#GODDAMN what the fuck is wrong with some of you?!

[alxandergoth]

chapter one: bloodflower ✿🩸 | 3/4

prev | next | beginning

TRANSCRIPT:

Eli: What the fuck is wrong with you? Do you have any idea what you put us through? Sixty-three calls, Charlie. Sixty-three fucking calls, and you couldn't be bothered to answer one? Charlie: My phone was on silent. Eli: Your phone was on silent while you were balls-deep in some groupie who probably doesn't even know your real name. Charlie: At least I'm getting laid. When's the last time you got your dick wet, Eli? Or are you too busy being a self-righteous prick to remember how to have fun? Eli: Fun? You call this fun? Showing up late, high, and reeking of someone else? You're a fucking mess, Charlie. Charlie: And you're a stuck-up asshole who wouldn't know a good time if it bit you on the ass. Charlie: Which is probably why you're so fucking uptight all the time. Eli: You want to know why I'm uptight? Because I have to watch you destroy yourself night after night, and I can't do a goddamn thing about it. Charlie: Aww, does poor Eli have feelings? Eli: Shut the fuck up. Charlie: Make me. Eli: I fucking hate you. Charlie: Good, hate me. It's the only honest thing about you. Eli: Look at you, covered in some stranger's marks. Do you even remember his name? Charlie: Do you care? Eli: I should. I should walk away and let you destroy yourself. Charlie: But you won't. Because you're obsessed with me. Admit it. Eli: I'm obsessed with hating you. Charlie: Same thing. Eli: You're going to be the death of me. Charlie: Promise? Charlie: The show, Eli: Fuck the show. Let them wait. Charlie: Victor will— Eli: Victor can go to hell.

[nostalgiaforplacesweneverknew]

LOVE UR WORK ❤ wondering how lews characters would react when u squirt for the first time while having sex!

Aww thank you so much! Alexa, play “Adore You” by Harry Styles.

Lewis Pullman characters x fem!Reader | 1.2k | Some fluff, smut (18+/MDNI).

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘 ▹ What happens right after your boyfriend gives you pleasure like you’ve never known before.

Okay, so Rhett Abbott goes absolutely feral. You’re riding cowgirl (because, obviously, I had to), lifting off him with a shout to soak his abs and pelvis. He lets out the most animalistic growl you’ve ever heard come out of a man and places his hands on your hips, yanking you back down onto his dick to make you keep riding him. He wants to make you cum again before he finishes, but he’s so damn close, so he reaches down to rub at your clit where everything’s so damn wet and slippery, and you both cum at the same time. 

I’m calling it now, Calvin Evans is a certified munch™ (not that the others aren’t, but there’s something about Calvin that just screams it for me). He’s kneeling in front of you with your skirt hiked up, his lips latched onto your clit with two thick fingers curled inside you juuust right when you’re squirting on his face. You’re initially mortified, because Calvin just stares wide-eyed for a few seconds, literally just blinking in stunned silence, but then he gets this wicked glint in his eye… “Sweetheart, for research purposes, I’m gonna need you to do that again.” 

I don’t think anyone would disagree when I say Bob Reynolds is a moaner in bed, but he gets even louder and more desperate with it when you squirt for him for the first time. He’ll be so mortified come morning, but right now he doesn’t care who hears him. Bob also loves it messy, so he’s reaching down to smear all that wetness over your puffy folds, spread it all over your throbbing clit. “Fuck, it’s so messy… so fuckin’ wet…” and he lets out the loudest, filthiest groan when he sinks back into you. 

Major Major has no idea what just happened. At first he thinks he did something wrong, what with the way you’re arching your back so damn high off the bed, so he pulls out and watches with wide eyes as you make a mess all over the sheets. He loooooses his goddamn mind after that: “Did I do it right? Did that feel good?” He groans as he strokes himself above you, using your release as a lubricant, whimpering as he smears it all over his rock hard shaft and waits for you to be ready again. “Need it one more time, please? Please, can I have it?” 

Todd Stevens is so. damn. smug. He smirks down at you, practically puffing out his chest with that arrogant, masculine pride. Maybe he taunts you a little, not downright mean, but enough that it has you squirming a little under him— “You can’t help yourself, can you? All I have to do is…” he gives another thrust of his hips, the ridge of his cock sliding over the spot that has you gasping and panting, “…and you’re squirting all over me? Oh, baby, you’re a little hopeless, aren’t you? It’s alright, I like it when you get all sloppy.” 

Honestly? I think Rocco Gauthier has secretly been trying to get you to squirt, just to see if you could. So when you finally do, he’s raining praises down on you until you’re whining and whimpering. “Fuck… that was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen. You did so good f’me, sweetheart, can you do it one more time? Yeah, I know you can. One more, and then I’ll fill you up.” Oh, and of course, his breeding kink goes insane. Needs to put a baby in you, like, immediately.

On the other hand, Bob Floyd slows it waaaay down because *sighs dreamily* he is the king of aftercare. You’re overstimulated and oversensitive, so Bob kisses at your hairline, your temples, down your cheeks, and along your jawline, asking if you’re okay. When you confirm with a sleepy, smiley “yes”, he continues but is so gentle—rocks carefully into you, telling you over and over again how much he loves you. After, he’s making you drink water while he massages your body and lets you wind down a bit before he’s grinning and lifting you into his arms to carry you into the bathroom to clean you up. You fall asleep with him spooning you from behind, his arms around your waist. 

Harrison Knott just can’t help it. He comes, like, right away when he realizes what’s happened. You squirt all over his stomach and his pelvis, and his back just arches so hard it looks almost painful. He’s been holding himself above you with a hand on either side of your head on the bed, but his arms start to tremble and his hips keep bucking, driving himself further into you before he’s spurting his load with a whimpering moan. When he can talk again, he’s breathless, eyes wide, as he’s telling you, “Shit, I think I saw god.” 

Ben Mears whispers a litany of curses when he’s got you sitting on the edge of his desk, two fingers shoved so far up your cunt you can hardly breathe, and then you’re soaking his hand, all the way down his arm and drenching his sleeve. He is shameless as he insists on working like that, your slick still shining on his fingers as he types away on his laptop or smearing all over his favourite pen when he writes by hand. He licks his fingers and smirks when he tastes you there, as he’s proofreading and flipping through the pages of his new manuscript. 

I think Jordan Weaver would tell you to clean the mess you made all over him… using only your tongue. Obviously, that just gets him going again so he has to fuck you one more time… which then begins a vicious cycle?? 👀🫠 

Thomas Keefer seems neutral at first. He doesn’t address it, doesn’t say a word about it before he’s continuing like it never happened, until you’ve come again and he’s finishing inside you. But then he lifts his head and you see his pupils are blown wide, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows hard. Suddenly, he’s all in, totally invested, and every time you have sex after that, he’s trying to make you squirt again—like, with military-precision obsession. 

And finally: 

Hear me out. We all know Miles Miller has seen some shit during his stint as manager of the El Royale, so I don’t think he’d be fazed at all. He’s fucking you vigorously from behind when he feels it, pulls out quickly while you make a mess all over his hard cock and the floor beneath you. 

You’re trembling and shaking, barely able to stand, but Miles only gives you a few seconds before he sinks back into your cunt with a groan and just keeps going. 

“Shh, you’re okay,” he murmurs into your hair, fucking you so damn hard you think you’ll feel him inside you for days. “You’re okay, aren’t you?” You can’t find your voice so you just nod eagerly. 

He then swipes his fingers through the wetness dripping down his own thighs and then shoves them into your mouth, all the while he continues pounding the ever loving daylights out of you, your little cries of pleasure and overstimulation only spurring him on.  

(Who else thinks Miles would secretly be the biggest goddamn freak?)

𝐉𝐎𝐈𝐍 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐂𝐀𝐍𝐎𝐍 𝐒𝐔𝐍𝐃𝐀𝐘𝐒 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐕𝐈𝐕 ༊*·˚

[sweetttsummer]

someplace mystical and warm (his lucky charm)

pairing: bucky barnes x fem!reader

summary: Bucky shows up at your apartment after being MIA for three days during a mission. Basically nothing happens fluff with two emotional stunted humans in love (+ their best friend!)

tw: uhh mention of bullet wound? swearing !!!! nothing graphic...no beta reading (yes that's a warning i never edit)

wc: 3.5k

author's note: personally..i don’t believe in endgame canon so like…this can take place nearly anytime if you’d like to think of it as an au of everyone lives no one dies, but i picture it happening after captain america the winter solider and before civil war (aka peak bucky content era <3) also this was written during writers block so ......

have a request? ask away!

masterlist

Bucky’s whole body fucking hurt. He knew he smelt like blood and sulfur and that weird tangy mix of someone else’s sweat with dirt. Still, he pulled himself up the dark stairwell and ignored the strain in his upper thigh. He tried to remember the last time a mission went so wrong so quickly for him. Logically, his last mission that went so bad was in D.C when Steve showed his bastard of an angel face and pulled him out of 60 years of hell, (but was that really a failure? It got him here, got him the chance to be Bucky again even if it is this weird version of who he used to be), so instead he thought back further. Maybe that half-empty base back in 1934, that was a pretty shitty mission. He stomps his foot down a little aggressively and suddenly, his ears pick up a rustling inside the room behind the door at the top of the stairs. 

