you serious?”

“yes.”

he lets out a sigh that morphs into a yawn midway through and shakes his head around a little, dusting something from his mind. “alright, alright. fine. but stay close, please,” and he trails off as he says it but you catch the end all the same.

you smile up at him, feet already on the ground and setting your rifle at your horses hooves to pull your knife out. as you weave through the shadows of the brush you call back to joel, “maybe you can make some marmalade out of these, too,” and you’re buzzing with the scoff that passes even through the feet between you, but he’s grinning, small and against his best efforts, and you spot that, too.

“you ever gonna let that go?”

and you don’t answer, ducking into an embankment of bush and leaves. 

it’s been years since you’ve foraged like this. you used to pick mushrooms and berries from the ground with danny at night when you ran with the raiders, eat them together and take your chances. this feels different, though, charged with a tenderness and gentle knowing that’s new to you now. the world out here looks so much like your garden, feels so much like yours, and it strikes you that the mountains answer to you in your own small way. you could find a spot, up and away from the snow, and decide what grows there, play god with the grasses and the weeds. so though you find no elderberries in this brush, you are quiet with that little victory as you pace back to where you left joel.

as you approach, joel’s voice calls through the trees. a deep and pained “fuck!” and the rustling of clothes grows louder as you pad forward. there’s a shrill grunting, too, not joel’s, not joel’s. you take stock of your heartbeat and your fingers and the blade in your coat. there is someone else here. you move silently on the dirt, hiding your body in the bark and greenery, and then you spot him, kneeling with his hands behind his head, his gun kicked a few feet away, and a scrawny figure holds a glock to the skin of his forehead. suddenly you’re 19 again, and unafraid. joel spots you from your place halfway behind a tree and his eyes widen a fraction. don’t come out, he’s pleading with you, but you will not listen. your father’s knife, tucked into your jacket, coughs to life.

you trample the ground below you as you stumble out, hands in the air. you whine, “please, please, don’t hurt him,” and the man whirls around to you. he looks gaunt, his cheeks pressed into his face, but his beard, which hangs wiry by his chin, is streaked with something bloody and dead. he bares his teeth and laughs with delirium.

“so there is another one,” he says as he approaches, gun pointed now at your nose. you let him think you a coward and flinch as he presses it to your face. “you’re prettier ‘an your partner, ain’t ya?”

you keep your eyes wide, say nothing. not yet, not yet, he isn’t close enough. joel barks from behind him, lowly and wild, “don’t you fucking dare,” but the man has already brought his other hand to drag around your face, through the hollow of your collarbone, down your sternum. you let your lip tremble and joel flinches ahead of you.

the man calls behind him to joel, saying “if i hear you move a goddamn inch i’ll shoot ‘er.” joel’s face is pulled up into fury and brutality and helplessness, nostrils flaring and chest heaving, but he stills.

“please, please, i’ll do anything, let us go,” and as you say it, already his right hand is tilting, the barrel of the gun slowly drifting from your cheek. just a little more.

his breath is soiled with rot as it fans over your face and he’s so close to you now, whispering, “anything?” 

the gun is pointed just to the right of your ear. 

now.

you twist your arm between your shoulder and his wrist to grab his hand, pointing the gun to the treeline as you duck under it to spin behind him, your free hand reaching into your coat and stabbing through the artery that runs through his neck. blood pours from around the handle as the man falls to his knees, and you grip him by the filth of his hair to pull your knife back out. you let out a breath, standing over what is now a corpse. it’s been years, but you are always yourself, aren’t you?

you falter only when you turn around and joel is there. he’s sat fully on his haunches, arms hanging loosely by his sides as he looks up at you. and the look on his face is…you don’t entirely know. his eyebrows kiss, knit together on his forehead, and his eyes look through you, like you’re an apparition before him, but still his mouth hangs open slightly. you think if you stay here, standing above him, the whole mangled history will come clawing from your mouth, so instead you move to sit beside him, the both of you now facing the body you left behind. 

the silence survives, for a few seconds. joel’s shoulders slump as he adjusts himself to sit with his legs out, and he pulls in a deep breath. 

“you done that a lot?”

you take a moment before replying, “yeah.” you think of how the truth seems to demand to be known regardless, regardless of your stifling of it and your wanting of joel and whatever innocence you’ve never had but cling to when with him. you think of this, and begin speaking.

“i was 18 when they found me in the salt lake qz. there was a group of them, 9 at the time, and this woman, eliza, she promised they’d take care of me. feed me more than the qz had. and i wasn’t starving or anything, really, or in any kind of trouble. i could take care of myself, you know. maybe i should’ve had a stronger moral compass. i was just…” you take a breath, “i was so alone, then. my father died on outbreak day, and mom was never really in the picture. some of them were my age, some were older. i don’t know. i’d learned how to use the knife like…” you look again at the corpse, “like that by then. i’d killed by then. it didn’t feel like i was losing anything, being a raider.”

joel is still beside you, looking down at his hands, but you know he is listening.

