#OC carte Blanche

[germanich]

A man with an evil mind Who knows what you are

[bamfwizard]

me restraining myself from making another fandom oc but, like, the Carte Blanche totally needed some random kid that they picked up somewhere

[moonatikart-blog]

Final chapters are out! New cover too!

go read it: https://www.fimfiction.net/story/532822/marks-of-the-moon

ft. Moonatik, Carte Blanche, Sol Nightshade, Pocarona, Grim Fate, Selenite

https://derpibooru.org/images/3140997

[ouroborosorder]

So, Deepcolor's oprec released, and upon reading a summary of it, I basically felt the entire world of Arknights click into place. Hear me out.

Deepcolor's Oprec details that Deepcolor was convinced by a messenger of the Cult of the Deep to become Seaborn. But she stopped her own assimilation when she realized that the Seaborn do not appreciate aesthetic beauty. She was disgusted, and literally left and stopped her own assimilation entirely due to her love of art, and has been holding it back with her painting.

And this made me realize. This is true of every character with seaborn blood who has resisted assimilation. Skadi sings. Specter sings. Laurentina sculpts. Gladiia dances. Mizuki cooks. Deepcolor is a painter. Amaia still translated books long after she had become Seaborn. Garcia played the piano. Lorenzo cared for the Stultifera.

Which also means...

... Anita was never assimilated. Not fully.

But this makes sense, even outside of a "art holds back the darkness" power of friendship-tier story beat. Assimilation is the surrendering of the individual self to unity, the acceptance that you do not matter, that all that matters is giving your life and your existence to the perpetuation of a greater Whole. They cultivate only to consume. They sing, but their song is a profound silence.

And what is more individualistic, more self-revealing than art? There is no artistic expression without the self, without the understanding that you are a distinct voice, that your perspective matters, that there is only one you.

Perhaps you may have noticed, but this is the same as the Yan-Sui. They hold back the collective with their individual passions. Painting, movies, poetry, games, war.

There's one other thing with a connection to artistic expression - but this time, positively. Originium Arts. Artistic ability has long been associated with Originium Arts capability - Amiya plays the violin, Frostnova sings as she enters the battlefield, Goldenglow's hairdressing, Astesia's divination powering her arts, Lucian the Blood Diamond. I mean they're called Arts for the love of god, it's not exactly subtle.

But the Rhine Lab manga tells us that when an Oripathy carrier dies, the Originium left behind contains their DNA sequence, left behind after death. They may die, but there is something that is always left behind, something that always remains behind. There is always the thing that let them do their Arts. There is always their artistic ability.

There is always their art.

You do your art until you are taken by death, but what remains behind is the traces of it, the artistic DNA you have left behind, your Arts itself. You're gone, but the remnants are still there. And someone else will find it, taking your Arts into themselves to do their own Arts themselves. Sometimes it becomes part of you, living with you and growing inside you, granting you your abilities. Sometimes you simply hold it and use it as fuel and inspiration to make your own Arts.

And this is always what Arknights has been about. Not just metaphorically, but literally.

They hired individual artists, asking them to make characters according to their own sensibilities and style, then putting them into a cohesive world. They got talented musicians and gave them carte blanche to contribute to the musical identity of this game. They got talented voice actors and let them just go ham on the mic. The game's story concept debatably originated because of Lowlight creating Kal'tsit for a make your own OC art game.

It has always been about individuals, putting everything they have, everything that makes them unique, every part of their histories and sensibilities and quirks and personalities and identity and selfish desires and allowing them to shine as a collaborative effort, working together towards a greater goal that means something to people.

An organization of people, Infected by the artistic DNA of those they carry close. People using their Arts to push back the darkness, as best as they can. Even if they stumble and fall, even if they make mistakes, they will always try. To enjoy their life and practice their art.

Because the two greatest threats to the world of Terra, the Seaborn and Sui, are held back by.. simple artistic passion.

The passion and love of the community, the individual given space to shine and collaborate, singing to drown out the terror of the song without sound, the art without beauty, and the collective without the individual.

[karahalloway]

(Less Than) Noble Intentions: Chapter 20 - Steal Me Away

Fandom: TRR

Pairing: Drake Walker x F!OC (Harper Gale)

Series Summary: The social season may be over, but Harper Gale’s problems are just beginning. With everyone at court a potential suspect, can she and Drake survive the engagement tour and get to the bottom of the plot against her and clear her name? An AU take of TRR2 featuring my OTP - Harper & Drake.

Masterlist: (Less Than) Noble Intentions

Chapter Summary: Drake is back... but that doesn't mean that it's a happy reunion...

Word Count: 4,300

Rating/Warnings: M (shouting, guilt-tripping, dangerous driving, swearing in multiple languages, one over-heated kiss)

Chapter theme song:

Chapter 20 - Steal Me Away

I whirl around in disbelief. "Drake...!"

He's stood before me with two days' worth of stubble, regarding me with a long-suffering look.

But it really is him.

And I feel my heart swell, even though I can tell that he's not exactly best pleased to find me in a random antique shop in the middle of Rome.

The muscle in his jaw twitches. "I turn my back for one goddamn minute and—"

"What are you doing here?" I blurt.

"I can ask the same of you, Gale..." he counters, folding his arms over his chest. "Because this sure as shit ain't no bridal boutique."

My chin lifts on its own accord. "I decided to make a detour."

"Jesus fucking—" He rakes his hand through his hair. "Did you leave your brain in a ditch somewhere in the process?"

My eyes widen. "Wha—! No! I—"

"The city is crawling with paps!" he almost shouts, jabbing a finger towards the door. "Who are looking for any excuse to make a meal out of you! Did you not think for one second that—?"

"What?" I counter heatedly, stepping up to him. "That I should cower and hide instead, like I'm to blame for it all? I told you — I refuse to let these people—"

"Well, it would've been a damn sight better than making me chase you across half the fucking city!"

"Why were you even chasing after me?" I demand, my own ire flaring. "You're supposed to be in Dubai!"

"Been there, done that, got the jet lag to prove it," he hits back sarcastically. "But just because I'm gone doesn't mean you suddenly have carte blanche to fuck off on your own."

"Says the person who walked off without so much as a 'see you later'..."

His mouth hardens. "I didn't want to—"

"Also, I'm not on my own," I continue testily. "Allard and Schweitzer—"

"—are fucking fired," he cuts in, suddenly darkened mocha eyes flashing. "They should never have—"

"Ch'è qualche problema?"

"No!" Drake and I snap in unison.

The old man falls mute before muttering something disparaging under his breath.

I continue staring at Drake, heart thumping and chest heaving in the wake of our dust-up.

He glares back unblinkingly, jaw clenched as the tension rolls off him in palatable waves.

I reach up to adjust the strap of my tote indignantly. "So much for trusting each other, huh, Walker?"

"Dammit, Gale," he growls. "That's not what—"

Grabbing the wrapped box off the counter, I stomp past him without a backwards glance. "See you back at the embassy."

He has some nerve, showing up out of the blue t—

I barely make it two steps before he's grabbed me by the arm.

I open my mouth to retort...

...but I'm not given a chance to get a word in edgeways, because in the next instant, he's slammed me against his chest, laying claim to my mouth with a ferocity that's on the verge of being savage.

The fight whooshes out of me as my arms fly up to wrap themselves 'round his neck, even as I feel his fingers dig against the soft cotton of my dress, pulling me to him like a long-lost ship to anchor.

"Christ, girl," he growls against my lips. "You send me off the edge of reason..."

"I'm... sorry..." I gasp, clinging to him helplessly as he trails down the line of my jaw. "I didn't mean to—"

"Ah... l'amore... non è bello se non è litigarello."

Drake starts as he gets clapped roundly on the back.

Peeking up, I see the shopkeeper smirking at us conspiratorially as he ambles past.

"Err... Sì," coughs Drake, pulling back from me. "Sto certamente imparando che a mio spese..."

The man laughs in response. "Non capita a tutti?"

"You speak Italian?" I gawp, feeling a flush creep up my cheeks as the old man throws us a wink over his shoulder.

"Uh... Yeah..." Drake mutters, running his hand over the back of his head somewhat sheepishly. "With Bast."

"Oh." I glance between him and the old man. "What did he say?"

"An old proverb," Drake says, looking just as embarrassed as I am feeling about the fact that we'd inadvertently let our dirty laundry rip in the company of a complete stranger. "Love is not beautiful if it does not quarrel."

My cheeks redden further. "I-I see..."

"It's kind of a compliment..." he admits, shooting a sidelong glance over at the man, who's now busy dusting some shelves. "But we should probably get out of his hair."

"Definitely...!" I chirp, diving towards the saving grace of the exit.

"Err... La saluto," offers Drake on his way out. "E scusi il disturbo..."

"Eh!" comes the scoffed response. "Chi non risica non rosica. Ma è meglio stare attenti con lei! Donna buona – vale una corona."

"Lo so..."

"Everything alright?" I ask as Drake joins me on the baking pavement.

"Yeah," he assures me, not quite meeting my eye. "Just giving his two cents..."

Something flashes across his face, too fast for me to read.

But before I can ask him about it, he's already marching me across the square.

"What about Allard and Schweitzer?" I protest, trying to squint behind me as Drake navigates us 'round the incessant stream of sightseers. "Are they—?"

"I sent them back to the embassy," Drake replies, yanking me back as a pair of kids dart out in front of me.

