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umseb · 11 months ago

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The Day Sebastian Vettel Decided To Retire From F1 — Then Annoyed Aston Bosses With Climate Campaign

Two years ago, Sebastian Vettel decided to bring an end to his glittering F1 career, so picked up the phone to Matt Bishop, then Aston Martin comms boss. He details the ensuing scramble and Vettel's increasing determination to speak out

Just over two years ago, on Wednesday July 27, 2022, I was forced to do something that I really hate doing: at the eleventh hour I had to cancel a long-standing dinner arrangement with my husband and two of our dearest friends, who live in New York and were on holiday in London for a week. The reason was that, at 5 pm that afternoon, I received a phone call from Sebastian Vettel telling me that he had decided to announce his retirement from Formula 1 in the Hungarian Grand Prix paddock the following day. I was Aston Martin's chief communications officer at the time, and, when something as big as that is sprung on a Formula 1 team's most senior comms/PR operative, he or she has to drop everything and focus on briefing colleagues in confidence, writing press releases, planning social media content, arranging press conferences, and formulating comms/PR strategies designed to optimise the management of a tricky news narrative that in this case would surely unfold rapidly, and perhaps also trickily, over the next 24, 48, 72, and 96 hours. I have written above that Vettel had "sprung" his decision on me, but, although the imminence of his announcement was a surprise, its content was not. Four months earlier you will recall that he did not travel to Jeddah for the Saudi Arabian Grand Prix, since he was recovering from a bout of Covid-19. His place was taken by Nico Hülkenberg, who, despite race-rustiness caused by his not having competed in F1 the previous year, did a typically excellent job.

Seb had made no secret of his disapproval of the Saudi regime when we had all gone there the first time, in December 2021, and, not surprisingly, in March 2022 rumours soon began to spread to the effect that he had invented a Covid-19 diagnosis so as to avoid racing there a second time. The truth was that he had indeed had Covid-19, and that he was indeed still unwell; however, was he disappointed to have had to skip the 2022 Saudi Arabian Grand Prix? No, he was not. Two weeks later, in Melbourne, he was back. On the Thursday before the Australian Grand Prix, in the Albert Park paddock, I gave him his comms/PR briefing, as was my habit on the Thursday before every grand prix. We discussed media matters of moment, including his not having raced in Jeddah. "The truth is that I was ill, honestly," he said, "but I admit that I don't like or approve of the country, so if I was going to have to miss a race because of Covid-19 that's probably the one I'd want to miss." He paused, smiled, and added, "I'm pretty sure I'm never going to race there again." Then and there I realised that 2022 would probably be his final season as an F1 driver. Not only was the Saudi Arabian Grand Prix going to be a fixture on the F1 calendar for years to come, but also one of Aston Martin's principal sponsors was Aramco, Saudi Arabia's state-owned national oil company. Missing that particular race without a 24-carat excuse would henceforth therefore be impossible for any Aston Martin driver. So, axiomatically, it followed that the only way he could make sure that he would never have to race there again would be to retire from F1 at the end of the year.

On the morning of Thursday, July 28, 2022, having worked until 3 am the night before, my comms/PR team and I issued a video in which our much loved four-time world champion announced his F1 retirement in his own words, and he posted it on his then brand-new Instagram channel at the same time. It included the following sentences, which he spoke with his usual eloquence: "I love this sport but, as much as there's life on track, there's also life off track. Being a racing driver has never been my sole identity. I want to be a great father and a great husband. I believe in change, and progress, and that every little bit you do can make a difference. We all have the same rights, no matter where we come from, what we look like, or whom we love. I'm an optimist and I believe that people are good, but, in addition, I feel that we live in very difficult times. How we shape the next few years will determine the rest of our lives. Talk is not enough. We can't afford to wait. I believe that there's still a race to win." The race to which he was referring was his growing and accelerating commitment to doing whatever he could to leverage his fame and popularity for the good of the inhabitants of planet Earth. That may sound grandiose, but it is also entirely valid. In the two years during which I worked with him, 2021 and 2022, we won awards for the inspirational way in which he did just that.

Just before the 2021 Styrian Grand Prix, helped by local schoolchildren, he created an F1 car-shaped 'bee hotel' at the Red Bull Ring. Three weeks later, straight after the British Grand Prix, in which he had raced hard for forty laps until his Aston Martin's Mercedes engine had terminally overheated, he led a group of volunteer litter-pickers to clear the Silverstone grandstands of the trash that irresponsible spectators had left behind. A month after that, in Hungary, infuriated by that country's new anti-LGBTQ+ legislation, he wore rainbow-coloured sneakers in the F1 paddock, and he donned a similarly hued T-shirt bearing the legend #SameLove as he took the knee on the grid before the race. Throughout the weekend he had talked to journalists and TV crews intelligently, thoughtfully, and compassionately on the subject of LGBTQ+ rights, equality, and inclusion. In May 2022 he visited and spoke inspirationally at HMP (Her, or now His, Majesty's Prison) Feltham, a young offenders institution in a suburb of west London, formally opening a new workshop in which the teenage inmates could learn how to become car mechanics as part of their rehabilitation. Immediately afterwards he and I took a South Western Railways train to London's Waterloo Station, sitting among regular commuters, so that he could spend time with the pupils of Oasis Johanna Primary School, which is in a disadvantaged part of inner London, and after that we went by Uber taxi to a church in Hackney, in the East End, where the BBC's prestigious political television talk show Question Time would be filmed. As the TV cameras rolled, he conversed fluently on the subjects of Brexit, the UK's cost of living crisis, the then-Prime Minister Boris Johnson's 'partygate' shenanigans, and even Finland's desire to join NATO, consummately out-arguing one of his fellow panellists, Suella Braverman, who was then the Attorney General for England and Wales and the Advocate General for Northern Ireland.

In addition, as the months went by, he continued to speak out in support of what he saw as humankind's collective global responsibility to address the climate crisis, doing so with increasing regularity, vehemence, and fearlessness, with the result that he began to irritate the very most senior people at Aston Martin, even though what he said tended to please most journalists and fans. "I don’t care," he said when he learned of his big bosses' disquiet. "I must do what's right." Behind the scenes what he did was perhaps even more admirable. F1 teams receive communications from troubled people all the time. You try to do what you can to help them, but sometimes their difficulties are of the type that human kindness alone cannot resolve. I am thinking of recently bereaved people, terminally ill people, profoundly disabled people, people with debilitating mental health issues, etc. Sometimes all you can do is send them a team cap signed by a driver. It is not much, and it breaks your heart that you cannot do more, but it is better than nothing.

Yet Vettel always tried to do more. On one occasion, I had been contacted by a young man who was deeply depressed. I told Seb about him, and he said, "Let's do a Zoom call with him." So I arranged it. I had thought that Seb might speak for five minutes or so, but no. He chatted animatedly for more than twenty minutes, with touching humility and heart-warming empathy, and I feel confident when I say that those twenty-odd minutes were significant in expediting the lad's mental and emotional recovery. A few months later, Seb hand-wrote the boy a four page letter. He gave it to me at a grand prix-I cannot remember which one-and he instructed me to post it on when I returned to the UK. I read it before I did so, and the tenderness and beauty of Seb's prose brought me to tears. There are many other examples of his remarkable generosity and sensitivity: too many to mention, in fact. This column has been about Vettel the man, not Vettel the driver. He was fast and clever in the cockpit, and I may well write about that side of him one day. I could write much more about Vettel the man, too, for I have dozens of stories that I could tell on that subject, because I worked very closely with him for two years and, more importantly, because he is a truly great man. In my long career I am lucky enough to have spent time in F1 teams with four world champions-Seb, Lewis Hamilton, Fernando Alonso, and Jenson Button-and they are all fantastic guys in their own, very different, ways. But, in my 61 years on this planet, I can state with confident and emphatic certainty that Sebastian Vettel, from the small town of Heppenheim, south-west Germany, is one of the most impressive people whom I have ever had the pleasure and honour to know, whether that be inside or outside F1. As he is fond of saying, "You can't always be the best, but you can always do your best." As a maxim to live by, it is hard to beat.

article by matt bishop

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gloomwitchwrites · 9 months ago

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Blood in the Garden Shed

Simon "Ghost" Riley x Female Reader

Content & Warnings (MDNI): Bluebeard Retelling, Fairy Tale Retelling, Biblical allusions, marriage, minor violence, horror, suspense, minor body horror, all hurt no comfort

Word Count: 1.3k

A/N: Requested by @id-get-sleazy-for-ron-weasley for 3.5k Spooky Bingo (Free Space)

You have no memory of the time before your husband. Before—Simon. But why should you worry over that? Your house is perfect. Your husband is perfect. Everything is perfect. So why does the house feel alive, and why can you never enter the garden shed? Everything is perfect. Isn't it?

ao3 // main masterlist // 3.5k spooky bingo masterlist

You have no memory of the time before your husband. Before—Simon.

You cannot even recall when the two of you moved into the cottage you call home. There was nothing—and then there was a garden, a kitchen, a marriage bed.

Days are for tending to the house and reading in the solarium. The interior is your domain. Every day you clean the floors and fixtures, bake fresh pastries for Simon to take with him to work, and when Simon returns, the dinner table is set with a hot meal.

Evenings are for him. To indulge and care for him.

And if Simon tucks himself away in his study, you do not bother him.

And you do not enter the garden shed.

These are things he’s told you, and you adhere to them, because keeping Simon happy is your purpose. You live for his smile, for his touches, and his gentle kisses.

In bed, in the dark, you welcome him in and tell him how good it was after.

This is your purpose—it always has been.

“I’ll be away for a few days.”

“For work?”

Simon grasps your chin, staring into your eyes. “You know not to ask questions.”

Your gaze casts downward. “The house feels empty without you.”

“I’ll be back soon. Won’t be long.”

“I’ll miss you. Miss you already.”