“and so we used to trap people like that. men, mostly. they’d throw me out in groups of them, let them get close and then…” you wave your hand around, a stand-in for the killing. “i ran with them for a few years. they kept their promises.” your scar throbs beneath your sleeve and you take another breath. “and then another group got the jump on us. we’d been looking through a warehouse and they’d been hiding there, i guess. they killed a few, nearly killed me, i think. they sliced through the artery down my left arm,” and you trace the line of the scar as you say it, “but matteo killed the rest before they slit my throat. he tried to stitch me up a little with what was left of our twine. still, they left me there. i didn’t really blame them. still don’t.

tommy found me there. he patrolled with noah, back then, and they came passing through after everyone else had left or died. at first they said i could only stay until the wound was healed, but in the end nobody had the heart to turn me out.” finally, you look at him, and he shifts his head up to look back at you. “i’m sorry i didn’t tell you.” and you are.

joel’s eyes flit over your face, scowling still but soft, too, and brings a hand up, slowly. he cups his palm around your cheek to turn your head, thumb soft along your face, and wipes the blood splatter along your neck and jaw with his other hand. when he shifts your face back to his, he lets his thumb trace the line of your nose, around the curve of your chin, once, featherlight, under your bottom lip. your mouth opens up a little, watching him watch you. he nods, then, decisive, and pulls himself off the ground, helping you up after him. 

you ride back to jackson in silence, leaving the dead man in the open. you let joel turn over what he saw, what he heard, in the quiet of your horse’s footsteps. he leaves you in the barn when you’ve dismounted, tells you to stay put, and reports the man to tommy. you stay, leaned up against the barn wall, waiting for him, something inside you scratching along the lining of your body, wondering what he’s thinking and knowing you have no right to it. when joel comes back, you notice the streak of blood on his thigh where he’d wiped his fingers after holding your face. you consider each other a moment from across the stables, and something passes between you. you saved his life today, and he’s grateful for it in a way he’s struggling with, and you can both agree you needn’t mention it again, at least until tomorrow. these thoughts he lets you read, before dropping them.

“you like whiskey?” he asks. and god what you wouldn’t do for a drink, so you nod. he jerks his head behind him and grunts, “c’mon.”

you let him lead you to his house, and for the first time you come inside.

joel has lived in jackson for years less than you, but still he’s filled it more than you have yours. there are books, on little tables and in the shelves, and half-done whittlings, and pencils. you flush with the scent of him, so strong in the curtains and the couch.

joel pours you a healthy shot into a tumbler, and then one for himself, and he lets you roam as you sip on it, following at your back without a word. you approach each of his shelfs, run your fingers along them, linger on the pieces of him he’s littered around. you finger through a pile of guitar picks and set your glass down there.

“what did you think of me when you first met me?” and you don’t entirely know why you ask it, at first. it comes, maybe, out of a selfish need to be reassured, or an even more dire want to hear his voice.

“what did i think of you?” he asks, and you can feel him approaching your back slowly. you hum, and joel reaches around you to set his glass down next to yours. he’s so close now and you squeeze your thighs together. “why d’you wanna know?”

and really you do your best at keeping yourself even. certainly, you tell yourself, he doesn’t mean to have this effect on you. certainly, he’s only trying to be kind after you sliced someone open for him. “i guess…” you think a moment, and then, “you asked me last night what kind of person you were. i want to know what you thought of me.”

he sighs a little, inches closer still. and his voice is so deep when he says at your back, “can i touch you here?” and you see in your periphery his pointer finger at your shoulder, hooking lightly over your hair. you barely muffle the shake in your chest and nod, and he pulls your hair over your other shoulder to bare your neck.

joel runs his nose along the line of your shoulder and lets out a breath there, pained and dismantled. into the seam of your neck, he whispers, “as soon as i saw you darlin i thought,” and he pauses to bring the backs of his knuckles, desperately light, down your spine, and you clench around nothing. “i thought you looked so goddamn soft. the fuckin garden and the strawberries, jesus, the strawberries.”

the paw of his hand, now at the base of your backbone, stretches itself along one of your hips. he says, now, “what about here? can i touch you here?” you nod again. joel’s fingertips press into you over your jeans there, but still he keeps his palm raised with a tremble that feels like restraint. “i thought i’d scare you.”

you let out a breath, slow, and muffled by your own attempt at control, and press your thighs together. the growing wetness at the nexus of your legs sears you, all lightning and heartbeat, and you will yourself to stay standing against the insistent pull of your arousal. joel tips his nose above the lobe of your ear to speak into it, lowly and gruffly and nearly apologetic (but not quite), “i’m too goddamn selfish.” he rests his forehead on your shoulder and breathes deeply again. “and violent.” this time, his words really do sound like repentance, and you stay silent to make space for the full of his confession. but his lips hover over the crest of your shoulder again, barely grazing, branding you all the same. “but you’re…” his jaw unhinges slightly, but he collects himself, “you’re vicious, baby.”

you whimper, then, and the sound of it makes him press his entire hand into your hip, suddenly frantic and squeezing at you.