Bucky pauses for a moment and focuses on the sounds beyond the door. Fuck the serum, fuck Hydra, but man does he like being able to hear something without having to be so close. He closes his eyes and imagines the scene that’s playing out on the other side. The rustling is so obviously Steve’s gentle steps as he pulls himself off the armchair he claims as his own a pause of whatever is being played on the television as he tries to hear another sound from the stairwell and finally his voice soft as he whispers your name. At the sound Bucky immediately kept stepping up the stairs, he knew you’d be here, it’s your apartment, it’s the reason he dropped Natasha off at the compound ignored the blood leaking from his thigh, and raced here. When no response comes, Bucky listens a little closer and makes the assumption you’re asleep, on the couch by the fact that Steve doesn’t move far away, but is still asleep. 

“Just me pal, let her sleep,” Bucky says out loud to the empty stairwell. And again, fuck the serum, fuck the U.S. government, but man isn’t it nice to know your best friend can hear you no matter what. That you’re both the only one who’ll listen for the other no matter the distance. 

“Buck,” Steve’s voice, despite being behind a closed brick wall, despite being eight stairs away, comes out crystal clear. It settles something in him, how despite everything changing, this, Steve and Bucky, doesn’t. It was something he clung onto when he first entered the 21st century, that Steve is still Steve, even if the others around him don’t see him for the asshole he is. It’s hard that he can’t be the person he was before, but Steve doesn’t seem to hold it against him. 

Bucky finishes climbing up the stairs and goes to knock on the door, but isn’t given the chance. Instead, he’s greeted by Steve swinging the door open. Bucky knows this look, it’s the look he used to wear when he found Steve bloody in alleyways when he would show up late to their hangouts, some excuse of helping someone out. It’s a look that screams so obviously in annoyance that yet again someone is fucking bleeding and ‘really Rogers? You can’t go a goddamn day without checking to see if you still bleed red?’ 

But nowadays, Steves gets to be the one giving the looks, and fuck things do change, even if Bucky tries to bask in the sameness of before. 

“Three days without any sort of communication is a dick move,” Steve moved himself out of the doorway and watched as Bucky lugged himself into the apartment. 

The living room was dark, off-lit by the kitchen light shining into the room and the television screen. Bucky took a moment to assess the room, green armchair crumbled by the super soldier who was lounging in it, cartoon on a low volume setting playing, a coffee table littered with some mugs and files. His eyes land on their final spot.

You. 

Fast asleep on the couch. 

Cheek smushed against the throw pillow he assumed Steve put there once you fell asleep. 

His favorite blanket tossed over your body, feet peeking out just a little at the bottom. 

Bucky doesn’t register the way he seems to drop his shoulders a little and let out a small breath of relief. 

“Three days getting my ass kicked and trying to keep Romanoff alive, excuse me if I couldn’t find a payphone,” Bucky grumbled a little and stayed glued to his spot near the door, not wanting to dismiss Steve, but keeping his eyes on your sleeping form. He watched the blanket move against your chest and without a second thought, started to follow your breathing with his own. 

“Nat?” Steve said in a way that most people wouldn’t have caught the fear in his voice, most of the agents that they work with would assume he was simply asking for a report. 

Bucky is not like most people, he knows Steve, his Stevie, Steven fucking Rogers. Who cares about his friends and doesn’t bleed because he wants to, but because he assumes someone has too, and would rather it be him. 

“Natasha is fine, beat up, but no worse for wear, dropped her off at the compound,” Bucky moved a little towards your sleeping body before he turned to Steve, “I fucked off before they had the chance to debrief,” Bucky raises his eyebrow a little at Steve. 

And yeah, Steve understands without question because he’s Steve and this is Bucky, “I’ll call in,” Steve moves into the kitchen grunting a small, “You smell terrible, clean up before you wake her up,” 

Bucky grunts back a small confirmation and waits until he hears Steve rustling around in the kitchen, followed by the beeps of a microwave before he moves over to where you lay on the couch. You were deep in sleep, Bucky could tell from the moment he saw you, but as he got closer he noticed the fact that despite the way your face was completely relaxed, your fist was clenched under the blanket, curled against your chest. Bucky crouched down next to the couch so he could be face-to-face with you. His thigh burned in pain and he gritted his teeth to avoid the grunt of pain he wanted to let out. Once it passed he brought his right hand up and reached out towards the ball of fist under the blanket. 

He stopped his hand before he actually touched you through the blanket and plopped himself down onto one knee, his other leg stretched in an uncomfortable position. He huffed out a breath when the pain slightly subdued in his thigh, the breath reached you because of his closeness and he noticed a piece of hair flutter into your face. Your nose crinkles a little in your sleep, obviously tickled by the slight movement. He goes back to his original movement but instead reaches out to move the hair that tickles you. His left hand picks up the warmth of your skin before he’s really that close and it lets something loose in his chest. He shutters out a small breath and softly presses his hand against your cheek once the hair is moved. You’re soft under his moving thumb, warm in a way he didn’t think would be possible. He caresses the apple of your cheek and shuffles closer when he notices the way you seem to press into his hand unconsciously. 

Bucky isn’t angry he’s in the 21st century, not really. He likes the future, it’s got some really shitty things, but mostly, he’s glad he can be here, in front of you, with his best friend in the kitchen mumbling over the phone (one of the cool things of the future, even if he doesn’t particularly care enough to use them.) But he forgets when he’s sent on another mission, he forgets every time, too busy being reminded of the horror he suffered to get here, of the family he never got to say goodbye to, and the life that he was torn from. This mission was no worse at first, having to clear out a Hydra base that was found hidden, try to shuffle through the ruins of information, and pick out what’s important and what’s not (“Just bring it all. Tony can pull his weight for once,” Romanoff’s tone obviously annoyed at the situation.) 

The mission was fine, and as miserable as it always was, until the discovery of a basement that neither of them should have missed, and a crowd of goons that knew exactly how to throw off a widow, how to capture a spider and a solider in one go and god damnit they could really they could have the Winter Solider back? (Bucky bite back the bitter laugh, he’d find a way to kill himself before that happened. Romanoff glared at him when she realized what he was thinking. Fucking spies and their uncanny mind-reading abilities) and suddenly Bucky was stuck taking a bullet for Natasha fucking Romanoff as they escaped and they spent two days in a dark damp abandoned mineshaft and then a shitty rundown “safe house”. 

But none of that matters now, not with you breathing in front of him, even if the bullet wound had been ripped open over and over to keep more metal from becoming a part of him. He didn’t notice Steve finish his discussion on the phone, didn’t move when he heard the microwave open and close again and Steve stepped back into the living room. 

“Nat says she owes you a bullet,” Steve whispers as he pulls the coffee table closer to where Bucky is sitting, “Also said I should take it out of you,” Steve sighed and dropped a paper box full of something full of spices onto the coffee table. Bucky felt his mouth water at the smell reaching his nose, yeah the 21st century isn’t too bad, 40s Bucky Barnes wouldn’t have been able to dream of the foods he has now grown used to. The box of Korma makes him think of his Ma, of her own cooking, he’s sure she would have been able to recreate anything she tried, she just never got the chance to try so many things. 

“Indian for dinner?” Bucky says. 

“If you consider watching her push around her Paneer and mindlessly chewing on cold naan at 1am as dinner, sure” Steve sighed back. 

Bucky’s hand still rested on your cheek, his eyes double-checking over you just once before he finally pulled his eyes to Steve, and sat back in the armchair. Steve, for the most part, looks the same as when Bucky left for the mission two weeks ago, but Bucky knows better. He squints just slightly and takes in Steve’s tousled hair, the clench in his jaw that he doesn’t seem to realize he’d been holding. Bucky knows Steve worries, if anyone understands what it means to worry about your best friend, it’s Bucky. They were made to care, to worry, about each other. Bucky’s eyes land on Steve’s gaze and he holds it for just a moment before finally shrugging his left shoulder, Steve lets out a humorless laugh and unclenches his jaw. 

“First time I’ve gotten her to sleep for more than three hours since we lost your comms,” Steve mumbles, “Seriously punk, you smell raggedy,” Steve crinkled his own nose. 

“Gotta take the metal outta my thigh before I get shiny clean Rogers,” Bucky’s head motions to the thigh he has laid out parallel to the couch. 

Steve doesn’t say anything else instead just moves again and pulls a first aid kit from some drawer under the coffee table. He plops himself near Bucky’s leg and starts to rip off the pants leg without asking. Bucky bites back the urge to bitch at how messy Steve is going to make his thigh but quickly loses whatever fight he had in him. 

