#I’m baaaaaaaaack!!!!

[here-there-everyfuckenwhere]

Launching headlong back into my Ted/Trent insanity <333

[jusst-you-race]

Chapter Thirty-One

the condominium community committee

chat fic, multi-chapter, (31/?)

George Hello, welcome to a group chat we have for the Formula apartment building! There are only 18 (20 now) of us so we like to keep in contact about the building maintenance and other neighbourly orders of business. I’m George, and I liaise with the building manager on behalf of all of us when there is a building specific issue rather than an apartment issue. Welcome to the building! Lando do u copy and paste that from ur notes every time Alex I bet he has it memorised

alternatively, the ridiculous chat fic where the f1 grid all live in the same apartment building

[devilmademewriteit]

If You Lie Down With Me

pairing: (pre-ellie) dbf!joel miller x fem!afab!reader

summary: there’s only one guy in all of boston that can get you a morning after pill. unfortunately, on top of being a huge asshole, Joel Miller also happens to be your dad’s closest peer.

warnings: rough sex / smut (masturbation, fem penetration, oral [m receiving]) so 18+ only content; unprotected sex; light choking & restraint; light dom/sub dynamic; fem afab reader; reader has long-ish hair (that gets touched); plot-typical violence (guns, death); plot deviations (no Tess); medication ingestion; pet names (baby, sweetheart, angel); dubcon (slight intoxication, power imbalance, no explicit consent).

word count: 6.5k+

no use of y/n in this fic

alright y’all I’m baaaaAAAaack! so this is basically the other version of Dark But Just a Game that I started back when I was writing it & figured I’d finish it to get out of my hiatus. like any devilmademewriteit fic, it’s dark and nasty and deprived like meeeeeee <3 hope u enjoy !

don’t forget to reblog, check out my masterlist, sign up for the taglist, & leave any comments / feedback / & suggestions!

(ps: new part of Salvatore up next !)

—

“three times the guy I ever thought I would meet, so don't say you're over me when we both know that you lie”

— lana del rey, ‘If You Lie Down With Me’

—

Fuck.

Waking up to a racing heart, a pounding head, and a stomach swimming with nausea was never ideal, although it was always a better experience alone — when you could squint and hiss at the light slicing through the weaknesses in the drapes without hearing your groans echoed by a lower, louder, and annoyingly more pitiful voice.

Right. What was his name?

Jared? Jordan? Jermaine?

Ah, who cares.

If he’d wanted a safe place to nurse his hangover, he shouldn’t have fallen asleep in your bed. Sure, the odds of dad being conscious at this hour (especially the odds after a party like last night’s) were Kate Moss — no, Rolling Stones — slim, but the man would get up at some point, meaning that this poor J-whatever was likely sleeping through his only window of escape from certain homicide.

You whisper. You shake him gently. You gingerly tap the roundness of his bicep.

Huh — Not bad.

You congratulate last-night-you for reeling in this morning’s good-looking catch.

Still… nothing. Not a twitch. Nary a croaked ‘lemmesleep’ graces your ears.

After loosing an exasperated sigh and running through your options, you decide to take the most effective (and least girl-next-door) route. The corner of your elbow collides with his ribs, and the boy jumps up, his loose, blonde curls as wild as his eyes, searching the room for his attacker.

You want to smile at the scene, but the motion hurts your head.

“Y’gotta go,” you croak out, thumbs rubbing circles against your aching temples.

He collapses onto his back, copying your movement with his own fingers to his brow. “God. I feel like shit.”

Despite muttering your agreement, you let your eyelashes flutter closed and your weight turn you away from last night’s paramour: no use figuring out who he is after the (f)act — that just makes it personal.

After a few breaths, the boy moves back up to a shakey sitting position.

Probably sourcing for his clothes.

He reeks of booze and sex — but then again, so do you. His roughened, unfamiliar tenor climbs to barely above a whisper, “Z’something stuck on my leg… blood, or something…”

His interrupting your suffering comes as a deeply unwelcome annoyance, so you try to sort him out to clear him out: “Prolly just the condom,” you mumble, rolling back onto your shoulders, reluctantly supervising his movements.

He lifts up fully, sitting criss-cross and pulling his calf towards him.

“No,” he tries to laugh but succumbs to the nausea, settling for a low breath instead, “S’blood, dude, from beer darts — and I didn’t use a condom.”

Your eyes immediately dart over, settling on his naked, wretched, shivering form. He notices your ire and the hitching of your throat, immediately defensive.

“I asked if you wanted to.”

Unfortunately, he had. The memories of your drunken entanglement start to resurface inside your mind. “It just feels better without one.” This time, you curse last-night-you for being such a careless, inconsiderate, horny bastard.

You’re making problems for me, girl.

“J’s get out.”

J-whatever spares no time complying, collecting his few strewn belongings and staggering out the front door. Once it slides shut, so too do your poor, weary eyes.

Shit.

There goes the afternoon.

Getting your hands on condoms in the QZ was at least fifteen times easier than snatching a morning after pill. Those were a hot commodity, especially among the younger, less responsible crowds.

Luckily for you, as a member of aforementioned younger, less responsible crowds, you knew where your best chances lay in finding whatever it was you needed (if what you needed was deeply immoral or wholly illegal). Unluckily for you, that ‘best chance’ happened to be your dad’s closest and longest-running business partner: temperamental, judgemental, frustratingly competent, Joel ‘Local Asshole’ Miller.

But that could all be dealt with after another eight hours of sleep.

—

Opportunity strikes sooner than expected.

Miller’s in your living room by the time you wake up, the low rumble of his southern baritone recognizable even through the closed door. After scrambling to throw on some clothes, you press an ear to the chipping paint, hoping to determine the number of bodies gathered in your home.

Not many. Just Miller (and the old man, of course).

The latter’s presence bodes ill for you. This would all have to be done in secret, which was not an uncommon strategy where ever the former was involved. No one dealt with Joel Miller to conduct clean-cut, wholesome activities. No one was calling him up for a spare copy of the holy book.

No, getting him alone was essential.

A drink slams down on the counter. After a good, patient ten minutes, you hear your father (‘s rather crude way of) excusing himself to the washroom and heavy-set footsteps decrescendoing down the hall.

This is it.

You slip through the door.

At first, your company takes no notice of you, his eyes still glued to the maps and papers littering the counter before him.

Then, a low grumble: “fun night?”

His voice makes you weak in the knees — an involuntary, near ritual-like response you’d noticed around your mid teens and hadn’t managed to kick yet.

You swallow before responding. “Yes.”

It’s all you manage to muster. Miller finally looks up, wincing slightly as his back straightens. He looks tired, at least more than usual, with his wild, grey-streaked hair tousled and the lines by his mouth cutting deep into his skin.

You’re sure you don’t look much better, a suspicion proven by the man’s slowly spreading, barely-noticeable smirk. That gaze makes you self conscious, mute; your right hand snakes up, absent-mindedly dragging a fallen bra strap back to its proper position.

“So, what was his name?”

He’s teasing, sure, but Miller was there last night. He’d always had sharper perceptions than your father did, especially — and ironically — when it came to you. That skill tended to squander your confidence as the daughter of a modern-day mafia-boss and the owner of a hard, violent heart.

Rushed by the sound of your father’s footsteps, you default to honesty.

“I don’t remember.”

“Try.”

“Josh.”

Amusement flits across his stern expression. “Again.”

“Jamie.”

“Warmer.”

“J-J-something—”

“Gettin’ colder, sweetheart—”

“I need the pill.”

It just tumbles out, an exasperated, desperate plea. Miller, a bit taken aback by your candor, drains of his previous playfulness. You almost notice the split second those dark eyes glaze over. For a second, you’re almost convinced he’s distracted by his imagination’s recreations of the act that had you making such a request.

You almost notice the tingling between your thighs.

He stares. You stare back.

Fuck.

It was moments like this that made you wish Tess was still around. Oh, she wouldn’t be any kinder — no, not at all — but she’d certainly be more professional. Tess was all work, no play. Joel was…

You’re enjoying this, you bastard. You’re enjoying that I’m cornered like this, aren’t you?

The bathroom handle clicks when it turns, and your heart drops into your toes.

