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chronicallyonlinewriter · 6 months ago

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You Make Loving Fun

[As Long as You Follow] [People Still Listen to Fleetwood Mac in the Apocalypse]

Warnings: +18, MDNI, smut, oral sex, unprotected PIV. References to sexual violence (predates this fic). Age gap (Joel is 62, OC is in her mid-forties), post-outbreak! Joel, who is soft AF and loves his wife.

Words: 9,178

Summary: “Don’t fall asleep on me, now,” she murmured. He lifted his head to meet her gaze, and when he did he could almost feel her worries dissipating with his smile, replaced by a soft purr of contentment that resonated through him. Sunlight sculpted soft shadows across her face, bathing her skin in a honeyed glow and tangling in her hair as it splayed across her pillow.

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” As her breath hitched in a soft sigh, he stretched himself long just so he could nip at the crook of her neck. He loved the way her body responded to him, how she coiled into him like a vine seeking the sun; loved the way her eyes fluttered closed at his touch, her head tilted back in invitation. “Was just warmin’ you up.”

Previous Works:

For Your Love

Forever

This fic contains (non-explicit) art made specifically for this story - enjoy!

Hi, all. Once again, I am just posting some of my spicier scenes from As Long as You Follow to Tumblr - though, again, I don't think you necessarily need to read the entire fic to understand the context, if you're just here for the smut. I may open myself up for requests in a bit, as I wrap up that story as a whole - because while I enjoy writing scenes like this, it's also a challenge, and I think I need to encourage myself to practice a little more. Enjoy!

It was an incredibly strange experience to wake up in Galveston.

It almost reminded her of Jackson; of those dreamy, early days where Joel was still a new presence next to her in bed. Sunlight speared through her eyelids, the room swirling into focus when she opened her eyes and blinked against the brightness. Disorienting, just like then, this strange mix of unfamiliar comfort and the absence of threat, a voice in the back of her head reminding her through her confusion that there was no need for the urgency that pulsed through her, even when her hand instinctively slid under her pillow, fingers searching for the handle of her sheathed knife – her father's knife.

(She'd kept a knife under her pillow in those early days, too, unconvinced this newfound happiness was real, this fluke of finding a place in the world where she could fall asleep and be guaranteed to wake in the morning – no bombs, no overreaching government, no creepy neighbors lurking on the fire escape outside. And Joel had found it, once, when they were in a compromising position, his hand sliding under her pillow when he’d tried to brace himself and slipped. She still remembered his confused frown when he held up that pocketknife, the way his expression quickly shifted to an infuriating sort of pity – but she also remembered the way he calmly set it on the nightstand, the way he held her face in his hands and told her, ‘Nobody’s gonna hurt you, here,’ the way he then kissed her – the way she thought she might actually believe him.)

She’d spent so much of her life primed for danger that her body had twisted itself into a coiled spring, wound so tight that there were days where she thought she might shatter from the pressure of it. Even within this clean and bright and safe apartment she couldn’t quite relax, a nervous sort of energy always humming beneath her skin. There was a routine that she forced herself to follow, something that made everything a little less overwhelming: she’d allow the first tendrils of dawn to pull her from sleep, and before full consciousness had even fully arrived her hand would slide under her pillow, searching blindly for the cool heft of the blade’s wooden and steel handle. Twenty breaths, each one counted in her head, would anchor her to the bed, and only then would she let go of the knife and instead seek out her husband.

This part, at least, was easy. She usually woke before him, close enough to reach out a hand and touch him, to feel the steady rhythm of his breath. The sheets rustled as she stretched, and with a slow deliberateness she’d roll toward him, her body a question mark curled against his back, her arms struggling to fully envelop him. She’d nuzzle her face into his neck, whisper his name, feel his rumble of sleepy protest against her own skin – and he’d try, bless him, to maintain the facade of slumber, but he was always given away by the twitch of his mouth. The act never held; this was, after all, his favorite type of alarm clock. Still, he was difficult to fully rouse – so she’d bite him instead, a playful nip, a quick pinch of her teeth on his neck, his shoulder, anywhere that elicited a reaction – and that always jolted him awake and wide-eyed.

“You’re a menace,” was quickly becoming a familiar morning greeting, grogginess still clinging to the edges of his words, and so was her response:

“You love it, though.”

And she knew he did, the hand he reached back to squeeze at her thigh so gentle and full of affection. Often they’d just stay there a little bit longer, cocooned together beneath the sun-drenched sheets, a temporary reprieve from the soundtrack of life creeping in: the ocean below them, the hum of the fan above them, Ellie’s voice (always a touch too enthusiastic for such an early hour) slicing through the apartment as she chatted with someone (usually Perry). And maybe it was too often that this bittersweet pang would unfold in her chest, this craving for these little moments to be more constant – because it had taken a lifetime, or at least what felt like one, to find this sort of contentment, this love that had bloomed defiantly like a wildflower in the cracks of the pavement – and even now that she had it, and the room to enjoy it, she could feel that spring tightening again, threatening to snap her in half.

There was a part of him that didn’t mind these quiet evenings, when they happened. Much like his walks with Ellie, it was nice to spend some time alone with Benny – no interruptions, a chance to connect, to eat dinner together and sometimes share in a small amount of wine, to walk together around the block or watch the sky turn colors over the ocean, to curl up on the couch together and watch a movie. It was so close to feeling like home; her comforting weight pressed against his shoulder and chest, warm and welcoming; the way she sometimes dozed off before the movie even finished, and he just let her sleep because he liked the feeling of her leaning against him, his arm around her shoulders, her heart beating a steady rhythm against his ribs.

Sometimes these evenings were a little different. Sometimes wine flowed a little more generously (for her) while familiar music played from Alexei’s CD player. He danced with her now whenever she asked him to, without protest, because he didn’t have it left in him to ever again deny her anything that he had the power to give. She was at her happiest when he twirled her slowly around the living room, and there was something nostalgic about these steps – something familiar that pulsed under his skin when she laughed as he lifted her arm and carefully spun her, something so free about how she always danced barefoot, her hair swaying back and forth against her back, something special about the way she always kissed him first, because even when he led their steps, she led everything else –

– something exciting about the afternoon where Ellie left a little earlier than usual, sunlight still spearing through the tall living room windows while Lindsey Buckingham crooned through the stereo speakers and Benny twirled through the motes of dust lazily, a glass of wine in one hand, her hair glittering in the light. She and Ellie had gone to the beach earlier in the day when he’d been occupied with fixing the balcony door, and she’d donned another donated dress for the occasion; a cascade of white with splashes of emerald leaves and blossoms, the skirt loose and flowing, and when she danced, a bittersweet thought struck Joel: that this was probably the closest he would ever get to seeing her in anything that even remotely resembled a wedding gown.