“Humans need sleep, at least a healthy 5 hours a night” 

“Well tell your girl that, not me” 

Bucky huffed out a little and his eyes went back to focusing on your sleeping face. If you were awake he’d crucify Steve for calling you his girl, because you’re not, at least not really. You’re his girl in the way that he doesn’t think there is anyone else in the world. In the way that in that stupid damp cave, he thought about praying but only to keep you safe. You’re his girl in the way that he goes to Starks gala’s to be able to dance with you and every Sunday dinner is now yours. You’re his girl in the way that he has taken the time to root through the piece in his chest where his heart was supposed to be pulled out the scrapes left of it and put them into your pocket for you to keep. He thinks he might love you, but also knows that it’s better if he doesn’t. 

So instead, he finds himself acting as a loyal guard dog, (at least that was what Sam called him last week, when Bucky moved himself between you and the empty New York city street after a night out drinking.) He spends his free days with you, had learnt about the 21st century through what you like. He thanks whatever is out there that Steve was your friend to start with, made it easy for him to simply be around. 

“Three days, Buck. You’re lucky she didn’t hijack a plane and come search for you herself.” Steve started to poke his fingers into the wound, a pair of long tweezers in the other. Bucky gritted his teeth. 

“If she even tried you better kick your star-spangled ass into first gear and stop her,” 

Steve looks up from his mangling of Bucky’s thigh and gives him a look that screamed contempt, “You disappear again and I’ll be joining her, dick” 

Bucky rolled his eyes without thinking. He moved his hand from where it was still against your cheek and moved it to let his fingers run gently through your hair. He gritted his teeth a little when he felt Steve jab the tweezers into the wound. Bucky debated bitching at Steve, then remembered it was Steve. The fact that he wasn’t in more pain was shocking considering Steve’s bedside manner. 

“It’s out” Steve mumbles and Bucky hears the plink of the bullet against the wood floor. 

Bucky didn’t acknowledge it instead just moving his leg so it was no longer stretched. He reached out with his empty hand to grab the cartoon of food on the coffee table and set it down close to his thigh on the ground as Steve moved himself back to the green armchair he was taking up before. 

Bucky kept his hand gently against your hair before he tore his eyes to the television playing a late-night cartoon still. 

“This show sucks,” Bucky sighs a little. 

“There’s a Battlestar Galactica rerun on another channel?” Steve is already moving for the remote as he speaks. Bucky grunts in acceptance. 

___ 

You don’t remember falling asleep. The last thing you remember is Steve stealing the plate of Indian food he had doled out for you the one you barely touched, and tossing a blanket towards you. 

It had been the longest three days you had ever experienced. It had started when on a random Thursday, Bucky and Natasha missed their call in for a simple mission. It wasn’t like either of them, really they rarely went on missions together as it was, something about the two agents together made people a little nervous. You personally, did not get it, maybe you were biased but you found both of them secretly delightful, funny in a sly way, the kind of funny that makes you feel like you’re in the joke. 

It had been three days, Three days of no sign of either of them. Three days of listening to Tony Stark debate over and over with JARVIS or FRIDAY sometimes both about the geography of the land, of the possibility of survival of stats, and more stats. You assumed Steve was planning his own rescue mission after the second day, so you had started to plot how to let you into the plan. The begging you’d do to have a chance to help. 

After a second the sleep fog seems to have finally cleared and you hear Steve’s small sleep mumbling from the armchair close by, sunlight try and peek through the curtains over your windows and the small noise of New York City existing outside your window. You grimace, annoyed that he let you sleep for so long, how much time have you lost that could have been used searching? Why hasn’t he acted on his plan yet? How much longer before something finally happens? 

You go to step off the couch when you feel a hand suddenly wrap around your ankle, 

“At least wait for the bullet wound to finish healing before you start steppin on me,” Bucky grumbles from the floor. 

You feel your heart stop at the same time the startled gasp is let out. Quickly you pull your feet up and sit up for just a second before Bucky follows suit. 

Despite having just woken up, you move faster than you think you ever have. It doesn’t completely register to you as you throw yourself towards Bucky’s slightly sat-up form. You throw your arms around him, feeling his warmth through the skin-tight shirt he is wearing. It’s the closest you’d had been with Bucky since for weeks and maybe if you didn’t think he was dead just a few hours ago you would have thought twice before the affection. 

“Jesus,” Bucky grunts a little at the sudden armful of you. It takes only a few moments of brain freeze before he’s wrapping his own arms around you. He pushes himself into a full sitting position with his left hand before it comes up to rest on the back of your head. He feels himself soften at the way your face goes to rest in the crook of his neck and shoulder, the tight grip you have barely registers to him until you squeeze just a little tighter. The exhaustion he felt early was still lingering in his bones, but your weight against him causes him to let go of the tension in his shoulder. 

“Thought you were- “ 

“Well, ‘m not, I did miss Sunday dinner, sorry,” Bucky interrupted before you had the chance to freak yourself out. 

“It’s okay, told Steve you’d be fine,” You try and sound lighthearted but know you miss the mark. 

Bucky lets out a soft laugh and without thinking presses his face down towards the top of your head. He waits for you to say something else, waits for this moment to break. When it doesn’t right away, he lets himself adjust, moving so you’re still on top of him, but now he can lean against the front of the couch. He lets his eyes flutter shut when he feels you completely melt against him. It was this that had him living in that shitty mine shaft, it was this he was thinking of when Natasha mentioned the fact that they had missed their call-in. He thinks of telling you how he feels and has been living through the fantasy for the last three days. How you’d coo at him once you realized how soft he’d gotten for you, how you might even kiss him before he even finishes telling you. 

But now you’re here, and he feels your hands move across his back slowly, over his arms, as if you’re making sure he’s real. You pull your face from the place it was resting against his neck and he keeps his own eyes shut, the fluttering of his heart enough to keep him from being able to face you. He knows he doesn’t deserve this, that what he has is already more than he should be given, so he bites his tongue, and thanks the world for letting him have at least this. 

“Did you say bullet wound?!” Your arms are running down the side of Bucky’s arms as he nods at your words. 

“Steve took care of it,” Bucky sighs at the touch and finally opens his eyes to see your own worried expression. 

“I’m all good now, sugar” He whispers as you pout, “I’m all good,” He repeats even softer keeping his eyes focused on yours until you crinkle your nose and go back to squeezing him, your face pressed against his right shoulder. 

For once, despite the healing wound and days of exhaustion settling over him, he’s not lying. He’s good, even if the desire to kiss you is screaming, he’s good with this. He’ll take what he can be given and be thankful you even look at him. 

________ 

“Hey, Bucky?” You whisper against the skin of his neck after a few hours of sitting in the same position. 

“Yeah, sweetheart?” 

“You smell absolutely terrible,” You pull away and grimace a little at him, playful but sincere.  

“Told you to clean up before you woke her up,” Steve grumbled from his spot eyes still closed but obviously awake now, “I’ll go pick up breakfast, I’m thinking sandwiches from that shop on the corner of 18th?” 

[malsmind]

▸001 ⋅˚₊‧ Broken Smile (My All) ‧₊˚ ⋅

𝘮𝘢𝘵𝘵 𝘴𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘯𝘪𝘰𝘭𝘰

⚠︎ ∿ angst ∿ toxic relationship ∿ drinking ∿ lots of regret ∿

၊၊||၊ Come Over When You're Sober, Pt. 2 ⌗ 1

𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘥𝘪𝘵𝘴 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘤𝘦𝘱𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘸𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘮𝘢𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘯𝘴 𝘨𝘰𝘦𝘴 𝘵𝘰 @delilahsturniolo

you never smiled like that before him. not like that. not the fake one. the one that tugged at the corners of your mouth like it was sewn there, sharp and stiff. the one that didn’t reach your eyes no matter how hard you tried.

he used to love your smile. the real one. the one that bloomed slow, soft. a little bashful at first, but god—once it landed, it stayed. stuck to him like honey. made him feel like maybe there was something good in the world.

but that smile had died a long time ago.

killed by his hands.

matt didn’t realize it at first. didn’t realize how every small lie chipped away at you. how every time he said “it’s nothing” when you asked, or looked away too fast, or didn’t show up when you needed him—he was pulling the plug on something you were trying to keep alive. and you were trying.

god, were you trying.

he remembers the nights clearer now than when he was living them.

you on the edge of the bed, knees to your chest, asking him, “do you even love me anymore?”

and matt, with his tired, dull eyes, his goddamn walls built up so high, whispering, “don’t start.”

you never yelled. never broke things or called him names or made him feel small. no—what you did was worse. you shut down. you smiled. that fake one. that broken one.

and said, “okay.”

he should’ve known then. he should’ve said everything.

i love you. i’m scared. i don’t know how to be good at this, but i’m trying. you’re my all.

but he didn’t.

he let you slip further and further away until one day… you were just gone.

you didn’t take your things right away. some of your stuff still sits in the closet, untouched. a hoodie. your shampoo. the tiny dumb plush you said looked like him and made him keep by his desk. he hasn’t touched them. can’t.

you said goodbye in the quietest way. no screaming. no doors slamming. just that smile. the one he hated. the one that meant you gave up.