“you hurt people, haven’t you darlin?”

you have to gasp for air, your pussy leaking into your underwear, because he’s seeing you, horrific and violent, and choosing to seek you out anyway. you nod cautiously, and his hands feel like they’re everywhere. and then gruffly, into your ear:

“you gonna hurt me?”

and you figure now, at least, you must be honest with him. “probably.” you barely recognize your own voice, the color of it darker with want than you’ve ever heard before.

joel pulls himself flush with your back, letting you feel the hardness of him, and allows himself a single push of his cock on your ass, muffling something animal in the back of this throat. he bands his free arm around your front to splay his palm on your sternum, pressing unforgivingly, and you feel the wild screaming of your heartbeat echoed back at you through his skin. he’s shaking, whispering, “don’t let me do this.”

you lay your head back into his shoulder to bring your mouth further up to him, arching yourself into his hold, making a home for yourself there. and pleading is a crime you refuse to commit in the presence of others, but you cannot help your own desperation now. “please.”

he spins you around then, and the lip of the shelf behind you presses determinedly into the skin below the hem of your shirt, but he’s kissing you (like he hates you, almost, or maybe himself) and so you take in the pain like it’s easy and you love it. his hands cup your head on either side, cradling the base where it meets your neck and threading his fingers through your hair as he nips at your bottom lip, laving over it with his tongue. he moans into your mouth as you kiss him back, lord forgive you for what that makes you feel, and you hitch a leg up to his hip to press your cunt into him. even through your jeans and his, he is an inhuman kind of large, and you wrap a handful of his shirt between your fingers to anchor you to sanity as you grind your hips at him. i need you i need you i need you, and you don’t say it, won’t say it, but you think it all the same. 

his hands move from around your head to grab at both ass cheeks, dragging your center across the front of his pants and you groan at each other from the feeling. whatever it is that sews you together is being reaped. you let yourself be dramatic; you’ll die if he doesn’t fuck you now.

“joel, please,” you whisper into his mouth, which continues to eat at you.

“please what?” he pants back through your lips. “say it. what are you askin for?” despite this torture, his hands start to grope down your sides and pull at the buttons of your jeans. you move to press yourself into his grip but he insists, pushing you back into the wall. “tell me,” he growls, and it’s shadowy and lustful and deep, but as desperate as you feel, and it emboldens you.

“fuck me now, joel, please, please,” and you continue to beg, though your words turn incoherent, as he brings you up the stairs, holding your pussy still against his cock as it hardens behind his zipper. your pleading tightens joel's fingers on your waist, your thighs, the crook of your knee.

joel splays you on his bed, the tendrils of his hair haloed out around him as you run your fingers through and hold, and joel sucks and bites down your neck as he smooths his hands under your shirt to feel your skin. you whine out as he grabs at you, tight and wanting, and he pulls away so the both of you can pull your clothes off. you’re frantic as you sweep away your shirt and then your jeans, left bare besides your underwear on his bed, and you’d be embarrassed at your frenzy if joel wasn’t equally so pulling at his pants and shirt, but as it is you let yourself marvel at him. the broadness of his shoulders and biceps as he opens himself to you, the softness of his tummy, and oh, god, his cock tents in his boxers and you feel the already overwhelming wetness in your panties spread itself further. as soon as he’s on the brink of nakedness he’s on you again, caging your head between his palms on the mattress and pressing the hard line of his cock into your aching sex. his eyes bite at you with as much physicality as his teeth and tongue. something rumbles and unlocks in joel’s chest watching the rise and fall of your breasts as you heave, still grinding on you like he has no choice.

“goddamn it darlin,” he grits out, letting his eyes close a moment to feel the drag of your pussy against him. “you think about this?” your jaw falls open as you let a sigh out, one that means yes, and he moans deeply as he wraps his palms around each breast and squeezes. “you think about it as much as i do?” you nod again; you are past embarrassment, even humiliation, you are unreachable. it is only joel and his depth and you under him. “you touch yourself thinking of me?” and now you moan with the full of your chest, letting it loose in the sliver of air between you, and he returns it. “show me,” he pleads.

you let yourself a moment to pull the air, now heated with your body and his, into your lungs before you drag your fingers down your front and into your panties. he watches the movement of it, and his mouth stays open around a silent groan watching your fingers circle and push under the fabric, hearing you. you’re fucking dripping, and the squelches of your digits as you fuck yourself on them makes him groan and thrust his hips a little into nothing. you whimper his name and he falters a little. 

as a tightness grows in your belly, approaching without mercy with the scent of him at your lips, he finally brings his own hand down into your panties. he cups his palm over your moving hand and you begin to pull it out, but he catches your wrist. 