(Art by @ayeleye.)

Sunburn kissed her shoulders with a rosy glow, a blush mirroring the flush on her cheeks, and when she beckoned for him to join her, curling two fingers in and out as she swayed, he did so with no hesitation, drawn to her like a moth to a flame – though he took her hand, first, spun her around slowly, and then wrapped her up against him from behind, all the better to trail his lips down her neck and over her shoulder, leaving fleeting white marks against her heated and red skin.

(Art by @miranhas-art.)

And there was just something about this that felt different even when it was achingly familiar; there was a rawness to it, an uninhibited surrender in the way she tilted her head back with a longing sigh, finding rest against his shoulder, the way she tipped the wine to her lips and drank long sips, then held it up so he could do the same.

“Better catch up, cowboy,” she teased him, and it was as though something inside of him snapped. The wine was so sweet against his lips, but it was nothing compared to her skin. He drained the glass in a single, impatient gulp, then plucked it from her fingers and set it on the desk behind him without even looking, his focus only on her. Everything happened in flashes; she was arching against him as his fingers tugged at her skirt, drawing the fabric over her thighs – she was facing him, kissing him, her hands threading through his hair – the world tilted, he was falling, and she was beneath him on the couch – she tasted like wine and smelled like the ocean and she was so soft against his edges, so loose and limber, so eager for every bit of his touch, moaning into his mouth when his hand slid under her dress and edged itself between her legs –

It ended, because of course it did, the moment shattering like glass – because there was a thump in the hallway that sounded suspiciously like a heavy, booted step, and a key scraped in the front door’s lock. A desperate scramble ensued, a mad dash to right themselves, to untangle their limbs. Benny hastily pulled down her skirt and Joel fumbled with his belt buckle – and thankfully it wasn’t Ellie that walked through the door, but it was a short-lived sort of relief, because Amos and Alexei both stopped dead in their tracks when they caught sight of the pair. To be fair, Joel knew they weren’t fooling anyone, even with the distance they’d hastily put between themselves. There was a flush creeping up the back of his neck; he had to assume his face was as red as Benny’s, her breath ragged and flustered as she attempted to comb her fingers through her mussed hair.

For just a moment, there was silence. And then Amos’ voice boomed through the apartment: “On the couch?” he demanded, at the same time Alexei jabbed an accusing finger and scorned, “You heathens!”

Benny snatched an oversized throw pillow and pulled it into her lap before folding over it, burying her face in the fabric as a strangled groan escaped her throat. Joel, his cheeks burning, scrubbed a hand across his face, massaging his skin roughly while wishing that the roaring pulse of blood pounding in his ears would drown out their mocking voices.

“ – and in front of the cat?”

“Absolute monsters –”

Perry didn’t seem all that offended, currently curled up in his usual place atop the other end of the couch, where the backing cushion sported a permanent divot on top because it was his preferred sunning spot. Alexei gathered the feline up in his arms anyway, shaking his head one final time before he carried him out of the room and down the hallway, mumbling something that Joel didn’t quite catch, while Amos lingered for a beat, staring them down with a glare that threatened to crack into a bristly grin. “I’m not mad,” he said finally, backing away slowly, “I’m just disappointed –” And then he had to duck when Benny groaned again and threw the pillow at his head, his barking laughter echoing down the hallway.

“Oh my god.” Benny stood up the moment he was gone, shaking her hands out in front of her chest. “I’m…going to hide in our room. And maybe throw myself off of the balcony. Yeah. That sounds like a plan.”

She disappeared, skirt swishing around the corner, leaving him alone and embarrassed and frustrated on the living room couch. Joel gulped in a few deep breaths, willing his thunderous heart and traitorous body to cooperate with one another, to allow him to stand up, and when he finally did he found that he couldn’t make himself follow her; there was no appeal to walk down that same hallway, to risk running into those two infuriating men again. He busied himself with pointless tasks, instead, because at least when his hands were occupied he didn’t have to really think about what just happened (and what didn’t happen, wasn’t currently happening). He snagged the wine glass from the desk, picked up the pillow from the floor and tossed it onto the couch (though if the patio door had been open, it would have been tempting to just throw it off the balcony as petty revenge) and silenced the radio right before Stevie Nicks could begin to explain to him that she had never been a blue, calm sea (and boy, could Joel relate).

He was breathing a little easier by the time the glass was rinsed and wiped dry, and deposited into the wire rack, but still he sighed, leaning over the edge of the counter with his shoulders hunched and wondering why, when they were barely ever there, practically ghosts in their own home, both Alexei and Amos had to pick that moment to walk through the door –

He heard scuffling coming from the hallway; sounds of laughter that sent a fresh wave of irritation crashing over him. He decided not to be there when they eventually emerged; with a determined stride he slipped down the hallway and past their bedroom door, and to his own, which was thankfully unlocked. He’d just managed to close the door behind him when he heard them again, their voices mixing together and echoing against the walls as they called out, feet thumping down the hallway.

“ – won’t be back for a while – enjoy your privacy – ”

“ – goddamn house is full of deviants –”

The front door slammed a thunderous goodbye, as though making a point. “Christ,” he mumbled, more to himself than anyone else, because the bedroom was otherwise empty. Benny’s shawl was draped over the corner of the dresser. He ran his hand over some of the hanging tassels as he walked past it, immediately knew that his hand now smelled like lilac without even having to check, and that alone was enough to return a small smile to his face as he leaned against the bathroom doorframe, arms folded across his chest. Benny met his eyes in the reflection of the mirror, head tilted to the side as her fingers combed through the last few tangles in her hair, a touch of lingering fluster coloring her cheeks along with her sunburn.

“One time,” she sighed, “in high school, I got caught in the back of Owen Grant’s car by my dad, of all people, and I thought I might actually die of embarrassment. This…” She bit her lip, clearly fighting the urge to laugh. “Yeah. This was worse, somehow, and I was fully-clothed this time.”

Joel mulled this over, chewing on his tongue thoughtfully. “Owen Grant, huh?”

She rolled her eyes at him in the mirror. “Don’t start.” But she was still smiling at him while her fingers danced through her curls, teasing out the knots. “Sorry,” she said finally, her voice softer. “Those two…kind of ruined a moment, didn’t they?”