“take care of yourself, okay?”

and that was it. he didn’t answer. he couldn’t.

his throat closed up and all he could do was nod, watching you walk out the door like it wasn’t the end of his fucking world. he thought you’d come back. he thought you’d text. call. yell. something.

but nothing came. it’s been three months. ninety-three days. he counts. he hates that he counts. his friends say he should move on. they don’t understand.

how could they?

you were the one for him.

you were there when he was nothing. when the world didn’t care if he was breathing or not. you were the one dragging him out of bed, telling him to eat, telling him he mattered. even when he didn’t believe you. even when he hated himself.

you saw him.

and he let that go.

he dreams about you more than he sleeps. and in every single dream—you’re smiling. not the fake one. the real one. the one he’ll never see again. sometimes he swears he hears your voice. in the hallway. the kitchen. his head. ghosts don’t knock, but he checks the door anyway.

just in case.

he saw you once, a week ago. you were crossing the street. wearing his hoodie. but your hand was in someone else’s. he didn’t breathe. he just stood there. watched. you looked happy. not his kind of happy. not the messy, broken, aching kind.

the calm kind.

the kind you begged for.

you didn’t see him. or maybe you did and chose not to. he wouldn’t blame you. he got drunk that night. like the kind of drunk where your lungs feel too big for your ribs and your hands can’t stop shaking. he called you.

voicemail.

“i miss you.”

“you were right.”

“i’m sorry.”

“please come home.”

he deleted it the next morning. but the ache stayed. he knows what he did wrong. he knows he made you doubt yourself. he knows he made you feel unwanted, unloved, like an afterthought. you were never that. not to him.

you were everything.

still are.

you smiled through the pain. he saw it in your eyes now when he looks back. how they dulled over time. how your laugh got quieter. how you started hugging him like you were already saying goodbye. you begged him to open up. he just… he didn’t know how.

and now, it’s too late.

he writes texts to you all the time. never sends them. just drafts.

“do you remember the rain that night? when we kissed under that broken streetlight? you said it felt like a movie.”

“i found that old playlist. the one you made. i still listen to it when i can’t sleep.”

“i hope he treats you right.”

“i wish it was still me.”

he doesn’t smile anymore. not for real. just the fake one. just like you used to. maybe it’s karma. maybe it’s grief. maybe it’s love. whatever it is—it’s eating him alive. he walks past your old cafe sometimes. the one you used to drag him to even though the coffee was shit but you said the croissants were the only reason you woke up.

you’re not there anymore.

they said you quit.

no one knows where you went. matt doesn’t either. and he won’t ask. because maybe you don’t want to be found. not by him. and maybe that’s fair. he broke your smile. your trust. your heart. he’s learning to live with the echo of your absence. with the silence. with the way the world keeps spinning without you in it. and every time someone asks him why he looks so tired—he just shrugs.

smiles. the fake one. just like you used to.

just like he taught you.

[bingleboy]

Hello, hope things are going well. Mind if i ask for any mercs of your choice with an s/o that's super chill with Medic experimenting on them? Like he could give them an extra arm or some shit and they'd just be like 'Oh that's neat'.

okok here we go! I used the extra arm example in all these cuz thats funny heehee

♡ S/O is a Lab Rat HCs - Spy, Scout, & Soldier ♡

🗡 Spy 🗡

He found out about your lax attitude with Medic's experiments when he saw you with an extra goddamn arm, eating breakfast like nothing was wrong

He is entirely NOT cool with this

Definitely privately scolds Medic

"You'd better find a new labrat, or you'll be finding a new hole in your back very soon."

And THEN scolds you

"My love... what on EARTH is wrong with you? Where is your sense of self-preservation??"

He keeps a closer eye on both you and Medic to try to make sure it doesn't happen again hehehe

You might be willing to risk your life like it's no big deal, but he's not bitch!!

⚾️ Scout ⚾️

Let me paint a picture for you: It was late at night at base, and you were late for your usual cuddle-sesh :(

No big deal, he knew you were getting some check-up from Medic, and he was exhausted so he figured you'd just come back to his room when you were done, no problemo

Cue waking up the next morning, and he felt your arms around him :)

One around his waist, one draped over his chest, and... another one around his waist?

He jolted awake and looked down, saw you with an extra arm, and he let out an insanely loud girly scream

He tries not to hurt your feelings but he is queasy right now. OOOOHH MY GODDDDD. YOU HAVE ANOTHER ARM. IT WAS TOUCHING HIM. OOUUGGGHHH

Okay after the initial shock he has mixed feelings about it, #1: ew but #2: thats kinda cool. thats kinda awesome

Chews out Medic for experimenting on you anyway

🇺🇸 Soldier 🇺🇸

Now soldier is the only one (besides Medic) I can see being cool with the weird experiments. He'd do that shit too

"MAGGOT!! YOU HAVE ANOTHER APPENDAGE STICKING OUT OF YOU.... WHY?"

After you answer, he nods and just accepts it

"VERY PRACTICAL, CUPCAKE! ANOTHER HAND FOR ANOTHER GUN"

+ more of you to love :)

He would love you if you were a worm

He is remarkably unconcerned. He just has faith in Medic, naively, perhaps

He thinks Medic would never endanger you, and even if he did, that you're so strong you would be impossible to kill (ignoring respawn lol)

He's like oh you are a killing machine and you are getting fucking awesome upgrades. Nice

Thank u for the request! Hope u like dis :3

[undyingdecay]

Youuuuur writing it out of this world omg. I keep coming back to read your work over and over again!! You have a true talent. How would Yelena react to her plus size partner in a bikini? Or maybe just revealing clothing. Especially if it’s their first time wearing something that’s showing more skin than usual. I definitely think she wouldn’t be able to keep her hands to herself. Maybe she gets a little hot n bothered, idk!!! What you think?

(cw: descriptions of a specific body type)

in honesty, you don’t even remember how it got this far.

one second you were in the bathroom, half-lit by the cheap rental lightbulbs, palms braced against the sink, staring yourself down in the mirror like it was some kind of final boss fight. you’d spent a good twenty minutes talking yourself into it, smoothing your hands over the soft curve of your stomach, adjusting the straps so they didn’t dig in, trying not to think too hard about the way your thighs touched. it wasn’t like you’d never worn a swimsuit before — but something about this one, the way it left so much of you bare, so much on display… it made your chest feel tight. like it wasn’t really meant for you.

yelena must’ve picked up on it. of course she did — she always fucking did. sharp-eyed, too observant for herown good, already waiting on the other side of the door when you finally crept out. leaning against the wall like she hadn’t been hovering for the last ten minutes, pretending to scroll through her phone.

and when she saw you, her mouth parted. not in pity, not in that look people give you when they’re trying not to make it obvious they’re seeing the wrong things. it was hunger. it was possessive.

it was pure fucking want.

"you’re gonna kill me," she muttered, like it was your fault, like you weren’t the one standing there with your arms crossed over your stomach, trying not to bolt back into the bathroom.

you barely made it to the bed. honestly. didn’t even hear her move, just a blur of blonde and heat as she pushed you back, gentle but greedy, her hands already tugging at your hips, settling you onto the messy sheets.

"told you not to be nervous," she said into your skin, nosing along your belly, leaving open-mouthed kisses against the softness there like it was her favorite thing in the goddamn world. "you’re fuckin’ gorgeous."

you tried to mumble something back, about the pool, about how you were supposed to be going out, and she just huffed a breath against your thigh, hooked her fingers under the side of your bikini bottom and yanked it aside with a grin sharp enough to cut glass.

"‘s meant to get wet anyway, right?"

and then her mouth was on you — hot and slick and overwhelming in the way only she could be. like she had something to prove. her fingers worked you open, slow and coaxing while her tongue flattened against your clit, teasing flicks giving way to deeper, messier licks that made your toes curl in the sheets. she kept muttering between it, too — possessive stuff you could barely parse through the haze in your brain.

and you wanted to argue — about how ridiculous it was, how no one was even paying attention, how this wasn’t what you came here for — but your brain wasn’t cooperating anymore. it was all heat and pressure and the stretch of her fingers, the obscene sounds filling the room, the way she grabbed a fistful of your thigh and held you open like she owned you.

yelena’s eyes catch yours, dark and wild, and she whispers, “you’re going to come for me, aren’t you?” her voice is velvet and fire all at once.

and you do—soft, trembling, undone beneath her expert hands and mouth, the world narrowing down to the heat of her body and the slick, insistent press of her fingers inside you.

and when you came, it was with her name gasped into the sticky air, her teeth grazing your inner thigh, her voice thick and low and so fucking smug.

when she finally pulls away, breathless and smiling like she’s won some private victory, she presses a soft kiss to your lips, hands still lingering on your skin.

pool could wait.