“I’m right here, love.”

On the third day, the house comes alive.

The windows creak as if expanding in their frames. Every time you enter the hallway, you feel a rush of air, as if the house is exhaling. There are phantom fingers that brush your scalp and pull at your clothes.

“I’m lonely.”

“I’m here now, love.”

You push the food on your plate around. “How was your work trip?”

“Good,” replies Simon after he swallows.

“Anything exciting happen?”

He shakes his head. “This chicken is lovely.”

You perk up. “I used herbs. From the garden.”

Simon stops chewing. Glances up. “You took from the garden?”

You blink. “I—I’ve taken before. You—”

The garden. The garden is Simon’s. He tends to it like you tend to the house. Sometimes, you’ll awaken in the middle of the night and find him out there, digging.

“Only take when I’m here. You know the rules.”

Tears begins to form in your eyes. You hate upsetting him—worse—you hate your quickness to tears.

“No, love. No need for that.” He gets up and comes around the table. “I appreciate the effort. I love you.”

“I love you.”

Your neighbors don’t give you the time of day. Mrs. Heron accepts your cookies but insists upon you returning home. Mr. Badger gives you a gracious smile but suggests that Simon would prefer you home.

Strange. Unsettling.

There is an emptiness.

And the house breathes whenever Simon isn’t around, as if it too holds its breath for his arrival and departure.

“This is new.”

“It’s for you.”

“You built this for me?” you ask, all breathy with amazement. Your hand rests against the polished wood.

“You needed a new one. For all your books.”

Simon has been in the garden. He’s been in the shed. There is dirt on his clothes and skin. You smell the flowers, and something…else. Like rusty iron.

“Thank you, Simon. I love it.”

“More than you love me?”

“Never.”

The floor is squishy near Simon’s office door. You inspect the area, tapping it with your foot, and tell Simon that he needs to take a look at it. He reassures you, but the squishy sensation only grows until the entire hall and connecting bedroom are affected.

“It’s nothing. You’re imagining things.

“Simon—”

“Why all the questions?”

“Do you not feel that?”

“Are you not happy?”

The question startles you. “Of course I’m happy.”

“Then listen to me and move on. The floor is fine. You’re imagining things.”

But you’re not imagining things. The bookshelf Simon built for you leans now, and when you touch it, the same squishy texture greets your fingers.

The neighbors won’t give you the time of day, and there is no one to listen. You are alone in this house, even when Simon dwells within its walls.

“I’ll be gone again. Three days. Like last.”

“I’ll miss you. Miss you even now.”

“I know, love.”

The first night, the wind howls outside, and something scratches at your window. On the second night it storms, and with it comes a ravenous bang, one that startles you out of bed. It is a torrential downpour, but through the rainfall, you notice the door of the garden shed. It stands open, swaying in the breeze.

You rush out, the ground becoming mud beneath your feet. The door swings wildly, and when you snag it, the wind threatens to tear it right from your hands. The garden shed is off-limits. You should shut the door and go inside. Simon will know. He will—

—there is a pit in the floor.

Lightening ripples across the sky, and you see it again.

A…pit. Not a drain. There is no grate. Nothing sitting on top of it.

It’s open, but not large enough for an entire person to fall in. But certainly, pieces of someone.

“You were supposed to be the last.” You hear Simon’s voice just over your shoulder. A whisper even over the roaring thunder. “The final creation. The perfect wife.” You spin and find Simon standing there. “He promised.”

Simon stares up into the sky, the rain soaking him further. “You promised!” he screams.

The thunder answers with a deafening boom. Behind him the lights in the house flicker.

“Who promised?”

Simon rubs at his face and then sighs heavily. "I don't want to hurt you."

"Simon."

He digs in his pocket. “Drink this. You’ll fall asleep. Won’t hurt at all.”

“No, Simon.” He presents a small bottle and you smack at it.

“Why are you acting like this?”

“You’re scaring me!”

Simon lunges and you are unable to resist. There is no struggle. His hands are vice-grips. They wrench your jaw open, spilling the liquid down your throat. You cough—attempt to push it back up but Simon massages your throat, forcing it down.

Tears burn in your eyes. This is your husband. Your protector.

How could he do this?

A lingering burn sits in your throat. Everything goes blurry after, but nothing hurts. It’s just…numb. A sense of floating.

Lightening flashes, and you notice the stains around the pit in the floor. The tools on the wall.

Floating. Drifting.

And then nothing at all.

He kept your eyes.

A trinket and a punishment.

He preserved them in amber and placed them in his office alongside all the other wives. There are ears and limbs. Hearts. Nails. Strands of hair.

The rest of you went into the pit in the floor. Your blood watered the garden.

There is a new wife now. A new Eve.

Simon waited for three days in the garden after the storm before she crawled her way out of the dirt. He sent his thanks to Him. Carried her inside. Washed her and dressed her.

He says all the same things he said to you.

You watch from your perch on the bookshelf he built for you, now moved into his cluttered office. Here you rest with the other wives, the hundreds of others. Sometimes, their minds touch yours, a brief flicker of agony and loneliness before departing.

When he tells his new wife that he’s leaving on a trip, he really means this room. Simon stays here, spending time with each of you. Now you know why you were never allowed to enter. What would you think of him had you known?

Maybe this new one will break free.

Maybe she’ll be the last.

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harlotsforcinnamon · 16 days ago

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(Also on Ao3!)

In the dim strobing light of the club, Declan cast heavy eyes over Adam.

It’d been just shy of two years since Adam had come to him, skinny, simultaneously young and old for his age in the way that Declan knew well, Robert Parrish’s last-ditch attempt to buy his way out of debt. Ordinarily Declan would have sent the kid back in the backseat of a car driven by a man with a baseball bat and a keen interest in the resilience of knees.

But something about those colorless eyes, those colorless lashes, that lank, dusty hair. This boy was living as a ghost, and the way his eyes played over Declan from brogues to signet ring, never quite lifting his eyes enough to make a connection, but hungry, starving, gave Declan pause.

Why not give the kid a little rope? Maybe he’d hang himself, but then again, maybe he’d prove himself useful with a garrote.

Within a year, Adam had quietly established himself as Declan’s shadow, joined at the sole.

Wherever Declan went, Adam went with him, quiet and elegant and unafraid to get his hands dirty.

He gave a lot of people the shivers, and there was much speculation that whatever it was that most people had that kept them clinging to a normal, safe, comfortable life had been burned out of him.

Only Declan knew about Adam’s deaf ear, about the cigarette scars burned into his thighs. When Robert Parrish fell ill of the Family again, six months after Declan had so generously accepted the offer of his only son in exchange for expunging his record, Declan sent Adam, alone, and he’d returned to him, a burning shadow, pale and bloodless but for the rusty stains at his shirt cuffs.

He’d started dressing like Declan not long after that, combing his hair the same way. He couldn’t afford a clever Italian tailor, even on the retainer Declan paid him, but he approximated, clothing himself in slate gray slacks and a second-hand brown leather jacket rather than sharp black. Unobtrusive. Easier to overlook.

He became a fixture. So much so that members of the Family would start going to Adam rather than bothering Declan with their problems, that members of other Families would spot Declan lounging in a private booth across the crowded nightclub and would automatically search the crowd for Adam, knowing he wouldn’t be far.

Alone in Declan’s hotel room in a city like every other city in the world, all light and music and sin and bruise-purple night sky, Declan curled a hand into Adam’s collar and put him on his knees. Adam went, colorless eyes patient, unsurprised. Declan’s signet ring glittered against the pearl gray of Adam’s shirt.

Declan’s voice was smooth as a bow drawn across taut catgut.

“Are you still my man?”

Adam looked up with him with those cold eyes, clear as rainwater.

“I made a promise. That I would be your hands. That I would be your eyes.”

#decladam #declan lynch #adam parrish #trc #the raven cycle #trc fic #the raven cycle fanfic #posty mcpostface #so it is written

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bedbugbiting · 2 months ago

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I have had one hell of a night. Day. Whatever.

I was preparing to take a bath before bed last night, and while running bath water, I heard a strange noise. The noise kept repeating. The cats clearly heard, it too. I turned off the bath water and found that it was my smoke alarm/carbon monoxide detector. I JUST had a new one installed last month so I knew it wasn't a dying battery. There was no smoke, and the carbon monoxide alarm actually talks when there's carbon monoxide detected, so it wasn't that.

I looked at the alarm and there was water pouring out of it. Water. Pouring out of my smoke alarm. The smoke alarm didn't like this and decided to make incessant chirping sounds. Most of you know how I feel about high-pitched repetitive sounds.

I hit the button to stop the alarm but it didn't work. I removed the alarm from the ceiling and water poured down. I put an old dish tub on the floor to catch the water.

At this point, the alarm decided to go off at its full volume. I stopped it, but it kept going off. Again, again, and again. This was after 10pm and I knew my neighbors could hear. I am absolutely terrified of anyone complaining about me, so I ended up deactivating my alarm entirely just so it would shut up. You can't reactivate those things, so I just don't have an alarm now. My ears are still ringing from holding a shrieking alarm.

At a bit before 4am, the cats got into a massive fight. Maggie got soaked because she jumped into the dish tub with the rusty leak water. She also poured rusty leak water onto my dirty laundry. It was already dirty, but now it's rusty, wet, and dirty.

I had to separate the cats. Maggie was wet and growling. They knocked over everything on my nightstand. Art on the wall was crooked. They were doing angry cat parkour.

I had to get up early to babysit for my friend. Then I have art class. Then I have a concert I'm going to but would rather not. I don't have time to deal with maintenance and this leak or whatever is happening.

I am so tired.

This is the second ceiling leak I have had recently. The first one caused water to come in through my bathroom light fixtures. They told me it originated from the bathroom directly above mine. This time, the water seemed to come from me, and it stopped dripping once I stopped running bath water, so maybe I just can't bathe anymore.