“S’alright. Hard to be mad at ‘em. Prolly not the most polite thing we coulda been doin’ on their couch." Her snort of laughter was a welcome sound that he was pleased to have teased out of her. “Doesn’t…gotta be ruined, though.”

She didn’t reply for what felt like a long time, her gaze dipping down to her hands and the strands of gold weaving silently between her knuckles. He steeled himself, accepting the quiet – because he had no other choice. Because he wasn’t allowed to be the one to push anymore; couldn’t be, a privilege that was stripped away from him the day she went on patrol to the dam and then didn’t come back to him. And that was…difficult to contend with at the best of times, but especially now, when he’d just gotten a taste of everything he’d ever wanted from her – the searing pressure of her skin against his, those intoxicating sounds he’d drawn from her lips – and all he could think about was how much he wanted more of it, how lucky he would be get another chance at it.

“Maybe not,” she said finally, and a shiver ran down his spine. It wasn’t the words themselves, but the way she said them; her gaze, reflected back at him, crackled with an intensity that he couldn’t quite decipher. Yet when she again beckoned to him with two fingers he immediately went to her, body moving automatically to sweep her up from behind, arms wrapped tightly around her as he pressed the side of his face against hers. He watched as her hand began a slow exploration, sliding up his arm – and he closed his eyes when her fingertips drifted across his nose, skimming delicately across his healing scars. They still itched, sometimes, and pulled uncomfortably at the edges of his skin, especially after he’d been in the sun. He usually tried not to think about them, avoided looking at them in the mirror, needing no daily reminders of Waco when his dreams were already so haunted by it.

He countered the rising dread settling in his gut by tipping his head to the side, burying his nose against her hair and inhaling deeply. A wave of scents washed over him; the sharpness of her lilac soap, the brine of salt from the ocean, sweat and something else, a deeper note that resonated purely as Benny filled his nostrils, comforting enough that he tightened his hold on her almost subconsciously. “Got the place to ourselves again,” he mumbled against the strands, and he felt her shift against him, the press of her warmth more pronounced.

“Do we?”

“We do.” He opened his eyes, meeting her gaze in the mirror. It was a gamble, but his fingers dipped down, skimming against her thighs. He brushed his fingers against the softness of her dress, then gathered some of the material between his fingers. “Like you in this dress.” His voice rumbled from his chest, hips pressing against her through the flimsy fabric. His fingers continued to tug at the floral print, teasing the hemline up her thighs, fingertips dragging along her pale skin. “Don’t think I told you that, yet. Looks good on you.”

“Yeah?” she breathed, pushing her hips insistently against his and rolling her shoulders against his chest, the movement sending a delicious jolt through him. Her head tilted to the side, and there was something playful in her expression, a challenge he was eager to meet. He bared his teeth, making her giggle, and snagged the strap of her dress in his mouth.

"Mmhmm," he affirmed, his voice a little smothered by the fabric. With a slow, almost reluctant release, he let the strap drift down her arm like a fallen petal. He dipped his head, seeking the sweet haven of her neck, the delicate curve that led to her shoulder. Every word he murmured was a brand – gentle at first, then a touch sharper, each one punctuated a tender graze of teeth as she arched against him. Her neck erupted in goosebumps, each whisper of pressure against her skin eliciting a soft, sweet gasp from her throat. "I do. Like you even better out of it, though."

“Oh my goooooddd...” The laughter that bubbled up from her lungs was pure enchantment, filling him with warmth – and he knew it was ridiculous, this cheesy line, a relic from simpler times, but he also knew it was the key to unlocking her laughter. He wanted to hear her laughter vibrate against him – needed that; needed her loose and pliant and unguarded and happy, full of giggles and rolling her eyes at his absurdity, just like those early days when the scent of her in his sheets was still a novelty and he’d say just about anything to her as long as those beautiful lips would spread themselves into a smile for him.

‘Gonna have to find myself a new heart’ he told her once, not long after she’d officially moved in. He could still picture her stretched out along the bed, draped in one of his shirts and nothing else, giving him a rather skeptical look as she asked him ‘Why?’ ‘Cause,’ he answered, as though it should have been obvious, ‘you stole mine,’ and she laughed with such conviction, doubling over with tears glistening in the corners of her eyes, and he’d grinned and thought to himself that Will Livingston himself couldn't have done better.

There had been something almost frantic about their sex in those days; a whirlwind of frenzied discovery, a need to taste and feel and enjoy and fuck, delicous in its urgency, exciting. It changed, of course, because time was a skilled sculptor, reshaping their connection until familiarity and love birthed a slower dance – something a little more relaxed, more deliberate, something to take their time with, laughter mingling between moans. He missed that; craved that, the ease that had once graced their intimacy. She tried, in the years since the dam – she tried so hard, a warrior fighting against the tide of their shifting dynamic, but they’d never truly managed to capture the spark of what had first caused them to ignite.

And perhaps it was just wishful thinking on his part, but something just felt different now, in this very moment; that they might be different, changed by everything that had happened to them since they left Jackson. He was willing to take the chance, anyway.

“Sweetness...” He waited for her laughter to subside, her dress settling back down her legs with a sigh. His hands, large and firm, climbed her frail arms instead, and despite her smile he felt the shiver that cascaded down her back. She reassembled her composure while he watched, and when she met his eyes again in the mirror he leaned down, a single soft kiss brushing the crown of her head. Then, his voice dropped to a whisper against her ear. “I want you.” He tightened his hold on her, a possessive need echoing in his voice. “Need you, darlin’. Can I…?”

And immediately, her expression shifted into the one that always tied him in knots – because he couldn’t stand it; couldn’t stand the surprise on her face, the way her eyes widened whenever he openly pined for her, the silent query: Who – me? Really? As if she wasn’t beautiful and strong and fierce and desirable and too good for him all wrapped up in one smartass package that left him perpetually yearning for more. As if he hadn’t spent his first year in Jackson resigned to always being alone late at night, convinced that chapter of his life was closed, a casualty of age and circumstance, and being fine with that until she so suddenly exploded into existence and changed everything – until she turned all the parts in his life that were still monochrome into technicolor, filling his house with flowers and music and his heart so full of affection that sometimes he was astonished there was still enough room for it beneath his ribs.

“I…” For a moment she just stood there, swaying slightly against him, a little stunned. But her voice, when it finally arrived again in her throat, was clear: “I want you.”