“no. keep going,” he groans. and you realize now he’s feeling how you touch yourself, barely resting his hand over your fingers as you pet inside, and you nearly come at the sight and thought and feeling of it. 

as you near your high again, he tightens his grip on your wrist and pulls your hand from your cunt with a growl. you whine at the loss, but he pushes two fingers inside you and suddenly you’re yelping like an animal, thrashing as he grinds the heel of his palm into your clit. he whispers, mostly to himself, “oh jesus christ you are so fucking tight,” and you keen. joel circles the spongy spot deep inside you and you clench around his fingers, pushing your clit further into his hold, and you’re so close, so close, so close. you tell him so, and he smiles a little, lustful and wicked but nearly in disbelief, too, and he says back to you, “it feel good, honey?” and you could almost laugh at him for questioning something so glaringly obvious, but any thought is cut off by a white and swirling pleasure that coils and then unties itself, and you come with a high pitched moan while he groans above you. that’s it, baby, oh my god. he whispers this to you as you come, but it sounds underwater and you can barely process it even as you come down from your high and joel pulls his fingers away. 

when your vision clears, you look above you to joel with his fingers in his mouth, eyes closed and stroking himself over his boxers, and now you really think you’re hinging on death.

“fuck me now, joel, please, jesus,” you say, though it’s breathy and broken with the intensity of your orgasm, which throbs still through your clit and around your walls. 

joel pushes you further up his bed and lets his head dip again into your neck as he pulls his boxers and your panties off, biting with a diminishing mercy and chastising, “greedy.” you nod because you are.

when finally, finally, his bare cock is running through the wetness of your cunt, barely catching on the opening, and you’re two heaving bodies with the feeling of it, the both of you pause for the first time since joel’s entryway. you press a little foot into the back of his bare thigh, and you watch each other there, nearly in and of one another. 

you whisper, “you gonna be okay, sting?”

joel breathes out onto your face and you feel his cock jump and pulse along your dripping seam. he looks pained, but you grin because you know better, can feel better by the rawness of him on you. 

“yeah,” he replies. “are you?” and he looks down to where you nearly connect, gyrating his hips again and prolonging the feeling of his head at your entrance. you have just enough sense to notice his cock is as massive as you’d felt it to be, red and weeping along your pussy, and you’ll take him in your mouth sometime but not now, he has to fuck you now or you’ll blind yourself with your own wanting heat.

you murmur back a yes (it’s the best you can do), and he fists his hands in the sheets by your hands as he pushes himself in. 

you imagined joel would fuck you roughly, unforgivingly; in this, you were right. but he is not rushed. joel drags his cock deep through your walls, letting the head bump your cervix before pulling nearly all the way out, and then reburying himself inside, but it is meticulous, intentional. you press back up, as best you can, to rub your clit in the dark curls at his base, and in return he curves his hips deeper into you; the friction there makes your walls pulse, and you feel every ridge and vein of his cock as it pistons in and out. 

only when you’ve recovered from the initial stretch of him can you hear the noises the both of you are making. it is unholy, unceremonious, and loud. you’re moaning in his ear as he fucks you, and he groans into your mouth, the side of your head, your neck, every patch of skin on the expanse of you that he can reach. 

so fuckin wet f’me, huh?

fuck, baby, this pussy is so fucking good.

yeah, yeah—oh fuck—clench me like that, fuck.

you know you won’t last long, and from the stumble of his hips each time you whimper at him you know he won’t either. with each thrust his balls slap and stick to your skin, the bed frame bumping on the wall. 

joel sits up straighter, eyes trained on your stretch around him and the wetness that pours out there. he looks wild, awed at how you suck him in, and you’re mewling just as wildly because he’s so fucking deep and you think you can see the bump of his head below your navel when he thrusts inside. you curl your hand over his bicep and press your nails in, moaning out, “joel, joel, oh my god, you’re so deep i can see it.” 

joel follows your eyeline and moans out something broken and incoherent, pressing a palm down where he knots up from your skin to feel himself moving in your walls, and you scream. the sensation makes you clamp down harder on him and joel grips the other hand on your hip.

“stop, oh my god, stop,” he grunts, cock still hard and unyielding and beating inside you.

“i won’t last, joel, please,” you whine back, and joel lets his eyes slip closed for a moment before nodding. he mutters out a fuck and presses your knees up to your chest, slinging each calf over his shoulders as he fucks you harder, deeper, and your eyes roll back in your head.