"You didn't actually fire them, did you?" I gasp.

"Sure as hell thinking about it," he mutters, moving us forward again.

"If it's any consolation, they did try to talk me out of coming out here..."

"Clearly not hard enough."

"I can be very persuasive when I want to be," I remind him.

He lets out a low breath. "Don't I fuckin' know it..."

"Look," I say, coming to a stop and turning to face him. "I get you're pissed—"

"That's putting it mildly."

"—but don't take it out on Allard and Schweitzer," I tell him flatly. "They didn't do anything wrong... and I actually get along with them."

He holds my gaze for a long time before answering. "They're not your friends, Gale."

"Maybe not in any conventional sense," I admit. "But getting me a security detail had been your idea, Walker. And I know I was against it initially, but Allard and Schweitzer have been able to be there for me when you haven't."

His mouth hardens.

"And I know that grates you," I continue quickly, before he can cut me off again. "But we knew from the start that this was going to be the case, so if you do need to leave, then I'd prefer to be left with people I can trust. And I trust Allard and Schweitzer — with my life. Which is actually saying a lot."

He holds my gaze for what feels like a full minute before answering. "I'll think about it."

"That's it?" I demand in disbelief as he grabs my wrist to pull me after him again. "After all that, you're just going t—?"

"I said I'll think about it."

I glare at his back. "You're a dick."

He rounds on me like a wolf. "I'm a fuckin' realist. And the reality is that Allard and Schweitzer messed up. Big time. And I don't care how much you like them, or how many times you've braided each other's hair—"

My eyes narrow. "That's not—"

"—because none of that fucking matters out here! What matters — the only goddamn thing that matters — is keeping you safe. From the paps, from the aristos, even from your ownfucking self, if you're about to do something stupid. And at that, they've unquestionably failed. So, no. I'm not about to cut them a break. Especially not on your say-so. Because the stakes are too fucking real, and I'm not gonna let anyone play dice with your life. Least of all the people whose one job is to look out for you. Got it?"

I force myself to blink back the sudden tears in my eyes. "Yeah..."

"Good," he grunts. "Now get on."

Glancing past Drake, I spot what is very literally the last thing I'd expect to see him with.

I scoff up at him. "In your dreams, bud."

"Gale," he warns, reaching for one of the helmets that's hanging from the black and white moped's frame. "I'm not in the fucking m—"

"Well, neither am I," I hit back tersely. "So, you can take that deathtrap of a Vespa and shove it."

"First off," he counters, tossing the helmet at me. "It's a Piaggio. Second, the only reason I had to resort to this is because you decided to bail."

I catch the helmet irately. "So, you're saying that this is my fault?"

"Damn right, it is," he confirms, extracting a second helmet from the storage compartment nestled beneath the seat. "It's got all of 50cc so it's underpowered as fuck."

"Then why the heck did you get it!"

"Because it's the fastest way to get around the city."

I snort at him. "You mean, it's the fastest way to get into an accident..."

He prays for deliverance under his breath. "Gale, for the love of Christ, will you just—?"

"No," I declare, folding my arms. "The last time you conned me onto the back of your motorbike, I literally thought I was going to die. And after seeing how everyone in Rome drives, I have no interest in—"

"You drive, then."

Drake's unexpected offer pulls me up short. "Wait. What?"

He pulls a set of keys from his pocket. "It's a one-time offer, Gale. Either you take the wheel, or I do. But you've gettin' your ass on this sorry excuse of a bike, one way or another."

"I..." I swallow thickly. "I don't know how..."

"I'll walk you through it," he assures me. "There ain't much to it."

"Somehow I doubt that..."

"Clock's tickin', girl..."

I heave a breath before shoving my head into my helmet. "Okay, fine. I'll do it."

"Figured you would," he murmurs, holding the keys up. "You know where these go?"

"Up your ass," I retort, snatching the keychain from his hands.

The corner of his mouth twitches — whether in amusement or annoyance, I can't tell.

Not that I really care. I can be a jerk, too. But, I figure that at least with me driving, we won't rack up any speeding tickets or near misses on our way back to the Cordonian embassy, which is where we are staying for the two nights that we are in Rome for.

Walking up to the moped — admittedly with more swagger than I'm actually feeling at this moment — I grab the handlebars and swing my leg over the middle of the frame.

After a quick inspection, I locate the ignition switch and slot the key in.

But before I have a chance to try and turn the engine on, Drake's hand appears in my line of sight.

Reaching between my legs, he opens a hidden compartment in the frame. "For your bag."

"Oh," I say in genuine surprise, taking my bag off so I can tuck it away. "That is actually kind of neat."

"Last thing we need is for you to lose your stuff..." he drawls, shutting the glove box back up.

As he straightens again, his arm brushes the bare skin of my knee. And despite (or maybe because of) the unresolved tension shimmering between us in the wake of our heated reunion, I can't help but feel a familiar zap of electricity course through my nerves at the inadvertent contact.

"No kidding..." I concede, somewhat hoarsely. Clearing my throat, I add, "So... umm, what's next?"

"Grab the break and turn the key over as far as it'll go."

"So, kind of like a car," I surmise, following the instructions. "Why isn't it starting?"

"Because you only turned the electronics on," Drake advises. "To kick the engine off, you need to disengage the kick stand, and then press the start button."

"Jesus Christ, this is complicated..." I grumble as I scoot off the seat so I can try to figure out how to do what he just said.

"No more complicated than sailing a yacht," Drake counters, watching my antics from the safety of the pavement. "Just give it a shove ."

"How will that—?"

"It's got a rear-mounted kickstand," he says. "You disengage it by rolling the bike forward."

"Right," I grumble, feeling like a total idiot. "Because that's so obvious."

Maybe I should've let Drake drive, after all...

"You still holding the break?"

I snap my head up as I give the handlebars a hard push. "Huh?"

A squeal erupts from my mouth as the moped suddenly lurches forward beneath me, and I have a moment of sheer panic as I wrestle with the hunk of metal to keep from crashing to the ground.

"I told you to hold the break..."

"You could've been more specific!"

He lets out a low breath. "You good?"

"Yeah," I huff, finally managing to find some semblance of balance with an uncooperative moped  stuck between my legs.

"Turn her on, then."

I scan the buttons in front of me. "Err..."

"The one by your right thumb."

Shifting my grip, I extend my thumb out to press the button...

"You still holdin' the break?" Drake asks.

I quickly tighten my hold on the left-side break. "Yes."

Drake eyes me unconvincedly. "Just checking..."

I stick my tongue out at him.

"Hey," he objects. "You're the one who wanted to do this, Gale."

"Yeah, everything is my fault today..." I grumble as I press the start button.

The moped sparks to life beneath me, and I feel a massive rush of achievement.

"I did it!" I cry, meeting Drake's eye with an unadulterated grin.

He quirks a brow at me. "Y'know you're still stationary, right?"

"Shut up."

Drake steps up to the bike with a shake of his head and flips out the passenger foot rest. "Last chance to bow out gracefully, Gale."

I glance over my shoulder at him. "If you're trying to pull some kind of reverse psychology on me, Walker—"

"Wouldn't dream of it..." he assures me dryly, mounting up as well. "But my word is gospel, y'hear?"

"Aye-aye, Cap'n," I say sardonically... while trying to ignore the heat of his body and the instinctive urge to lean back into it as he settles down on the narrow seat behind me.

Because as much as I missed him, and as glad as I am that he's back, our volatile reunion has served as a stark reminder that we never finished our conversation back in Applewood. Not only that, but thanks to the almost break-neck speed at which things have been happening, the list of topics for discussion has only grown since then.

And the last thing I want is for us to fall down the same toxic hole that we did in the wake of Christian's surprise reveal in Valtoria.

I just have to hope that we'll be able to squeeze in some much-needed couple time before even more things pile up between us.

Not to mention, I'm desperate to know what had happened with Tariq in Dubai... and whether Drake's record-fast turnaround is a sign of some much-needed success, or even more demoralising failure.

But, first things first: getting back to the embassy in one piece, without the paps chasing us.

I feel Drake roll his eyes at me. "Wrong salutation, but never mind... Now. We're gonna do this slowly and gently. There's a lot of people around, and we don't need you on the front page of the Sun again because you accidentally torpedoed a toddler."

My throat constricts. "Y-You saw that?"

"You'd be hard pressed to find someone who hasn't," he mutters. "But right now, your focus needs to be on driving this thing. So, eyes up front and ignore everything else."

I swallow down my nerves. "Okay..."

"Your right hand controls the throttle. Your left hand controls the break," Drake instructs. "For the love of God, don't mix that up, or I'll be on the phone to your patents explaining why you suddenly need skin grafts."

I wince involuntarily at the gruesomeness of that particular image. "Got it."

"It's a mistake you'll only make once," he warns grimly. "To get going, twist down on the throttle while slowly easing up on the break. Don't jerk it, or you'll face plant into the speedometer."

"Anything else?" I ask, somewhat nervously.

As anticipated, driving a motorbike is a lot more nuanced than Drake made it look back in Cordonia. And I'm having some serious second thoughts about this whole thing...

"Keep your feet off the foot-stand until you've got enough momentum to stay upright."

"How will I know that?"

"You'll feel it," he assures me. "Like on a bike."

I bite my bottom lip.

"Hey," he says, brushing his fingers across my hip. "You got this, girl."