Something broke, that just moments before had been so solid – a tension that had been building inside of Joel, fighting against his need for patience, a little voice in the back of his head that was telling him over and over again ‘don’t fuck this up’ that shattered into a million pieces the second he saw longing in her eyes. It was as though all rational thought was gone and he was left to move only on instinct, colliding with her, fingers and lips searching out every part of her skin, desperate to devour her, filled with the need to touch and feel and taste and press and god, was it ever amazing when she kissed him back, when she spun around just to throw her arms around his neck and practically jump on him, when she pulled him to the sink and forced his hands to her hips, urging him to lift her up on its polished surface amongst all of their bathroom clutter.

With every move she was fluid, precise, her body responding to his every touch with an electric hunger. He stepped between her legs and she instinctively hiked up the hem of her dress, the fabric gathering and bunching down either side of her thighs. He kissed her as her fingers began that familiar fumbling dance at his belt buckle – but it was a sure hand that stopped her, gently clasping her wrists and tugging her away even as she groaned in annoyance.

“Not yet,” he told her, and he reclaimed her lips with his own, silencing any potential protest. And it worked; her resistance melted against him, her hands raising just so they could tangle in his hair, pulling him closer. Their bodies swayed in sync, her hips reflexively pressed against his while his hands traced along the contours of her thighs, pausing only briefly at the raised ridge of her scar – just long enough to squeeze it with far more gentleness than he’d shown any other part of her, drawing a small whine from her throat. He chuckled, and in one smooth movement he slithered his fingers along the waistband of her simple, violet-colored panties, coaxing them down her hips one small tug at a time – and she understood, lifting her hips in silent consent and crossing her ankles together in front of him, nudging him away just long enough for him to shimmy the fabric down her legs and toss them to the tiled floor.

“Don’t need these,” he said simply, settling back between her legs. She let out a soft, eager whimper, hinging her knees around his waist, urging him closer and whispering something against his bad ear that he didn’t quite catch, but seemed to be fervent agreement. His fingers found her already slick and inviting when he slipped a hand between her thighs – and she moaned into his mouth when he kissed her again, tracing circles against her already sensitive bundle of nerves. “Don’t wanna just touch you,” he murmured, and he felt her shudder against him, felt her heels dig into his back, “wanna taste you – can I? God, darlin’, please –” and he heard her whisper against his lips, yes – yes –

He almost couldn’t believe his luck; her eagerness, her lack of hesitation, and so it was with a sudden burst of energy that his hand momentarily abandoned the tender haven between her legs, her gasp of surprise nearly drowned out amidst the clatter of various items tumbling to the floor – their toothbrushes, the soap dish that held his scentless soap, his razor. He didn’t care, hooking his arms under her knees and dragging her forward as he hunched over, his awareness of his surroundings narrowing to the urgent need to taste her, diving between her thighs with unrestrained hunger.

His tongue traced a reckless path, trailing a wide and sloppy stripe through her folds, senses ablaze with her essence, that same little voice in the back of his head urging him on, telling him more. The confines of his jeans suddenly suffocating, constrictive against his arousal; he worked at his belt with one fumbling hand even as he savored every nuance of flavor on his tongue – the saltiness of it, the sweet tang that he hadn’t tasted in years, igniting something so primal it eclipsed even the need for air in his lungs –

“Oh my god –” She let out a sharp cry that echoed against the tiles, her fingers winding through his hair with a grip that bordered on painful (and he savored in that, too). He tightened his hand around her thigh, increasing the pressure of his tongue, and she moaned his name like a prayer, her hips grinding against him desperately. “Joel –”

“You want me to stop?” He withdrew only for as long as it took him to mumble the words and then bite lightly at the sensitive flesh of her inner thigh, his mustache tickling her skin. She yelped, then shrieked with laughter when he did it again, tugging at his hair hard enough to finally make him wince.

“Don’t you dare –”

With a low groan of relief, he finally managed to free himself from the constraints of his jeans, all the better to wrap both arms around her legs and draw her flush against his mouth – and it didn’t take long for those breathy whimpers to evolve into full-throated moans, for the rocking of her hips to become complimentary to his own rhythm. He buried his nose in her soft curls, tongue swirling, delving deeper – and it’s goddamn magic, he thinks, her stomach so taut with strain as one of his hands drifted from her thigh to edge across her navel, the arch of her abdomen rippling beneath his fingertips; how needy the movement is when she grabbed his fingers and pulled them up, squeezing them tight against her chest, seeking the friction of his calloused skin against the delicate fabric covering her breasts.

Her writhing form became his muse, inspiring each stroke of his tongue, each press of his fingers against her gleaming flesh. And she responded so instinctively, as though they’d never been out of practice, shaping herself to fit his touch like clay to his sculpting hands – and all he could think about was how much he loved this, the way she squirmed under his tongue, his hands, using her body freely with him, so brazen as she chased her own satisfaction –

– and she found it quickly, her climax hitting her hard and fast, her thighs clenched around his ears, her moans sharp, head thrown back with the crown of her hair pressed against the mirror. Undeterred, he didn’t stop, didn’t even slow down until she began tugging on his hair in a different way; as a warning, her heel knocking against his shoulder as she struggled to get out the words, “Joel – fuck – stop,” her laughter strained and breathless.

His mouth kept moving, lips slick with her arousal peppering her inner thighs with kisses, traveling up her body as he carefully straightened his spine (mindful of his aching back) until his torso was pressed against hers and she was reaching for him, enveloping him. It made him want to dissolve into his own pleasure with how anxious she was to taste herself on his lips, panting into his mouth, arching into him – it would have been so easy to slide himself within her; he was already poised to, sprung from his layers of clothing, his tip slotted against her swollen entrance –

“C’mere, darlin’.” With a low grunt, he pulled her close, securing her lithe frame against his torso, his pride ignoring the rather indignant sound she made as he lifted her off the edge of the sink, pulling her up, up – but she trusted him, wrapping her arms around his neck and her legs around his waist. It was a slow spin and an even slower shuffle as he carried her out of the bathroom. He couldn't quite see where they were going, focused solely on not losing balance, but soon they were leaving the cool dimness of the bathroom and walking into the bedroom’s sunshine, the light that seeped in through the uncovered patio door warm against their skin.

"Your back—" she insisted against his lips, but he stilled her concern with another kiss, one that lingered until his knee bumped against the foot of the bed. Abandoning any semblance of elegance, he simply tossed her atop the quilt, where she landed and bounced across the mattress with another yelp.