[kariokiipeaches]

Ok. Let’s address Sour Apple Studios, and everyone who’s bitching.

I’m 40, and don’t have time for this immature bullshit, but I’ll stand-up for people who’ve done nothing wrong.

So let’s get some things straight:

Odds are, the “Horrortale” you like isn’t even canon anyway. He’s not a gentle giant. He’s not a primal hunter. He’s not a protective older brother. He’s not a cannibal.

In canon Horrotale, Sans is SHORT ⬇️

In canon Horrortale, Sans is rude to his brother and does NOT hover when Papyrus is near a human, and isn’t vengeful if his brother gets hurt ⬇️

In canon Horrortale, Sans NEVER EATS A GODDAMN HUMAN - he might rip Aliza's arm off, but before he gets the chance to eat it, Papyrus bashes him in the skull, knocking him out, saying something-along-the-lines-of "you told me to hit you if you ever tried eating a human." ⬇️

In canon Horrortale, Papyrus does not have a hunch or back/movement problems ⬇️

In canon Horrortale, he rips the red eye out of a guards face to replace his ⬇️

FANON has made Sans bigger than a fucking moose

FANON made Sans an over-protective helicopter-brother

FANON decided Sans has trouble speaking or slow-speech due to "brain injuries" or his skull being damaged

FANON has decided Sans has eaten humans before

FANON decided Papyrus has back issues

FANON decided his own eyelight turned red

If you believe in any of that, it’s not CANON and therefore not Sour Apple Studios AU.

Most of you out there don't even write or draw art or think/talk about CANON HORRORTALE anyway! Wtf are you whining about?!

NO, you can't "claim" this AU. It's not up for grabs. The creator has every right to take this away from us. And there are many other "problematic" AUs out there, so you'd better be screaming about them as well, or you're a goddamn hypocrite.

Ffs, there wasn’t even any nudity or hands-in-X-rated-spots in the art anyway.

If this is about shipping, who the fuck cares? Are you mad because the post literally said it’s NON canon, or is it the part where she’s aged-up so it’s legal? Is it cuz she’s 12 in the comic, and you don’t like the idea that the two never met in Horrortale, and met instead on the surface when she was of legal age? Is it cuz you can’t separate the two? Cuz the post literally clarifies that, as well.

HE DIDNT RAISE HER. Not in Horrotale, NOR IN THE ART, as they met as ADULTS.

And how fucking dare you use the terms “pedophile” or “grooming” in response to this - that is a HUGE fucking insult to those who have legitimately gone through it.

Learn some legal definitions or shut your mouth.

Be an adult, mind your business; it’s their AU and not yours… but also? If it’s that easy to ruin your happiness because you can’t overlook a non-canon event? You’re gonna be upset a lot more as you continue to grow up.

There’s also learning to separate the art from the artist. If you boycotted every artist, musician, actor, or company that had a scandal, you hardly have anything left.

“If you can’t say something nice, don’t say nothing at all.” Fucking BAMBI taught us that.

I hope you’re proud of what you’ve done.

Meanwhile, I’ll still be getting updates, because I’ve subscribed to their Patreon.

I look forward to reading more, Sour Apple Studios! And thanks for all the work and dedication it’s taken for you to continue on.

[forthelorewick]

All the Wrong Ways to Know You

Chapter 10: The World We Knew (Over and Over)

< prev ch | masterlist | next ch >

Joel Miller x f!reader

Chapter summary:

WC 5.6k - you leave without saying goodbye, you tell yourself it’s better this way— that silence is softer than an ending, but all that’s left is the guilt you won’t face and the anxiety Joel can’t quiet.

Chapter content / warnings:

Avoidant attachment, anxiety, guilt, self-sabotage, lack of communication, references to mental health/medication, brief references to intimacy (non-explicit), themes of longing and emotional distress. It’s meant to be repetitive.

· · ──────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒───────── · ·

| Joel

Joel taps the steering wheel with the flat of his palm, staring out at the traffic inching toward the airport terminal.

Sarah’s plane lands in twenty minutes, or at least that’s what the flight tracker says. Which means he’s got about ten minutes to park and then ten minutes to make it to the baggage claim where she’d told him to meet her.

He hasn’t seen her in over seven months. Not since she left for Spain for the spring semester finishing out her junior year at Northwestern, chasing that journalism degree with the same relentless determination she had. He didn’t know where she’d gotten that, but she’d argue she got it from him.

She’d been in Barcelona for five months. Inaccessible, and so fucking far away.

Then, she’d come back to the U.S. in May, but had been in Chicago for a summer internship at some independent news outlet, and now, finally, she was home for a week before her senior year started at the end of August.

They’d called once a week. Sunday afternoons, mostly. Quick check-ins to make sure she was alive, eating enough, not getting arrested at student protests. And even with the phone calls, the texts, the half-laughed updates about bad WiFi and worse roommates, he swears he hadn’t been that stressed in years.

His babygirl was growing up. She’d come to town to celebrate her twenty-first birthday and he didn’t know how the hell to process her being so grown and independent.

Somewhere along the line, she’d turned into a full person with opinions sharper than his, a schedule busier than his, and a life that stretched farther from him with every passing year.

He shakes his head as he pulls into the short-term parking, grabs his keys, and heads toward arrivals.

The terminal doors slid open, and the familiar chaos of baggage claim hit him—families clustered near the carousels, kids crying, drivers holding printed signs, couples finding each other after long flights.

Joel scanned the crowd, already bracing himself for that first glimpse of her.

And when he saw her, backpack slung over one shoulder, hair pulled into a loose bun, laughing at something on her phone, his chest tightened the way it always did when he had to face reality.

Jesus. She looked even older now somehow.

More grown than she had any right to be.

But when her eyes lifted and caught his, that smile, that same goddamn smile she’d had since she was a kid, broke across her face like no time had passed at all.

“Hey, old man!” she called, weaving her way toward him with that same easy, bounding energy she’d had since she was little.

Joel huffed a laugh, shaking his head as she pulled him into a tight hug.

“Hey, kiddo,” he murmured, holding her there just a second longer than she probably expected.

He helped her with her luggage, two heavy suitcases he couldn’t even imagine how packed full they were or why the hell she’d brought so much goddamn stuff for a week and a half.

Some things never change, he supposes.

He loads her suitcase into the bed of the truck, the sun beating down hot enough to make the metal sting under his palms.

Sarah climbs into the passenger seat like she’d never been gone, already kicking her sandals off and fiddling with the AC vents like she owned the place.

Joel slid into the driver’s seat, turned the key not even thinking about what he’d had playing on the stereo.

Soft, lazy guitar. Reverb-heavy vocals. The kind of low, moody track that didn’t sound anything like his usual stations.

His stomach tightened before his mind could catch up.

It was that playlist you’d thrown together on his phone, one night when you’d laughed at the state of his music library and said something like, “just let me show you some newer stuff you might actually like.”

He’d always stuck to CDs and records, never really seeing the point in curated playlists when he had everything he needed in his mid-console. He was a simple man, but he only gave you a hard time so that you wouldn’t think he wanted to know what music you liked. But it worked, he now had a playlist curated by you to play when he couldn’t see you. He figured he’d be listening to it a lot in the next week or so while Sarah’s in town. He wondered if he could sneak away and see you, he was sure Sarah would want to see her friends and have her own “legal drinking age” party with them.

That thought drove him crazy, but he’d promised her to be less protective and controlling about her safety. So he was trying. She’d agreed to let him have her location. He’d gotten the idea from you and your friend actually, and that made him feel a bit better. He wishes he’d thought of that before she’d gone halfway around the world, but she made it home in one piece so there wasn’t much contemplation left on that front.

He cleared his throat, reaching for the dial a little too fast, flipping the source to “FM radio” and his usual rock station before the verse even had a chance to settle.

Sarah’s head tilted, “New taste in music?”

Joel just cleared his throat and kept his eyes on the road, “Not really.”

She gave him a look… eyebrows raised, half amused. “Okay…” But she didn’t push.

The freeway stretched out in front of them, traffic light enough to make the drive easy. Sarah adjusted her sunglasses, kicked her bare feet against the dash like she always did, and started rambling before they even hit the second exit.

“So—Barcelona was insane. Like, in the best way but also in the ‘I nearly got pickpocketed twice and accidentally joined a student protest’ kind of way.”

His jaw ticks and she immediately recognizes it, “but I’m fine! And Chicago’s been… I dunno. Busy. The internship was great, but my editor was a total hardass. Like, full ‘deadline or die’ energy. I’m pretty sure I aged five years this summer.”

“Welcome to the real world,” Joel said, glancing sideways at her.

She grinned, “Please. Like I’m not already half-feral after being raised by you and Uncle Tommy.”

That pulled a quiet, reluctant chuckle out of him, because damn, she was right.