“jesus christ, darlin, you’ll kill me.” another moan. “come on my cock, baby, c’mon, let me feel it” and it’s a demand and a prayer at once, and who are you to refuse? you feel your cunt soaking him, the squelch of your bodies together intensifying, and the filth of it unravels you a second time. you come like a punishment, hard and drawn out and expansive in your body, and joel is moaning out at the feeling, “so good, so fucking good.” 

you drag your nails down his back, hoping the marks are harsh enough to stay, and joel’s head tips back with his mouth pulled open. his cock swells and twitches inside you, and as his fingers turn white with his grip on your legs he pulls out, pushing your thighs together and fucking the skin there until the white ropes of his come paint your chest and stomach.

you both pant as joel slumps slightly over you, keeping an elbow at the side of your head to keep his weight off you but allowing your legs to fall to the bed again. despite the fucking, this is by far the most intimate; your breaths meeting between your faces, his nose pressed against yours. you look for something to say, but come up short. joel spares you by pushing himself off the bed and retreating to the bathroom.

you are both quiet as he wipes you with a cloth, though he remains gentle, diligent. when you’re clean, he throws it somewhere off the bed and sits on the edge, back to you and head in his hands. you shift to let your legs hang off his quilt, but don’t turn to him.

“joel,” you say, lowly. it’s only his name, but you know you’re asking something of him now, something you’re not sure either of you are strong enough to give. still, you wait for his response, keeping your gaze on his floorboards.

“what are we gonna do?” and it’s so soft, it reminds you of the day you met months ago. he is timid again, and it frightens you. the weight of your friendship, which you feel finally has bloomed into something worth nurturing, presses along your airways. you’ve wanted him for so long, and now you’ve had him, and you want him again. and so you’ve had your cake, and you move now to take a bite.

“we…” you let out a breath, as steady as the moment allows, “we’re friends.”

joel runs his fingers through his curls once before looking at you, and you gaze back. his eyes squint as he assesses your naked body on the edge of his mattress. “you gonna want me to fuck you again, darlin?”

you think he’s trying to panic you, euthanize whatever amalgam you’re constructing on his bedroom floor before it overcomes the both of you, but you do not shrink from him. “probably.”

he nods.

“are you?”

joel sighs. “probably.” 

and so you redress yourself and return home, legs trembling and aching unbearably between them, and wonder for how long you and joel can deny absolutes in favor of the gray area you’re carving out together. probably probably probably, the both of you are clinging to probably. but you have no qualms with using nails and teeth to find purchase, and so despite all better judgment, you mostly feel sated, at last.  what price could you possibly pay for this anyway? your heart? your soul? you forwent your ticket to absolution years ago, and you suppose the last half holy thing you can do is want, so why deny yourself this carnality? this is your last testament to living, to fuck joel and be his friend and deny the inevitable complication. you have taken and taken and taken and the blood remains on your hands, so what’s one last smeared fingerprint on the walls of your existence? when death comes for you, she’ll have such an awfully easy time, for you’ll have left a walkway in red behind you. what’s one last sign post? i am here. and it will be painted in your wanting and platonic insistence and the piece of joel you took within yourself tonight.

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

taglist: @koshkaj-blog @shotgun-shelby @limerence4u (if anyone wants to be added let me know!!)

[bigasswritingmagnet]

Blood Will Out ch 1/30: Catalysis

Summary: When Agatha Sannikova learns she is, in fact, Agatha Heterodyne, she inadvertently kicks off a series of events that reopens old wounds, drags secrets into the light, and brings war to the doorstep of the all but defenseless Mechanicsburg. Saturnus struggles to crush his enemies with a town almost as broken as his body; Agatha, determined to undo the chaos she's unleashed, plunges into the depths of Castle Heterodyne.

Raised by a literal saint and the devil incarnate, Agatha - with an unleashed mind, a burning spark, and a band of very unexpected allies - will fight to do the unthinkable: be a good Heterodyne and a good person.

[The long awaited (by me) sequel to Relatively Speaking, This Will Probably be Fine and NOT a prequel to Helpful, in a Heterodyne Sort of Way, due to plot reasons.]

AO3 link | Next >

The Heterodyne Valley was peaceful in the night. If one did not know its history, it would be easy to think of it as an oasis of fertile farmland and forest amidst the hardscrabble farms clinging to the unforgiving rock on the other side of the mountains. Cupped by the gentle hands of the valley, Mechanicsburg sat still and quiet in the darkness. 