“Smooth,” she laughed, propping herself up with one arm. Sweeping her tousled hair out of her face with the other, she paused to study him. He loomed over her, his tall frame casting a shadow on the bed as he lowered his palms to the quilt, caging her in, unable to help his sheepish grin. She held his gaze for only a second before her eyes flickered back down to his unzipped jeans, his belt hanging loose, boxers haphazardly shoved halfway down his thighs. She arched an eyebrow at him, biting her lip, but her voice was firm when she ordered him: “Pants off. All the way.”

“Yes, Ma’am,” he agreed. But he didn’t move immediately. He gave himself a moment to catch his breath, to let his eyes drift over her as she lay in front of him, flushed and glistening, ribs expanding wide with every labored inhale, skin shimmering with a dewy sheen. The skirt of her dress was still pushed up over her thighs in a way that was almost deliciously obscene, and it struck him then – not for the first time – that it was a minor miracle how his life, after seemingly ending so many years ago, could have still led him to this very moment; that this woman bathed in sunlight in front of him had managed to find him at the edge of the world and make him feel lucky. “Gotta do somethin’ real quick, first, though.”

It was so much easier, the second time. Easy, the way he hooked his arms under her bare knees and dragged her toward him. Simple, the way she laughed and squealed and then groaned under the pressure of his tongue, her hand clamped over his wrist as it gripped her hip, tugging at his watch. Effortless, the way she unraveled against him, shuddering and swearing and laughing in short bursts, pushing him away from her overly-sensitive core with languid hands until finally, he relented.

With a grunt, he kicked off his scuffed boots and shed his jeans and boxers, even his t-shirt, desperate to be as close to her as possible, for there to be as little of a barrier between them even if it was just a layer of fabric. And she welcomed him as he crawled between her trembling legs, working his way up to her, his teeth, teasing rather than devouring, nipping and pulling at her flesh, each bite drawing a hiss from her panting mouth. His fingers climbed the ladder of her ribs, finding the perfect slots in the rise and fall of each bone, his other palm tracing the shallow valley between her breasts.

The years had etched every inch of her skin into his memory, and he felt now that there was no part of her remaining that was undiscovered, no territory of her skin that he didn’t feel as though he knew at least as well as his own, but he still explored her now as though he’d never been fortunate enough to touch her before today, trying to unearth all of her; every scar and every dimple, the whisper of goosebumps on her thighs, the jut of her hips, the map of veins across her spindly wrists.

With a soft groan he heaved himself up, pressing his full weight against her torso. For a moment he simply held her, his cheek pressed against the hard plane of her sternum. Breath for breath, they matched each other's rhythm, her heart beating a frantic song against his ear.

Her hands cradled his scalp, fingers running through his silvering curls. He closed his eyes, enjoying the warmth of it, letting the gentle pressure seep into his skull. “Don’t fall asleep on me, now,” she murmured. He lifted his head to meet her gaze, and when he did he could almost feel her worries dissipating with his smile, replaced by a soft purr of contentment that resonated through him. Sunlight sculpted soft shadows across her face, bathing her skin in a honeyed glow and tangling in her hair as it splayed across her pillow.

"Don't stop," she breathed, her fingers tugging at his hair. He didn’t stop – he kissed every part of her that he could, every part of her that he could reach while she writhed under his touch. By the time their lips finally met again, there was a warmth curling into his stomach, an impatience in his movements –

He had to force himself to pause, to take a breath, tucking his face against the dampness of her neck. He could already feel it, this primal need to lose control, to bury himself deep within her – she was already using his length as it remained tucked between them, rocking her hips back and forth as it slid between the slickness of her folds, whimpering into his ear about how good he felt, how good he was, how much she’d missed this, how much she needed him –

He could have taken her right then, so easily; could have slid himself into her warmth and fucked her until she’d milked every last drop from him – and he would have loved that, would have loved transporting them both back to a time where sex was uncomplicated and fun, back before she’d earned so many of her scars. But he wanted more from her than that - wanted more for her – and so he slowed himself. He pressed into her as though the weight of him alone would be enough to protect her, cupping her jaw with a calloused hand, tracing the familiar curve with his thumb, content for the moment to just enjoy the heaviness of his body slotted against hers, the sensation of her ribs pulsing against him with every breath. Her hips settled, confusion and concern warring in her gaze.

"Joel –"

"Darlin'." His head dipped low, every word spoken between the press of his lips against her collarbones, the slope of her shoulder. "You still with me?"

"Yes," she whimpered. His free hand was clenched into the sheets next to her shoulder; she arched her arm and grasped it with her hand, fingers intertwining with his, holding tight. "Joel – please –"

"Love you so goddamn much,” he murmured, his lips finding their way back to her neck, joined by his teeth; and he wasn’t gentle, tiny galaxies of violet blooming against her skin under the warmth of his breath. His bites were slow, deliberate, goosebumps following in their wake, a beautiful gasp elicited by each one. "So goddamn much. And I want you to feel good – only good. You feel good?"

“Yes,” she insisted. He shook his head, licking a stripe all the way up her neck until it curved around her ear, his tongue tracing the delicate rim of it while she shuddered beneath him. It wasn’t enough for him, this shaky affirmation – no matter how much he ached for her walls clenched around him, he couldn’t commit himself to what came next until he knew, truly knew that she was ready for him, eager and willing. He met her gaze again, his hand slipping from hers just so they could both cup her blushing face.

"Tell me, darlin'," he whispered, his voice a low rumble against her skin. “Tell me what you want me to do to you."

Her lips were soft, but insistent when they crushed themselves against his. It was as though she was trying to slide under his skin; there wasn’t a part of her body that wasn’t moving urgently against him, demanding his attention. Her long, trembling legs wrapped around his waist like clinging vines, her nails digging into his back, leaving trails of fire in their wake. He couldn't escape the feeling of her everywhere, this urgency that pulled at him until he had no choice but to surrender, because he lost track of time, lost track of himself in the dizziness that came with being pressed against her, her voice urging him on as she purred in his ear, I want you – I need you – please – please –

And it felt like salvation when slotted himself within her, inch by inch – he was rewarded for this, her head tilting back while a small cry of relief fluttered from her lips, her hips rolling against his until he’d worked his way into her fully, stretching her walls around him. His groans mingled with hers as he buried his face against her neck, taking in the heady combination of her shampoo and sweat, and the salty tang of the sea clinging to her wavy strands. In this moment they both surrendered to stillness. Every beat of her heart thrummed against his skin, filling him with a sense of completeness that he hadn’t quite expected, gratitude for her blooming in his chest.