She pushed on. “Oh! And I didn’t tell you, but one of my articles got picked up by the campus paper for the fall preview edition. It’s not front-page or anything, but still…”

Joel’s fingers drummed against the steering wheel, but he smiled genuinely this time. “That’s good, kiddo. Real good. I’m proud of ya.”

“Thanks,” she said, sinking back into her seat like she hadn’t been waiting for the praise. “I’ve got a ton of stuff to tell you. The stories from Spain alone…”

He cuts her a look, “Save it for dinner. You know how Uncle Tommy gets when he realizes he’s just being retold a story everyone else knows.”

Sarah laughs, throwing her head back against the seat, “God forbid I bore the audience.”

Joel huffs under his breath, the corners of his mouth pulling into something almost like a smile yet again, “Not borin’. Just like hearin’ it for the first time without Tommy lookin’ at me like I was aware the whole time and condoned all of it.”

She snorts at that, propping her elbow against the window, fingers idly tracing patterns in the glass like she’s done since she was a kid.

The late afternoon sun slants low across the dashboard, turning the dust in the air gold. The hum of the tires on the pavement fills the quiet between them.

Joel taps the wheel with his thumb in time with the low, lazy beat of whatever classic rock song was playing.

Sarah stretches her legs out and he was sure she was tired despite pretending she wasn’t.

He looks over at her for a brief moment, sighing deeply in relief that she was home even if only for a bit. He’d take all he could get.

She looks over at him and smiles, yeah he sure did miss his kid, “So, what’s new with you? Anything interesting?”

He shrugs, focusing his eyes on the road. “Work’s been busy.”

“That’s it?” she teases. “You’re still the reigning king of vague answers, huh?”

Joel just gives her a small, sideways glance, “Just nothin’ worth reporting.”

It’s a lie, and she knows it.

But she lets it go again, rolling the window down a crack, letting the wind catch her hair as the miles stretch on.

They’ve got time, and for now… this is enough.

As they pulled up to Tommy’s place, Sarah stretched with a dramatic sigh, already unbuckling her seatbelt. “Alright. Let’s go see how long it takes Uncle Tommy to say something wildly inappropriate.”

Joel just huffs a laugh and unbuckles his own seatbelt, stepping out of the truck and following her up the porch steps.

The smell of grilled chicken and roasted vegetables hit him the second Sarah opened the front door without knocking… because doors were always open when expecting each other in this family.

“Look who finally decided to show up,” Tommy called from the kitchen, waving a spatula in the air as if directing them into the kitchen.

Sarah laughed, dropping her bag by the door and making a beeline for him. “Uncle Tommy! Miss me?”

Tommy pulled her in for a one-armed hug, dramatic as ever. “You kiddin’? Your dad’s been a downright grump since you’ve been gone.”

Joel hung back for a beat, letting the two of them fall into easy banter. The clatter of dishes, the hum of a ceiling fan, the low crackle of a baseball game playing faintly on the living room TV— the familiar sounds of his family being in one place again.

It helped settle something in his chest. At least for a little while.

They gather around the dining table, plates loaded, Sarah already halfway through a story about her internship editor being a “walking anxiety attack in human form.”

Tommy laughs and looks toward Joel. “Sounds like somebody else I know.”

Joel gives him a look across the table, a warning glare in his eyes at the uncalled for jab from his brother, “Hey. Watch it.”

Sarah grins, “Well, if the shoe fits.” the welcoming, familiar banter of her two father figures never fails to comfort her when being home.

They eat and talk. Falling into the old rhythms of shared dinners and bad jokes.

It wasn’t until after Tommy poured the second round of iced tea and Sarah picked at the last bits of her food as she turned her attention back to Joel with that too-familiar gleam in her eye.

“So,” she started slowly, stirring her straw like she wasn’t about to cause trouble. “New music in the truck.”

Joel froze mid-bite, of course she’d bring that up when she had backup from her Uncle Tommy who knew more about this particular topic than Joel liked to admit to himself.

Tommy, predictably, perked right up, “Oh yeah?”

Sarah kept going, like she didn’t notice, or more likely that she absolutely did.

“Not country. Not classic rock. Not even blues. Some indie track with echoey guitar and, like, horny with reverb. Definitely not your usual vibe, Dad.”

Tommy’s grin widened. “Now that’s new.”

Joel cleared his throat, “Just… somethin’ that got stuck on shuffle.”

Sarah narrowed her eyes, unbothered. “Right. Because you’re known for experimenting with your playlists.”

Tommy chuckled into his drink, “Man’s been listening to the same five albums since ’98.”

And it was true, but Joel shot him a look across the table… a sharp, pointed warning again.

Tommy just raised his glass because he hadn’t seen that exact look a hundred times before.

Sarah leaned her chin onto her hand, watching him a little too closely. “Should I be asking where that playlist came from? Or who it came from?”

Joel stabbed at his food. “Makin’ too big a deal of it. Jus’ a song.” But even as the words left his mouth, he could feel the lie of it settling heavy in his chest.

Because it hadn’t been just a song. It had been you barefoot in his kitchen on a random Friday night, scrolling through his phone like you owned it. It was you rolling your eyes and queueing something up without asking, and then danced around the living room because you “couldn’t help it”, like the world wasn’t already tilting under his feet.

Tommy let out a low whistle, already catching on, “Oh, this just got good.” and thankfully it shakes Joel from his thoughts.

Sarah laughed, kicking her foot up onto the rung of the chair next to her like she was settling in for a show. “Don’t worry. I’ll get it out of you eventually.”

Joel shoved another bite of food into his mouth, chewing like it could save him from whatever was happening at this table.

“Funny thing,” he said, turning his glass slow in his hands. “I seem to recall a certain night a couple months ago… down at The Hollow.” His gaze flicked toward Joel, lazy but deliberate. “Somebody gettin’ all kinds of distracted at the bar.”

Joel’s fork froze midair.

Sarah’s eyes narrowed immediately. “Oh?” she dragged the word out, already turning toward him like a cat catching the scent of something cornered. “Distracted, huh?”

Joel cleared his throat, went back to eating like that was answer enough.

Tommy grinned wider. “Yeah. Real focused on a conversation with… what was her name again?” He tapped his fingers against the table, feigning thought. “Oh wait. Never got one. Guess someone forgot to introduce us, then left his brother at the bar… all alone.”

Sarah’s jaw dropped, delighted. Not giving Tommy any of the remorse he had been looking for after mentioning how Joel left him, “Dad. Seriously?” She swatted his arm. “You met someone and didn’t tell me?”

Joel let out a low, annoyed breath. “It ain’t like that.” He sure as hell wasn’t going to go into any detail about his sex life to his daughter. There wasn’t much else to report on, that’s all it was and all either of you’d let it be. Even if he hoped it’d become something more, or have the ability to admit that it was more to him…

“Wasn’t it?” Tommy muttered, just loud enough to shake him from his thoughts again.

Joel’s eyes cut toward him again, warning sharp with a quick, “Quit it,” but Tommy just shrugged, all faux-innocence.

“And here I was thinking you’d sworn off that whole scene,” Sarah teased, taking a long sip of her drink, clearly enjoying herself.

Joel didn’t answer, he just let the noise of them roll over him, head ducked low like maybe if he stayed quiet long enough, they’d let it drop.

But that only made Tommy grin wider, like blood in the water.

Tommy turned his glass slow in his hands. “I thought so too until the beginnin’ of summer, but especially last week.”

Joel’s stomach dipped again, could they not just let it go.

Sarah perked up, eyes narrowing. “Last week?”

Tommy leaned back in his chair like he had all the time in the world, “Yeah, out at the site. Middle of the day. This one’s over there all bent over double behind the framing like he threw his back out.”

Joel felt the heat crawl up the back of his neck, “Tommy, quit it.”

“Figured he pulled somethin’,” Tommy went on, enjoying every damn word. “But no. Turns out, he was just… preoccupied.”

Sarah blinked. “Preoccupied.. with what?”

Tommy’s grin turned wicked. “Let’s just say… somebody’s been sendin’ him pictures that weren’t exactly…“

“Tommy,” Joel cut in, sharper now. “I said fuckin’ quit it.” His voice landed heavier than it ever had across this table. The kind of tone he’d never aimed at his brother before.

The air shifted.

Joel shoved his chair back with a sharp scrape, standing so fast the table rattled. “I’m done with this conversation.”

Sarah was already laughing, breathless, half doubled over. “I can’t, Dad—seriously?”

Tommy just raised his glass again in a lazy toast. “Better luck next time with the whole subtlety thing, big brother.”

“Fuck off, Tommy.”

—

Joel stood at the sink in the bathroom, hands braced against the edge of the counter like it might hold him up if he stayed there long enough.

He could still hear them in the dining room, Sarah’s laughter cutting bright through the walls, Tommy’s voice low and smug beneath it.

He closed his eyes, let out a slow breath through his nose.

It wasn’t just the teasing. Wasn’t just the picture or the music or the fact that they’d backed him into a corner he hadn’t prepared to defend.