The familiarity of Drake's touch — even though it's fleeting — unwinds something in me. Because it's an unspoken reminder that no matter what may be going on around us... or between us, it's not going to come in the way of the promise that he made me.

I suck in a steadying breath. "Okay. Here goes."

Readjusting my grip on the handlebars, I twist my wrist down. Feeling the engine start to rumble with increased vigour, I gentle ease up on the break.

The Piaggio begins to creep forward.

"Watch the road, not the instruments," Drake cautions from behind me.

Lifting my eyes up, I carefully navigate us 'round the oncoming pedestrians, keeping my feet suspended alongside the moped, in case I need to make an emergency stop.

But, as we move away from the iconic landmark, the crowd starts to thin out, and the street widens. Passing a fruit and vegetable stand, I let go of the break fully, the bike pulls forward eagerly. Feeling slightly more confident, I add a bit more gas so I can finally lift my feet up without capsizing our delicate operation.

"Not bad," Drake approves. "You just gotta relax a bit."

I flush inadvertently. "I am relaxed."

"Your shoulders say different. You're driving like Quasimodo."

"Oh." I make a concerted effort to straighten my posture. "Better?"

"Yeah. But now you need to drop your elbows."

"So much for this being easy..."

"It is," he insists. "Once you get the hang of it."

"You and your technicalities, Walker..." I grumble.

"Everything's got a learning curve," he reminds me. "But we just might make a Hell's Angel out of you yet."

I snort back at him. "Don't get ahead of yourself, Evil Knievel. We haven't made it back to the embassy yet."

"Then you might wanna knuckle down for this next part."

"Why? What's—?"

I get my answer as we round a corner and come parallel to a busier-looking road.

Great...

"Right here, then first left," Drake advises as we approach a somewhat complicated-looking three-way intersection.

"Umm... Okay..." I mumble, eyeing up the noticeably faster-moving traffic on the main road with more than a bit of trepidation.

"No one's gonna give you room, so you'll have to gun it," comes the no-nonsense tip from behind me. "The indicator is by your left thumb."

A Fiat whizzes past, but the next car is some distance away. Taking a breath, I flick the indicator on and twist down on the throttle to merge into the gap.

"Move over one more," Drake shouts over my shoulder. "You're taking up the bus lane."

"Where the heck does it say that?" I demand, casting my head around in confusion.

"On the sign we just passed..."

"Was it invisible?"

"Hey," counters Drake. "You wanna argue with me, or a cop?"

"Neither," I concede sourly, making the switch to the left-side lane after a quick check in the mirror. "But they could've made it more obvious..."

Drake scoffs. "It's Rome. The bastards are trying to catch you out."

"Clearly," I agree, taking a left at the traffic lights...

...straight into a two-way fork in the road.

"Umm... What now?" I squeak, trying to hedge my bets as much as I can in the rapidly shrinking room that I have to make a decision before I run into the curb.

"Stay left."

I start to turn the bike, only to yank it back violently with a yelp as a car that I hadn't realised was trying to overtake me blows past with a scream of its horn.

"Vaffanculo!" yells Drake, throwing his hand out angrily at the other driver.

"Ohmygod..." I rasp, my entire body shaking in the wake of the near miss.

"Fuckin' asshole," gripes Drake. "You okay?"

I swallow thickly past the lump in my throat. "I... think so."

"If you need to pull over..."

I shake my head. "No. I'm fine. I just..."

"...get a kick outta playing chicken?"

"I don't do it on purpose!"

"You sure?" he asks dryly. "'Cause you definitely seem to be making a habit of it..."

I open my mouth, but quickly think better of it... as Drake has a point. I have had a few too many near misses lately. "Sorry... It isn't intentional. I thought that since I'd left the indicator on, that—"

"I know," he assures me, laying a hand on my hip again. "I'm not blaming you. But all the calls you've had have been too close. And..." His fingers tighten against the material of my dress. "I just don't want you to—"

"I know," I concede softly. "I don't want that either. And I'm not normally this accident-prone, I promise..."

"Except when your blood sugar's low," he corrects wryly.

His words cause me to clench my eyes together in consternation. "Damn it, the croissants..."

In the whirlwind of Drake's surprise reappearance, I'd forgotten all about the primary reason for sneaking away from the bridal boutique.

"What croissants?" queries Drake.

"The pistachio ones I was supposed to get from this little bakery next to the fountain that the Italian President had recommended."

I feel Drake's disbelieving gaze knife into the back of my head. "Seriously? That's the reason you were out playing hooky?"

"One of them, yes..." I reply evasively.

"Putain de merde..."

"Apparently they're very good..."

Drake mutters something under his breath. "Pull over."

My eyes widen. "What? Why?"

"Because it's past noon, and you're clearly starving."

"I'm fine," I insist, even though the only thing of substance I've had since this morning was the cup of coffee on Olivia's jet. "I'll just grab something when—"

The Piaggio lurches to a stop as Drake slaps a hand on the break. "No. You won't."

My eyes widen as my feet fly out on instinct to steady the suddenly stationary moped. "Why not?"

"Because the staff at the embassy already have their work cut out pulling together tonight's dinner, so the kitchen is off-limits," he explains, hopping off the back. "And you won't be able to take two steps outside to grab a sandwich without picking up a pap tail."

"Then why have we stopped in a dead-end alley?" I ask in disbelief as Drake pulls the moped it onto its kickstand while I'm still sat gaping at him from the seat.

"Because we just passed one of the best restaurants in Rome," he states. "So, I'm buying you lunch."

His cinnamon-laced eyes meet mine, and I see a sudden flash of rawness in his gaze... a silent plea entreating me to say yes. Which means this is about more than just food.

"Okay," I accede, wondering what could've prompted such a sudden change of heart. "But what about the paps? Aren't you worried we'll get spotted?"

"See any people?" asks Drake, reaching across my lap to turn the ignition off.

"No, but—"

"Exactly," he affirms, pocketing the keys. "This is one of the few places in the city where you ain't gonna bump into a reporter."

"How do you know?"

"Because apart from the fact that Sugo actually makes its own pasta, it is also a stone's throw from Parliament," he explains, offering me a hand to help me off the bike. "Which means that pencil pushers from every level of government come here to ink deals over carbonara, so no one — staff included — is gonna mess with the status quo."

"Sounds like something out of a mafia movie..."

"Where d'you think Hollywood gets its ideas from?" he drawls, pulling his helmet off to stow it in the under-seat compartment. "Places like this. Which is why no one will bother us here. Especially not the paps. It'd be a death sentence for this joint if their tight and discreet ship suddenly sprung a leak."

"Good to know," I acknowledge, unclipping the clasp of my own helmet. "But how did you even find out about this place? Let alone got in?"

"Leo," Drake replies, taking my helmet to clip it onto the handlebar. "He's on a first name basis with the chef."

I quirk a brow at him. "Sounds like there's a story there..."

Drake extricates my bag from the glove box with scoffs. "It's Leo. There's never not a story. But let's get you inside first. Before you pass out on the pavement."

"I'm not going to—" My stomach rumbles in pointed disagreement. "Okay, I am hungry. But where exactly is this place? There's nothing here apart from the back-ends of buildings..."

"Have I ever let you down when it comes to food?" he asks with a raised brow.

"No..."

"Then trust me."

The story continues in Chapter 21 - You Give Me Reason

A/N: Translations for the Italian below:

Ch'è qualche problema? - Is there a problem?

Ah... l'amore... non è bello se non è litigarello. - Ah, love... It is not beautiful if it does not quarrel.

Err... Sì. Sto certamente imparando che a mio spese... - Err... Yes. I am definitely learning that the hard way.

Non capita a tutti? - Don't we all?

Err... La saluto. E scusi il disturbo... - Err... Farewell. And apologies for disturbing you.

Eh! Chi non risica non rosica. Ma è meglio stare attenti con lei! Donna buona – vale una corona. - Eh! No risk, no reward! But you better take care of her! Good woman – worth a crown.

Lo so... - I know...

Vaffanculo! - Fuck you!

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(Less Than) Noble Intentions only (let me know if you want to be added!)

@thetruthisthatiloveyou @anakjaybon-blog

[viiioca]

for the ask game: 26 🪻 and / or 27 😸 !

26) What flower do you associate your OC with?

wisteria!

chinese wisteria, specifically. its long life, entwining behavior, and ability to come back after hard winters lend its symbolism for enduring love and prosperity. it's not a fussy plant -- but it does require a lot of attention. if you want it to perform a specific function, to make it a free-standing tree or trail into a beautiful canopy down a garden path, it must be trained into it. the investment is steep. chinese wisteria especially is the definition of a late bloomer, requiring up to twenty years before it flowers for the first time.

and if you've grown up anywhere chinese wisteria is an invasive plant, you know the investment is steep because this fucker will escape. if you turn your back, it will be gone. it grows ten feet a year in unpredictable directions and ignores anything but the most hostile pruning, and even then it's 50/50. i have lived with poorly-attended wisteria: it snapped the 4x10s that comprised its pergola and then suspended them in its growth like a spider saves a fly for later. it shot to the top of a neighboring loblolly pine and then gradually consumed the juniper tree next to that, which it quite literally strangled to death. last i checked in, it's effectively conquered its side of the yard, including a dead mimosa which it did not kill but has claimed for its own regardless.

that is very estelle. to me. a little late to get started. winter-hardy. survival-oriented. a master of misdirection: showy blooms, pretty and manicured, that hide a certain wildness and willfulness that is difficult to control. sneaky. good at not being a problem that you notice or feel needs attending until it is a capital-p Problem. and really! not many plants get to enjoy wisteria's reputation after getting labeled "invasive." it's still appreciated. people still try their luck. there are festivals celebrating the oldest of these bad boys. one of the seven horticultural wonders of the world is a 225 year old wisteria that produces 1.5 million blooms per year (and destroyed the house it grew on). good flower!!