“Baby.” Joel retreated his hips, drawing himself out just an inch or two and then rutting back in; a slow, lingering stroke. He wanted to take his time with her, to draw out as much pleasure for both of them as he could, but this was beginning to feel impossible. His resolve was already beginning to weaken, a more primal urge surging forward, a need to press on and take what he could, to claim her – but he reminded himself that he couldn't. He was meant only to give to her right now, not to take – her vulnerability a fragile thing that he could easily crush if he wasn't careful with it. “Feel so damn good. M’embarrassed – might not last very long.”

“Oh.” Her hand drifted away from his back, raking through his hair, holding tight with his curls clenched between her fingers. Her voice was light, the words floating out along her fluttery breaths. “Well, then. I guess you’d better make it count.” She rolled her hips again, sliding herself along his length, fucking herself with his body before he’d even dared to move. It was as though she ignited a fire in his gut – he met her move for move now, his strokes slow, deliberate, causing her to arch her neck and moan with each connection of their bodies, every sound she made vibrating against his lips as he kissed and nipped at her blemished skin.

“Faster,” she pleaded. His lips curved into a chuckle against the softness of her neck, his fingertips trailing lightly along the base of her skull.

“Sweetness,” he groaned, “if I go any faster, it’s gonna be over.” He could feel her breath quicken in response, something like a desperate whine streaming out of her throat as her fingers gripped even more tightly in his hair – and damn if that didn’t immediately drive him a little over the edge. He stilled his hips, tucking his face against her damp, warm skin, fighting back a sigh of impatience aimed at how his own body was currently trying to embarrass him,

She huffed slightly when he didn’t immediately acquiesce, winding her legs around him even more tightly and moving again. She set the pace this time, and he let her, following the rocking of her body as she clung to him, pleasure pooling in his stomach. She was so warm, alight in the waning sun, every bit of exposed skin gleaming with sweat, slippery against him with every movement. “Fuck,” he panted, his hand shooting out to steady himself against the headboard, because he couldn’t stop himself now, snapping his hips against hers, pumping deeper inside of her with every thrust, chasing his own satisfaction –

“Wait – stop –”

She was trying to kill him, he decided; had to be, because it was torture, this request. But he froze almost immediately, propping himself on his elbows so he could get a better look at her face (though he didn’t know what he’d do if he saw those familiar tears or that look of panic, if he realized she wasn’t as ready for all of this as he’d thought she was, if he’d managed to hurt her, even unintentionally, if, if...), because he was certain she wouldn’t purposefully inflict this – this delicious, agonizing torment – unless something was wrong –

Instead, it was a rather bashful expression that met his gaze; her face flushed and sparkling, biting her lip just to keep her smile somewhat in-check. “I…” Out of breath, she tilted her head back, inhaled deeply; he immediately kissed her neck, relief flooding him when she huffed out a laugh.

“You okay?” he asked her softly, his voice muffled against her skin as his lips traveled up, pressed against her jaw, her cheek. “Baby –”

“Yeah.” It came out with a puff of air, as though she’d been holding the word in her chest for too long. “Yeah – I just –” Her smile shifted, suddenly shy. “Can I get on top?”

His only response, the most natural one his heart could muster, was to kiss her – again, and again, until his lungs burned and the world tilted on its axis, and he didn’t care because she was still laughing, still moving with him, fitting him like she was made for him, like she’d been molded for him from the very beginning and then dropped on this earth just to find him. He was drowning in the scent of her hair, the sunlight glinting off her damp skin, the delicious friction where their bodies met –

– but then she was pushing him away, both hands firm against his chest, and he was letting her, because she was so insistent in her movements, one of her legs forcing him to roll over until he was on his back, her voice filling the space between them, begging, “please – let me – just let me make you feel good –” and he sure as hell wasn’t going to tell her no –

She clambered on top of him, straddling him with her skirt bunched up around her waist, spilling over his sides. She claimed him fully, immediately, submerging every inch of him within her warmth – and she was a vision as she began to ride him, her hips rolling and cresting like a wave clad in white and green flowers, face tilted to the ceiling, eyes closed, hair a glittering waterfall of molten gold bouncing against her back.

He thought nothing could have surprised him less than this, this fierce need for control, a need to reciprocate – but it wasn’t dominance, this time; it was just a desperate need to balance the scales, to give as good as she got, to remind him that he was the recipient of an affection so profound that it demanded a tangible exchange. He reveled in being the vessel for this outpouring, the one chosen to hold this fragile thing that existed between them – him, of all people, a man who certainly didn’t deserve it, but was lucky enough to have it anyway. So he held onto her hips with hands that done terrible things but only knew how to be kind to her, keeping her steady until he felt her shudder again, knew that she was coming loose on top of him, her muscles tensing, her groans escaping her throat as sharp bursts –

He savored every moment of her climax, letting her ride the waves of pleasure for as long as she needed. He watched her core move in time with his, her eyes slammed shut, and when she began to falter, her arms slack against the headboard and her hips faltering in their rhythm, only then did he join her in this bliss – and he was glad for her help with that, for the subtle guidance of her hips even when she crumpled against him, her hair hanging in his face so that all he could see was strands of gold; the way she let him take over those last few strokes, driving into her unburdened by gentleness, and the way that, at the last moment, she swept her hair away just so she could kiss him, so he could see her face and feel her hot breath on his skin while he fell apart, that knot in his stomach unraveling.

And this was magic, he thought; the way each thrust painted her insides with his release, his unwillingness to stop until he had nothing more to give, until his body stuttered and became still only out of exhaustion, drained and empty and yet full of bliss with her comforting weight pressed against his chest. He could barely move, could barely even think, but his hands seemed as though they had a mind of their own anyway, running up and down the back of her dress, damp with sweat, his mouth mumbling affectionate words that he barely even registered. They remained connected, his body still pulsing with aftershocks, heart lurching in his chest, and when she finally tipped herself over she brought him with her, one leg still slung over him as they rested on their sides, her face tucked against his neck.

Stars bled from his vision as he clumsily grasped her face in his hands. “Baby,” he said gently, enjoying her soft moan when he adjusted his hips, “you feel good?”