At an hour so late it was early, when the bars had closed but the bakers had not woken, Mechanicsburg was visible only as winding rivers of dim lamp light twining through pools of darkness. As they moved away from the tourist attractions and towards the Tumbles, the rivers split into tributaries: smaller streets lined with houses and more reasonably priced shops. One such shop was Muller’s Miscellaneous, where machinists could buy parts and sell scrap. 

To the left of the building was a dingy alleyway. During the day it was used to haul materials and merchandise in and out. This late at night, the only occupants were a two-headed rat and the frantic tabby cat it was chasing. The alley led around to the back of the shop, providing access to the door and window. 

The door was locked tight. The window was open. Fresh scratches marred the wood around the latch, which now hung slightly loose, forced out of place by a hand unused to breaking, let alone entering. Through the open window was the storeroom. It was filled with stacked metal sheets of varying compositions and sizes, buckets of gears, boxes of screws and nails, Gordian knots of copper wires. In the very center of it all, surrounded by a mandala of half-built parts and materials…

…was a girl.

She was approximately fifteen, splayed legs showing the gangliness of an unfinished teenage growth spurt, her long blonde hair breaking free of its ponytail to press sweaty strands against her ashen cheeks. Behind thick round glasses, her eyes were glazed. Her mouth hung open as she panted for air, unable to breathe past the blood that trickled from her nose.

Agatha’s headaches were usually like a vice or a bear trap, a sharp pressure that faded quickly when she let it drive her away from whatever had brought on the attack. But she had not let it drive her away this time, and after an hour, it had become spikes of white hot metal in her brain, pulsing with her heartbeat.

She had never been in so much pain in her life.

She did not let it stop her.

Agatha had been trying to build this for five years, and for five years she had been driven to tears of frustration as the pain chased her away. But not this time.

She wasn’t sure what had made that specific headache different, why this time the pain had filled her with a spiteful, stubborn contrariness, but it had. Agatha had decided she was far too old – almost an adult, as far as she was concerned – to allow her own misfiring neurons to hold her back. She was sick of it. Sick of the feeling of things being just out of reach, sick of knowing she could do things and not being able to.

Sick of failure.

‘I’m impressed at your recovery,’ Doctor Sun had said, the immovable calm to Saturnus’ unstoppable stubborn indignation. ‘But the damage is not all from your heart or the muscle atrophy.” 

In a strange way, though, it had gotten easier to think. The constant, endless agony was so consistent, she could almost let it fade into background noise.

Agatha’s trembling fingers hovered over a pile of neatly sorted screws, trying to remember what she’d been doing. Right. The joints in the legs. She tried to imagine the chair climbing up the stairs that connected to the road outside the bakery.

‘No, you can’t just give yourself a new pair of legs. The problem is in your brain. The part of it that connects with the muscles is damaged, and that is not something I can repair – and neither can you.’

He kept trying, though. The memory of Saturnus on the floor, face covered in blood from hitting the nightstand on the way down, haunted her still.

Like a spider. Second and fourth sets would operate as counterbalances – hold it steady while the first set reached and the third set pushed forward. Carefully she checked her blood-spattered notes, reminding herself of what kind of joint she was trying to build. What did it look like again?

‘A chair? Oh yes, being pushed around by some minder, that sounds perfect, letting the whole world know I can’t even turn a wheel with my own strength. I leave this house on working legs or in a box!’

A chair that could walk and climb, propelled by clockwork. The idea had flown in on wings of pain.

Blatantly evil Lord Saturnus may be, but Agatha loved him dearly, just as much as she did the virtuous Teodora. In her head, Grandfather came as easily as Lord Saturnus – easier, even . Grandm — Teodora was a bulwark against the world, protector and defender, and within the stronghold of her home, there was Saturnus to understand.

He never told her she wasn’t broken, or that there was nothing wrong with her. Neither did he let her succumb to self-loathing. Broken is not the same as useless. Though she was just some orphan that a friend of his estranged son had dumped on him, he loved her like flesh and blood.

It was getting hard to see. White light was chewing at the edges of her vision, and she had to squint to see past the colored halos dancing in front of her. She hadn’t even turned anything on yet, but she was sure she smelled something burning. 

Hands clamped down on her shoulders, and the screws tumbled from her fingers. She had to blink several times to focus on the face in front of her, and it took another few seconds to recognize Herr Müller, whose shop she had chosen to…patronize.

“Miss Sannikova!” He was shouting, but he wasn’t angry – he looked scared, actually. Perhaps he was just making sure he could hear her. His voice was so far away from her ears. “Agatha!”

“I can pay for the pieces,” she said, and heard only a strange gurgling sound. “I wasn’t sure how many I’d need so I thought I would pay for what I used, after.”

“Get a doctor!” Müller bellowed over his shoulder. “Agatha, can you hear me?”

His mouth kept moving but the pain in her head was audible now, roaring in her ears, making it impossible to even hear herself think. She began to hum, a cracked and broken sound that had no melody.  