27) What's their spirit tamagotchi? Or an animal you associate them with?

lions! this is less of a direct symbol for estelle specifically and more something inherited from astarte, her azem, and emphasizes her "foreignness" -- as astarte lived on the margins of ancient society, so too is estelle marked by an ability to insert herself anywhere and belong nowhere. one of astarte's symbols was the lion; in greek myth, large cats often indicated an imported god, as you would also see with dionysus, cybele, atargatis, etc. astarte's status as azem gave her mostly carte blanche to live outside of the rules, but that did not mean she was actively accepted. (i was also very delighted later, when aglaia came out, and saw that the lion symbol lived on through azeyma. this wasn't a super deep pull since lions have a strong association with solar gods, but it was still very fun.)

and she is a bit catlike. a bit demanding, independent, aloof, strange. and i'm sure it's coincidence that her two best friends are miqos? many things to consider.

thank you for the asks!!!

[gasolinerainbowpuddles]

𝑭𝑬𝑹𝑨𝑳 𝑾𝑶𝑴𝑨𝑵 ║ Chapter 9 - Down To the Marrow

| FERAL WOMAN | series masterlist | main masterlist | | PAIRING(s): Joel Miller x fem!OC

| RATING: explicit material | 18+ | WORD COUNT: 6.2k | CHAPTER WARNINGS: taking back control and a sense of ownership of your own body after it’s been taken from you is complicated :/

| CHAPTER SUMMARY: It’s the first advance into the more intimate connection you share with Joel, and you’re struggling to uphold your agreement to keep things moving slow. Even with Joel constantly pulling you both into something more deliberate and measured, you find yourself purposefully testing the extent of his self-control.

║ＰＲＥＶＩＯＵＳ ║⋄── •✧• ──⋄║ ＮＥＸＴ ║

Please read with caution if you have difficulties with works concerning: SA, physical violence, torture, captivity, trauma, and similar topics as they are discussed throughout the series. All highly sensitive portions WILL BE MARKED with my sensitive material banner if you wish to skip the more challenging portions. The sensitive material banner looks like this:

✧⋄⋆•✧⋄⋄⋆⋅⋆✧•✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆•⋆⋄── •✧• ──⋄⋆•⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧•✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧•⋆⋄ ✧ “𝙸 𝚋𝚎𝚐 𝚢𝚘𝚞, 𝚎𝚊𝚝 𝚖𝚎 𝚞𝚙. 𝚆𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚖𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚘𝚠.” ― Hᴇ́ʟᴇ̀ɴᴇ Cɪxᴏᴜs ✧⋄⋆•✧⋄⋄⋆⋅⋆✧•✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆•⋆⋄── •✧• ──⋄⋆•⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧•✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧•⋆⋄ ✧

Ever a man of his word, Joel took things slow. Painfully slow. Frustratingly slow. Your body is so incredibly alive for once, and you find yourself with the tedious, vexing task of walking it all backwards to cool things down at his request. He insisted on being completely transparent when you were communicating and navigating this new part of your relationship. Raw, open discussions were the fixed foundation for delving further into the physical and romantic aspects of your interactions.

It was freeing, in a way, knowing you had Joel’s explicit permission to share whatever came to your mind.  He wanted you to convey your thoughts, even if the“negative,” unpolished, or cryptic ones. He didn’t want you to edit yourself or your experiences with him. He gave a confident claim that there wasn’t anything you could say that would upset him or make him look at you differently. You weren’t so sure of that, but you really did try to be open and honest with him.

You can’t shake the apprehension about things he might want to share, things he might be mulling over in his own mind. As if you suspect if he ponders your pairing for too long he will see how incredibly imbalanced and unfulfilling it is for him. He didn’t regard you as some broken, tragic thing, but you still recognized the  softer approach he took with you. Careful in his choice of words, aiming to put things “the right way” so there was no room for misunderstanding. It was work for him, but it was work he was willing to take on. For the time being, at least.

It was skewed in your favor that you had the liberty to speak carte blanche while he relegated himself to a more measured approach, but there was a reason for that, after all. Joel had reminded you many times that just because something is equal doesn’t mean that it’s fair. The reality was that you’d come to Jackson under difficult circumstances with plenty of experiences and pain that Joel had never and would never personally know. What you needed and what he needed were different, and that was okay. At least, that’s what Joel told you time and time again.

“I just worry about certain things, honey.” You didn’t want him to worry. Not about you. You didn’t want to be a burden to him like that. 

“It ain’t your fault, but I’m nervous it’s just … gonna be one wrong move or word, somethin’ I don’t even do on purpose, and you’ll be runnin’ for the hills. Scared of me. Afraid of me like you used to be. I don’t think I could take that,” he’d admitted to you after you persuaded him to go into more detail about his anxieties.

You knew he was right, but that didn’t make it any less frustrating. You wanted to soak up as much of this wonderful thing as you could before it got away from you. It felt tenuous and fleeting, and that scared you.

You wanted him. You didn’t want to take this road alone. You wanted him right alongside you for every moment, good or bad. It felt safer that way. You felt safe knowing if something went sideways you wouldn’t be left to your own devices to figure out how to calm yourself down or determine what went wrong and where.

You enjoyed the thought of Joel’s eyes on you as you pulled back a layer from your protective shell. You liked the idea of awakening something inside yourself that had laid dormant for years or had never come alive before at all. You wanted Joel to spectate on your form, your presence, and your sounds.  You wanted him to help you take ownership of your body again, just like he had with your flower marking. 

When you were alone, there was a dull ache between your legs whenever you thought about Joel. But being next to him, live and in the flesh? So close to his warmth and his scent? Your fingers practically twitched of their own accord just imagining running your hands over your body while you were with him. You could feel your heartbeat pulsing in places that wouldn’t be polite to discuss outside the privacy of your own home.

You hadn’t orgasmed in a very long time. The first one in recent memory being when you were in Joel’s lap, rubbing yourself against his thigh as he kissed you. You hadn’t remembered what it felt like to climax. You aren’t sure you’d ever orgasmed before that, actually. You feel certain you would have remembered such a pleasant thing as that. But not everyone offered the same sort of companionship that Joel did. Perhaps it was uncommon to have partners as enrapturing, encouraging, and soothing as he was with you. No, Joel was different, and you knew that to be true without a shadow of a doubt.

Your past physical and sexual encounters had been far and few in between - thanks to the apocalypse - and practically all consensual experiences had been painful or rushed or one-sided relief. You don’t know what a “normal” sexual encounter is supposed to be like. But Joel does.

You’d told him your entire history of intimacy and sexual experiences, and he’d been hesitant to share his own afterward. You knew it had more to do with him realizing just how wide the chasm between your experiences was. He didn’t want to intimidate you. You didn’t want him to realize how much more he had to offer you than you had to offer him.

“I’m happy you know about all this sort of stuff. I know you can help me. It makes me feel better knowing I have someone who knows what it’s supposed to be like,” you’d told him.

He expressed his discomfort at being the supposed authority on the matter. He’d insisted things were different for everyone. Likes, dislikes, turn ons, turn offs. There was a whole new language of intimacy for you to adopt, but Joel made it feel less intimidating. 

In fact, you found yourself pushing against his willpower more often than not, trying to get him to give in a little more than he wanted to. You knew you shouldn’t, but this damn insatiable need for him scorched your insides. It was always urgent and mauling its way out of you, to reach out to him and drag him into you. To fuse your bodies together until they were one entity. 

He’d said his only reluctance was rooted in trepidation that something would happen to unnerve  you enough that you’d no longer want to continue seeing each other. There wasn’t anything Joel could possibly do that would ever make you feel that way, though. You knew it wasn’t possible.

Joel had said he liked your skirt, so you made sure it along with your t-shirt dress were always clean to wear. You’d picked up one more dress just in case it seemed like he was getting bored of your two other garments, but he hadn’t so far. Quite the opposite. Reacting to the sight of you in either of them with such eager praise that it still made your tongue feel heavy and your heart race.

When he made his return from the morning patrol shift, your eyes lit up as he an easy smile crept through the usual downturned line of his mouth.

“Hi, beautiful,” he murmurs quietly to you.

“H-Hey, handsome,” you reply with a nervous giggle.

His ear to ear grin is infectious. You still feel most proud of yourself when you make him smile or laugh, two things he isn’t often known to do easily, if at all.

You walk hand in hand to his house. You’re alone still when you get inside. Joel had previously agreed to Ellie’s plans of spending the afternoon with some friends. When you teased Joel about how nice that was of him, he grinned sheepishly  and admitted what you already knew: he’d wanted more time alone with you. A self-serving motivation, but it was a good thing for Ellie to be making friends around town, anyway.

You remove your shoes and jackets at the front door and head to the kitchen like you usually do. Your t-shirt dress isn’t flowy like your skirt, but it hits higher - just above your knee. When you sit at the kitchen table with your untouched glass of water, the bottom edge of your dress rides up to the middle of your thighs. You keep clocking Joel stealing glances at your legs. You wonder if he likes them. You wonder what his favorite part of your body is.