Silence stretched, a beat too long. Her eyelids remained stubbornly shut, even when she nodded, her lips a thin line, tightly pursed – and it was quick, that thread of panic that began to unwind in his chest, spooling loose and filling his limbs with little jolts of alarm. Dread clawed at him, and almost as though he thought it would somehow be a cure, he rained kisses down her face – her lips, her nose, her forehead, desperate to coax a reaction. Finally, her eyes fluttered open, and immediately a tear traced a glistening path down her cheek – and he kissed this, too. “I’m sorry,” she blurted out, his heart plummeting with every syllable, “it’s so stupid –”

“Not stupid.” He didn’t even know what it was, it was just reflexive, his need to ward away any semblance of self-doubt – and she seemed to realize this, because she laughed again, blinked away another tear, and with a shaky breath she reached up to pull him against her lips, the taste of salt and something deeper lingering there. “Tell me,” he mumbled when she pulled away, pressing his forehead against hers. “If that was…shit, I –”

“No, no,” she stammered. “I’m just – it’s a dumb thing to cry about.” Her laugh was a brittle thing, frayed at the edges. “I…” She pursed her lips, reaching her hand out, her fingertips tracing a feather-light path against his scars. He leaned into them, grateful for them, for this surge of warmth chasing away the sudden chill that had settled over him, chasing the ghost of her touch with a kiss to her palm when her fingers curled against his cheek. She didn’t linger here – she pivoted her arm, her hand and wrist pressed firmly against his eyes. The pleasure blossomed in his gut shifted, sharpened somewhat, twisting into a knot of anxious anticipation – because he could feel her shaking, the hand on his face fluttering like a bird trapped against his skin. “Just – give me a second, okay? Don’t look at me, maybe.”

“Don’t see that I got much of a choice in that.” He didn’t like this, the forced blindness, the lack of control – didn’t like that he couldn’t see her, couldn’t gauge her expression, that he had absolutely no idea if the woman he was still inside of was lying next to him with terror on her face – and this possibility, the sheer hypothetical of it made him feel about ready to crawl out of his skin, a mere figment of his panicked mind that felt suffocatingly real. “Benny –”

“Just – wait, okay? Just one minute.”

And so he waited, blind and anxious while her chest rose and fell against him, while her other hand began a rhythmic path up and down his back, fingers dragging along his skin. “Okay,” she finally sighed, and it was a little startling, the watery laugh that accompanied this. “I’m sorry, I just…” She dropped her hand from his face only because it was needed elsewhere, to wipe away the tears that streamed down her cheeks. She caught his expression, that anxiousness, the worry that no doubt was still etched across his features, and a chuckle bubbled up from her chest. “Just – a little overwhelmed, is all. Not – not in a bad way. I’m just –” Another laugh shook her body. “You have to think I’m crazy, oh my god –”

“Hey,” he said quietly, trying to force his voice into a tone that was more soothing – and she tried to rein it in, she really did, biting at her lips just to try to stop the laughter, though this only resulted in a sound more like a strangled hiccup. “Look at me.” She did, her lips parting just to let out another long, shuddering breath. “Y’aint crazy. Just wanna make sure you’re…okay, ‘cause –”

“I’m okay.” She said it so forcefully, it actually surprised him. “Because it’s not…that. I’m just…I’m really happy. And I’m not – it’s just been a while, since we…did this and I could – that it’s been only...good. And it’s just…a lot, okay? I…” And maybe she recognized his relief, because she didn’t hesitate to kiss him again, her hand sliding across his skin to squeeze at his thigh. “I think,” she mumbled against his lips, “I just…forgot how good it could be.”

“Oh.” He was so filled with relief, so full of affection for her; he pushed her hair away from her face for her, pressed his nose against her cheek with a small sigh. “Well – damn, woman,” he murmured, “glad I could remind you.”

When her bubbly laughter faded away, the silence that settled was like a warm blanket. Outside, the sun was dipping ever lower, the balcony finally cast in shadow. The light filtering through the windows and the tall glass door dimmed, tinged with the embers of a fading sunset. He couldn’t see his wife’s face as it was still tucked under his chin, but he could feel her; feel her presence in the steady rhythm of her breath, each exhale a sigh of contentment. The longer they lay there together, however, the more certain he became that she’d drifted off to sleep, draped so languidly across him.

A nagging thought prodded him; that at least one of them should be awake and ready to greet Ellie when she came back to the apartment – she wasn’t usually gone for more than a few hours at a time – but it was difficult to fully convince himself of this when he felt such peace. He couldn’t remember the last time they’d laid together like this after having sex, a moment just to enjoy the afterglow, and he realized for the first time that it was possible he missed that more than the act itself.

For just a few more minutes, he decided, everything else could wait. He closed his eyes.

#Joel Miller #Pedro Pascal #The Last of Us #TLOU #Smut #fanfic #fanfiction #TLoU smut #OC #so many ocs #more OCs than should ever exist tbh #Benny Cooper #As Long as You Follow #People Still Listen to Fleetwood Mac in the Apocalypse #Joel Miller x OC #Joel Miller x OFC

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sotogalmo · 7 months ago

Text

8 (5? days ago) — 9:48

Honestly. Writing on the Wall by Will Stetson, makes me think of lots of our Alnst OCs, but like. I dunno how to explain it- (I'm dissecting them all like frogs)

Song (Writing On The Wall, by Will Stetson):

“Palaces of silver and gold, Cannot be designed overnight. It's like the saying I've often been told: "No matter the cost, do things right"

You have to be careful, you have to be diligent. Planning and measuring every detail. Creating is drawing, erasing and drawing again.

And I've never been in it for fame or attention. I only work hard so the structures won't fail. But seeing it finished is worth every Mora I spend

Within every building made with pride. The architect lives on inside

Shining paint, a marble heart: That's what makes a work of art. We build and we play, sculpting dreams out of clay

With the hope that our towers don't fall. That we won't have to see the writing on the wall

The more you work, the higher the stakes, and the bigger the sorrows to drown. 'Cause one mistake is all that it takes for the walls to come crumbling down

You have to ignore them, the echoing voices, that cackle and curse as you toil away. Cover your ears and focus on boxes and lines

And the shadowy figures, they're nothing but shadows. Like ink on a page, they have nothing to say... But maybe, just maybe, they're trying to give me a sign

That in every building made with pride. The architect remains inside

Peeling paint, a heavy heart: That's what makes a work of art

We scream and we pray. Sculpting dreams out of clay

As we try not to look at the scrawl. The message of doom, the writing on the wall

Every day we play this game of chance. Whirling through a desperate dance. Sketching visions in our heads, just to see them ripped to shreds.