Maybe Miller really wasn’t going to help you. Maybe he didn’t have the pill and you’d just embarrassed yourself for nothing. Or, maybe he did, but preferred outing you to your dad at the very first opportunity — letting him deal with you the only way he knew how.

Your fears seem confirmed: his eyes leave the grace of your own, trailing back to his big, splayed hands on the countertop. Unwelcome tears burn the corners of your eyes as the panic begins to set in, as footsteps begin to fall…

“Mine. Tonight.”

It’s low and rushed, but it’s clear, cutting off to the sound of your father lumbering in. A man who saw, thought, and lived through transactions, he’s (thankfully) blissfully ignorant of the tension collapsing around him.

“Morning,” he throws your way.

A taunt, of course — it was well past noon.

You nod in acknowledgement, slowly backing into the doorway of your sacred, beckoning room. They resume their conversation from before, letting you sink into irrelevance.

Before shutting yourself in, you catch a few of Miller’s hushed words. They’re spoken casually to your father but, you later decide, surely meant for you:

“Not that one kid — Jeremy — don’t trust him.”

The door seals (well, not seals… it creaks on its rusty hinges and squeezes into its shrinking frame), and relief courses through you, reaching the very tips of your fingers.

That only lasts a minute.

Soon, you’re negotiating with the rising anxiety of being at Miller’s place alone, asking for his help with a problem that could’ve been avoided if you’d only kept your legs shut.

Alone with Miller, the both of you knowing that you hadn’t.

Crawling back under your covers, you begrudgingly make a vow of celibacy. If this was the cost of attention and a (potential) mid-range orgasm, you were about to become very frugal.

Dreams come easy, but they don’t come sweet.

Flashes of last night’s sins overlay Joel Miller’s unintelligible speech, his voice from the next room over lulling you into a rather confusing, disturbed sleep.

—

At nighttime, it’s a short walk to his building.

Down this alley, past this street, up this back stairwell. Part of being in with Boston’s seedy underbelly gained you access to the best and most up-to-date intel; by the age of twelve, you could run the safest — well, least policed — post-curfew routes from memory.

(Which had come in handy in situations a lot more dire than this.)

Sneaking in was easy, although you cursed him for being so preoccupied during the day. Coming in at this hour required some delicate maneuvers through a half-shattered window, and a less-than-graceful leap down left you with a nick on your cheekbone and a shallow cut along the side of your hand.

Thankfully, the blood mostly dries on your walk up the six or eight or ten flights of stairs. You don’t resent the exercise; it feels good to move, putting the jitters building in every still moment in abeyance.

Still moments like the kind that passes after a barely-audible, coded knock delivered by a girl sucking on the side of her hand, almost wishing for the door not to open.

It does.

He’s in jeans — dirty jeans, dusty — and a simple flannel. It’s Miller — it’s Miller at his most Joel-Miller-like-ness.

So why am I so fucking nervous?

He holds the door open, brows knitting at the sight of your hand in your mouth.

“Window,” You offer.

He mouthes a silent ‘ah,’ before leaning forward to duck his head out the door and, in the process, somewhat sandwiching you against his chest.

Maybe it’s because he smells like forest-fires, but your skin burns red-hot.

Miller looks both ways, checking the status of the hall (empty), then nudges you into the dim light of his place with the weight of his hand against your lower back.

The door shuts behind you.

You’d been here at least a million times before, but the thoughts rising now feel so… new. The jacket strewn on the side of the sagging sofa is his — Joel Miller has sat at this table and showered, slept, fucked inside these walls.

Cut it out. It’s just ‘cause you’re alone. And older.

But what about it, now that you were alone and older?

Old enough to know what goes on between a man and a woman and a little bit of desperation at just the right amounts… and there sure was a lot of him, and some desperation, too…

“Nervous?”

Your feet hit the floor, all thoughts evaporating at the sound of his word. Blushing, you try to de-code his taunt, spoken with playfulness and too much condescension.

“Wh — what’d you — nervous for what? No.”

He’s already across the room, sifting through a box of miscellaneous items. A yellowed lamp shade catches his side-profile, illuminates the smirk spreading across his face. Then, a low command:

“Relax,” and your spine settles, acceding to his wish. “Some girls get nervous, y’know, takin’ it the first time.”

Oh.

You clear your throat, daring to take a step into his place, incensed enough to trace the indents and stab-marks decorating his kitchen table.

“No.”

You’re taken aback by the accuracy and the strength underpinning your answer. It’s true, you aren’t afraid, and hadn’t been afraid of much in a very long while.

What’s a Joel Miller to your best friend’s public hanging? What’s he to a dozen rows of semi automatics raining down on your zigzagging toes? What’s he to a period cramp?

Like a bolt of lightning hitting you in the chest, that cocky, gauche and indelicate rebel you’d grown into reappears.

“I’ve been told I take things pretty well my first time.” The tension rises — this time, at your command — just as Joel does, carrying a leather pouch in his right hand. “And it’s not, anyways,” you add for good measure.

The leather drops onto the marked-up table. Joel crosses his arms.

“Not sellin’ me on givin’ you one of these, sweetheart.”

He gestures to the bag.

A mock-frown as you draw closer to him. His eyes, although severe, reflect the playfulness dancing in your own.

“Why not?” You ask, voice dripping with false innocence.

Joel’s gaze doesn’t stray as it hardens, focused on your own. “They’re for accidents, mistakes, attacks,” he explains, deep and dangerous, “Not girls who can’t keep their pretty lil’ legs together.”

Oof.

On one hand, it sounds like he’s genuinely chastising you for your careless behaviour. But, on the other, he sounds jealous, taunting, hungry.

I’ll play that hand.

Sleeping all day had left you wide awake, and that long-time, school-girl crush on the man before you was dying for content to fantasize about. Even if he pushed you off, you’d get to feel the weight of his hands on your body, right?

So, you return with a taunt of your own: “You think my legs are pretty?”

He shakes his head, his signature scowl spreading as he mostly ignores you. “I think you should at least use condoms,” a breath, “N’ know their first names.”

Ouch.

“I usually do.” you murmur, “and it broke last night.”

“Bullshit.”

“What do you mean, bullshit?”

Joel sighs and lowers himself into one of the four old, rickety chairs lining the table. His hand comes up to his temples and you notice how his legs, exhausted, part.

The man doesn’t deign to respond.

Irritation begins to well in your core, sneaking through your arms and up into your throat. The muscle in your jaw must be twitching like crazy.

How does he know? How the fuck does he always know?

Across the QZ, as a skilled liar and born and bred bandit, people tended to hold whatever image of you that you’d crafted for them.

Not Joel. Never Joel.

He saw through you in a way that had always felt… intimate. It was one of the reasons, you guessed, he didn’t dare spend too much time alone with you and why you’d always been curious about him (as a man, of course). Now, there was no avoiding your obvious vulnerability from either of you — you were stripped bare, your dressings in his hand.

It makes you want to flee as much as it makes you want to leap into his arms.

You snatch up the pouch, opening it up to find a mass of differently coloured and shaped pills. Rifling through, you ignore Joel’s stare boring into your hands’ erratic search.

“Yellow ones,” he says.

“I know what they look like,” you retort.

“‘Course you do.”

He moves faster than he should be able to.

One moment, your palm is slicing through the air, headed straight for the highest point of his cheek. The next, you’re facedown on the table. Your attacking hand is caged in by a much larger, much stronger one, pinned to the decaying wood; the other, he pins behind your back. Pills litter the floor — Joel’s boot crunches into a wayward one as he adjusts himself behind you, leaning over your struggling, smaller frame, immobilizing you with his weight.

“Let go of me—” you hiss, words smothered by the wooden surface pressed to your profile.

“—Shut up ‘n listen,” he commands, leaning over to tower over his trapped victim. “Try that again n’I’ll do worse’n kill you. Understand?”

Despite the authenticity of his threat, a strangled laugh wracks your lungs.

“Gonna turn me in for contraband, Miller? Watch them gun me down in the square?”

You smile through your heavy breaths. There, behind your hips, is a growing movement indicative of some other kind of punishment he’s got in mind.

“Or,” you continue on coyly, “Give me another reason to need that pill?”