Saturnus, seated in the hated wheelchair beside the hospital bed of the girl who did not know she was his granddaughter, found himself distracted by the thought of what an excellent tableau they all made. Agatha lying between them, drawn and pale. On either side, her grandparents, perfect visual and moral opposites.  

Saturnus had been an intimidating figure, once upon a time, built in size and shape much like a particularly clean-shaven bear. Even when middle age had come to call, thinning his copper hair and softening his middle, he had maintained his strength. 

Not any more. Not ever again, as a point of fact. Spending just under a decade half-dead and immobile, bedridden and insensate, took its toll. Even after Agatha had drawn him back into the waking world, even with wife and granddaughter ensuring he stuck with the tortures Sun had the nerve to call ‘physical therapy’, he’d never regain more than a fraction of his old strength. He was an old man now, and he looked every inch of it, right down to sitting in a wheelchair with a blanket over the useless sticks of his legs.  

In contrast, his wife, whom time had touched with a much gentler hand. 

Teodora Vodenicharova was tall and slender, with bright brown eyes and a long, elegant face. Their frantic race to get dressed and to the hospital had not left her time to put herself together in her usual impeccable appearance. Her long gray hair was still in a braid, not wound up in its usual complex bun, and her dress did not match the sash around her waist.     

Despite all her time in Mechanicsburg, she maintained the fashions of her homeland, and wore simple dresses of muted colors, given shape by embroidered sashes and brightened by flashes of color at the hems and buttons. It rankled Saturnus that she dressed like a peasant, and often he wished she would let him deck her in the jewels and finery befitting the Lady of Mechanicsburg.

Not that she required fine clothing to be distinguished from the common folk. Even now as she stood braced for the explosion of fury and outrage she knew would be coming, she held herself tall and proud, regal as any queen, just as always.   

Saturnus turned his head away from her, and his gaze fell on Agatha’s locket on the bedside table, wound up in its chain. Saturnus reached out and picked it up, but did not open it. He could feel the effect of the locket, but he was a grown man and a strong Spark, so it was nothing but a faint tingling in the base of his skull. Nothing he could not ignore. He doubted he would even notice if he didn’t know it would be there. 

“How did you ever manage it?” he asked, turning the locket over in his hands. “All those years, watching her suffer, listening to her talk about herself like that? Knowing what it was. Knowing you could stop it.”

Teodora said nothing. He laughed briefly, soft and humorless.

“Funny. I’m pretty sure I was meant to be the evil one in this relationship.”

He heard Teodora’s sharp inhale. In a few quick strides she rounded the bed to stand beside him. When she spoke, it was with a rage that trembled with the effort of keeping quiet.

“Is that supposed to wound me? As if your good opinion was ever anything but a curse? As if I never prayed that you would grow bored and send me away again? Don’t you dare fool yourself into thinking that my heart has gone soft with time, Lord Heterodyne.”

But all he did was let out a soft, amused hum, and give her a condescending smile.

“So that’s it, then. The great, noble Teodora Vodenicharova played dutiful wife by her husband’s side, not for love, not for duty…but because you enjoyed seeing me brought low. Seems you fit into this family quite well.”

“How dare you—!” Teodora, white with rage, actually tried to slap him. He caught her arm easily and dragged her in, meeting her furious glare with his own hard, cold stare. 

“You certainly seem wounded by my poor opinion,” he said.

“That is not why I did it, and this has nothing to do with you. I did what I thought was necessary,” Teodora hissed, her voice hoarse. “I did what I thought was best to keep. Her. Safe.”

“And if I think this is a cruel and terrible thing, what does that say about you?” He released her and sat back in the wheelchair. He’d consented to it only to get to the Great Hospital to see Agatha, far too terrified to even feel the sting to his pride.

“Barry said she started breaking through when she was five— ”

“If he’d done it to anyone but flesh and blood,” Saturnus interrupted. “I’d be downright proud of him.”

Saturnus saw the words hit Teodora, saw her flinch, and bore down.

“But as it is, I am having trouble understanding why you were willing to go along with your son putting our granddaughter’s mind on a choke-chain leash without having the decency to tell her WHY!”    

For the first time in all their years of marriage, Teodora took a step back – but Teodora was Teodora. She had stood up to the Lord of Mechanicsburg, again and again and again, and had not just lived but won. Teodora was kind and gentle and would come down like a hammer on any threat to those she loved as fiercely as any Heterodyne. When Saturnus had declared her sons ruined, told her that he planned to kill them and start over, Teodora had stopped him. Not just stopped him, forced him to stand down, forced him to hand his beloved town to his “ruined” son, permanently, and let him rule and ruin as he pleased. 

And Saturnus loved her still, with all his heart.   