It was that all of it, every part, hit too close to things he wasn’t ready to name.

Because the truth was, he didn’t have much to say. Not anything that wouldn’t sound worse when spoken out loud.

What was he supposed to tell them?

That a few nights and weekends had left him twisted up in knots over a woman he barely knew? That the knowledge that he wouldn’t see you this weekend after he’d seen you every weekend since you met, made him fucking antsy? That he misses you?

That every time his phone buzzed, he hoped it was you?

God, it was pathetic, he felt pathetic. Because everything he wanted was right there and he couldn’t fucking have it. Because you were leaving soon, and he knew there wasn’t a single thing he could say. He had no right to ask and no reason to expect you’d ever even consider staying.

You weren’t his as much as he wished you even could be.

And yet there wasn’t a single part of him that didn’t feel owned by the memory of your mouth on his skin, your laugh in his kitchen, or his name on your lips.

He couldn’t admit to himself you were the only way he’d kept his sanity this summer. The first summer with Sarah out of town, and the only reprieve from the stress he’d been going through was when you were in his arms.

He turned on the tap, letting the water run cold, and splashed some over the back of his neck like that might shake it loose.

Of course it didn’t, but at least he can tell himself he tried.

Joel let the water run a little longer than he needed to. Took one last steadying breath. Rolled his shoulders out like that might shake off the rest of it.

By the time he walked back into the dining room, the conversation had already moved on.

Sarah was halfway through a story about getting lost in the Gothic Quarter of Barcelona, waving her hands like she was reenacting the whole thing. Tommy was egging her on, making bad jokes about tourists and cheap sangria.

Joel slid back into his seat without a word, picked at what was left on his plate.

Sarah barely skipped a beat before turning her attention to him again.

“Anyway,” she said, flashing him that easy grin—the one she’d had since she was a kid, all teeth and mischief. “So, there I am… nearly midnight, totally lost, a dead phone, and trying to remember the one street name my host mom told me to look for…”

Tommy laughed, shaking his head. “Jesus, kid. You’ve got more luck than sense.”

Sarah just grinned, unbothered. “Worked out, didn’t it?”

Joel felt his heart rate triple all of a sudden, seemed like she was trying to tell a funny story but he sure as hell wasn’t laughing.

His jaw clenched, muscles ticking as he picked at the edge of his plate.

Because all he could think about was how easily that story could’ve ended different.

A dead phone, lost in a strange city with people who didn’t speak English, though he knew she was pretty proficient with Spanish… didn’t change the fact that a young girl was alone in the middle of the night and something, anything could’ve happened.

All those hours and miles between them, and he wouldn’t have known a damn thing until it was too late.

His stomach twisted, tight and sharp, like something had reached inside and grabbed hold.

“You shouldn’t’ve been out that late,” he said finally, quieter than he meant to, but with enough weight to make both of them glance at him.

Sarah’s smile faltered, just for a second. “Dad… it’s fine. I was fine.”

Joel nodded like that settled it, even though it didn’t. Not even close.

Because it was too easy to imagine worst-case scenarios.

Too easy to picture the what-ifs.

And God help him, he didn’t need anything else keeping him up at night.

Not her. Not you. Because god knows he worried about you whether he wanted to or not.

Not all this shit sitting heavy on his chest, refusing to let up.

So he focused on his plate, tried not to be the “worry-wart” or whatever the hell Sarah had called him.

The doctor had prescribed him something new a few months back— a low dose of whatever the hell, “just to take the edge off.”

And for a while, it had.

But it also took everything else with it—left him flat, dull at the edges. Couldn’t sleep right, couldn’t… feel right.

Couldn’t finish.

And that had been enough to make him toss the whole bottle in the back of his medicine cabinet and swear he’d just handle it like he always did.

Alone… and probably badly, but better than whatever the hell that medicine did to his brain and most importantly, his dick.

It had dulled him. Left him slow and flat and half-removed from everything that usually kept him grounded.

By the time it finally wore off, right around the week he met you, he’d been wound so tight he didn’t know what to do with himself.

Which probably explained why he’d let himself be so goddamn reckless that night at the bar. Why he hadn’t thought twice before leading you out of that bar and to his house.

Why, for the first time in… well, ever, he’d brought someone into his bed and into parts of himself he hadn’t meant to open.

It had felt good, and easy in ways it shouldn’t have been.

Like breathing after holding it for too long.

And maybe that’s why it scared the hell out of him now, because what started as a fix had turned into something he couldn’t stop thinking about.

And sitting here… with Sarah laughing at Tommy’s latest dumb joke… with his dinner growing cold… with the dull thud of his heart still stuck somewhere between his ribs and his throat…

Joel just kept his head down and stayed quiet, it wasn’t exactly unusual for him. He loved listening to the two of them catching up, their laughs and voices filling those aches between his ribs. It allowed some sense of peace to settle in his chest, and let that endless worry ease its grip, at least for now.

· · ──────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒───────── · ·

A week later

Joel sat on the edge of the couch, hunched forward, elbows braced on his knees, the TV playing low and forgotten in the background.

The house felt too quiet now, again. Not that he’d really ever minded it much.

Sarah had left two days ago. With a hug at the airport and a quick promise to call when she got back to Chicago, she was gone again.

Back to the usual groove of things, ‘go to work, go home… go to work, go home’. And with the preparation for the semester, he stayed fairly busy. Prepping lectures in the evenings, sorting through readings, tweaking worksheets and study guides.

His syllabus had been approved back in early July, which left him plenty of time to fine-tune everything now that the class sections were finalized. It all felt smoother this year, it was more organized and more predictable.

His sixth year teaching philosophy, and only now did he feel like he had a good handle on how it would all play out.

He looked forward to seeing new faces and familiar ones who were continuing their study of philosophy. It was fulfilling work, just as his construction business was, he was proud of his accomplishments and enjoyed what he did.

So why, then… did part of him still feel so empty?

He’d stayed busy, kept his hands moving, and his mind full.

And for the most part, it’d been working. Half the time he was so exhausted by the time he was done for the night he’d pass out without his usual late night contemplations.

Except in the quiet moments, like now.

He hadn’t thought much of it at first… the way you hadn’t replied.

He’d sent you a quick message after dropping Sarah at the airport, something easy and casual.

Hope you’re doing good. What’s your weekend looking like? Delivered Wednesday 3:45 pm

A soft reach. An opening without pressure.

And when you didn’t respond that day, he figured you were busy.

When you didn’t reply the next… he told himself it was just bad timing, that you had a life too.

But now it was Friday evening, when he was hoping he’d see you again once Sarah had left, and still nothing.

And yeah, maybe he’d been looking forward and maybe even expecting to see you again.

Summer was coming to an end. He wasn’t ignorant, he knew what that meant.

Knew that whatever this was, whatever it had been, it couldn’t last no matter how much he wished you weren’t just temporary.

You had your own life to get back to, wherever it was, whatever your life had in store, he was never meant to be a part of it.

And he’d told himself that was fine, that he understood the rules.

But still… some part of him had hoped one of you would’ve admitted what you felt when you were together, that you didn’t want it to end, that you could figure something out.

Or at least hoped for one more night, even just one more text at this point. Some kind of ending that didn’t feel like this slow, silent unraveling.

And now… sitting here, staring at the same empty screen for the third time in an hour, he felt stupid for it.

Stupid for getting expectant, for letting himself want something that wasn’t his to begin with.

For acting like he had any right to want anything from you at all.

Joel let out a low breath, dragging a hand over his face.

And then, before he could talk himself out of it—

Everything alright? Delivered Friday 8:35 pm

· · ──────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒───────── · ·

| You

You’d left your phone on silent for most of the week.

It sat face down on your desk, buried under half-finished readings and a to-do list you hadn’t touched.

Avoidance was starting to look a lot like self-preservation.

Because answering him meant opening a door you weren’t ready to walk through.

It meant risking the part of yourself that was still barely holding together, especially after spending that weekend tangled up in something you couldn’t name… something that had felt too good, too soft, too easy to want again and exactly why you couldn’t have it.

And now, after days of ignoring that itch to check your notifications…

The screen lit up again, a notification with his name.

Everything alright? 8:35 pm

Your stomach twisted immediately.

God.

Of course he’d send something simple, low-stakes, and gave you every out if you wanted to take it.

And somehow… that made it worse, that he seemed to care.

And the thought of that, of him sitting somewhere thinking you might not be okay, punched through your chest hard enough to make your throat go tight.

You sat there, staring at the message like it was something dangerous, like answering it would undo every inch of distance you’d been clawing into place for the past week.

Because it would.

Because if you replied, you didn’t trust yourself not to fall right back into him, not to pick up right where you left off and undo all the boundaries you’d tried to convince yourself existed.

And if you didn’t… if you kept ignoring him the way you had been… well, the self-loathing already sitting heavy in your chest would only settle deeper and you were already accepting that as your truth.