Joel pauses, untangling your meaning.

Then, an exasperated scoff. His hold tightens on your wrist and you wince. “You always thinkin’ of the fastest way to get a man to fuck you?”

“Only when his cock’s pressed against my ass.”

He goes quiet — only for a moment. Somewhere outside, rounds echo through the night.

“Z’that what you want?” His voice is deep and threatening, promising of the kind of hard, mind-numbing fuck you’d been craving for weeks.

After a hard swallow, you nod, catching the raise of his eyebrows in your periphery.

A moment passes as he mulls over your answer. Only your shallow, anticipatory breaths populate the quiet space.

“Alright.”

And he lets go.

Heart racing, wrists aching, you flip around to his neutral, impenetrable expression.

“Get down on your knees.”

Without taking a moment to decide whether you’re living anything more than just a really fucked up dream, you sink to your knees, folding your hands in your lap (to stop them from shaking). Before you, Joel’s bulge twitches while he watches you yielding to submission, and you try to ignore the excitement building between your own two legs.

His eyes burn into yours: black, starved, weighty. He tells you to shut your own and you do, unable to resist the tone of his command. Within the self-imposed darkness, Joel’s following order — ‘open your mouth,’ — parts your lips as if they were under his spell. You wonder what you must look like to him, needy and ready to receive whatever you’re given.

He speaks again.

“Show me your tongue, angel.”

The gruffness punctuating his arousal doesn’t let you stand a chance. You let your mouth fall open wider.

Next, there’s rustling. You try to remember whether or not he’d had on a belt, listening and failing to hear the soft clinks of a buckle coming undone.

Too soon, something wraps around your chin — thick, calloused fingers — and the pressure of a thumb running down the middle of your tongue sends a rush of electricity down every stacked vertebrae. It’s slow, tantalizingly slow, as if the man were trying to memorize the feel of every groove, ridge, and bud on his leisurely way out.

When Joel drops his hand, a small weight remains at the back of your throat.

“Close.”

You do, opening your eyes to meet his own: severe and wanting — or wanting for severity?

It’s a pill. That much is obvious once the taste begins to spread, bitter and chemical and totally gag-worthy. He follows up with ‘swallow’ for his own sick enjoyment; by the time he says it, it’s clear that you already have.

What kind of game is this, Miller?

Your cheeks burn when your company kneels down. He places his big, broad hand partly on your neck, partly to the side of your jaw, and you’re still too taken aback to tear it off. The feel of his rough palm against your racing pulse silences every urge to enact revenge. Words don’t come — too quickly forgotten on one’s knees.

“You’re way too easy for your own good, sweetheart,” he near-whispers, shooting to kill in a blow packed tight with condescension. “Don’t let me see you here again.”

And that’s it: your cue to get lost.

Slowly, ever so slowly, Miller pulls away from your reddening skin, straightening to stand. You follow suit soon after, heart pumping lead, tongue bruised by the memory of his touch (more overwhelming than the metallic residue dripping down your throat).

He turns, running a few fingers through his hair. It’s the last look you get before resigning yourself to the journey back home.

Still, before turning the rusted handle, in a brief moment of respite, of clarity, you seize the final word:

“I’m only ‘easy’ when I’m drunk. Or interested.”

Silence courses through the room as Joel registers the meaning behind your confession.

“Goodnight, Miller.”

With that, you see yourself into the hallway, checking its status before tearing into the stairwell.

You barely breathe.

He wanted me — he had to have wanted me.

Miller was a pragmatic player; surely, he’d only bother to play with toys he liked like that… right?

Right?

Unable to clear your head or cool the heat radiating through your core, you take the long way home, the distant sounds of a war between rivals soothing the cacophony of noise swimming between your ears.

—

For the next two weeks, all you’re able to think about is him.

You think about him when he’s gone and when he’s in the room, grumbling in hushed tones to your father. You think about him when you’re unable to fall asleep, letting your hands slip beneath the waistband of your shorts, imagining your own fingers as thick, tan ones running through the warmth between your legs.

He takes no notice of you — a fact you deeply resent. Even in your skimpiest clothing, he’s like a damn horse with blinders on. You decide, in the past weeks, he’d either acquired the patience of Job or purged every sinful craving from his system when he’d stuck his fingers down your throat.

Naturally, you’re more than happy when, at breakfast (two in the afternoon), your father gives you the heads up about tonight’s gathering at the Bar (which was really just an asbestos-ridden basement equipped with enough prohibition-style gadgets and architecture to host a good ‘strategic meeting’ every other month).

“Everyone’s gonna be there,” he mumbles. “Need you to keep your ears open. Had to take a couple rats out last week…”

Everyone’s gonna be there.

Smiling to yourself, your thoughts start to spin out. Business, distractions, booze. Tonight would host a million opportunities for you to get him alone.

Hope blooms through your chest.

Do your worst, Miller.

—

“Man, I wish we could’ve experienced cocktails. Straight hooch is ass.”

A peer named Mel, just a year older than yourself, cringes as she sips on whatever murky liquor’s found its way into her cup.

You don’t mind the taste so much, having grown mostly immune to its taste and burn. In fact, you’d come to welcome the subsequent lapse in breath and judgement.

There was little else in this world that made you feel alive.

“Mhm,” you respond absent-mindedly, looking for a familiar scowl among the mass of scowls peppering the crowd.

A sigh to your right. “Always awesome, having your attention.”

The criticism snaps you back into your body. You smile sheepishly at your friend, apologizing through a wince.

She shrugs, her raggedy, pin-decorated jacket jingling with the movement. “S’okay. Known you long enough to know that look.”

For that, she receives a quizzical glance.

Mel comes back with a scoff. “No victims tonight?”

“Oh god,” you shoot her a look of disgust. “Do you mind not using such weird vocabulary? Make me sound like a predator.”

As the words tumble out, you zero in on the object of your search. There he is: eyebrows knit together in concentration, drink in hand, unsurprisingly (and annoyingly) in conversation with your father. A few other stragglers are in the mix, too, but they’re easily overlooked. Time slows to a full stop in his wake —only for the briefest of seconds —

“Well since the last guy actually wound up dead a week later, I think it’s fitting.”

Once again, Mel’s managed to wrangle your interest.

You stare blankly into her onyx eyes, ringlets falling through molasses around her face. “Jeremy?”

And she’s bewildered. “You didn’t hear?”

This time, both of your heads turn in the same direction.

“Ratted to FEDRA about the storehouse off tenth,” she explains, gesturing towards Miller and your father with a tilt of her head. Famous for her bravery, she stoops into your shoulder, averting his gaze and speaking under her breath, “Judging by the way they found him, my guess is it was mostly Miller’s stuff.”

It’s as if she’d screamed it.

The subject of your conversation turns to face you right as your company’s words drift off. Despite the level of noise, the amount of people, and the cloudiness of the air, you’re trapped in the corridor of your mutual stare, cornered.

The challenge, the knowing marking his expression.

“I need some air.”

You twist into the body standing behind you, shoving row after row of criminal scum out of the way. Mel doesn’t follow — she’d never hung around to comfort you, only to inform you. A mutual, typical relationship for the age, and just how things worked in the QZ.

You slam into the door, stomping into a deserted, silent alley, empty save for a few drunk strays. Your lips begin to tingle and a scream builds inside your lungs. Stalking blindly into the night, unsure of your direction, alone in half a top and a plain, ass-length skirt, shivering despite the warmth of the air…

You’re practically begging for trouble.

Just as your eyes catch the numbers on the old, rusted street sign above, just as you realize you’re on a monitored street tonight, only safe after curfew every other Monday and Wednesday, you’re grabbed by the waist, pulled into the space between two buildings, and shoved into a sheltered nook.

A dim, yellow light clicks on automatically. There’s a door (chained closed) leading into the building to your left and darkness to your right.

And there’s Joel Miller above you, his expression indeterminable.

“You asshole,” you barely hear yourself breathe over the sound of the blood rushing in your ears before lunging forward in a useless attempt to, once again, strike his profile.

He catches your wrist, no doubt having anticipated the attack. It’s written on your face, in your eyes, in your shallow, uneven inhalations. He takes your other hand before you’ve even thought to use it, lifting it above your head and slamming it against the old stucco behind you.