I haven't used my dishwasher in a year and a half because it was leaking downstairs. They "fixed" it, but I don't trust them!

I have to tell my landlord "HEY, I have rusty water coming into my apartment and also I don't have a smoke detector even though you JUST installed one. Can you come back and fix this? Great." You all know how much I love dealing with my landlord!

When this stuff wasn't happening, people were screaming for a recently-evicted drug dealer next door. My head hurts and I'm so, so sleepy.

Evidence of cat parkour:

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deniable-masterpiece · 1 year ago

Note

What about the reader is terrified of spiders, so when johnny corners them, they back into a wall where there's webs and spiders. They freak out, preferring to jump into the arms of a killer than have spiders on them.

Id love to know how johnny would react, if he'd be surprised and try to talk them through their fear or would torture them by making them touch the webs. (This would definitely be me because im terrified of spiders 😅😅)

johnny slaughter x gender neutral!reader

a/n — IM SCARED OF THEM TOO. FUCK GODS GREEN EARTH NO ONE WOULD EVER WILLINGLY MAKE THOSE FREAKs. (but bees scare me more and I injected just a tad of that in here too cause they can FLY. ohhhhh if spiders could fly too it'd be over for me😭) btw let me know if Johnny needs to be written differently, I'm still getting used to writing a southern character since I usually write characters with transatlantic accents and dialect and alll!

summary — check the ask! basically the same, I just tried to make Johnny somewhere in the middle between mean and comforting + ambitious ending to the best I could

warnings — implied harm, mentions of blood (it's really tame)