This road that we share... Doesn't lead anywhere

But there's nothing an artist can do. When you swing your brush, you have to follow through

Within every building made with pride: The architect is trapped inside

Bleeding paint, a shattered heart: That's what makes a work of art

I'll fight for control. But the right way takes a toll

And still, at the end of it all

I can't escape my fate

The writing's on the wall.”

So, those are the lyrics. And now I will be connecting them to almost all of our OCs or the best I can that it, which will be under cut! (I gotten more weird at the end, but eh. I hope you don't mind it???)

"Palaces of silver and gold, Cannot be designed overnight. It's like the saying I've often been told: ”No matter the cost, do things right“." — the intro lyric, which I think fits almost all of our OCs. But it mainly makes me think of Solei ( @solei-eclipse ) and Rose ( @rosedeleca ). Rose has made a gift for Solei, and Solei has made a gift for Azure ( @4listr ).

"You have to be careful, you have to be diligent. Planning and measuring every detail. Creating is drawing, erasing and drawing again." — once again, goes with the top. How Rose and Solei are both very artistic, making gifts for others. But also Himei ( @lookatmysillies ), if I remember correctly, she can make clothes!

"And I've never been in it for fame or attention. I only work hard so the structures won't fail. But seeing it finished is worth every Mora I spend." — Azure, Solei, and others. I mean, it's fitting ain't it? Azure practically says the same thing when interviewed (even though he really doesn't care at all). 'seeing it finish is worth every Mora I spend' can go with how the others react towards being given a gift

"Within every building made with pride. The architect lives on inside." — smth smth, I just find it,, nice?? That like. After para made their OC, we all jumped in to join them. I like to think that para was the starting point on how far we've come; like the glue that holds this community that we build!

"Shining paint, a marble heart: That's what makes a work of art. We build and we play, sculpting dreams out of clay" — The first lyrics 'shining paint, a marble heart: that's what makes a work of art' kinda makes me think of Moran ( @geospiral ) and Tov ( @ivanttakethis ). 'we build and we play, sculpting dreams out of clay', I dunno I dunno. Just the fact that Solei made a butterfly gift for Azure. Maybe they used clay? I dunno

"With the hope that our towers don't fall. That we won't have to see the writing on the wall." — animation with a metaphorical area that only a few characters look towards; it's like a church of sorts. I guess it can be said that the church looks like some vampire castle? Or some abandoned church that is! They look towards it, and just. Stare- like there are words there or a ghost of sorts. Dian ( @rockwgooglyeyes ) and others that share his personality, are half looking at it while also looking towards the future with a relaxed and “cocky” pose if that makes sense. The ones looking back are the ones with the opposite of Dian and others' personality. They are staring right at it, and the ones FULLY optimistic (Flor I would say?) are FULLY looking away from the abandoned church, and looking into the bright side of the wall? Or of the sky.

"The more you work, the higher the stakes, and the bigger the sorrows to drown. 'Cause one mistake is all that it takes for the walls to come crumbling down." — Solei, and their whole escape. Sai vs Vera ( @junebluues ). And others planning their escape or something similar

"You have to ignore them, the echoing voices, that cackle and curse as you toil away. Cover your ears and focus on boxes and lines." — Rosca, and others with a somewhat similar mean personality. Ignore them, and just live on. But of course, they are also the same. To ignore them is to ignore the aliens. And that's what they want to do. That's why she (Rosca) likes her (Flor).

"And the shadowy figures, they're nothing but shadows. Like ink on a page, they have nothing to say... But maybe, just maybe, they're trying to give me a sign." — Aliens, are nothing but aliens and observers. Don't they do anything helpful. We are in the garden, and it's nice! .. but what they tell us.... Why is it always repeated?

"That in every building made with pride. The architect remains inside." — 'remains' in many ways. Body parts, no matter the area. Or even no matter the blood that oozes or just bursts out. 'made with pride' is what the aliens share when they talk about them, dead or alive.

"Peeling paint, a heavy heart: That's what makes a work of art." — 'that's what makes a work of art', is what most alien guardians will say when they talk about the troubles that some pets make. 'peeling paint,' faces and facades are falling. 'a heavy heart', Tov. She understands it well. Even if she really doesn't, she does feel it. Others as well- but by her logs and reactions.

"We scream and we pray. Sculpting dreams out of clay." — The stage, that is what this explains. To show our dreams to these beasts who have no souls. To scream 'it 's so much fun!' 'i like this!' or anything they want to hear. To pray? Impossible, the church is crumbling.

"As we try not to look at the scrawl. The message of doom, the writing on the wall." — 'Message of doom', always to know our end; prophesized. It's easy to forget it just for a little moment. But it'll never be enough.

"Every day we play this game of chance. Whirling through a desperate dance. Sketching visions in our heads, just to see them ripped to shreds." —

"This road that we share... Doesn't lead anywhere." — Onyx and Dian, Isla and Monica ( @nottoonedin ), Flor and Rosca, Tallis and Himei, Daiki and Tina ( @teapotuser ), and many others. To be separated. To be gone.

"But there's nothing an artist can do. When you swing your brush, you have to follow through." — As said in these two lyrics. Nothing else to do, but to follow or be gone forever.

"Within every building made with pride: The architect is trapped inside." — Solei, with the whole fact that I just KNOW that their presence HAUNTS the narrative, and how Solei was the.. basically the building block for this whole season and this community that we made together. Moran and others too. They were the ground, why is it now so easy to fall off?

"Bleeding paint, a shattered heart: That's what makes a work of art." — Bleeding. Everything is bloody. I don't like it. ‘shattered’, is my world. Even if not, but for others. “That's what makes a work of art”, bastards.

"I'll fight for control. But the 'right way' takes a toll." — I want to live for myself! I WILL live for myself! ..... But, I'm scared.

"And still, at the end of it all" — No matter how much I don't want to feel it.. or know it

"I can't escape my fate. The writing's on the wall" — I can't... oh God. Two dead bodies, Solei is missing. ... Another one was added.

The flowers always wilting, ghosts to haunt and of different states of minds or feelings.... (~ piano; outro. Along with some Dark Wood Circus lyrics)

#time diary(?)#audrey/kellie's time diary #letting the brain talk (analyzing edition)#alien stage #alnst #alien stage ocs #alnst ocs #alien stage oc #alnst oc #so many ocs #<- im NOT gonna tag them. to many

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