“You’re violent,” he says flatly.

He tightens his hold when you struggle against it. “Proud of yourself, yeah? You’re a killer.”

That inspires a slight smirk. You half expect him to return with an ‘as if you didn’t already know that.’

Instead, he says, “Sweetheart, you didn’t even know his name.”

“You should’ve told me.”

And that’s the real source of this anger: it’s rage at being the last to know.

And for what? To protect your feelings? Since when had anyone in your life bothered to do that?

“And don’t call me ‘sweetheart’,” you add for good measure.

You’d wanted him to touch you so badly for weeks now, but here, scorned at being left in the dark and confused at the death of a paramour, you only want to get free.

“And what’d he call you?” He spits, leaning down and in, inadvertently pressing his thigh between your legs — when his breath grazes the skin of your ear, it causes them to part (against your better judgement). “Got lots of names, right?” He continues to tease, “Heard your boyfriend’s pretty one for you before I shut him up — ‘that fuckin’ slut,’ f’I’m rememberin’ right.”

Despite your rage-shakes, you’re warming at the core, Joel’s pressure against it dizzying your already-addled head. It confuses you, makes the scorn easier to access.

“How did I come up, Miller?” You exhale, jutting your chin towards him. “Couldn’t help asking for all the dirty little details, could you?”

He smiles, and the act lacks any sort of kindness. “‘Lot easier gettin’ him alone once he thought he was meetin’ you.” Joel slams your wrist harder into the wall when you try to wriggle away. “Not sure you wanna keep making that kind of impression, angel.”

It’s hard to rationalize with him so close, as his pet-names echoe inside your head. He’d used your name to enact gang-law violence on a boy who’d been inside you, and yet, all you can think, all you can hear, is the way ‘sweetheart’ sounds tumbling off his lips.

“Fucking let me go, Miller,” you manage to exasperate, resenting the begging edge to every word. “I don’t need another abstinence lecture from you.”

Kicking one ankle off balance, Joel turns you around, pressing your stomach to the wall, your back into his chest. Ignoring your whines and pitiful struggle, he wraps a free hand around your neck, pushing your head against his collarbone. Your stomach erupts with butterflies as the rough pad of his thumb traces the front of your throat.

Yes — no — yes, he wants me — no, no, this is wrong, this is so wrong —

“‘Be wasted on you, anyways,” he says, rough and earnest, like his hand sliding down your chest, your breasts, your stomach, “Startin’ to realize if I can’t fix your dad’s mistakes…” and he’s finding the hem of your skirt and yanking it up, bunching the fabric around your hips —

“Might as well take advantage of them.”

He moves hungrily. He’s everywhere, sliding into your underwear and across your breasts, his big arms and suffocating biceps enveloping your entire frame.

“Joel—”

But he claps a hand over your mouth, silencing any hope of your pleas being effective.

“Think I haven’t seen you? Your lil’ looks…” a low laugh, “n’ those fuckin’ clothes?” God, the rumble, the sheer want in his voice hammers at your initial resistance, and you feel yourself welcoming the feel of his thick, long fingers, sliding between your wet folds. You’re clay, melting against the curved, firm wall of his chest.

You mewl pathetically into his palm.

Another low laugh wracks his lungs, dances at the top of your ear.

“Knew you’d be this wet for me.”

“Knew since you got down on your knees,” Joel continues, uncovering your mouth only to ease a few fingers between your lips — lips that part as though commanded, and a mouth that welcomes and caresses whatever it receives, “‘N opened this pretty lil’ mouth for me to fuck it. Can’t close my eyes without seein’ you like that — so fuckin’ needy.” He exhales from between his teeth, signalling his approval while you suck him down to the knuckles.

His fingers tease your clit and you give him your thanks by pleasuring those of his other hand.

When his hands move, it’s to hold you steady and balanced as he drags your underwear down your legs. That thick, heavy cloud of arousal hides any and all rational thoughts from view.

And he knows. He knows you’re past the point of no return, restraining you only out of his desire to rather than out of a real need to. He knows from the whine you breathe at the loss of his hand against your clit, moving to work at his belt buckle instead.

“Gonna use a condom?” You breathe, emboldened by your clearing senses at the temporary lack of stimulation.

At first, you think he’s missed your taunt.

He backs up, pulling your hips along with him until the tips of your fingers are no longer touching the decaying wall before you. Joel pulls you upright and against him with an arm around your waist and a hand around your throat, turning your head and tilting it back to meet your eyes.

You grasp onto his forearms, failing to stand, unable to breathe. His hardness digs into your back, and his cruel eyes show you just how much pleasure he takes in your struggle.

“Don’t like to waste ‘em,” he finally answers, rocking his cock against your spine, “But I will if you beg. You gonna beg?”

He manipulates your answer, fingers moving to your red-hot core — he barely grazes the nerves, only dancing over the needy flesh. You can’t tear your eyes from him either, tethered to your body through his gaze.

Joel Miller was a frustrating lover.

“N-no,” is your answer, slightly strangled and softly stuttered.

He smiles. “S’what I thought.” Then, “Show me what you can do, angel,” he coos, lips just inches away from yours, his hold on your body relaxing —

“Use your pretty lil’ hands n’ put my cock where you want it most.”

And you both know exactly where that is.

After a nod, Joel allows you to bend forward slowly — it’s like moving through honey. Your legs burn with effort as you reach between your legs to wrap a hand around his thick, hard length.

Christ, he’s huge.

He groans when you touch him and uses his own hand to help guide his tip between your folds. One hand holds your waist, fingers extended under your ribs to support your weight in a skilled show of experience.

With his tip at your aching entrance, you try to lean back, to slide yourself slowly down his many inches.

But Joel doesn’t allow it.

He pushes into you in one go, clicking his tongue at your strangled gasp —

The man hadn’t even bothered to open you up with his fingers.

“Ah, c’mon,” he condescends, “You can take it.”

Then he’s setting a hard pace, hands moving from your hips to your ribs to your biceps to your hair to your neck — anywhere he wanted to go, he went. One eventually comes to the front of your throat, tilting your eyes back and up towards the ceiling. Every one of his thrusts arches your back further until you’re contorting into a half-moon shape, standing only by the grace of his support.

And it feels so good. Joel fills you up to the brim, takes you to heaven and floods your ears with hymns, punishes you in the kind of way you’d only experienced in dreams.

Words tumble out, but they’re filled with nothingness. “Joel,” “fuck,” and “yesohgodyes,” quickly become staples of your vocabulary.

He laughs whenever you sob, grows harder every time you moan, restrains you when you try to run away.

The hand around your throat tightens, digging unforgivably into the flesh as you start to let go, as your walls begin to clench and flutter appreciatively around his cock.

“M’I making you happy, sweetheart? My cock making you smile?” He asks gruffly, pulling you back into his chest. Joel readjusts you into whatever shape you need to be in at the new angle, hips still slamming into your ass. Struggling to stand on your tiptoes, he steadies you with his arms and his hand on your jaw, forcing you to look up into his rugged face.

“Mmhm,” is all you can offer him, the pitch jumping up halfway through when the head of his cock grazes that perfect spot inside your cunt.

He doesn’t let up.

“Show me, baby—” he commands, out of breath, too, but not nearly as tortured as you, “—Show me your smile.”

You do your best, smiling up at him, degrading yourself even more at the hands of Joel-fucking-Miller. And he eats it up, loves the way your grin turns into a bitten lip and knit eyebrows over closed eyes, slowing his thrusts to rock even deeper inside you.

You moan something unintelligible, and a laugh rustles through your tangled hair.

“Am I makin’ you come?”

You nod, feeling that familiar rush of pressure blooming somewhere within that throbbing bundle of nerves under his spell.

He smirks in pride and victory, the last look you get before your head falls against his shoulder, your muscles going lax as the peak builds, as your half-sobs grow louder.

“S’it, baby, tell ‘em,” he coos, nipping and sucking the skin on the side of your throat. “Gonna tell the whole street how you take it like a good lil’ slut.”

His fingers fall to your clit, enticing you right over the edge. You vision blurs and your legs shake, but Joel talks you through your orgasm, sweet nothings starting with, “S’right — show me — yes, fuck — good girl…”

And then —

He stops.