He clears his throat and looks away from your legs. “Your wrist ain’t givin’ you any trouble is it?”

“Nope. Not anymore. Swept today and everything at the station. Not even a pinch,” you chirp.

“Hm, that’s good. And, uh, the flower mark?  Should be gettin’ close to how it’s gonna look when it’s all done healin’.”

You smile across the table at him. “Oh, yeah. It’s healing really nice,” you report with delight.

He nods as he sips on his sweet tea. “Good to hear, honey. Good to hear.” He taps a fidgety finger on the table as he looks at the spot on your thigh where the marking sits just below the fabric.

You invite any excuse to be close to him, so you stand and walk over. “You can see it’s scabbing around the edges, but it’s, like, sharp or whatever you said, so the lines should end up really clean.”

You curl a finger under the hem of your dress and pull the sliver of fabric up your thigh, creating a slit of bare skin along the outer portion of your thigh for Joel to observe the progress of your healing. Your brow scrunches when he makes a strange noise in the back of his throat. He looks pained, somehow.

“MMmmfffgghh. Alright. Yep. Okay. You gotta– Ya can’t just– let’s just not be haulin’ our clothes up like that, sweetheart, okay?” he chokes. 

“But it’s– you said to not have stuff rubbing on it, and I just… is it my body?” Your lip wobbles in confusion.

He’d seen this part of you before when he fixed your mark. Did he not like it anymore? You begin to panic. Did your body repulse him now? Was this not how things were meant to go? Should you not present parts of yourself to him unless he tells you to? Should it be him that takes while you silently give? If he doesn’t like your body anymore, what value still remains? What else could you offer him to keep his interest and attention?

“Nah, look, it’s not that… it’s jus’... christ,” he laughs under his breath and looks away from you. He seems nervous suddenly. It makes you nervous.

“Why-Why are you being like that? I don’t u-understand what’s wrong,” you push.

Joel’s expression softens when he recognizes your uncertainty to his reaction. His eyes flicker to your hips and lower belly as if he was struck with the reality that you have nothing on underneath your dress. When his eyes flash back up to you, he grows embarrassed at openly ogling you.

“Sorry,” he mutters. He pulls in a big breath of air and relaxes his shoulders. “C’mere.”

He holds an open arm out to you. You quickly settle onto his lap and face him sideways.

“S’this okay?” he asks as he brings his arms around you.

You nod but are still anxious to understand what has him acting this way.

“You gotta say it, honey. I need to hear it, alright?” he prods.

“Yes, I like it, Joel. I do. I really do,” you insist. “I just … are you… do you want me to leave?”

Joel’s head inches back in a snap. His brows pinch together as he cocks his head to the side.

“Leave? Why would I want  you to leave?”

You squirm awkwardly in his lap. You must have misread the situation. He shakes his head and closes his eyes for a moment.

“This is what I’m talkin’ about, alright? You ‘n me are havin’ two different conversations ‘cause we’re not explainin’ ourselves right.” He places a gentle, encouraging press of his lips against yours before pulling away all too soon. When you go to chase after his mouth, he chuckles but holds you away from him a bit.

“I know, honey. Trust me, I know,” he laughs breathily. “I want it, too.”

You feel a flood of relief at his words. He still wants your body. He still wants you.

“Why did you act like you didn’t like seeing my body?” you mumble.

Joel’s loud laugh startles you for a moment before you’re grinning shyly at him.

“Don’t like seein’ your body? PPffffttttt,” he snorts. He seems genuinely amused by your take. “You’re givin’ me way too much credit, darlin’,” he laughs. “I’m a pretty simple guy, and it don’t take much from you to get me goin’.”

“What does that mean? What do you mean?” you press.

He tilts his head as he considers you. “It means you were just tryna show me your mark and how it’s healin’, but all I saw was your skin and your thigh and… christ,” he sighs. “In case you hadn’t noticed, you have quite the effect on me. I’m just tryna keep my head on straight when you get me like that.”

Your brows scrunch and lift. He smiles to himself, shaking his head with closed eyes and a soft chuckle.

“Jus’ look down,” he explains.

Your gaze drops to his lap where a very large bulge is protruding in the crotch of his jeans. You realize he had been angling you away from it so it wouldn’t surprise or upset you.

“Oh,” you breathe.

“Yeah,” he laughs low. “Exactly.”

You savor the way his body responds to such a simple thing as seeing more of your unclothed form.

“Can I….?” You gesture down. You could make him feel good. He would like that. It’s something you know how to do. You could do that for him. Your stomach suddenly feels funny.

The self-deprecating levity in Joel’s demeanor is gone in a flash. He’s suddenly very austere and solemn. “M’not sure that’s the best idea. Probably not where we should start, I mean.”

“So where should we start?” you urge in a breathy sigh.

“Let’s just sit on the couch together, alright?” he suggests. 

“Okay,” you agree nervously.

“And not like last time,” he adds quickly. “No pressure for … neither one of us has to, ya know– we can just keep it real simple this time. No expectations for anything.”

You relax again and nod with a smile. “Okay.”

You manage to convince Joel to lay down together on the couch. It’s not long before you’re exploring each other’s tongues and mouths. You switch between laying beside each other or with you on top of him. It feels better that way. Safer. 

That normally dull ache between your legs has ignited into something you can’t ignore. It’s throbbing and demanding. You covertly slip your hand under your dress and cup yourself, not yet dipping between the folds where you can feel sticky, slippery wet seeping out.

You occasionally feel Joel hard against your body when he presses into you. You know you should be attending to him first, but your body is screaming for contact and friction where your hand is already resting. It feels like an itch being scratched, a sort of relief that leaves you wanting more, but it also feels strange to be exploring yourself like this.

You draw a low groan from Joel when you nip at his bottom lip, and your hips jerk forward involuntarily in response. He pulls back quickly, uncertain if you’re uncomfortable or just readjusting, and his face darkens with want when he sees your hand rubbing against your dark thatch of curls. You hastily drop your hand and squeeze your thighs together.

“Whatcha doin’?” he drawls playfully.

“Nothing,” you answer quickly. 

You shove down the hem of your dress to cover yourself as though that would make Joel forget he’d just seen you tending to yourself instead of him. Your eyes dart across his face, looking for any sign of upset.

“I won’t do it again,” you promise.

Joel seems to pick up on the fact that you’re not just acting a little shy after he caught you touching yourself.

“Hey, no, it’s alright,” he soothes.

“But it’s not–I mean, I was–But you’re still,” you trip over your words. You gesture down to his hardon straining against his jeans when you can’t quite figure out how to say it. How to tell him you’re sorry for putting your pleasure before his. A few beats pass in confused silence from Joel.

“Wait, you mean…,” he trails off. He sucks in a breath and shuts his eyes like he’s suddenly trying to keep from getting angry. When he opens them and levels a stare at you, you swallow thickly.

“You need to understand somethin’. I don’t give a damn about what I’m gettin’ outta this equation right now, you hear me? That ain’t for you to worry about right now, alright? This ain’t about what I need. Not today. You understand?”

“You’re not upset? I didn’t even ask if I could–” You don’t finish your thought when you see frustration flash in Joel’s eyes. You know it’s not directed at you, but it still makes you feel nervous for some reason. You drop your eyes from his.

“Hey,” he bids quietly, tipping your chin to look at him. His eyes are notably gentler than moments before. “You? You don’t hafta ask for a thing. I already told you, whatever you want from me is yours. You don’t need my permission to feel good.”

“It’s okay?” you ask in a hushed tone.

“Yeah, baby, of course. It’s alright. I want you to feel good. That’s all I care about. And seein’ you enjoy yourself, well, I like it. I get somethin’ outta it, too,” he reassures you. He pauses for a moment. “Do you like it?”

“I think so,” you whisper. The heat in your cheeks is no doubt giving away just how far out your element you are.

“Then you go ahead. Go ahead and touch yourself, honey. We can just keep on like we were,” he encourages.

“You’re not mad? It’s okay?” you ask again.

“I want you to feel good. If you feel good, then I’m happy.”

You sit with his encouragement for a moment. You still want him to take part in it somehow.

“Do you.. Can you watch me do it?” you ask.

“You want me to watch you touch yourself?” he clarifies, sounding like it’s suddenly more difficult to speak.

“Yes. Please,” you exhale.

“Anythin’ you want, honey,” he chuckles breathily.

He presses a chaste kiss against your cheek and sits upright. You follow and sit up beside him. He motions for you to climb onto his lap, and he turns you to face outward when you clamber eagerly to settle yourself

against his thighs. He eases your back flush to his chest with your legs bent on either side of his. He massages the heels of your feet where they rest next to his hips. It’s a small point of contact to let you know he’s still there but holding off on anything further until you’re comfortable in this new position.

You loll your temple against his chin as you sink down into him. His entire body is like a furnace, burning like the want and need he sets aflame in your belly. You moan contentedly at the feel of your full body weight pressing against him. He scoots himself down a few inches so his back is slouched against the couch rather than being completely upright.

“Show me where you want my hands while you’re touchin’ yourself, pretty girl,” he says as he ghosts kisses against your neck.