word count — 2k

~~~ story under the cut!

You had to get out of this place. You didn’t know what this was, all you knew was that you were underground, trapped in a maze with psychos trying their hardest to get you. Screams came above as well as below, where you were. It was dark in some areas and barely lit in others, letting you know that there must have been a way up. There was a guy with a freaking chainsaw! But worst of all, there were spiders. Everywhere. They rappelled down from the rusty light fixtures and sheets of metal tinning the roof of each tunnel with a thin glistening string that you had to be mindful of to avoid. The blood on your face was no match for a spider coming into contact with it, or any part of your body for that matter. You couldn’t count how many times you had walked right into one moving itself down a line of silk. In every crevice and crack, in all the hiding spots, and even weaving little webs between each rickety step leading up from the basement.

The place was already confusing enough as is, but when you reached the top step—where the high Texas sun met the line of darkness enshrouding the basement—you knew you were in the clear from those eight-legged freaks. Now, you just had to deal with the ones with two legs, buzzing around like worker bees trying to get their sweet, sweet blood-red honey.

The start of it was easy—their footsteps strong and heavy and the creaking of the floorboards gave away their positions, so you knew what rooms to avoid in their farmhouse. One guy was too busy setting up traps around the various places you could squeeze yourself through, and the blonde girl a few feet away from him was waiting to “add a little something” as she put it. You didn’t want to stick around to find out what she meant, so you found freedom through an unlocked door at the back of the house. Their front yard was a mess of old cars and fencing found on farms in the area—you had driven by enough when traveling to Newt to recognize them. They were used for cattle, but their purpose here was to keep people in with its complex layout, and you were almost out of the dilapidated mess.

Down along the path was a shack with what you hoped would be more supplies. Something like another thin object to slide into the various padlocks these freaks had installed, or something sharp to defend yourself with. Whatever it was, it just had to be something useful. You did your best not to get spotted, keeping away from the beaten path by ducking into the tall grass for most of your walk down to the shack. The first door you noticed on the exterior was unlocked and opened with ease like they weren’t trying to protect the things inside—or stop anyone from leaving. But everything looked to be personal on the inside, intimately lived in with a mess of wrappers and laundry and dirty dishes crowding up such a small space. He was a worker bee with no time for himself.

And just like that, you could hear his buzzing in the form of footsteps from outside. You moved to hide behind the side of his couch, crouching and hoping that it covered enough of your figure to make it seem like you weren’t there. His boots were heavy on the ground outside and heavier on the wood floor. He had little care for the door, slamming it open with a loud bang. Maybe he would do a quick sweep around the room and leave, but the words uttered under his breath proved you wrong. “They’re always so careless…”

He must have been tracking you, and you wondered for how long. Maybe that’s why it had been so easy to get down to this place—he wanted you to come here. While you were hidden behind his couch, you took the brief opportunity to map the area out. Everything was either too big or too risky to run for if you wanted to fight back, but there was a slit in the wall furthest from you. It looked like a piece of it had fallen off, creating the perfect diffusion in the house’s cracks for your escape. The only thing now was deciding when to run, when to risk it all, and expose yourself for a brief moment before you slipped through the little mousehole.

But that never happened. Your window of opportunity escaped faster than you when you entered this building because the man’s footsteps were steady, straight, and determined. He didn’t miss a single beat and rounded his couch in seconds upon entering the place. You could see his fingers tooling with the knife in his hands, preparing to keep a firm grip on it as he slashed and sliced. He went for his first swing, missing as you stood up and made a dash for the slit in the wall. You still intended on running, even if he had already found you.

“You thought you could hide in my stink? When this is all over, I’ll add that pretty face of yours to the collection.” The voice sounded painfully close to you, and you could feel the swish of air as he swung again with his knife. He didn’t land the hit but in your attempt to dodge it, you moved too far to one side and came into contact with the wall to your left. Your exit was so close, but he closed in on you, making it impossible to reach unless you intended to overpower the man with sheer strength alone.

With your back pressed flat against the wall, you had no choice but to accept what was going to come to you. That was until you felt a sensation along your neck and arms. It was this light, almost invisible touch but you knew it all too well. Just one strand of it needed to ghost your skin, and the rest of your body would light up with fear—thinking that the silky sensation of a spider’s web was all over you. It was irrational, but also completely sane. Those eight-legged freaks were quick to weave webs and they could be crawling all over you right now! You couldn’t stand the thought of one being on you or near you, let alone multiple. In your panic, you moved away from the wall and towards the man in front of you. Who cares if he had a knife and a murderous intent? Those spiders had eight legs, were probably poisonous, and would bite you the first chance they got, at least this guy would only do one of those when you were in his arms. Your arms were between your body and his, feeling the reassurance of the fabric of his tattered black tank. He seemed to be happy by the outcome of your reaction, but he didn’t know what caused it other than his own ego.

“Good, you’re makin’ this easy for me. I’ll be nice and make it hurt a little less.” He laughed, sounding delighted before it faded into something sinister. He spoke again but with a gruff tone, then confusion followed, “Playtime—huh?”

Johnny noticed that you weren’t looking at him with pleading eyes. The begging he was used to hearing, the same kind he would chuckle and grin at before turning those cries into screams never came. Instead, your head was turned back to look at the decently sized web spun up against the wall. It filled out the entire corner and it was almost impossible to not touch it when he backed you into that part of his shack.

“The hell is your problem?” He asked, “Do those things bother ya?”

You nodded your head. When you did look back towards him, he was met with a frustrated look with outlines of fear twisting your face and twinging your voice. “Why haven’t you killed that thing?”

“He ain’t hurtin’ nobody!” Johnny defended himself. “I like to think that me and him have a… a similar connection and he eats the mosquitoes takin’ all the blood form ya that I want to drain, but I’ll get rid of ‘em if it means you’ll get your priorities straight.”

Johnny wasted no time moving around you and getting to work on the spider’s web. This was your chance to run, the hole in the wall just a few feet away as you backed up to give him some room. But you didn’t go anywhere, you stood and watched as he tooled his knife in circles, spindling it until roughly half of his blade was covered in a spool of cobwebs with a few spiders too stunned to move resting on it.

He turned back around, holding the blade close enough to himself that it was making you uncomfortable just seeing it. You imagined them crawling under his gloves, laying eggs, and hatching a million spider babies in the few seconds they were under there, and then a flurry would crawl out from underneath and create a sleeve of themselves over his arm.

“Could you… get rid of it?” You asked, wincing at the sight of the spiders. They weren’t even moving—but maybe they were preparing to jump like some of them do.

Johnny was fed up by this point. He started to feel as if he had gone after the worst of the victims by tracking you. “Aw hell, that thing is more scared of you than you are of it!”

“I just… hate them,” you shuddered. Your eyes darted up to his face, taking solace in that as it was a much better sight than the wiry spiders he was handling. You tried to think of something else to, and you ended up saying something smart back to the unreadable stranger. “And your knife won’t be much use if you can’t, uh, stab me.”

You could hear him complaining to himself as he brushed past you, “I should make you lick this for giving me trouble.”

But he never did. He marched right outside, making sure you followed close behind him with a wave of his covered hand. It gave you a second to think while he was distracted. Why was he being so nice? He was part of the same group that had you strung up by the arms hours ago, and now he was clearing his place of the spiders—which, he would have a lot of work to do if you were to stay here. The sheer number of them would make you call an exterminator for the entire state of Texas; this place felt like their central hive. Your thoughts were interrupted when you stepped outside, and you two stood on the flattened dirt path leading back up to the house you had just escaped from. Johnny had stopped, turning back to point the blade at your face.

“See?” He said, bringing the blade closer to you. He got a kick out of seeing you squirm, but you had an underlying trust that he wouldn’t do anything too impulsive like throwing it at you. “Didn’t move an inch.”

He bent down, kneeling to keep himself steady as he pinched the part of his knife where the silvery steel met the molded handle and, with one clean sweep, wiped the spiders and their webs clean off onto the ground. He stood back up and pressed his boot down into the dirt. You watched with your own eyes as the spiders were obliterated into nothing but mangled remains. For extra insurance, he swiped the blade of his knife across his jean-clad thigh to make sure it was clean. Then, he turned back to you with a proud look on his face.

“There we go.” He trailed off, his eyes darkening at the realization that all of your attention was back on him. “Now, where were we…?”

#x reader #x male reader #johnny slaughter #johnny tcm #texas chainsaw massacre game #johnny slaughter x reader #johnny slaughter x you #johnny slaughter x male reader #johnny slaughter x gn!reader #x gender neutral reader #johnny slaughter x gender neutral reader #johnny slaughter x y/n #x y/n #x you #fanfic #tw spiders #spider tw #arachnophobia tw

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renmackree · 6 months ago

Note

Ooh, number 8 for the Write a Kiss meme please! 😄

send a ship and a number, get a kiss || Open

8. ... in secrecy

Stiles unlocked the loft door and stepped into the empty space, looking back at Derek. "You really like your industrial spaces, huh."

"It was renovated within the last three years."

"Yeah, but exposed brick and rusty pipe doesn't exactly scream 'permanent fixture' to me." Stiles rebutted, stepping through the space and turning on his heel. "There was a condo on Raine Road for sale, you could have nice terracotta balconies and it's only a two minute drive from the high school. You could walk when stalking our Lacrosse games."

Derek ignored him - as usual - and moved to step through the loft like he was actually considering buying it. He paused at the bay window, Stiles watching him carefully.

"I don't want a condo, I want the building."

Stiles nodded, stepping up beside Derek to gaze out at the industrial wasteland that was Beacon Hill's east side. He put his hand on the sill as well, feeling the warmth of Derek's skin against his. Stiles took a chance and pressed their shoulders together, half expecting Derek to jump back like he always did.

But he leaned in closer, beard brushing against the shell of Stiles' ear and lips caressing the lobe. It was as close to a kiss as Stiles could get.

For now.

"Isaac is coming," Derek murmured as he pulled away.

"Lucky him," Stiles sighed before stepping back to look over the loft. "At this rate I'll have to wait until this weekend to come."

#sterek #inbox games #kissing meme #We're stuck in Post Season two now #please enjoy #welcome to the hale mouth

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hometoursandotherstuff · 1 year ago

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This 1890 home in New Orleans, LA is absolutely my favorite style and you don't come by homes like this very often. 5bds, 4.5ba, $1.35M. If only...

I love the time worn look. Apparently, buyers like the remodeled, all white look, though, b/c this home has been on the market for 275 days. Shame that no one who has the money to buy it appreciates it.

I adore this look. Wouldn't change a thing.