You whine, stars dancing before your eyes as the mean, mean man inside you refuses to fuck you through your climax.

“Joel,” you plead, grinding back against him in a pathetic show of need, “Come with me.”

He does the opposite, sliding himself out of your sore opening. You turn to face him, restoring your balance with hands against his chest, gazing up at him in desire-stricken reproach.

“Use your mouth,” he says, voice gruff at your ruined sight and from his own hand on his cock, keeping his arousal level, “Not gettin’ any more help from me.”

It’s unclear whether ‘help’ means pills or his cock, but you assume both to be safe.

You try to argue (having spent the last few weeks dreaming of Joel dripping down your legs) but he just won’t budge.

Then, his voice softens.

“You know your dad’d kill me, angel.”

And it’s really the sweetness of his tone that does it.

Sinking to your knees, it’s déjà vu when you open wide for him, steadying your shaking knees with both hands on his half clothed, half naked hips. Gravel and debris dig painfully into your bare knees, but you ignore the sting, smiling instead at the taste of yourself on Joel’s cock, lips sliding adoringly down the thick length of it.

He groans his approval, tangling his fingers in your hair to help guide your movements.

As you take him in again and again and again, pleasing every inch of him, he chokes out a laugh.

“Never seen you so quiet,” he muses (mostly to himself), caressing your cheekbone with his free hand —

“Gagged by an old man’s cock.”

You pull off, pumping him with both hands, asking breathlessly, “Are you all so big?”

He smiles, eyes darkening at the dirty compliment. “Give you a few numbers n’ you can tell me.”

God, he’s beautiful from down here.

You hold his attention and lick a slow stripe down the underside of his cock, half-grinning up at his lust-filled expression.

“I only want yours, Joel Miller.”

An uneasy inhale as you take him back in, his brows furrowing and his cock growing impossibly harder. Your words please him, he returns by groaning orders and praises like: “S’all yours, baby — take it all — take aaall that dick — good fuckin’ girl.”

He’s so close and you know it, moaning in submission at his hand’s pressure against the back of your head. With your nose crunched into his abdomen, you hold your throat open for him to use it however he pleases — reduced to nothing more than the man’s plaything.

There’s a low “ah, fuck,” from above, and then you finally know what Joel Miller tastes like.

It’s better than the Plan B.

You hear nothing beyond his recovering breaths, feel nothing past pride, lust, and exhaustion.

Eventually, he loosens his grip. You pull off of him delicately, drawing a groan from between his gritted teeth when you make sure to suck every last drop of his seed into your mouth.

Sitting back on your ankles, you roll your head up to face him.

He swipes a thumb under your lips, clearing the saliva connecting you to his softening cock.

“Still mad at me?” He asks.

You’d be crazy to say yes.

“Only for pulling out.”

You note the twitch at the corner of his mustache.

Joel helps you back on your feet, using one hand to pull you up by your arm and another to arrange himself back to decency.

You adjust your shirt; Joel fixes your skirt. It’s a strange kind of silence settling inside this pocket at the side of a random, ruined building.

Then, your company clears his throat, that mask of seriousness falling over his expression once again.

“You gonna be smart?”

What ever could he mean?

Stay away from him? Stay away from men? Practice abstinence? Use protection?

Either way, you’re not one to make promises you know you can’t keep.

You cross your arms.

“No.”

He sighs.

Well, looks like things are already back to normal.

His face softens and he shakes his head, already regretting his next words. “Just — just come find me, then. I won’t do… this again, but — but I’ll help.”

You frown.

“What do you mean, ‘this’?”

He stares down into your accusatory eyes with a look you’d received many times from him, one screaming, “get real.”

“Fine,” you mutter, breaking eye-contact, “Thank you.”

With a stoic nod, he walks around you, heading back into the night. You try, in vain, to watch him go in silence — god knows you had some thinking to get to — and find that, instead of getting it out of your system, the entanglement had only left you wanting for more.

And more and more.

“Is this what you meant?” and you hear his footsteps halt, “When you told me you’d do worse than kill me? When I tried to hit you?”

It comes out before you can help it, and you twist around to face his still, broad shoulders.

You can hear the smile teasing his lips as he utters the words.

“Why are you askin’ me that?”

Still facing his back, you break into a smile of your own. “So I’ll know what I have to do to get you to do it again.”

You watch him shake his head, grey-streaked ripples in the low light.

“Try your best not to find out, angel.”

With that, he disappears into the darkness, leaving you in the flickering doorway. Thighs aching, heart racing, you take a deep breath, trying to memorize the feeling of what it felt to have them taken from you by Joel Miller.

A feeling you’d chase.

—

Put your red boots on

Baby, giddy up

Baby wants a dance

Baby gets her way

Dreamy nights

Talk to me with that whiskey breath

Twirl me twice

I'll treat you like a holiday

And don't say you're over me

When we both know that you ain't

Don't say you're over me

Baby, it's already too late

Just do what you do best with me

Dance me all around the room

Spin me like a ballerina, super high

Dance me all around the moon

Light me up like the 4th of July

Once, twice, three times

The guy I ever thought I would meet, so

Don't say you're over me

When we both know that you lie

If you lie down right next to me

Lie, lie, lie, lie, lie, lie, lie, lie, lie

If you lie down right next to me

Lie, lie, lie, lie, lie, lie, lie, lie, lie

When you lie down right next to me

Get your jacket on

Be a gentleman

Get into your truck

And pick me up at eight

'Cause we were built for

The long haul freight train

Burnt by fire

Without trial like a stowaway

And don't say you're over me

When they all know that you ain't

If you lay down right next to me

Dance me all around the room

Spin me like ballerina super high

Dance me all around the moon

Like six times 'til I'm sick and I cry

Once, twice, three times

The guy I ever thought I would meet, so

Don't say you're over me

When they all know that you're lying

If you lie down right next to me

Lie, lie, lie, lie, lie, lie, lie, lie, lie

Lie, you lie

If you lie down right next to me

Lie, lie, lie, lie, lie, lie, lie, lie, lie

Lie, you lie

When you lie down right next to me

—

TAGLIST (cont’d in reblogs): @millllenniawrites @inkedells @stardust-chords-enthusiast @mattmurdocksgirlfriend @liviloo12346 @anyas-stuff @readingsunshine97 @maudlinflowers @sullysflm @sexygaypalpatine @livyjh @s-unflowxr @lostsoldieronahill @chapterhappygirl @silkiers @jupitersmoon-cal @supernaturaldean67 @peqchsoup @corrodedcherries @hawsx3 @monboudoir @theonewithacrush @pono-pura-vida @fruitcupsworld @mads-grace4 @killerrxger @niallsbunny @snowyarcher @grnherbs @mswarriorbabe80 @tercabed @sweettea-and-honeybutter @bbyanarchist @thisgirl-knm @pedrit0-pascalit0 @redhotkitchen @isitselfishifwetalkaboutmeagain @pseudonymist @goldengrapejuice @soullumii @kamcrazy123 @wclverine

[sighonaraa]

i'm baaaaaaaaack!

At his other side, Beard clears his throat. “Where you at, Coach?” “Right here,” says Roy, and it comes out as a growl without his permission. He’s grateful at least that Beard isn’t the sort of person to get offended by a misplaced growl or two, but he does take a conscious moment to shift the pitch of his voice so that his next words are somewhat more obliging. “I’m right here. Why?” “Mm,” says Beard. His eyes are obscured by the sunglasses he always wears, rendering his face a mystery, but the line of his mouth is soft, contemplative. “Not so sure you are.” Roy barely wrangles the urge to snap. “Fuck’s that supposed to mean?” “Lots of people are somewhere else when they think they’re right here,” Beard finally says after a pause that goes on so long Roy nearly forgets they’ve been having a conversation. “Makes it hard to find them, but you can. You just have to go looking.”

or, chapter 2, ft. a disappointing lack of hugs (for now), sam and dani being the best friends in the whole wide world, and every single person losing the idgaf wars

[nosnexus]

I’m baaaaaaaaack!