You grab his hands from where he’s working small, kneading presses against the muscles in your lower calves. His hands dwarf yours, and puppeting them is almost difficult as Joel doesn’t take any measure to control his own movements beyond what you’re conducting them to do. You slowly drag his hands up your legs, just like you’d done the day you’d had to show him you weren’t afraid of his touch, grazing his hot palm up your left leg until it covered the ugly marking on your hip before he fixed it. You’d wanted so badly to repeat the feeling of his hand on your leg ever since that day.

“Talk to me. Wanna hear what’s goin’ on in that pretty head of yours, honey.”

“I’m - I was thinking about how–” your breath hitches when the heat of his palms grazes the hem of your dress. Joel’s hand clench instinctively, but you grab them tight and keep lifting the fabric higher “–how your hands felt on me. When you gave me my flower. And I kept thinking about it. Every day since then, Joel. How good it made me feel.”

Joel’s gulp is audible beside your head. “Yeah?” he asks, sounding out of breath.

You bob your head quickly up and down, trying to multitask conversation and not letting yourself get too distracted by how good he feels on you and beneath you. Your dress is caught under the weight of your body. Joel taps your thighs, signaling you to lift your hips, and you do so as he rucks your hem up past your hip bones. He grips the fabric and holds it up against your lower belly.

“S’this okay?” he asks. His head is turned toward you where he’s kissing softly into your hair. You lower your hips and moan at the way you can feel the outline of his cock more closely with a layer of fabric out of the way. Joel grunts in reply, seemingly on the same wavelength as you.

“Is this okay, sweetheart? Gotta tell me,” he prods.

“Yes.” Your voice is a high pitched whine. You can feel how wet you are with nothing but the cool air of the room meeting the damp between your legs.

“Tell me what you need me to do. Where do you want me?” he implores.

“When I’m… down there, can you–can you touch my breasts?” you whisper. It almost sounds like you’re telling a hushed secret when you ask.

“You want me here, honey?” he goads as his hands graze underneath your dress and up to your chest. Your breath catches in your throat when he reaches the lower half of your breasts. Your back arches off his chest when he slides past your hardened nipples.

“Please do that again, please,” you beg. You slam your body back against his, wanting to be connected again as quickly as possible.

“Oh, you like that, don’t you?” he teases. His thumbs caress your nipples as though he’s delicately and expertly playing an instrument. The areas where his fingertips are calloused give more friction to his passes against your pebbled nubs. “So sensitive for me, honey.”

You don’t realize you’re grinding down into him and his fully hard erection until he clears his throat and readjusts in his seat. “If I didn’t know any better, darlin’, I’d think you were tryna make me come in my pants again,” he laughs in a breathy huff.

You snap out of your dazed bliss at his words and turn your head to look at him. Is that what he wanted? Was he saying you should pleasure him? Is that what he wanted? Were you supposed to stop what you were doing and shift the focus to him now? You’d do it if that’s what he wanted. You needed him to want you. You’d do anything to keep him wanting you and your body.

“I can make you feel good. I know I can,” you promise hastily.

Joel just shakes his head. “Nuh uh. I have no doubt you could make me feel amazin’, but that’s not what we’re doin’ today,” he asserts.

“It’s not?” you ask quietly. He gives a short nuh uh sound. “So.. what then?”

 “Jus’ wanna watch you rub that pretty little clit until you come in my lap, babygirl,” he murmurs softly into your ear before nibbling on your earlobe.

You don’t hold back the broken, needy moan that slithers from the back of your mouth.

“Show me what you like, honey. Go on, baby. Go real slow. Wanna see everything,” he coaxes.

Your hand smooths across your body slowly. You want to make sure Joel can see whatever it is that he wants to see from you. You keep glancing his direction, and he realizes you’re watching for his reaction.

“Close your eyes,” he instructs softly. You comply immediately. “I want you to keep your eyes shut just for a minute, okay? Want you to focus on your body. Tell me how it feels with your hands on yourself while I watch.”

With your vision obstructed, you are more aware of your other senses. Joel’s breathing picking up and working to stay controlled. The quick rise and fall of his chest beneath you. His hands cupping your breasts while the pads of his thumbs toy with your nipples. The fabric of your dress scrunched up your belly, held in place by Joel’s wrists and forearms. You can still taste him on your tongue, hints of sugar and tea leaves. The smell of him so close to you: a pine, salt, and earth aroma.

But you feel nervous. Relying on all of these because you can’t see him. How would you know if he was enjoying himself? You don’t think you can enjoy yourself if you don’t know that he’s being taken care of first and foremost.

“I don’t know if I can come,” you blurt out with your eyes shut tight.

“Don’t hafta,” he says lazily against the column of your throat where his lips languidly brush against your skin. “Just focus on makin’ yourself feel good. We can spend as long as you want doin’ that. Don’t hafta get all the way to comin’, baby.”

You ease somewhat at his words. It didn’t seem like he was expecting some sort of result or performance. Maybe he really did just want you to show him what felt good to your body?

When you don’t say anything for a few moments, Joel pauses. “You wanna stop, sweetheart? We can stop right now if you want to,” he insists.

“No!” you clip out quickly, your eyes flying open in panic. “No, I don’t wanna stop. I wanna keep going. Please, Joel?”

“As long as you’re sure,” he agrees in a firm tone.

You bring your arms across yourself, pressing against Joel’s where they rest against your chest. You snuggle into the crook of his neck and press a kiss against his pulse point. “I’m sure. I know. I want you.”

You feel a surge of confidence. “I want you.. right here….” You reach under your dress and guide one of his hands down your body. Your breathing is rapid and borderline wheezy. You aren’t afraid, so why does your breathing sound so panicked?

“Alright, let’s slow it down, baby,” Joel warns softly, bringing the descent of your hands to a stop. You whine in protest.

“But, I’m fine. I swear. I just,” you pant. “I-I just– just want….” Your thought goes unfinished. Your lips feel a bit tingly. You lick them, and they’re so dry the wet of your tongue sticks to them for a moment like you’d pressed it against a metal flagpole in the middle of winter.

“Squeeze my hand. Breathe,” Joel instructs.

You squeeze his hand in a slow rhythm and match your breaths to it.

“There ya go. You’re alright. You just settle for a minute, honey.”

You’re not really sure what just happened. Whatever that was just crept up out of nowhere. Joel seemed to know what it was, though. That made you feel safer. He would take care of it, no matter what it had been or what it was.

“I think let’s just have my hand close by, okay? No touching from me right there. Not today, alright?” he offers.

You wanted him to touch you where your body was demanding it, but you agreed. Your breathing now quieted, you help Joel splay his fingers against the crease of your thigh, just to the side of your throbbing wet entrance. You hum a throaty groan at the feeling of him so close to where you want him most.

“I-If you won’t touch me there yet, maybe you could.. I dunno, say stuff? It makes me stay out of my own head, I think.”

Joel warmed to your request immediately. “Oh? You like that? Like me talkin’ to ya when you’re touchin’ yourself?”

“MMmhhhhmmmmm.”

His hand on your chest slowly rubs circles against your skin. It feels warm, soothing, and grounding. After a few moments, it feels inciting of your uncontrollable want for him.

“You think about me sayin’ dirty things to ya? Think about my hands on you when you’re alone in your bed at night?” he taunts in a low, sultry voice.

“I-I don’t actually.. do that. Touch myself down there, I mean,” you admit quietly. You hope he doesn’t ask why. That last thing you want to get into right now is the longstanding disconnect of your body and your mind that’s only recently been mended.

“Why’s that?” he asks, sounding more focused now.

Dammit.

“Just.. didn’t feel connected to my body, I guess. Sort of felt like I wasn’t inside of it. Like I couldn’t feel it, even if it was my own hands,” you offer up weakly.

Joel sits with your words for a moment before speaking again. “But that’s different now?”

“Yeah. Since.. since being with you,” you explain. You look at him from the corner of your eye. He looks pensive and maybe even moved by your disclosure.

“Is this like the reflection thing you told me about? Seein’ yourself when you look in a mirror?” he wonders.

Tears threaten to well up on your lash line at Joel’s mindful perceptions of your work to find yourself again and take care of that person until she is made whole again. You suppress your fledgling, overwrought sentimentality.

“Yeah. I think they have a lot to do with each other, those two things,” you concur.

Joel takes his time planting leisurely presses of his lips against your hair and cheek. You recognize he’s absorbing and sorting the things you just shared with him.

“So how’s it like for you now?”

“You mean, how my body feels when it’s touched?” you posit.

Joel nods and makes a noise of assent. You look forward and lean your head against his as you try to express yourself adequately.

“It’s like… like a pressure. Down there. It doesn’t hurt, but it’s– I dunno. I get nervous to touch near it. Nervous it’ll be too much. Feel too overwhelming or something. I dunno.”

Joel mulls over your words again. “Does it feel overwhelmin’ right now?”

“No. Not in that way. Just in a different way, I guess. Like it… like I need to touch there. Like it’s waiting to be touched by something,” you explain as best you can.

Joel makes a contemplative sound and rubs gently on the side of your torso.

“So let's give that pretty pussy the attention she deserves, hm?”

You inhale sharply at his intoxicating invitation and turn to see a coy grin drawing you in. You bite your bottom lip in a smile and nod enthusiastically.

Joel nudges your hand resting over his, persuading  you to touch yourself between the folds of your sex. You hover above your mound. Joel’s fingers move to scissor your lips open, holding you wide for yourself to explore. He’s not even directly touching your private parts, but it feels so intimate and arousing.