Love the fireplace and the addition of the cascading plants make it pop. Bet someone buys it and completely redoes it.

The pool room only has slightly worn floors and molding.

Love the faded grandeur of the sitting room. The rooms are surprisingly light and airy.

This kitchen. Amazing.

Vintage powder under the stairs is quite spacious.

Love this room. I think that the new owner should swear that they won't gut this home.

Great bath with burgundy fixtures and a clawfoot tub.

The lovely primary bedroom is like a suite with a sitting room. I like the spiral staircase.

The 2nd full bath is cute. It also has a vintage tub.

Bedroom #2 is very nice.

This bedroom is kind of a hybrid- it has a rusty tin ceiling and an exposed stick wall.

They've switched styles and I'm not sure I like that it's inconsistent. Bathroom #3 is completely renovated, even though it has a vintage tub.

There's a costume studio back here.

A lovely double porch and patio outside.

Large heated pool and Jacuzzi.

In this purple building is another suite.

It has a bed/sitting room with a small fridge.

Behind the folding screen is a pretty, vintage bath.

The home is on a 5,610 sq. ft. lot.

https://www.realtor.com/realestateandhomes-detail/1476-Marais-St_New-Orleans_LA_70116_M71059-45766

#NOLA homes #vintage decor #old house dreams #houses #house tours #home tour

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roachieboyoyo69 · 2 months ago

Text

Tell me that you love me again...

You had just finished writing the fourth chapter of your book when the server pinged you, it was Ronin…

What's up losers… Movie night at The abandoned theater In Uptown. . . bring your Favorite movie.

He was inviting you, and the rest of the server to a movie night at an abandoned theater

Which meant you would see Angel, your ex-girlfriend…

It's been months since you and Angel had last seen each other let alone talked, you were about to decline before Ronin added that attendance was mandatory… Shit. You tried to get out of going but Ronin just said that it was mandatory, no exceptions… Fuck!

After hours of frantically scrambling to find suitable clothes and fixing your hair you had finally left to go to the theater. When you got to the entrance of the theater Ronin was waiting for you with an all too smug smirk on his face, you couldn’t stop the annoyed look on your face as you approached him.

“Look who's first to the scene…” Ronin drawled, his hands in his jacket pockets.

“Angel’s not here yet?” You can’t help but ask, ever so curious about her.

“Angel’s gotta put her face on Darlin’” He smirks wider, “She’ll probably be the last to arrive, fashionably late n shit.” You nodded, about to walk in before he stopped you, you tip your head to the side i before he juts his hand out in a grabbing motion, “Gimme the movie, Darlin’” Your lips form an ‘o’ shape before pulling the movie you picked out of your snack bag. “Jennifer’s body,” Ronin whistled before his smirk returned and he moved out of your way.

Despite the dreary outside of the theater the inside was decked out in slasher movie paraphernalia, it looked like Ronin made a giant version of his own room, Ghostface and Jason masks were strung on the rusty light fixtures, there were movie posters covering cracks and rips in the wallpaper and there was an old style television on the stage with pillows and blankets layered on the ground before the T.V.

“Oh, someone is here already?” You stilled as you heard Angel’s voice behind you, Ronin that liar! You looked around for an escape but you couldn’t find one. “Oh, Y/N is that you?” Her voice sounded like Honey, and you couldn’t help but want to speak to her.

“Hey...” You turn around to face her, a tight smile on your face. When you got a good look at her you could see how tired she looked, despite her flawless makeup she had slight eyebags which were only noticeable if you looked for them. “How have you been?”

“Busy,” she sighed. You figured she’d been busy, that was the main downfall of your relationship. She had always been too busy to hang out for long periods of time, but so were you… As an up and coming author you had to spend a lot of your time attending book signing and writing, so much so that you and Angel hardly ever saw each other and eventually your relationship just…fizzled out. Your forced smile wobbled as you recalled the harsh things you said to her when you had finally ended the relationship. “How about you?” She shook you out of your head with her words.

“I’ve been working on a new book, so I'm busy too. Hat and work and I’m totally swamped.” You chuckle, she nods with a smile and the conversation drops… Shit You knew it’d be awkward but this was killing you, “It’s nice to see you…” especially after everything that happened.

“Yea, you too”

“I-I’m sorry for everything that happened,” how we ended. You bite your lip, “The things I said-”

“Y/N, it’s fine.” Angel smiled again, a fake one that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “It’s not like what you said was entirely inaccurate…” You purse your lips, tears stinging your eyes. You had to tell her.

“What I said was out of line… We were both too busy and I took it out on you. It wasn’t fair to you.” You swallowed thickly, “I regret treating you like that.” Breaking up with you.

“Y/N…” She tries to interrupt you again but you shake your head.

“No. I-I” You cut yourself off, tears rolling down your cheeks as you struggled to admit that you still loved her… That you missed waking up to her face everyday and watching her nightly routine…And watching movies with her. The movie you brought was one she brought to your house, Jennifer's body. She had done a movie review about it on her channel and since then you’d been obsessed with it.

“Y/N.” Angel’s voice cut through your thoughts, her face firm but her touch soft as she cupped your tear soaked face. “What’s wrong?” Her eyes softened, just like when you were together and sobs wracked your body as you looked into her gorgeous blue eyes.

“I-I l-Love you, Maria.” you cried, “I regretted breaking up with you this entire time, I didn’t mean anything I said before I just wanted to see you more often please f-for-” Angel’s lips touch yours before you can beg for forgiveness, her lips are soft as they press against your, probably chapped lips.

“Say it again” Angel smiles, tears swimming in her eyes, “Tell me that you love me again.”

#killer chat #angel killer chat

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silvercap · 1 year ago

Note

for the prompt game: have you done darkness? if I missed it, weak works as well. hell if you do both that's cool too - go off silver!! (i reread a bunch of your drabbles JUST to see which prompts you'd already done - totally didn't get stuck in a lil whirlpool of silver fics there 👀) (if you've done both of these already and i missed it then im so sorry 😭)

<3<3<3

Darkness/Weak

The darkness of Leon's small house is almost soothing when he steps through the front door, the late hour leaving him bleary and irritable and slightly nauseous. The medics with the BSAA had diagnosed him with a concussion, he's pretty sure, but Leon isn't in the mood to be poked and prodded and treated like a patient while they interrogate him for mission details. Here, at least, he's free from judgement and watchful eyes; from the ready hands waiting to catch him like a child in case he stumbles. He just wants to sleep in his own bed. Is that so much to ask?

Every part of his body aches, the ankle he'd sprained proving to be a difficult opponent as he limps through the house. The set of lacerations slashed across his upper arm have begun to sting again, throbbing in time with Leon's ragged breaths, and he realizes tiredly that he's still covered in blood and filth. He'll have to shower, first.

He can barely remember the detour to the bathroom, brought back into awareness by the agony that courses through him the moment he begins to shrug off his jacket and jeans, groaning when the fabric rips away from bloody wounds and forces his protesting muscles to twist in ways that make them angrier. Under the bright lights of the bathroom fixture, he looks like a mess, eyes sunken and bloodshot beneath stringy hair and a layer of grime and blood. Not all of it his own---but most of it.

The warm water is a comfort, at least, enough to elicit a sigh as the steam begins to rise around him. It stings the wounds that have begun to reopen with all his struggling, but Leon doesn't pay them any mind. He watches the blood swirl around his feet in ghostly patterns of rusty crimson, too exhausted to do much else. Slowly, the pain creeps back in, his ankle tight with jagged spikes of pain the longer he keeps his weight on it. He's not clean, yet, though, he can't get out. God, it's hard to think.

Leon sits down hard on the cheap shower floor, leaning his head back against the wall. He doesn't have the strength to do anything but sigh, fingers trailing limp in the flow of water as he lets himself sag. That's okay, he can stay here for a while. Relax, take a load off....

He snaps awake with a shiver, aware only of the cold water pouring over him in torrents. For a moment, he thinks he's outside, until he catches sight of the shower handle and it all comes rushing back. Leon shivers again, noticing through blurry, swimming vision the goosebumps that have formed on his bare legs, stretched out in front of him. The cold is enough to make his injuries ache again, the slightest attempt to move prompting a bitten-off whimper of agony. He... he wants to go to bed. He should stand up and go to bed.

Leon's too weak to turn off the spray, though, his hand trembling and collapsing back to his side when he tries. He growls quietly in frustration, the sound trailing off into a whine. A wave of distress threatens to overwhelm him, panic prying at the edges of his awareness.

"Leon?!" The sudden slam of the bathroom door jolts him in place, eliciting a groan as his muscles twinge. Through the glass wall of the shower, he can make out Piers' dismayed expression, an automatic semblance of a smile curving Leon's lips.

"Hey," he says, watching as Piers shoves the door open and throws himself into the falling water to turn it off despite being fully dressed. What a weirdo. Leon blinks as Piers looks him up and down, expression tightening as he takes in the bruises and wounds on his skin. "Fancy meeting you here."

"You weren't answering your phone," Piers says roughly, an edge of some unreadable emotion in his voice. His gaze scans Leon's body again. "I thought something might've happened, your door was unlocked. Are you alright?"

"Couldn't resist checking me out, huh, Nivans?" Leon mumbles. His eyelids fall shut of their own accord, a sigh leaving his chest. Maybe now that Piers is here, he can actually get some rest. Strong hands slip under his armpits a moment later, and Leon groans. "Lemme sleep."

"Get up, Leon," Piers orders, but his voice is softer than before. He starts to lift, and Leon supposes he might as well try to cooperate---except that it feels almost impossible to get his feet under him, knees buckling every time he tries. He whimpers when his sprained ankle twists awkwardly. Piers pushes closer, an arm around Leon's waist, until he's practically supporting all of Leon's weight. "There you go. I've got you."

Somehow, he maneuvers Leon to the closed seat of the toilet, sitting him down so he can lean back against the tank. Leon prises his eyelids apart with effort, just in time to see the fluffy towel that descends to ruffle his hair and swipe gently down his nude body. Piers wraps it around Leon's waist when he's done, the cool fabric making him shiver.

"Just a little longer," Piers soothes when he groans again, "I've got the first aid kit, I'm going to wrap up some of your injuries. You're still bleeding a little bit."

"I am?" Leon blinks hazily. Huh. Maybe that makes a little sense. He winces as Piers begins to wipe down several spots with stinging disinfectant, slipping back into a daze as fresh gauze is secured to various parts of his body. The tensor bandage around his ankle is the worst, but it's not long before Piers is smearing antibiotic ointment on the cut Leon can feel on his forehead and covering it in a large bandaid, and suddenly all Leon can feel is hollowness.

"Piers," he says heavily, tongue thick in his mouth. "I think I'm gonna pass out or somethin'."

Instantly, steadying hands find his shoulders, pressure that draws Leon back into his body. A pair of warm eyes hovers in front of his face when he looks, eyebrows creased.

"Let's get you into bed, okay?" Piers says softly.

Leon staggers once he's upright again, but Piers refuses to let him fall. The next thing he knows, he's being laid out on a soft mattress, the sensation almost heavenly against his aching joints and the sharp pain that flares up every few moments. He buries his face in the pillow. Shivers. It's cold in here, too.

A moment later, a soft blanket is pulled up over his shoulders, Piers' gentle expression visible when Leon peeks out from the cage of his arms where they hold onto the pillow. He smiles, but it seems wan, his flesh hand reaching out to trace over a lock of Leon's hair. That feels nice.