“What would you have done, in his place?” she challenged. “You think a five-year-old has the capability of understanding such an abstract danger? She would have had that thing off in seconds. Even now, I don’t think she’s old enough. She’ll get frustrated or want the pain to stop—”

“She thinks she is broken!”

“We cannot keep her safe.”

The words were like a hammer blow.

“Those headaches are half the reason no one thinks she could possibly be who she is!” Teodora said. “If anyone ever so much as doubted that? They would come for her, and there is no guarantee this town could protect her. Your pride was nearly the death of you, but I will not let you put her in mortal danger simply because you don’t want to admit that you are not the man you were, and this town cannot do what it is meant to do.” 

“She—”

“Am I wrong?”

“She needs—”

“Am. I. Wrong.” 

Saturnus couldn’t look at her. Yes, he was furious on Agatha’s behalf. Yes, it was a horrific thing to do to a girl, to keep doing to her. But it was no small part of him that did not want to admit that this device was better protection than he could provide. That this pain might be the best thing they could do for her.

He could not protect his grandchild.

Again.

Agatha stirred, her eyelids fluttering open. Her brow furrowed.

“Ow,” she whispered. Her gaze fell on Saturnus and Teodora. Her hazy expression grew puzzled. She looked around at the hospital room, and down at herself, and realized where she was. “Am I in trouble?”

“No,” Teodora said gently, reaching out and squeezing her hand. “No, darling, you’re not in trouble.”

“Important life lesson,” Saturnus said, attempting to sound jovial. “If you scare everyone badly enough, you can get away with anything.”

“Saturnus,” Teodora scolded, but Agatha giggled weakly. Her smile faded when Saturnus reached out and stroked her hair.

“What the hell were you doing?” he asked, gently.

“I was building you a chair,” she said softly. “Something you wouldn’t have to push. I thought maybe if you didn’t need help, you wouldn’t mind being seen in it. But every time I tried to build it, I got the headache and I just…”

Her eyes filled with tears.

“I was just so tired of being broken.” She began to cry, and Saturnus felt his heart break in ways he didn’t know it could. He took Agatha’s hand in both of his, squeezing tightly.

“Don’t do it again,” he said, nearly begging. “Broken or not, yours is a marvelous mind, and I would not have you cauterize it for anything – but especially not for me.”

“I wanted to help .”

“I know, I know. Here. When you’re well enough to leave, we’ll go back home and build it together. And go nice and slow, so neither of our bodies has reason to try and kill us, hmm?”

Her smile was weak, and he knew it wouldn’t be satisfying. She was a teenager, a Spark, a Heterodyne , and Saturnus knew that there was no feeling like watching your first big project cut a swath of destruction across the land and being able to think I did that, all on my own.  

“Oh,” Agatha said. “You’ve got my locket.”

She reached for it, but Saturnus pulled away.

“No jewelry in the hospital,” he lied. “Put it on when you go home.”

“The doctor wants to keep you overnight, just in case,” Teodora said, putting a gentle hand on Agatha’s knee. “We’ll see how you feel in the morning.”

Agatha nodded and closed her eyes. Neither Saturnus or Teodora spoke until Agatha’s breathing was the slow, steady rhythm of sleep.

“You didn’t tell her,” Teodora said, not voicing the question. 

“I thought it would be best to wait ‘til we get home. The locket, her parents – when we tell her, she’ll be angry, and I’d rather she not shout at us where half of Mechanicsburg could hear.”

“We’re not telling her.”

“Like hell we’re not—”

“ No. She’s too young, and she’s a terrible liar.”

“After all that, you still want her to wear it,” Saturnus said, amazed. “After what we just saw, what she just said, you still —”

“Do you think I’m enjoying this?” Teodora demanded. “I hate this just as much as you do, but we do not have a choice, Saturnus.”

“If you don’t tell her, I will.”

“No. You won’t.”

“And how exactly will you stop me? Kill me?”

The expression on Teodora’s face was very like the one she’d worn the day she’d told him he would not be killing their sons. When she spoke, her voice was ice and steel.

“I do not need to kill you.”

Saturnus tried to glare at her, but it was like trying to stare down the sun. And still, he loved her. More, really. When she got like this, he couldn’t help but think if she’d been a little less compassionate, she could have rivaled the Skull Queen herself.

He looked away.

“I can’t do it again,” Teodora said, in a much gentler voice. “I can’t. Klaus Barry was bad enough – for both of us. I won’t lose another grandchild.”

Agatha inhaled sharply, and they both froze. But she simply sighed in her sleep and rolled over.

They watched over her in silence until visiting hours ended, both too lost in their own thoughts, feeling no less trapped and miserable for worries shared.

They did not speak again until the next morning, when a breathless, terrified nurse appeared at their door to tell them that Agatha was gone.