“You’re gonna take real good care of her until I can, right, baby?”  he goads.

“Yes,” you whimper.

“That’s right, honey. You’re gonna make sure you’re touchin’ her real good. Makin’ yourself feel real good, okay?”

You gently rest your fingers against the sensitive nub at the top of your lips. You jolt at the feeling of finally making direct contact.

“Ssshhh. Sshhhh, it’s alright. Take it slow, honey,” Joel reminds you.

You drag your fingers in small shapes, settling on a back and forth motion. You whimper at the intensity of satisfaction you’re bringing yourself. You toss your head back against Joel’s shoulder and squirm with pleasure. You quicken the pace of your swiping motions against your sensitive clit.

“God, can’t believe I get to see you like this. So fuckin’ beautiful,” Joel praises.

The room fills with the sounds of your strangled moans and your wrist flicking back and forth faster and faster.

“Gonna give her as much as she wants, hm? As much as she can take, isn’t that right?”

He noses along your neck and ear. “Tell me how she feels, baby,” he whispers.

“It–ohmygod– it’s, it feels so good, Joel,” you whine.

“You takin’ good care of that pretty pussy?” he murmurs in a low, gruff voice. 

He rolls one of your nipples gently between two fingers. You nod frantically, your words getting caught in your throat. Joel wants to hear you say it, though. He gives a small squeeze to your side and gives a hush of “go on, say it” against your ear.

“I-I’m taking care of my pretty pussy,” you cry out.

Joel grunts in approval and toys with your breasts and nipples with faster, harder movements.

“Fuck, that’s it. Doin’ so good, too. Wish you could see how fuckin’ good you look right now, baby,” he coos.

“I-I– Mmgod. It’s building up. Down there,” you explain frantically. 

“I’ve got you. Let yourself feel all of it. You’re safe. Just focus on how it feels,” he urges.

You rub frenzied circles on your sensitive nub as your lower belly starts to feel tighter and tighter. Without thinking, you listen to your body’s command to have something inside you. You take your other hand where it had been holding onto Joel and insert two fingers up to the knuckle into your needy, drenched hole. There’s no resistance as they slide right in, and your hips jerk and roll with the added sensation. You’re riding your own fingers on top of Joel’s lap as you furiously rub your clit.

“Joel!” you wail in a rabid pitch when the sensation has almost pushed you to the point of what you think you can stand.

“S’okay. Let it happen, baby. I’m right here.”

“Mmmm it’s gonna– oh my god,” you let out in a hoarse, broken cry. You buck away from Joel’s chest as the crescendo of pleasure compels your entire body to lift upward.“OH MY GOD, it’s right there, Joel. I feel it. It’s right there. It’s–ohmygod. Baby! Baby, please. Oh fuck!”

Your vision goes flat for a moment as an explosive sensation erupts through the lower half of your body. You’re shaking and writhing on top of Joel, whose strong arms are holding you against his chest and keeping you from flinging yourself off the couch from the intensity of your orgasm. Tears stream from the corners of your eyes. It’s so much, but it all feels so amazing.

You’re chanting Joel’s name as if you’re searching for him. He wraps his arms around you tighter and pulls you snug against him. You vaguely hear his lauding - did such a good job, such a good girl, look so beautiful - as you struggle to align yourself with the present. You feel as though you’ve sprinted through an entire marathon. Your jaw is slack. Your eyes loll to the back of your head until the irises disappear under your lids. You’re trembling underneath Joel’s hold and whimpering in surrender to the sensations gripping your body. You grab hold of his forearms like they’re a swim buoy keeping you afloat.

The tide of your climax pulls at you until it finally recedes back into an ocean of calm. You’re awash in a floaty sort of feeling. You can sense every part of your body and how it sings with relief and satiety. You can feel yourself settling into a quiet sleep. You feel Joel freeing himself from underneath you and positioning you to lie down again on the couch. Something soft and heavy covers your body.

Your mind is quiet while your body sings. You drift in and out of awareness, your eyes lifting every now and then at a sound or shuffling nearby. Something dips into the couch beside you. Something that sounds musical reaches your ears.

“Figure I can’t sound half bad when you’re just about knocked out,” Joel laughs, mostly to himself. 

Some light strumming. Some harmonious chords.

“Been playin’ this one a lot. Reminds me’uh you,” he says softly.

A pleasant, melodic cadence fills the air. It’s gentle. A plucking lullaby sort of sound. You sigh at the way it feels like there’s another warm blanket over top of you just from listening to it. You drift off quickly to the song Joel plays for you.

Guys, I will try very hard to release ch10 next week, but these bits of the story are harder for me to get through on like a personal level or whatever. So if it is ready next week I'll post it. If not, I'll update y'all on the progress and a new tentative release day. Tysm for reading!

catch ya later, ♥Puddles♥

[chadillacboseman]

Summary: Just a quick intro piece for JJ, my newest OC. The SF is on a night mission to clear a weapons depot warehouse and Falcon Company provides air support. TY @bihanspookies for being my bestie and always reading my nonsense. And for screaming about JJ with me <3

--

The weapons warehouse is bathed in moonlight by the time Sonya and her squad reach it. It looms above them like a giant metal behemoth against the inky black sky.

Inside, she knows the space will be crawling with Black Dragon mercenaries; she's only brought a small strike team, they'll be relying on support from above if they intend to be successful.

The plan is simple- rappel in and drop teargas, push the ones they can't kill themselves out for Falcon Company to eliminate.

As if on cue, her earpiece comes to life.

"Blade, this is Falcon-01, we are on approach," Jeremiah Mitchell's grating southern drawl is unmistakable, even with the sound of the AC-130 thrumming in the background.

"Copy, Falcon, we have eyes on the warehouse. Wait for the laser before engaging."

"Copy."

Inside the roaring warplane, JJ strides down the center of the hold, his hands resting comfortably on the straps of his plate carrier. The rest of Falcon Company muddles around the interior, inspecting the ammunition as it's loaded into the side canons.

"Alright, Falcons, this is it!" he calls and they all look at him with rapt attention, "Tip of the spear, edge of the knife. We go in hot and loud, and we make these fuckers pay for every one of ours they put in the ground. Understood?"

A resounding 'HOORAH!' echoes back at him and he's satisfied. He makes his way up to the cockpit where the pilot team guides the warplane toward the warehouse.

"Keep eyes on the west side, thermals. Look for the infrared. Blade's strike team is gonna try'n force 'em out that way."

The pilots respond in the affirmative and he steps back, watching through the reinforced windows as they approach the site. JJ's heart is always banging out a rhythm like a wardrum when they're in the air- the ground team is in their hands for better or for worse.

Sonya's IR laser erupts to life and the AC-130 makes a sharp bank, pulling into a pylon turn to orbit the building. They're flying low, just 7k above the ground, enough to keep them safe from RPGs, but close to give his team a good visual.

JJ takes a seat at one of the CCTV monitors and watches as the 25MM gunner takes aim at the western set of doors. Below, Sonya and her team rappel in from the rooftop and drop tear gas that gives them an upper hand.

"Falcon, this is ground team," Sonya sounds out of breath as she radios in, "you've got hostiles incoming."

The AC-130 banks and gives the gunner a perfect view of the mercs as they exfil.

"Falcon-06, you have carte blanche authority," JJ glances down the hold and the soldier nods before returning his attention to the console.

The first burst of shots takes out a wave of mercs and he sees a few of them look skyward. Hello assholes. Some of them branch off and head for cover, while another group makes for the row of jeeps to the north.

"Switch to 105 Mike-Mike, take out those Jeeps."

Falcon-04 and 07 load a Howitzer into the tube and it fires, recoiling into the hold. Below, the missile hits ground and the jeeps erupt into balls of flame and bits of metal. The mercs that were closing in drop to the ground in heaps.

"That's how we do it, Falcons!" JJ shouts and another round of loud 'HOORAH's echoes around him.

"Falcon, watch your fire!" Sonya cries into his earpiece, "We don't want any structural damage."

JJ rolls his eyes, "Copy that, Blade. Boys, stick to 25."

The rest of the mercs have taken cover in a small building outside the warehouse; it doesn't look reinforced- the 25MM will punch through with ease. Falcon-06 aims the guidance system and sends a burst into the roof; JJ watches with satisfaction on his own monitor as the rounds tear through the metal and into the mercs beneath it. Dodge that.

Another wave of them erupts from the doors. By now, they've wised up to the air support, branching off in multiple directions for a better chance at scraping by with their lives.

God, he wants to send them to hell with the 105.

Instead, he watches as Falcon-06 expertly times his shots, peppering the asphalt with lead that shreds through half a dozen mercs, then pivots, and takes out another two. Next to him, the belt feeds into the gun and kicks out empties that clatter to the metal floor.

"No visual on the remaining mercs," Falcon-06 calls. There had been at least ten- the area was wooded, they were probably streaking through the trees as they speak.

Fuck it.

"Hit the treeline with the 105," JJ will deal with Sonya's ire later. Don't bring the big guns if you don't intend to fire them.

Falcon-04 and 07 kick out the empty Howitzer shell and load another before aiming the guidance system at the treeline. The canon kicks back and the missile hits ground with a blast that levels the first few rows of trees. He makes out the bodies of at least a few of the mercs as the trees burn. It's good enough for him, as long as the others make it back to base with PTSD.