You didn’t want to block him, god, no. You were just hoping, selfishly and stupidly, that he’d lose interest on his own.

It was just easier to pretend that silence was harmless, that leaving him alone was some twisted act of mercy, that if you stayed quiet long enough, he’d eventually lose interest and move on like he should have from the start.

Maybe then the guilt wouldn’t sit so sharp in your throat every time his name lit up your screen.

And honestly… part of you figured that text was just a formality anyway.

Joel was a good man. The kind of man who wouldn’t leave something unfinished without at least making sure you were okay, without offering one last check-in just to ease his own conscience.

It didn’t mean he misses you, and surely didn’t mean you matter that much.

It was just… something he did.

And you could live with that… couldn’t you? With the knowledge you’d fallen for a good man, and let him go before you could hurt him, or he could hurt you.

· · ──────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒───────── · ·

| Joel

Joel sat in his truck with the engine off, window cracked just enough to let in the late summer heat.

The air smelled like asphalt and cut grass and something else… something heavy.

He dragged a hand over his mouth, let his head fall back against the seat.

God, he was pathetic.

Running himself in circles over “just a summer thing”. That’s all it ever was and all it was meant to be.

But still…

His mind kept drifting back.

To your laugh echoing off his kitchen walls. To the way you’d curled up next to him on the couch like you’d been doing it for years. To the sleepy press of your mouth against his shoulder that last morning, like you hadn’t meant to do it, like your body had just… chosen him for a second too long.

He let himself sit with it for a minute.

Let the fondness tug at him, even as it scraped along the edge of something bitter.

If that was all you were gonna leave him with…

Fine.

He could live with that.

Could live with the memory of your hands on him, your voice soft in the dark, your smile half-hidden behind his flannel.

It had been almost a full day since he sent that text.

And yeah, he knew how that sounded. Knew how it looked.

Knew what Tommy would say if he caught him sitting here like this, checking the damn thing every ten minutes like a lovesick idiot.

But knowing didn’t make it any easier to stop.

He dragged a hand over his face, palms rough against the stubble on his jaw, heart sitting heavy and low in his chest.

This wasn’t who he was.

He didn’t chase, didn’t sit around waiting on anyone, and most importantly, he didn’t get attached.

Then again, he’d never slept with anyone more than once since a failed relationship when Sarah was about four years old.

That had been a disaster he still didn’t like to think about—finding out too late how godawful that woman was around kids, how quickly her patience burned out the second Sarah so much as needed anything.

After that, he’d sworn off the whole scene, told himself he’d wait until Sarah was older, until life was easier… but by the time that happened, the want for anything serious had burned out too.

It became an occasional hotel room with a woman whose name barely stuck.

And he never stayed the night, he never waited around long enough for things to turn into anything that felt like… more.

As nice as it was to have a warm body next to his, he preferred the controlled space of his own bed with no one expecting a damned thing from him. He had his routine set and stubborn, everything felt off without it.

Sarah was, and had always been, his first priority.

And even now, with her grown and gone… Old habits die hard.

That is… until you.

And every time he thought about that last weekend, about your hands on him, your voice soft and sleep-heavy in his ear, the way you’d curled against him like you didn’t hate the idea of staying…

It made him sick to realize how easy it had been for you to let it go. To let him go.

How easy it had been for you to… just stop.

To leave without a word.

You were the first thing he’d allowed himself to have of his very own. Even though, he reminds himself, you weren’t his.

And yeah, he told himself it was fine. Told himself he hadn’t expected more.

But that was a lie, of course he’d hoped for something.

Even if it was just… goodbye.

Every rational part of him said to leave it alone.

That this was what summer flings were— short, simple, and disposable.

But that didn’t explain why he kept driving the long way home…

Why he’d made a point to pass near your neighborhood.

Why he’d lingered outside The Hollow once, parked across the street like some fool hoping for something he didn’t deserve.

Even though he’d never seen you at that bar again, it felt like he was trying to step back in time… Just to catch a glimpse.

He hadn’t sent another text after the last one.

But he’d looked, or just happened to drive past the places where you’d been his.

And with every day that passed with no word from you, that hollow space in his chest got a little bigger.

Maybe you’d just left, like you said you would.

Maybe that weekend had been a mistake, maybe he’d said something or done something to scare you away.

And when he finally put the truck in gear and pulled away, he kept telling himself to—

Let it go.

Even if everything in him already knew he couldn’t.

He figured someday… with enough time passed, the ache would start to lessen until eventually you were just a memory, someone’s warmth he could miss when the nights were cold and lonely. He could handle that.

· · ──────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒───────── · ·

And that’s it for our flashbacks 😭 I miss them already but they’ve got shit to deal with before they can be happy with themselves and each other, okay!

taglist as requested: @magicxmiller @yslgreen @mallingcalling-blog

[ai-art-thieves]

"Only Good Cop of Tumblr" and then you go after somebody selling fucking weed as if that shit is like crack cocaine or some shit

nah, you're just a cop like every other goddamned cop

fuck you

Normally I would laugh at hate anons like you, but buddy, there's a time and a place for ACAB. This ain't it.

Selling drugs, regardless of what they are, goes against tumblr's community guidelines.

And don't get me wrong, I am all for the legalization of weed. I wish weed wasn't as demonized as crack.

Unfortunately, we don't live in that world right now, not to mention that sellers like this could tamper with the products and put something in there that you wouldn't want to have in your weed.

....also they use potato chat, which from the reviews seem pretty shady as all hell.

If you're looking for weed, don't look in those accounts, for you and your computer/phone's health.

[serpentface]

This was going to be a panel of a little comic but I got too invested in drawing minute background details so, here.

[vaguely-concerned]

there's a self-help/mental health adjacent post that's going around and it seems to be really helpful for a lot of people which is very good. I also personally hate it with all my fucking heart

[spiritsong]

I think some people need to vaguepost more actually

[thungerstorm]

my friend keeps showing me 'cool tattoo mods' for ffxiv, which is lovely because it shows she's thinking of me and that's very sweet.

the only problem is that inevitably the mod she's showing me makes me sad, because like. the body that the tattoo is on is inevitably this. fuckin. weird gigantic hips, stick thighs, and ass cheeks that you usually have to pay a couple thousand dollars for irl, because. nobody has ass like this. and just. fucking. why? why are we doing this. it's so fucking frustrating that there seem to ONLY be these awkward, unattainable fantasy bodies in mod spaces. if you want an average build, or fucking god forbid something that probably isn't something going to be on a magazine cover or rule 34 porn or something, like. good luck. it doesn't exist. you're fucked, make it yourself you fucking weirdo.

it sucks because it's this giant miasma of fuckery that makes me feel like we are simply never going to be normal about bodies as a society. if you are looking for an average human body, a fat body, god fucking forbid a disabled body, you're fucked, you're on your own and enjoy wading through the truly fucking repugnant ableist/eugenics fanclub vibes that is the modding community

there's this pervading feeling that she is showing me all these mods because. i don't know. i'm not a real roleplayer unless i'm in the fucking sync shell or i have 25 pieces of flair/glamorer profiles whatever the fuck. we used to be a fucking fandom. if your character didn't visually match the character you were walking around in the game with, congratulations, that's everyone. nobody's characters match their avatars. welcome to online rp. this was the Fucking Point of creating art, such as drawings and fic. (i am fully ranting at this point, i concede) you can argue mods are art, sure. but. they are co-optable art, which requires a specific framework that is not readily accessible unless you know where to look, knowledge on how to set up, to view, nevermind USE...it's a lot. AND most of the mods people put up are not even their fucking work, it's just iterative copy/paste of other people's work to include other shit. yes it's work, and yes there is a degree of artistry to it. i'm NOT trying to come off as some pretentious hegelian here, i know i am giving that vibe. but please tell me you get where i'm coming from. there is a difference between actually painting a texture or sculpting something in 3d versus adjusting seams and things like that when porting an existing work. do you understand what i am saying. art restoration and art creation are tangentially related but acting like they are the same thing is batshit.

not even to mention the dismal lack of appreciation for the amount of work that DOES go into modding. people just scroll through directories and galleries and yoink whatever. there's no like. wow that must have taken a lot of work, i must thank the author/artist for their generosity in uploading their work for free so i can use it for my own little guy. people don't write comments anymore. nobody says thank you.

people don't fucking write character descriptions anymore. i am looking in search info for carrds and some fucking adverbs but all anyone has anymore is the auto translate for mare lamentorum. what the fuck are we doing. do yall want to fucking play pretend with our blorbos or are we just masturbating.

idk. i woke up late with a massive fuckoff headache and everything sucks right now.

it is fucking bleak out here.

[backpackingspace]

My doctor has assigned me perfect classical ballet posture

[coquelicoq]

i think dongfang xunfeng deserves to pop down to the mortal realm and get forcibly assigned his own xiao runesque excitable/oblivious puppy dog bestie against his will. as a treat.

[tealfruit]

if I could explode people with my mind we would have a lot of job openings in upper management