Somehow kept up the sketching while on vacation :) Now to get back to into the swing of things

[kmcarras]

i'm baaaaaaaaack! happy new year :) idk when the next part will be yet but it won't be as long of a wait as this one was. i very much lost steam on this one alongside going thru a bunch of life stuff. i made this part because people got confused about why eddie was acting like he didnt think richie liked him. i made this part to remind people why he would act that way, not realizing that people were actually confused because the order of events was unclear. all this phone call stuff with beverly is a flashback, before richie even confessed to eddie. whoops. but yeah in retrospect, i kinda worry when the whole thing cuts together that this would be jarring in a tonal/pacing sort of way, but at least we got to see some of the other losers in some compacity, which i know people had been asking about. (plus my voice actors kicked ass, please check them out, especially Mike's actor, who streams on youtube and on twitch) trigger warning at very bottom

----------------------------------------------------------

Voice Actors

 Mike - James Brown Jr.

Youtube - @JamBudsVO

Twitter - JambudsVO

Twitch - JambudsVO

 Stan - Kollin Stewart

Instagram - kollinupsomestew

 Bill - Ben Swimmer

 ----------------------------------------------------------

 as usual, i voiced richie/eddie/beverly/ben and did all the writing/drawing/editing/etc. if you message me to tell me that you hate a character's voice and that i should recast them as you, i will laugh at you

 ----------------------------------------------------------

 Song: "Enola Gay" by Orchestral Manoeuvres In The Dark

  ----------------------------------------------------------

Trigger warnings - Internalized homophobia, homophobia, gay slur ("fairy"), character(s) have 1980's period typical poor understanding of sexuality and gender (not knowing there is more than simply "gay" or "straight" as well as implied not knowing there is more than the gender binary), misogyny, mocking of Valley Girl accent, song referencing the bombing of Hiroshima by the United States in WWII ("Enola Gay" was adopted by the queer community as an anthem and was chosen for the tone of the melody, but I want to acknowledge the lyrics are in fact about the bomber plane for which the song is named for), a pony pees a considerable amount, arachnophobia/tarantulas/spiders

[ladylooch]

I’m baaaaaaaaack!!!!

OH! How I missed you all! 

Break was good and necessary! Highly recommend to take space if you’re feeling overwhelmed here. This hockey season has been unexpectedly difficult.

A couple of things as we get back into the swing of things here. 

First, I will not be discussing the 2018 WJC charges as it is triggering to me and likely others. However, to continue the safety and openness of my blog, I have changed L&L to exclude Mikey McLeod. The iconic character in Part 4 has been updated to John Marino. Any blurbs/discussions about the previous character have been deleted.

WIP updates: 

- The Spiral Part 5 will be posted TOMORROW!

- From there, we are transitioning to Liv X Luca angst, which will be 4 parts in total.

- After that, it is a toss up between Shot in the Dark and Mackdavid. But I’m sure we can figure it out together!

There are some items in the queue that will be posted throughout the day. However, I did clear out my inbox to return to a more manageable writing load. With that in mind, my inbox is back online, but requests are still closed. As always, I’ll let you know when they open back up.

WHEW! Okay,  let’s catch up now 🥰 What did I miss?

[thelilreddragon]

I’m baaaaaaaaack

I posted the new version of my Harximoff :)

[capitalisticveins]

knock knock

I'm baaaaaaaaack, and I have angst for you. I was struggling to come up with some for Guy and Honey, but I have quite a few for the rest of the characters. Keep in mind, I'm new here, so I may have messed up a few details, but I hope you enjoy regardless:

Angel gets mugged/drops their engagement ring and can’t get it back. They feel horrible having to confess it to David, guilty for losing it for both the money and work he put in to picking it out 

Asher gets flashbacks from his time during the Inversion

Milo gets a phone call/visit from his dad

Aaron has been spending way too much time at the office. A suspicious amount.

Ollie gets sick. Really sick. Needs hospitalization level sick. 

The usually (flirty) physically affectionate Gavin stops being so cuddly and touchy towards Freelancer, for supposedly no reason. 

Lasko gets stood up

Cutie gets help they need in order to improve as a partner. Alas, Geordi has moved on, and is extraordinarily happy with his new one, another telepath who doesn’t constantly read his mind 

Kody comes back. 

Sam gets a visit from Alexis. Darlin is about to rip her head off. 

Lovely cries over the lose of their powers. (Same thing with the Milo shifting episode with no happy ending)

I hope you enjoyed those! And if you want more? Feel free to ask =)

OH THESE ARE SO SAD IM DOING THEM

but UNFORTUNATELY these are oneshot level prompts and I only do headcanons, so while I WILL be writing them, it’ll only be in Headcanon form

Additionally I already have another request I’m doing at this moment so I’ll get to these by say…Saturday? No guarantees

But I’m going to make them all have separate posts (like Guy Meeting Honey HCs, I’ll make a full set of headcanons for each prompt and they’ll be posted separately)

Also I probably won’t be able to get to…maybe 3 of them? I’m drawing a blank on Gavin, Aaron, and Kody. If I change my mind I’ll let you know (sorry for all this, I’ll get to writing these once I’m done! ^^)

(Also for the Lasko one I’m not making the reader his listener they deserve better 😭 he’s had partners before I’ll use one of them)

[wellisntthatinteresting]

The Tortured Jiara Department #4

I’m baaaaaaaaack

🎵Song

My Boy Only Breaks His Favorite Toys

💿Track number

3

👫Whose vibes are we picking up on?

You know S3 Kiara would’ve been all about the message in this one

💕Lyric loves

“Oh, here we go again / The voices in his head”

“There was danger in the heat of my touch / He saw forever so he smashed it up / Oh, my boy only breaks his favorite toys”

“Just say when, I'd play again / He was my best friend / Down at the sandlot”

“Cause he took me out of my box / Stole my tortured heart / Left all these broken parts / Told me I'm better off / But I'm not / I'm not / I'm not.”

✍️Wellisntthatinteresting’s take

Reference to best friends? Check. Boy who self-sabotages? Check. Girl hurt by boy ‘s refusal? Check. Chock full of the kind of Jiara goodness that I am here for

10/10 This one really grows on you with each listen and adding the Jiara spice makes it that much better in my eyes.

[whump-card]

I'm baaaaaaaaack!

Introducing: Sunless Lives Interludes!

Interludes are canonical but not-super-plot-relevant scenes. The number indicates where in the timeline they fall, or when they can safely be read without spoilers.

I am now taking prompts for these! I've never taken prompts before, I'm excited to know what people want expanded upon, or what character interactions you want to see. This one might be fluff, but they don't all have to be!