"Get some sleep," Piers murmurs, and Leon nods. The chill is draining from his limbs, pain lost in the fog of fatigue, and it doesn't take long before he's out entirely.

#whump #ask game #my fics #resident evil #drabbles #hehee #nivannedy #inspired by that. post i just reblogged hehe

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bassicallymaestra · 1 month ago

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WIP day 💖

Thanks for the tag @myokk!

My goal this summer is to continue working on my color theory in my art, along with finally ripping the band-aid of rendering properly and doing more of a painted style.

So here's my painting practice, not my best drawing work, but I just needed lineart to paint 🤷‍♀️

I tag @traceyc-uk, @sonny201818, @eternalremorse and anyone else who wants to join in!!!

BONUS: I've actually been slowly working on my first fanfic in over a decade. My writing is really rusty and I've noticed it's more difficult for me to write than used to be. But maybe I'm being overly critical of myself and making it harder to write and maybe me sharing this will inspire me to finish the first chapter.

Here's a snippet of the beginning:

The early morning rays streamed through the windows of the great hall, enveloping it in a golden hue. The rich light laid upon the fixtures and statues, making the statues appear to be watching over the buzzing hall. Some students sleepily stumbled over to their corresponding tables, eager to see what awaited them this morning.

A hat wearing, pink haired girl casually made her way over to the Hufflepuff table, managing to find an open spot between her fellow students. She quietly ate her breakfast, inadvertently listening to her fellow students gossip between mouthfuls. She wasn’t much of a morning person, often finding the inviting morning sun an excuse to curl even farther beneath the covers.

#i should learn how to do fancy writing stuff on tumblr #everyone's writing always looks so nice #hogwarts legacy #hogwarts legacy mc #serena kosmos #my art #my wips

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theclairvoyage · 1 year ago

Text

Centrifugation: Chapter 8

Series Masterlist

The one where you finally meet Sarah, Tommy, and Maria.

Chapter warnings: blood, allusions to past trauma, smut, unprotected p in v, oral (m receiving), alcohol consumption, mentions of cancer and death, fluff, pathophysiology discussion (it's not much, I swear!), lil bit of sub!Joel, lil bit of dom!reader

WC: 6.7k

Divider by @cafekitsune <3

Saturday, October 23rd | 0615

Tink. Tink. Tink.

The ground you lie on is cold, unforgiving. You look toward the sound of what seems to be metal tapping on something, but there’s nothing there. The only thing you see is blackness. And fuck, your arm hurts. You try to stand and slip on a puddle of something warm and sticky. Thud. Your left side hits the ground hard, and you feel whatever liquid was on the floor plastered on the side of your face, torso, arm.

Tink. Tink. Tink. Louder, now.

What the fuck is that? Paranoia ebbs inside you, heartbeat racing. You can’t see a goddamn thing, but you know whatever is there is getting closer to you. Standing on wobbly legs, you reach out for a wall, a railing, something, anything to grab.

Suddenly, you’re blinded by lights. Bright. White. Fluorescent. You hear the buzz of the light fixture and squint as you look up at it, hand blocking some of the light from your vision. Your hand is covered in blood, sticky droplets plopping on the ground beneath.

Tink. Tink. Tink. It’s right behind you, now.

You whip your head around and see Cedric. He’s covered in blood, too. He’s got three holes in his chest, sputtering dark red blood. He’s tapping a rusty knife on the wall, the point painting specks of blood on the white paint with each tap. His teeth are gone, eyes black as sin. You look down at the puddle of blood between the two of you, touching both of you. Is it your blood, or his? He lunges at you with the knife, and you scream.

“Sweetheart, wake up! You alright?” A deep voice startles you. Warm, rough hands encase your face. You blink a few times, finding yourself in Joel’s dark room.

“Deep breaths, baby,” the voice soothes you. It’s Joel. His face is illuminated by warm, amber light coming from a lamp on the nightstand. His eyes are calm, focused on you, searching your face. Your chest is heaving, throat bone dry as you try to speak.

“W-what happened?” you ask. Joel smooths your hair from your sweaty face and reaches down to kiss your forehead softly.

“Y’had a nightmare, darlin’—you’re okay now, I gotcha,” he reassures you. Your face contorts like you’re going to cry, but nothing comes out of your eyes.

“Please, Joel—hold me,” you beg, watching the concern grow on his features. He pulls you into his warm, bare chest without hesitation and lifts the comforter over both of you. You realize now that you’re shivering, your arms covered in goosebumps, pricking the edges of your stab wound as the hairs try to stand up underneath the gauze.

“I got you, baby, never gonna let anything happen to you,” he whispers into your hair as he rubs your back soothingly. Your body relinquishes control, and you sink back into the darkness of slumber.

Saturday, October 23rd | 0830

Sighing deeply, you wake for the second time this morning and turn onto your right side, snuggling into your pillow. You feel eyes on you and open yours. Joel is propped up on his elbow, watching you with a soft gaze. He’s opened the blinds a bit, enough to wash his features in soft natural light.

“Morning,” he murmurs, reaching a hand to trace your cheekbone.

“Hi… have you been up long?” you question him, covering his hand with yours and scooting closer. He murmurs a huh-uh and pulls you on top of him, cradling your head in the crook of his neck. It’s quickly become one of your favorite things—the feeling of being in his arms, being so close to him. He kisses your forehead and sighs.

“Made sure you were sleepin’ soundly before I dozed off again. Woke up maybe ten, fifteen minutes ago. Wonder if the pills are givin’ you nightmares,” he speculates quietly as his hand sweeps distractedly through your locks. You shrug in his arms.

“That, or PTSD,” you say, hearing him inhale sharply. He doesn’t like that you’re in pain, mental or physical—it’s the caretaker in him. You sit up and straddle his lap, looking down on him with appreciation.

“It’s okay, Joel—I’ll be alright… eventually,” you try to convince him, punctuating the end of your sentence with a goofy smile. You feel a bit guilty, like your pain is causing him pain. It is—but not in the way that you think. He blinks up at you, using a free hand to push back the curls matted against his forehead. He can’t get enough of how beautiful you are. He takes you in, cock stirring at the sight of you perched on his lap. You notice now that you’re only clothed in some panties. He reaches a hand up to caress your sternum, stopping to palm one of your breasts. You close your eyes and focus on his touch.

“So gorgeous,” he whispers. You open your eyes to meet his hot gaze, cheeks burning from his praise. His stare alone is enough to make your knees buckle.

“Joel,” you say, throat tight for some reason. You’re overwhelmed by an urge to tell him you love him but can’t get yourself to say it. He knows. He wants to tell you, too, but the timing is off—you’re still vulnerable and healing. He thinks you might find it insincere if he tells you now, while you’re still broken.

“Yes, baby?” he says, both hands now smoothing up and down your torso, savoring your soft skin.

“I don’t know,” you say, feeling pathetic and laughing quietly as you stare down at him. Why can’t I just say it? He chuckles, white teeth flashing at you—fuck, he’s beautiful, too. He sits up and cages you in his lap, arms bracing around your back to pull you closer to him. He kisses you, then, languidly and passionately. Your fingers thread through his soft curls before latching at the back of his head. He smells of coffee and sandalwood, warmth emanating from his strong body. You’re consumed with him, never wanting to let go.

And then he makes love to you—slowly and lovingly—thrusting up into you as he stares into your eyes with so much adoration. Nobody has ever looked at you like this, or even fucked you like this. Your faces are so close, lips exchanging heavy breaths and reticent moans. You’re perfect, baby, he says. So beautiful, he says. Feel so good, he says. He’s holding you so closely to him, still on his lap, chests pressed together, heartbeats thrumming through each other’s bodies. You don’t know how long it lasts, but it feels like forever as he continues to plunge himself into you—you don’t know where he ends and you begin, or vice-versa—you are one. And as both of you come, you’re levitating, flying, soaring, eyes still locked on each other and breaths exchanging as your bodies navigate through euphoria together before collapsing back onto earth and into Joel’s bed.

He lies back and pulls you with him, cock still nestled inside you as he clasps you against his chest. Your walls squeeze him, pulling a sharp inhale from his lungs. You smirk and lift your head up to kiss him, arms bound behind his ropy neck. He pulls his mouth from yours and stares into your eyes. Lips and nose ghosting yours, he whispers, “You know how much I care about you, right?”

You feel your lips curl into a toothy grin as you look in his amber eyes. “Yes, Joel. Every day. I just… hope I don’t overstay my welcome. It’s a lot, taking care of me while running a business—I don’t want this to run its course too soon,” you admit, smile falling as you look away from him briefly. You know that he wouldn’t do this if he didn’t want to, but part of you feels culpable for the role he’s taken so early in your relationship—you’re not even officially anything, and he’s taking care of you like a spouse. His fingers splay over your jaw and turn your head back to face him, eyes stern.

“Y’know damn well that I want to do this, t’be here with you. I’m gonna be honest, I’ve never moved so quick with someone, but I’ve never felt so sure about anything. Real shit, baby,” he says, his curse making you giggle.

“I just worry,” you concede, fighting back tears this time. He sighs and pulls your head down on his chest, rubbing your shoulder blades softly.

“My parents met when they were fresh outta high school and got married after a month. They fought, sure, but they loved each other more than us, I think,” he says with a chuckle, the rumble of his laughter echoing in your eardrums. “They were the best relationship I could’ve possibly had as an example, baby—you and I remind me a lot of them.”

“Yeah? Did your mom get stabbed, too?” you say, and he bursts out into laughter and rolls the both of you over in one swift motion. He leans down and gives you a quick peck on the lips.

“She was tough as nails, that lady. Woulda put up a fight, just like you. And she wouldn’t ‘a stuck around with my pops unless she felt certain that it was right… just like you,” he says. You imagine what she looked like—if Joel has her eyes and charm. He was right, though—you told him as much that night at the bar. You don’t invest in people like this unless it’s the real deal.

“Alright… you’ve convinced me. You know we’re gonna get a lot of shit for this, though, right?” you remind him. You already know what your mother will say, and you can only fathom what his family might think. He snorts.

“I’m too old to give a fuck what other people think, baby. You’re someone that only comes ‘round once in a lifetime,” he says, his admission making your breath catch in your throat. You press a soft kiss to his neck, feeling his carotid pulse under your lips.

“Yeah, you’re right. When you find something good, you hold onto it.” He squeezes you tightly, making both of you laugh.

Saturday, October 23rd | 0351

As dinner approaches, you find yourself in Joel’s bathroom, nervous and unsure of what to wear. Joel booked a reservation at a nice steakhouse not too far from his house, and let it slip that he also invited Tommy and his wife, Maria. He didn’t want to overwhelm you with so many guests, but his family had been begging to meet you in the short time since you’d met each other. You’d promised him that it was okay, though you knew a good first impression was mandatory. Though Joel made it clear earlier that morning that he didn’t care what people thought of your relationship, a nagging, countering voice echoed in your head.

She’s too young.

Just wants your money, Joel.

She could be your daughter.

Don’t you think this is a bit fast?

And now you’re taking CARE of her?

You shake your head, as if the motion dislodges the thoughts and banishes them back to the dark, dirty well they came from. You look at the person on the other side of the mirror and hold her gaze. She looks strong—formidable. A glow dances on her skin—even with a bandaged, stitched forearm, she is rhapsodic. Playfulness waltzes in her eyes, like her inner child is alive and well. You nod at her, and she you. There’s a mutual understanding here—her job is to show you what you have a hard time seeing, appreciating. Removing the cloud of self-doubt that has settled in a haze over your mind and eyesight the last fortnight. You know you deserve happiness, right? She’s asking you. You blink at her. She’s right.