"Blade, we're clear out here. How copy?"

The radio is silent for a moment and he knits his brows.

"Blade, how copy?"

"Clear, but no sign of Kano," Sonya sounds irritated. Whether it's with his actions or the lack of Kano, he has no idea. Her obsession with the Black Dragon clan leader is lost on JJ; it drives her as if she is captain Ahab and he the white whale.

"Rog. Falcon is pulling out, we'll see you on the ground," JJ makes his way to the cockpit once more and turns to face the crew, "Good work, boys. We'll be back in time for dinner."

"Let's get this bird home."

[germanich]

We all got some bad apples

OCs Ace and Winona

[thephantomcasebook]

Wait I’m confused, all the anything positive of neutral about the Greens is Green propaganda and the framing of the Targaryens as prophesied saviors isn’t Condal? Whatever OC says/does I can’t see TGC, EM, and FF agreeing with their haphazard characterizations this season so who is anyone is calling the shots?

Imagine, for just a second, that you're not you - a ASoIaF fan who read the book (or even the past editions of the book). You've only ever watched the show and have the HOTD show bible to go off of.

How do you think a ghost runner is going to write and patch work the show based on this information?

I'm not saying that Condal and Hess didn't write dumb shit or set up the Greens to be the bad guys.

What I'm saying is that the ghost showrunner isn't going to contradict what came before, cause he doesn't know dick about the lore. He's there to makes sure that they are on schedule - which I don't have to tell you that they weren't under Condal and Hess. He's setting up shots, locking things down, and patch quilting about four different drafts of Season 2, right?

Tom Glynn-Carney, Ewan Mitchell, and Fabien Frankel, are playing consistent to the characters they were in Season 1. In fact Tom Glynn-Carney is single handedly salvaging Aegon's character now that he has carte blanche to rework his character without Hess actively trying to destroy him.

Frankel is absolutely on side with Criston, playing him as being in love, basically married, to Alicent. But he also has to play off Olivia Cooke who has completely lost the plot and is basically doing whatever the fuck she wants to do, which is not working at all.

I'm mean we're talking about a dip shit who thinks that Alicent and Criston's love story is the height of patriarchy because Criston gives power to Aemond because he wants to protect Alicent from having to do terrible things if he backs her to be Regnant.

That's the kind of galaxy brained, 4-D chess, genius level intellect Frankel is working with.

So, you're right that Condal and Hess have fundamentally damaged TG, but its because they have a broken foundation rather than are making the decisions this season.

[bamfwizard]

starts screaming at you and pointing at my screen and babbling his lore like an idiot

(the adhd hit so bad that all I could do is lay in bed and listen to TMA while drawing him on my phone with my finger so pls forgive the God awful quality)

[moonatikart-blog]

i never did a promo drawing thing for carte so uhh here's one like a month and a half after i published his chapter

go read the fic its basically finished aside from the epilogue: https://www.fimfiction.net/story/532822/marks-of-the-moon

[softspeirs]

Random-ass question time! Pls consider this your carte blanche ask to talk about anything writing-wise that you're excited about rn or just otherwise wanna talk about!! 💌 — @shoshiwrites

Oh thank you, Sho! Here’s what I’m excited about - in 2020 I started writing a Band of Brothers thing with an OC, and then ended up building an entire fic around it.

I’m finally getting to a point where that initial piece will be in an upcoming chapter, and it feels like the culmination of years of work but also was the entire basis of me joining this fandom and making all these friends.

I’m feeling emotional about it!

[thesmallmeggles]

Meg's (unnamed) Post Canon AU: What Happened To The Bosses?

As fits my personal Post Canon AU, everybody lived. Yes, even the ones who exploded on camera. They did all end up hospitalized: Some in rougher physical condition than others.

Figuring out legal repercussions is making my brain melt, partly because we don't know ANYTHING about Vandelay Island's legal system. (And the fact we have carte blanche when it comes to world building based on the Game Maker's Notebook interview.) My first thought was that there'd be a trial, but after some brief research I'm shelving that.

What I am confident about is taking a rehabilitation approach with the bosses. (I don't have any interest in writing a prison fic, and this is personally more enjoyable for me.)

Once the old bosses recovered from their injuries, they agreed to an arrangement consisting of electronic monitoring, community service, and fines. Another element to this is that the bosses are prohibited from communicating with each other.

Roxanne keeps the old bosses employed at Vandelay Technologies. (Albeit in lower ranked positions.) This stems less from altruism and more from pragmatism because the company needs all the help it can get to rebuild.

With that established, character specific details are listed below. 👇

Rekka ⚡: Production Supervisor. Does physical tasks and event organizing. Required to take anger management classes. She let Chai keep her belt because he earned it. Overall, Rekka is handling things like a BOSS.

Zanzo 🍍: Associate Engineer under Macaron's watchful eye. For the first few months, Zanzo attempted to be a good worker in hopes of regaining some of his Creative Freedom. His community service is web and graphic design for local small businesses, but it doesn't scratch the same itch as building a robot. Bribed a TEC-78 to install a temporal displacement device on the arcade machine so Chai could receive his gift basket. Had to pay his parking tickets and enroll in a financial management course. Zanzo... struggles for a while.

Mimosa 🍹: Social Media Account Manager. She was assigned to the Vandelay Island Community Theater for her service, and became an assistant acting coach at a community theater. (I referenced this in my post about Violet, my self insert OC. But not with this much detail). Mimosa flies no more- the explosion totaled her wings. Despite some bumps along the way, she is doing okay.

Roquefort 🐺: Senior Accountant. Provides financial counseling for Vandelay staff (besides Zanzo) + organizing fundraising events as community service. Also required to take anger management classes. Inhibitor installed to prevent him wolfing out. (Which can't POSSIBLY be overridden 😉) You think Roquefort has a contingency plan?

Kale ☕: For humor, Kale's new job is making coffee in the Café because the machine is STILL broken. (Who knows, he might even enjoy it sometimes.) He got more say with community service, as he volunteers at a pet clinic. (OC & Canon specific - As they serve on different days, Kale and Violet haven't crossed paths. YET.) Frustrated that his SPECTRA AI backup plan fell through. He doesn't have a plan C… as far as anyone knows.

Not everyone on Vandelay Island is content with this outcome. Certain characters believe the punishment dealt isn't harsh enough for the crime. Some may be plotting vengeance from the shadows… 😱

[shadoedseptmbr]

5 for Aedan for the dark OC meme!

5. What is your oc's moral code?

ooh good question! (thanks for asking!)

She's pretty adherent to the Alliance's Code of Honor, in her verse, and does her best to live up to that sort of ideal- she's a paragon in 1 for a reason and that reason is she doesn't trust her own...sense of right and wrong. But *after* that, when she's scraping herself back together after she wakes up in 2, when the SA has abandoned her and Cerberus is offering carte blanche so long as she wears their colors, what she reaches for is the inherent worth in life, in any form but not any individual. Bakara's important because she's the only chance for the Krogan to live, not because she's Bakara, for an example- even though Aedan appreciates her. Legion's her friend, but she doesn't begrudge him giving up his individual personality because the geth will live. She can die on the Citadel and as long as a handful of humans survive it, she's okay.

it might change if she lives past that, but for the length of the war, it's that.

[gatalentan]

Hey I was scrolling through your page and I love how you capture the workwives - you GET THEM!

but also saw how you said about people objectifying law and I’m so glad u mentioned it, it drives me nuts! (And how it ties into her being people’s favourite on THIS SHOW basically because she’s hot, the underlying racism is so weird but so real.)

it feels like some people ship barlissa bc they just want melissa to have a gf, or moreso they want law to kiss a woman. They don’t GET THEM, they don’t see the connection and depth there.

thank you! welcome to my blog lol. I do have a case of work wives brainrot and the decades of history they have is what makes them so fascinating.

yeah you pretty much nailed it. obviously it's not everyone in the fandom/ship but it's very much ever-present. it's like some people using Barbara as a stand-in just so Melissa can be queer with someone without needing to do xreader or an oc, so by extension it can be about their crush on Lisa. The way people explicitly talk about Lisa's body right out there in the open is... something. Her sexualising herself doesn't give carte blanche for everyone to do it, y'know? It's deeply uncomfortable and very like "oh, this is the only person in this diverse cast you find attractive huh? interesting..." Though I mean, that's fandom in microcosm isn't it? but this is the first fandom I've been in where there's such a clear cohort of fans on the fringe who seemingly don't care about any other character or actor in the cast, which in the context of what this particular show IS, who it's cast is, the school it's set in, is really uncomfortable and some unaddressed internalised racism. and the way Lisa talks about the show and her castmates reflects the fact that SHE understands that she's a guest in their house but there's fans who clearly do not.

ultimately I'm just one dipshit on this website and all I can do is try and make sure my own blog doesn't have that vibe, and I hope it doesn't. coming into the fandom late-ish (like, 4 months ago? not long!) I'm still sort of finding my footing and not wanting to step on the toes of talented giffers and stuff who have been here much longer than me who already provide excellent coverage of the extended cast. Ava is actually my favourite character, but because she's so funny all her stuff is already giffed before I can even blink, lol! but I genuinely dunno how you could watch this show and lock onto just Melissa and act like the other charas aren't there. like if there's a red string of fate then they're all stuck together in one of those big oversized tourist trap roadside balls of string, to me.