Without further preamble, here's Interlude 10.1: He Was a Joth.

~~~

“I was thinking. I told you my life story. Now I want to hear yours.”

Simon smiled at Matthew brightly, unphased by his mention of that dark night when he had poured his trauma out for Matthew. They sat cross-legged together on Simon’s floor, leaning against the couch and eating pasta alla norma that Matthew had made.

“Like, how did you learn how to cook?” Simon continued, taking a bite.

“My mom,” Matthew said, somewhat hesitantly. Simon glanced at him, sensing he’d stumbled upon a sore spot, but Matthew shrugged.

“I always cooked with her when I was little. She’s Italian - like, actually Italian, and she moved back to Italy when my parents divorced when I was…” He squinted, dredging up the dates. “Eleven, I think? I didn’t see her for a while, which was hard, but once I was old enough to travel alone I started flying out to see her every other year. Still do. We’re okay I guess, not super close anymore.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“It’s alright. But yeah, I learned a lot of cooking from her, and it’s remained an interest of mine. I took culinary classes as an elective in college.”

Simon lifted a pasta-laden fork.

“Did they also teach you exclusively Italian dishes?” he smirked.

“No!” Matthew said, humorously overdefensive, “I just like Italian cooking.”

Simon giggled, which made Matthew flush red.

“What were you like as a kid?” Simon asked next.

“As a little kid, boring,” said Matthew, “I liked cars and airplanes and pretending to be a VIU agent.”

“Cute.”

“Then I did get a little weird when I was a teenager.”

Simon’s eyes lit up.

“Weird how?”

“Well, I was sad about my mom leaving, and I was starting to have feelings about boys, so I got really moody, and… kinda emo. Kinda goth.” Matthew couldn’t help but smile.

Simon leaned forward with a delighted grin.

“You’re kidding.”

“I’m not! And the extra weird part was that I was this massive football player too, so I was living this double life where I would leave football practice to go headbang in some kid’s garage.”

“So you were a goth and a jock. A joth, if you will.” Simon cackled, “You know what, I see it, you still wear all black most of the time.”

“Oh my God,” Matthew groaned, “And there are these pictures of me with my goth friends where it’s a gaggle of twiggy little teens and then just me, looming like emo Hulk in the background.”

Simon nearly choked on his food.

“I need to see those pictures.”

“You will, you will!” Matthew promised, “When you meet my dad, he’ll show you albums full of embarrassing shit.”

Simon stilled.

“You want me to meet your dad?”

“Uh, yeah?” Matthew said, like it was obvious.

“We’ve only been dating for like, two weeks.” Simon smiled shyly.

“You don’t have to meet him if you don’t want to.”

“No, I want to, I just…” Simon wiggled his shoulders and grinned. “You like meee,” he gloated.

“Duh.” Matthew leaned forward and Simon eagerly met him with a quick kiss. They stayed there nose-to-nose for a moment, just smiling at each other, before Matthew sat back and asked:

“Tell me about your books.”

“My books?” Simon blinked.

Matthew nodded at Simon’s bookshelf.

“You have Lord of the Rings and stuff… Did you always read a lot?”

Simon looked away, but he smiled a little.

“My dad would read to me a lot when I was little, always fantasy. Kid-appropriate stuff, obviously, I branched out more when I moved here and could spend my own money.”

Matthew turned to run his eyes over the titles, and couldn’t help his curiosity.

“I haven’t read it, but I know Game of Thrones has a lot of, like�� sexual violence. Does that bother you?”

Simon was surprisingly receptive to the question.

“Every once in a while, but not usually. It’s different when it’s fiction. It can be…” He paused, searching for the right word. “Cathartic.”

Matthew nodded.

“That’s good. I’m glad you have that.”

Simon ducked his head, smiling.

“Yeah, I don’t have a lot of other interests outside of work, just reading, and running, and... stuff.” He glanced at the TV console where his fashion magazines were stowed away in semi-secrecy.

“I could teach you to cook,” Matthew offered.

“Thanks, but… I don’t really like cooking. Sorry.” Simon’s brow furrowed.

“That’s okay,” Matthew said easily, “Do you… want to talk about it?”

Simon considered, but shook his head, sitting up straight with a smile.

“Nah. I don’t want to ruin the vibe.”

“Okay. Let me know if you ever do.” Matthew leaned forward for another kiss. This one lasted a little longer.

“You done eating?” Simon breathed.

“I could be.”

“My room?”

Matthew nodded.

“Oh yes.”

~~~

Masterlist

Taglist (let me know if you don't want to be on the taglist for these specifically!): @flowersarefreetherapy @pigeonwhumps @sunshiline-writes @seasaltandcopper

[ahalvedsoup]

I’M BAAAAAAAAACK

[msmargaretmurry]

rules: tag 9 people you want to get to know better or who are just your friends who you always tag on these things wait who said that. i was tagged by @vivathewilddog

last song: "the absence of god" by rilo kiley. when i was at a wonder years show last month, "it's a hit" came on one of the between-sets playlists, which obviously made me want to listen to the entirety of more adventurous, which i then went home and did, and then my favorite tracks from the album migrated over to my metro playlist, which i was listening to on shuffle on my way home from work today and that was the last song that played before i got back to my apartment.

last show: i am going to interpret this as last music show, since there's a tv question right below this, and concerts are more interesting. i saw vienna teng at a tiny coffeeshop this past weekend! it was lovely! she's so good!!! also last month i went to two wonder years shows in a row and lost my voice for several days. they're also so good!!!

currently watching: i'm watching 911, abbott elementary, and bob's burgers loosely as they air (usually within a few days of the new episode dropping), and i'm watching ted lasso but i'm a few episodes behind, because apple tv logged me out of tasha's account and it's a pain in the ass to log back in. i am very slowly working my way through succession and just finished season one. also, because sometimes you need to put on a gimmicky procedural from the mid-late '00s and let it totally smooth out your brain, i've been watching the mentalist to unwind before bed. it is such a stupid little copaganda show and it makes my brain feel so smooth.

currently reading: i just finished the member of the wedding by carson mccullers, which is the book for this weekend's book club meeting and i'm excited to discuss it with my pals! and i just started the dead romantics by ashley poston, which i can tell is going to grate on me a little, stylistically, but i'm soldiering on because i'm trying to give more contemporary romances a shot. i am also still slowly working my way through the home team: fathers, sons, and hockey by roy macgregor — i read a chapter every week or so, it usually makes me cry, etc etc.

current obsession: god i guess it's still. fuckin rat boy. ratthew. tkachuckles cheese himself. and his big dumb german boyfrienemy. also i know it's been over half a year but i'm still obsessed with the hum goes on forever. also obsessed with playing old jimmy eat world songs on the guitar, with making silly little beverages with the office keurig as afternoon treats, and with maggie’s and my current main chatfic, which will never leave the gchats but sustains me nonetheless. OH also obsessed with that one cidery, iykyk, i wanna go baaaaaaaaack

i'm tagging @hopetorun @bropunzeling @leapyeap @drysdaales @birdcage @thecroissantgirl @bakingblues @slightly @devantesmithpelly if y'all want to! 💖

[after-witch]

Bright Lights Chapter 10 [Small Spaces Sequel]

Title: Bright Lights Chapter 10 [Small Spaces Sequel]

Synopsis: Ollie asks for help from the only people in the world who can understand her.

Word count: 2116

notes: we're baaaaaaaaack!!

AO3 CHAPTER LINK

Ollie had never quite believed in the notion of people being angels sent from heaven, but she really had to wonder if Miranda perhaps had wings underneath her scrubs that had so far stayed hidden. Because Miranda did not sigh or frown or look put-out when Ollie asked if she could stay for a few more hours.

Instead, she’d put her hand on Olivia’s shoulder and said, “Take as long as you need. I don’t have any other patients to see today. I had a feeling this might be an all-day thing.” 

Her dad had just fallen asleep when she finally left the Egg to meet up with Coco and Brian. Ollie had been tempted to wake him; she wanted to ask about the watch and the book. But he looked peaceful, and Ollie knew how rare that could be with him. So she kissed his forehead and let him sleep, and tried to ignore the knot in her stomach that only grew as she stepped out of the house and got back into her car.

The school still hadn’t called.

They didn’t call while Ollie was driving, nor did they call when she pulled into the parking lot of a local coffee shop, where she spotted Coco and Brian standing outside of their family van.

Coco was still talking on the phone when Ollie got out and approached them. It was Brian’s mother and father on the phone. They were semi-retired, and Brian often sighed over the pressure to take over the ski lodge when they decided to move into full retirement.

It wasn’t just the pressure, though, of how he’d manage a ski lodge and his sports camp. While he’d gone back to enjoying the slopes less than 2 years after the Hemlock Lodge horrors, Ollie knew they still sometimes gave him the creeps. They gave her the creeps, too. 

In the background of the call, Ollie heard James and Charlotte trying to pipe in with questions for their parents.

“How long are you going to be gone?” asked James. “Why did you pull us out of school? Am I going to have to make up for my science test?”

And then Charlotte spoke up, her voice high and clear on the speaker. “Is this about that man you and dad were talking about? Is Sam in trouble? Can we help?”

Ollie’s breath caught in her throat and she threw a furious look at Brian and Coco. Her lips mouthed the disbelieving words: “You told them?”

Coco’s brows pinched together and she looked ready to say something, but Brian shook his head and pulled Ollie aside.

“No, of course we didn’t.  They overheard us mention “him” the other day when you called about coming over.”

Olile felt guilt settle hard in her stomach. “Sorry,” she said. “I’m just–”

“Frazzled, I know,” Brian said. He didn’t look mad, just worried, which made Ollie feel better. “It’s fine. Let’s just figure out what’s going on with Sam, okay?” 