Exhaling deeply, you give yourself another once-over and call it good on the self-loathing for the day. A full-length, open back royal blue sundress with puffed short sleeves drapes over your body. The bodice hugs your torso perfectly, the bare skin of your back framed in lace, and your ass looks—well, Joel will certainly have a hard time keeping his eyes and hands off you. You made a lame attempt at styling your hair, per usual, but it looks good messy—it complements the elegance of your dress nicely.

Knock. Knock.

“Y’ready, sweetheart? Sarah will be here soon,” Joel queries through the door. Forgoing a verbal answer, you push open one of the doors and let him see you. He’s got dark jeans on and a gray button up that hugs his muscles superbly, curls tousled and curled behind his ears. He takes two steps in before his eyes rake over your figure, stopping dead in his tracks. He whistles lowly as he sweeps his gaze up and down your body too many times to count. Grinning, you decide to twirl and give him a 360 view. He sucks in a breath and groans at the sight of your back and ass. When you return to face him, his mouth is slightly agape, rendered speechless.

“Are you gonna speak?” you say, devilish smirk playing on your lips. He clears his throat and forces his eyes up to yours, dark hazelnut boring into your soul.

“Kinda hard to do that when you look—well, like that,” he growls, coming up behind you and snaking his arms around your waist. Nose at your neck, he takes a deep breath in and moans softly at your scent. You had some travel size perfumes stashed in your purse that you’d forgotten about, and decided today was time to use one of them—Angel by Mugler. A musky scent, it was the perfect blend of bergamot, caramel, and patchouli. Sweet, with some depth.

“Smell fuckin’ good, baby,” he murmurs into your neck, nibbling the skin there featherlight. You tilt your head back and moan quietly at the sensation. You feel his cock swelling at your ass.

“Ain’t got time to fuck you properly—but don’t worry, baby. I’ll take care of you when we get back,” he threatens playfully. His words shoot straight to your core and trickle out onto your panties. You cross your legs tightly to try and stifle your arousal.

“Is Sarah staying here?” you ask, changing the subject and reaching a hand up to run through his curls. He shakes his head.

“She’s got some big test on Monday, probably gonna be up all night tonight and tomorrow studying,” he replies.

“Sounds like nursing… really, anything medicine-related,” you say with a chuckle. You don’t miss all-nighters from your college days—those organic and physical chemistry exams had you rethinking your entire life path.

“My smart girls,” he says, looking at you with pride. Heat creeps up your neck. The sound of the garage door opening interrupts your moment. Joel smiles at you and kisses your cheek gently. “She’ll love ya, I promise.”

“Party’s here!” Sarah yells from the living room, her loud voice echoing throughout the atrium. You both chuckle. Yeah, you’re going to like her—she just referenced Jersey Shore, the Mecca of trash reality TV, which happens to be one of your favorites.

“Be right down, baby girl!” Joel calls out from the bathroom. You give yourself one last glance in the mirror. He watches you. Leaning in by your ear, he croons, “Can’t improve what’s already perfect.” You smile at his reflection in the mirror and follow him downstairs. Sarah is waiting for both of you at the front door.

Sarah is gorgeous, which doesn’t surprise you, given who her father is. She’s tall and lean, light-skinned with beautiful, coiled hair and brown eyes just like her dad’s—with hints of copper around the pupils. The smile she gives you is huge, warm, and genuine—with perfectly straight pearly whites. Joel pauses for a moment.

“Forgot my damn shoes, I’ll be right out. Sarah, this is—”

“I know her name, Dad. Remembered it the first time you told me,” she laments at him, greeting you as you make your way down the stairs. You both go for a hug at the same time, giggles erupting from both of you at your telepathic connection.

“I’m so glad to meet you, Dad’s told me so much—only good things, I swear,” she says with a chuckle, raising both palms up in surrender. You laugh. Her positive, goofy energy is contagious.

“Likewise, although he wasn’t so nice about your coffee choices,” you say, rolling your eyes playfully. She snorts.

“He’d eat coffee grounds if he could, I swear!” You both giggle. “You’re fucking gorgeous, by the way, he did tell me that,” she says, taking your hands in hers and giving you the once-over. “This dress is hot!”

“Language, Sar!” Joel calls from the bedroom, eliciting laughter from both of you. You hook an arm in hers and walk to the kitchen. You’ve still got some time until dinner.

“Want a drink? Or are you not supposed to with your medicine?” she asks, opening the beer and wine fridge as she raises an eyebrow at you.

“I should be fine—haven’t taken anything since yesterday,” you reply, noticing now that your arm is feeling okay—no lingering stings or aches. Joel might complain, but you decide you deserve a little treat. She pulls out a bottle of white wine and holds it up, raising her eyebrows at you to ask permission. You grin and nod in response.

Both of you are enjoying your wine and getting to know each other when Joel comes down. He eyes your wine glass and raises one eyebrow in you, a stern reminder to take it easy.

“I know, I’ll be fine. M’not driving, anyway,” you promise him.

Sarah watches the two of you interact with curiosity, eager to see the dynamics. She can tell he’s smitten—the way he stares at you is unlike any other woman he’s had in his life. There haven’t been many, but enough for her to understand that you’re different. She wonders if he’s told you much about her mom. Joel fishes his keys from a tray by the laundry room entrance and steps out into the garage to get the BMW ready.

“So, what exam do you have Monday? Joel said it would be an all-nighter for you,” you ask, sniffing and then sipping the white bubbly in your glass—it’s Moscato d’Asti, your go-to. She takes a heavy sip and rolls her eyes, sighing as she puts the glass down.

“Pathophysiology. Jesus, it’s too much. This test is over the cardiopulm unit—supposed to be like 60 questions, most of them short answers,” she bemoans. You nod, remembering the pain that class brought to you many nights ago.

“That class is the fucking worst—especially if your professor sucks. Ours didn’t believe in anything but short answer and essay questions,” you reminisce, shuddering at the thought of taking another one of those tests.

“Did you have Dr. Bricker?” she asks, eyes widening in fear. You nod in disgust and scrunch your nose, causing her to groan.

“Please tell me there’s a light at the end of the tunnel,” she says with a whine, leaning over the counter as if she were crippled in pain. You chuckle.

“Only when you’re done with his class,” you reply, giggles erupting from both of you. “I still have my notes if you want them—I did manage to get an A, somehow. Probably slept 4 hours a night during that semester.” She claps her hands excitedly.

“YES, please please!! You’re my favorite already!” she squeezes your wrist in appreciation before she realizes what she’s said, both palms reaching to squeeze your shoulders reassuringly. “Promise, there hasn’t been anybody for a long time—” she starts, peeking at the garage to make sure Joel isn’t within earshot. “He’s happy as fuck with you. I’ve never seen or heard him like this with anybody, swear.” You smile at her admission. She’s honest, no filter—just like her dad.

“It’s crazy, ‘cause I’ve only known him for an embarrassingly short time, and the age gap,” you concede, looking away from her eyes for a moment. She takes another sip of wine and smacks her lips, giving you a look that says you’ve got nothing to worry about.

“Not embarrassing at all! When you know, you know. And as long as you both are honest with each other, you’re good. Plus, just means you’ll be around longer for me,” She says with a wink. She’s wise beyond her years, which doesn’t surprise you. You’re interrupted by the quiet roar of the BMW starting. The car door shuts, and you hear Joel’s footsteps approach the entrance to the laundry room from the garage. He sweeps his greying curls off his tan forehead, giving him a better view of both of you. He locks eyes with you and smiles warmly.

“Y’all ready, or y’gonna keep jabbering?” he asks with a smirk and a wink, much like Sarah’s from moments ago. Both of you roll your eyes at him.

“Can’t be gangin’ up on me already, that ain’t gonna work,” he teases, a single eyebrow arching up toward his hairline.

“Get used to it,” Sarah retorts, sticking her tongue out at him. She clinks her wine glass with yours, her way of telling you to drink up. You oblige, the bubbly liquid fizzling your throat as it goes down. After setting the glass on the marble counter, you walk over to Joel, and he puts a warm arm around your shoulders. Leaning in, he presses a kiss to your temple.

“Ready, baby?” he whispers into your hair. You nod, turning to look at him. You briefly study the lines of his face and trace his crow’s feet with your index finger, finding yourself getting lost in his beauty. Wrinkles are seen as almost taboo these days, but Joel wears his better than anyone you’ve ever met. Symbols of continued laughter, anger, and expression.

“M’old, I know,” he says lowly, watching your eyes as you continue appreciating his features.

“Beautiful, though,” you whisper back, leaning in to press your lips to his. He hums softly. He exhales deeply through his nose as he pulls back, the warm air fanning your face. His cheeks and neck are flushed pink, clearly embarrassed by your compliment.

“Let’s go, Tommy ain’t one for lateness,” he says. Another clink interrupts your moment as Sarah places the wine glasses in the sink. You forgot she was there, entranced by Joel.

“You mean you ain’t one for lateness. Get a room,” she teases, elbowing your side softly. All three of you chuckle as you head out to the car.

The ride to the steakhouse is comfortable—the Bimmer is magnificent. Creamy, soft tan leather seats envelope your back and legs—they even have a built-in massage function. You bet Joel’s never even used it. The car doesn’t match him like his truck does—too high maintenance, too luxurious. But you remember why he bought it—the symbolism of his trials and success. The suspension is quite smooth, navigating the bumps and potholes of the crappy Omaha roads seamlessly. You have the blessing of experiencing all four seasons here, but it’s hell on the asphalt.

Joel turns into the steakhouse parking lot and parks far away from everyone else, which makes you and Sarah chuckle. Of course he’s that person.

“Nobody here can open a fuckin’ door right,” he grumbles, whipping into the spot seamlessly.

As the three of you step out, a black Mercedes SUV whips into a stall 2 spots away from the Bimmer. The windows are illegally tinted—all you can see is the faint outline of two figures sitting in the front. The driver’s side door opens, revealing a tall, dark, built man with long black curls, slicked back and sleek. Must be Tommy. He’s handsome as fuck, just like his brother. Tanned skin peeking out of his polo, arms and shoulders thick with ridged muscles, strong legs flanked by dark denim.

Tommy grins at everyone as he goes to open the passenger door of the Mercedes, his very white—almost luminescent—veneers blinding you. He holds the hand of a stunning black woman as her smooth, long legs step onto the pavement. Her hair is perfectly braided, cheekbones sharp enough to slice, skin glowing. She’s slender, but built with firm muscle, like an Olympic sprinter. She looks like a Nike model—and Tara Thornton from True Blood. Is anybody in this damn family ugly?

“Hi, baby,” she greets Sarah, who approaches her for a tight hug. Joel is next, giving her a quick peck on the cheek.

“Maria, this is—” she holds a hand up to Joel, interrupting him as she approaches you.

“I know, I remember important things,” she says, holding her arms out to you for a hug. You oblige her. Her skin smells amazing, like Burberry Goddess—vanilla bean with lavender. She grips you tightly, sending the message that she’s the welcoming one of this family.

“Baby, you’re gorgeous!” she says, looking you up and down as she lets go of you. You’re blushing. “This is my husband, Tommy,” she says, nodding over at Tommy, who pulls you in for a hug. His grip is strong, body even stronger. He smells good, too—hints of whiskey and sandalwood just like Joel, with some eucalyptus.

“Glad to finally meet you, how’s the arm?” he asks, putting an arm around your shoulders and leading the group toward the restaurant entrance. You lift your bandaged arm and stare at it with a grimace. Tommy laughs.

“Eh, it’s not the worst thing in the world,” you gripe. “I’ve got the best caretaker, though,” you say, looking over Tommy’s shoulder and winking at Joel. Redness blooms on his neck and cheeks and he rolls his eyes, corners crinkling as he grins shyly at you. Tommy’s grip on your shoulders tightens, pulling you closer as he leans into your ear.