Coco finished the call and then immediately called another number as they walked into the coffee shop. Brian ordered for them, so that Ollie and Coco could get set up in the corner booth away from anyone else. 

Coco’s phone was set against the wall, and a tired, anxious looking Phil was square in the center of it. Even on the small screen, Ollie could see him biting back a thousand questions. 

Brian came back with coffee and sandwiches, although Ollie knew she probably wouldn’t be able to touch the food. Not when her stomach hurt so much. Not when she kept thinking about the smiling man. 

“All right, Owl,” Brian said, taking a sip of his coffee. “Fill us in and we’ll go from there.” 

Ollie’s throat felt tight. She swallowed against it and stared at her coffee cup. Could she be wrong? Was this stupid?

Coco took her hand and squeezed it. Ollie bit her cheek hard, fighting against tears. Why was Coco so good at making people feel better? Ollie couldn’t even get her own daughter to stop hating her. 

Coco gave another squeeze and Ollie took a deep breath.

“Okay. Here goes…”

She told them everything–no. Not everything. She told them about Sam. About not letting her go to the circus, about her being upset about never getting to stay out on her own or go on most field trips.. Coco and Brian already knew all of this, but Phil didn’t. It wasn’t something she felt like texting to him, exactly. Ollie tried not to feel hurt by the way his frown deepened. She wondered if he thought she was a bad mom. Too over-protective. 

And then she got to the events of this morning. Sam forged her signature. Her dad was acting strange. Her mom’s watch–gone. The Small Spaces book, written and published by one Beth Webster and used to save their lives the first time they fell into the smiling man’s clutches–missing. 

“The school said they would call when they got hold of her teacher, but it’s been a while.” Ollie’s hand curled around her untouched coffee mug. The hot ceramic was comforting. Distracting. 

“He probably can’t hear his phone very well in a circus,” offered Phil. Ollie glanced at Coco’s phone. “I know I can barely hear mine if I’m outside. I miss a lot of work calls.” He gave a shaky laugh, and Ollie returned it with a tight smile.

“Yeah,” she said, weakly. She wanted to believe it. What was more likely: that the teacher was having a hard time hearing his phone in a loud circus, or the teacher had been… what? Absconded by the smiling man behind the mist already? 

“Maybe–” Coco began, but Ollie’s phone rang, and she almost knocked over her coffee mug to pick it up and answer it. 

Coco, Brian and Phil were completely silent. It made Ollie’s stomach hurt more. She put the phone on speaker so that she wouldn’t have to repeat the conversation to her friends. It was hard enough recounting everything that had happened with Sam. 

“Hello?”

“Ollie, dear?” Mrs. Phelps’ voice was as kind as ever. Ollie clung to that kindness as she waited for news. “I’ve gotten hold of Mr. Wheeling, and let him know what was going on. Oh, he sounded very upset. They’re about to go on with the big show. But he said that he would pull Sam aside before it starts and keep her with him, and he’ll call you as soon as the bus gets back.” Mrs. Phelps sighed. “Sam is such a sweet girl, I can’t imagine why she would do something like this.”

Ollie felt relief lift her shoulders–at least nothing had happened yet–but there was still that underlying fear. It made her voice shake when she spoke. 

“I think she’s just stressed, Mrs. Phelps. With everything going on at home.”

Ollie felt like she could see Mrs. Phelps’ expression over the phone, and a sudden, awful nostalgia came washing over her. Sympathy face. Mrs. Phelps would be making sympathy face; that horrible, pitying, pinched look that had made Ollie so furiously helpless as a kid. 

“Of course, dear. Well, please let me know if you need anything else.” 

Ollie thanked Mrs. Phelps and set her phone back down on the table. 

No one said anything for a moment.

“So, she’s with a teacher,” said Phil. “Or she will be in a few minutes. Shouldn’t you look a little more relieved?”

Ollie’s hand went back around the mug. It felt lukewarm now.

“If this is what we think it is…” she began.

“What it could possibly be, but isn’t for sure,” corrected Brian. 

Ollie looked at him but said nothing.

“Then it doesn’t matter if there’s an adult, does there? It didn’t matter with us.” She thought about Mr. Easton and his awful, confused face when he turned back into a human. She thought about her dad and Coco’s mom and the owners of Hemlock Lodge, thrust under the smiling man’s whims. She thought about Phil’s uncle, and blood in the water. She thought about her dad. And the clowns. And the dolls. 

With the sullen, pinched expressions of Coco, Brian and Phil, Ollie realized that they were all thinking about those things, too.

“No,” Phil said, his voice choking a little. “An adult being there doesn’t mean it’s safe. You’re right.” 

Brian looked like he wanted to reach through the phone and hug Phil. But no one said anything about it–about Phil’s uncle, or any of the other horrors that they’d experienced. 

Sometimes you didn’t need to say anything out loud in order to know everyone in the room understood it. 

Ollie finally took a sip of her coffee. Although it wasn’t piping hot anymore, it was made just how she liked it. She glanced at Brian and wondered when exactly he’d learned her favorite coffee order. Then she remembered how many times he went on coffee runs when her dad was in the hospital. 

“Would it be crazy,” Ollie said slowly, “to drive up to the fairgrounds and wait in my car, instead of waiting for the bus to get back?”

Coco and Brian looked at each other. Whatever they said, they said with their glances. Sometimes, Ollie wished she could reach between them and pull out their silent conversations and hold them to her chest. “I don’t think it’s crazy.”

It was Phil who spoke.

Phil shrugged, a tiny gesture on the small screen. 

“Listen, Ollie. Trust your gut. It got you–” He shook his head. “It got all of us through everything before, right?”

Ollie nodded. “I guess.”

Phil held up his hands. “If this is the smiling man, then you’ll be ready to take him on. If it’s not and you’re crazy, well, you’ll just be Sam’s overprotective mom who caught her forging a signature and you can cross that bridge when you come to it. Either way… you’ll be ready.”

“Damn, Phil. When you’d get so smart?” There was an edge of pride in Brian’s voice. 

Phil chuckled, a short breathy laugh. “Oh, about a week ago. You must have missed it.”

Even Ollie cracked a smile.

“Ollie,” Phil said, suddenly sounding serious. “I have to get back to work. But listen. Tell me if you need me to come. You know I will.” 

Ollie shook her head. “I know. Thank you. For now, though, please don’t worry about it.” The image of the empty space where her mom’s watch should have been came to mind, and she continued. “Just maybe… be on standby, okay?”

When Phil hung up, the three of them were quiet. Ollie drank more of her coffee and checked her phone to see if Miranda had texted. Or if Sam had answered any of her text messages–but Ollie realized, with a grimace, that none of the texts she’d sent to Sam had gone through. 

There probably won’t be many bars at the fairgrounds, she thought. At the same time, the other possibility whispered in her ear. You know technology doesn’t work around him. 

She couldn’t wait for the bus to get back to the school. Phil was right. She had to trust her gut. In the worst case scenario, she’d be ready. In the best case scenario, she’d have yet another thing to work out with Sam. 

Her voice was quiet and tired when she finally spoke.

“Will you guys come with me?”

Coco stared at her like she had three heads. 

“Do you seriously need to ask that?”

Ollie looked across the booth at Coco.

Coco, who had just been some irritating new kid when the smiling man had first come. Ollie hadn’t even liked her, not really. But now Coco was her sister in every way possible. They’d grown so close over the years, she sometimes forgot that they weren’t really related. 

And Brian, who wasn’t just her brother-in-law, but one of her best friends. He knew her inside and out. He and Coco–and Phil, in his own way–were all there for her when she needed them. And she was there for him, as much as she could be, even if over the last few years she’d felt stretched too thin, like paper about to rip. 

Ollie put her hand in the center of the table. It was silly, she thought. Something you did when you were little and played in the woods and made secret clubs and pacts. Something you did when you were young enough to cut your palms and mix the blood together. 

But Coco put her hand on top of Ollie’s, and so did Brian. 

“Together,” Coco said.

“Together,” said Brian. 

“Together,” whispered Ollie.

[angstyzucchini]

*deep breath* *villain style*

i’m bAaaaaAaAack (online)

[bekasativa]

Are you back! I've missed you!

I’m baaaaaaaaack