“’Tween you and me, I ain’t never seen him like this before—the hell are you doin’ to him?” he whispers with a chuckle. You laugh and shrug. Maria hears the entire encounter, sidling up to your other side and throwing an arm around your waist as she interjects.

“Well, look at her! Best Joel’s ever gonna get,” she giggles, flashing her gorgeous smile at you and laughing harder when Joel groans in the back.

“Jus’ shut up and get in the damn restaurant,” Joel grumbles, eyes shooting daggers at Tommy as he releases you to open the door for the group. Joel takes your arm in his and kisses your temple quickly as you enter.

“Grumbly Joel—I kinda like him,” you flirt, giving him a wink as he turns to glance at you. He glares at you playfully and leans in by your ear.

“Keep it up, sweetheart—you’ll be swallowing your words later,” his deep voice rattles in your ear. Fuck. This man makes you wet just from his words. You’re feeling bold in this moment and decide to test your luck.

“Not much of a threat when you know how much I like having you in my mouth,” you croon lowly in his ear, trying to make your voice sound as quiet and sexy as possible. He curses under his breath.

“Gonna be the fuckin’ death of me, swear,” he speaks into your ear, hiking his waistband up to hide his growing erection. “Now behave. Can y’do that for, like, an hour?” You shrug, evil smirk playing on your lips. You take a moment to observe the restaurant as your group waits by the hostess podium.

The steakhouse is huge and bustling with guests, though it is prime dinner time on a Saturday. There’s various ungulate skulls and old western movie posters mounted on the cherry wooden panels of the walls, which are various shades of burnt umber and crafted beautifully. Sinuous cries of a steel guitar and lively chatter echo around the large space. The front of the restaurant is framed by large windows wrapped in rustic wooden trim, spilling pre-sunset natural light in. Country vibes are oozing from this place—likely the closest thing to Texas the Miller boys have, minus large TVs playing whatever ball game is on.

Tommy cuts in front of Joel as he’s about to speak to the hostess at the podium, irritating Joel. Typical little brother antics.

“Reservation for Miller,” he says, flashing a smile at her. You can tell she’s melting inside, unable to resist the Miller Southern charm and suave good looks. She blushes as she grabs menus. You wonder if Maria is so used to this that she doesn’t notice anymore—will you get to that point?

“Right this way, folks,” she chirps, ushering you behind the large wooden podium. She guides you to a large, round oak table near the front corner of the restaurant, which is surrounded by big windows. Joel takes the seat on your left, Sarah the one on your right. Of course, the Miller brothers sit next to each other and immediately discuss business. Tommy complains about a big client in Council Bluffs, Iowa that calls the office every day asking for updates or changes on her lofty beach house renovation on the shores of Lake Carter. “High maintenance bitch,” he calls her, eliciting a laugh from Joel.

“But how much is she payin’, ‘cause sometimes that’s enough to put up with a lot,” Joel reminds him, wagging an index finger his direction. Tommy shakes his head, eyes drifting off toward the window as he continues his fuming. His eyes are brown, but a different shade of amber than Joel’s. A gold ring, almost flaky in pattern, encircles his pupils.

“Can’t pay me enough to treat us like that,” he carps, echoing a similar tone to that of his older brother. Joel claps him on the back a few times.

“Brother, you’ll find that there may be times when ya have no choice but to put up with shit like that. At least she ain’t hittin’ on ya,” he teases, shooting a wink in Maria’s direction.

“Don’t give him ideas, Joel. These women can’t get enough of you Miller boys,” she vexes, locking eyes with you as she shakes her head. You lean in closer to her.

“Does it ever go away?” you ask earnestly. She guffaws and reaches out to clasp your hand.

“No, baby—you learn to ignore it. But he’ll never be able to ignore the attention you’re gonna get,” she says, squeezing your hand once before letting go. Picturing Jealous Joel, huffing and growling, makes you squirm a bit and your core tingle.

The waiter comes over, finally, interrupting your infant fantasy. He apologizes profusely for the wait, and the whole table is quick to forgive him—he’s got sweat dripping from his forehead, face flushed, clearly stressed. Joel and Tommy order whiskey neat, while Maria, Sarah, and you order some cocktails.

Conversation—and playful insults—seem to flow effortlessly in this group. The topics range from the Miller Contracting business, to Maria’s Pilates class and wrangling her and Tommy’s two children, to Sarah’s nursing class nightmares, to you—your upbringing, family, and job at the plasma center. Joel scoots your chair closer to his so he can nuzzle you into his side, silently protecting you—though you feel comfortable here.

“Are your parents around here?” Maria asks, taking a long sip of her drink, eyes centered on you.

“Mom lives in Chadron. Retired schoolteacher. Dad passed a few years ago from lung cancer,” you inform her. Joel pulls you in closer and kisses your temple. Sarah squeezes your leg reassuringly. Maria and Tommy offer their condolences.

“Losing family is hard, but it looks like you’ve got a backup one here in Omaha,” Maria says cheerfully, winking at you. You smile warmly at her, feeling grateful. They’ve essentially treated you like one of their own from the start, which almost makes you choke up.

“Yeah… I’m really lucky,” you reply, locking eyes with Joel momentarily before the sheer amount of affection in his eyes forces you to tear your gaze from his.

“No, baby. That’s me,” he says quietly, holding up his glass of whiskey in a toast.

Your throat feels dry, scratchy at his words. He’s stepped up his game from giving you that look, to doing that and saying sweet things. Fuck.

Everyone clinks their glasses together. You swallow, hard, before sipping your fruity drink from the skinny black straw swirling around it. The strength of the alcohol calms your nerves a bit as it zigzags down your throat, leaving a burn in its absence.

Saturday, October 23rd | 1945

The rest of dinner blew by too quickly—the food was great, the drinks kept coming, and the conversation flowed freely. Joel paid the bill, to Tommy’s dismay, and everyone said their goodbyes and gave hugs in the parking lot. Joel held you close the entire walk to the parking lot, fingertips absentmindedly tracing the skin of your back. Maria and Tommy told you to stop by whenever you’d like—they weren’t too far from Joel. Maria poked Joel in the chest and made him promise to bring you over to meet the kids sometime soon, which he begrudgingly accepted. Don’t wanna stress her too much, he’d said. Both Tommy and Maria hugged you tightly and kissed you on the cheek before Tommy sped off in their fancy Mercedes. Fuckin’ drives like an idiot, always has, Joel had griped as you watched them drive off.

Back at Joel’s, Sarah embraced both you and Joel before heading back to Lincoln to study for her test. Don’t forget those notes, she reminded you. You promised them to her by next week, but on one condition: that she had to come back to see you. She agreed and gave you one last hug before taking off, leaving you and Joel alone.

Now snuggled on the couch and wearing Joel’s clothes again, you find yourself dozing off on his chest as he watches some football game. He’s stroking your hair, your clothed back, your thigh, before a hand creeps under your shirt and traverses your bare back. You feel good, warm, soft. He inhales deeply, wondering how in the hell you get him so hard by doing absolutely nothing. You feel his cock stir in his sweatpants and remember his threat from earlier.

Swinging a leg over his hip, you straddle him and crash your lips onto his. He moans, opening his mouth to deepen the kiss. Slowly, you grind on his lap, feeling his length getting harder and harder with each roll of your hips. He squeezes your ass as he helps guide your movements, groaning into your mouth every now and then.

You release your lips from his, relishing in his pants and the look of ruin on his face. With a devilish glint in your eyes, you kiss his neck, running your tongue over his pulse point and sucking lightly.

“Fuck, baby, you’re good,” he bemoans, squeezing you closer as your mouth continues its trail down to his collarbone. You sit back and tug on the collar of his shirt.

“Off,” you command. He’s quick to obey, pulling it off his top half swiftly before he puts his hands back on you. You kiss his strong chest, hands trailing up his arms to stop at his pecs and squeeze. His head tips back in delight—he wants to watch you, but fuck, it feels too good. Once you reach his navel, you slide off his lap and kneel on the carpeted floor. The sight makes him suck in a sharp breath in anticipation of what you’re about to do. Still maintaining eye contact, you lick a trail down from his navel to the waistband of his sweatpants, in line with his hipbones. He grabs a fistful of your hair and leans his head back again.

“Look at me, Joel,” you order. His cock twitches at your dominance. He looks down at you, expression wrecked.

“Fuck—fuckin’ love you like this, darlin’,” he croons. You slowly tug at the waistband of his sweatpants, noticing that he’s not wearing any boxers. You kiss down one hipbone, then the next, before pulling his sweats all the way down. His solid cock nearly hits you in the face as it escapes, making you giggle.

“Somethin’ funny, sweetheart?” he asks. Eyes never leaving his, you swirl your tongue around one of his balls before pulling it into your mouth. His head slams back on the soft couch cushion and he curses. You rinse and repeat with the other one before pulling back to stare at him.

“C’mon, baby, please,” he begs, arching his back as he lifts his head up to look at you. You spit on the head of his cock and watch his mouth drop open at the sight. Using just your lips, you gather some of the drizzle and milk it up and down his length. He moans and grips your hair tightly.

“Need you to suck it, baby girl,” he finally pleads, and your approving hum on his length makes him squirm.

“Just had to ask me nicely,” you tease before taking his thick head into your mouth. He hisses and thrusts his hips shallowly into your mouth, but you stop him with two firm hands on his hips. You pull off him with a pop.

“Sit still,” you instruct sternly. He sinks back onto the couch and groans, bewildered at you. He’s trying so hard to listen to you, his dominatrix. You give in.

Wrapping one hand around the base of him, you take him into your mouth until you reach your knuckles, sucking hard. He’s moaning and cursing as you bob your head up and down, alternating between sucking pressures as you feel him getting closer and closer. You’re gagging and crying, hot tears streaming down your face as he starts fucking your throat roughly. His hips are twitching and he’s whimpering your name—he’s close.

You bob a few more times before he finally spits your name as he comes, curling over you and shoving your head down onto his length. He’s emptying himself in the back of your throat, the hot release trickling down your esophagus. You’re choking and moaning, delighted in the taste and undoing of him. He finally leans back, pulling you off his cock with a gruff groan. His hands cradle your tear-streaked face, thumbs swiping away the salty drops.

“Swallow, baby,” he says softly. You do, with a loud gulp.

Holding your face like it’s a delicate work of art, he stares into your eyes for a few moments, calloused thumbs stroking the soft skin of your cheeks, before urging you up onto his lap. He pulls you close until he’s clutching you against his chest. Both of you remain there for a while, breaths and heartbeats in tandem. After a few beats, he picks you up with a grunt and carries your tired body upstairs to his bedroom. He lies you down on his firm bed, rotating you on your right side and propping your injured arm up with a pillow. Sleepy eyes blink, trying to watch him pace around the room as he gets ready to join you. You’re exhausted now, you realize—the events from today drained you, as fun as they were.

“Baby, remember you have your appointment Monday,” he murmurs, shuffling underneath the sheets as he tries to get comfy. He moves closer, hooking an arm around your waist and scooting to spoon you. Warmth radiates from his body, shrouding you like a second blanket. Darkness envelops the room, save for some streetlight peeking through the blinds. You urge your brain to nod, unsure if it translated to real-life.

“You awake, darlin’?” Clearly, your nod failed. You mutter a groggy mhm. Joel chuckles at your fight to remain awake.

“Sleep, baby,” he whispers, pressing a prolonged kiss to your cheek. He nuzzles your cheek with his nose after, breathing in your scent as you doze off.

Taglist: @burntheedges, @syd-djarin, @anoverwhelmingdin, @danaispunk <3

PSA: Finishing my degree this coming Monday, so I will be posting more after that! :)

#joel miller x reader #joel miller smut #joel miller x f!reader #centrifugation #joel miller x you

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