#also considering this was supposed to be a tiny short to help me work out combat wording etc

[thischarmingmandalorian]

I Wanna Ruin Our Friendship

Couple, Bar Chapter 1

Summary: After you help Joel with a work project, he takes you out for drinks. When the bartender mistakes you for a couple, his brain short circuits.

Pairing: Single Dad Neighbor!Joel Miller X Reader

Warnings: Joel thinking being mean is flirting, alcohol, grinding on strangers, getting groped in public, no-no words. In my mind there's an age gap (10 years max) and I envision a mid-40s Joel, but I don't think it'll ever become apparent.

Word Count: 2.3k

Notes: Formatting on mobile is not for the weak, y'all, so if this looks like ass I'm sorry. I don't know what a contractor does. Song mentioned is Jenny (I Wanna Ruin Our Friendship) by Studio Killers. Full playlist is linked on the master post for this series (which I'll learn to link all together soon I promise I'M OLD, OK?!) Also I promise I have an English degree but if I read this one more time I'll lose the nerve to post it so ignore any mistakes I missed. Anyway love you bye.

While you weren't on your neighbor Joel's payroll, every now and then he'd knock on your door and sheepishly ask to borrow your "eye for design," which was Joel talk for "I need help knowing what handles look good on these cabinets I'm building and every other person in my life is busy."  

You and Joel had been neighbors for the better part of 5 years and had become relatively close in that time. If you were being honest with yourself, the first day you met you might have fallen in love, but since immediately jumping into a relationship with a newly-divorced single father wasn't on your five-year plan, those feelings were buried, albeit not always successfully.

Joel was charming, kind, and... Southern.  And while these were all things that made you head over heels for him, they were exactly what made it difficult to interpret his feelings for you. Were he and Sarah baking you Christmas cookies and hand delivering them to your door because he too had a crush, or was he just being neighborly? Was he grinning every time he said hello to you because he was a nice guy? What were you supposed to make of that one time, on his couch for movie night, when his hand lingered a little longer than normal on your thigh? You had no idea, and for the sake of your friendship, you were content not knowing.

On this particular day, Joel needed help matching paint colors to flooring samples and might as well have been color blind. He was building a house for a newlywed couple and their wishes for, as Joel put it, "some 1960s Brady Bunch bullshit" aesthetic meant nothing to him. You had spent the better part of an hour helping Joel match swatches of green and orange in ways that he had previously thought impossible, and as a thank you, he offered to buy you a drink at the first bar you spotted on the way home.

The first bar you spotted happened to be an almost-literal hole in the wall, but the packed parking lot indicated it was a place worth visiting.  Joel opened the door, beckoning you through the threshold ahead of him, and you're hit with a wall of smoke and the bump of a local dj working through his set. 

Luckily most of the people at the bar had already started drinking and were congregated in the middle of the tiny dance floor, making it easy to find two seats. Joel flagged the bartender over and ordered for the both of you, handing his card over to start a tab.

"Got you a beer, this place doesn't look like they'd make a good margarita," Joel shouts over the music. 

You smile, leaning in close to thank Joel. "I appreciate the forethought! Send me a Venmo request for what I end up owing you," you gesture to the frosty bottles that get put in front of you.

Joel tuts and waves his hand between you two in a noncommittal gesture. He leans in close to your ear instead of shouting this time, "consider it payment for your help today. When that couple told me they wanted their house to be 'midcentury Palm Springs chic' I knew you'd know what they meant. The wife kept sending me links to her Pinterest board, whatever the fuck that is. I was too scared to click them because..."

"Because you're fucking old," you finish, barking out a laugh at the frown that Joel gives you.

After one beer turned into three, Joel starts to open up. Despite his gruff exterior, you know he cares and is interested in your life, even if it takes some alcohol to get him asking about it.

"Have you started dating yet?" The question catches you off guard, your eyes growing wide. "What? You've been in town for five years now, it's high time you start putting yourself out there. A pretty girl like you should have no trouble finding a man."

There it is again. Is Joel just being nice calling you pretty? Or is he fishing for something more?

"Have you started dating?" you counter, raising an eyebrow, nodding when Joel shakes his head. "I'm too busy, Joel. I'm…"

"'Focusing on my career,'" Joel finishes for you, having heard it all before.

You roll your eyes. "Why are we talking about this?"

Joel smirks and cocks his head to your beer, the label in the process of being peeled completely off. "You've peeled the label off every drink you've had tonight."

"Oh…kay?"

Joel shrugs, "if Tommy were here he'd say you're pulling the labels off because you're sexually frustrated." He makes a face as if to say 'but what do I know?'

You raised an eyebrow at Joel. "You of all people should know not to take what Tommy says as fact. And you're one to talk; you live across the street, I'd notice if women were coming over. And they're not. You're going through a dry spell, Miller, same as me." You empty your bottle, stuffing the label down the neck and waving the bartender over for you and Joel to order one more round.  Joel tries to think of a witty comeback, but he knows you're right. 

You watch the bartender open your tab on the till behind the bar and chuckle when you notice what she's titled it: at the top of the screen, in bold letters, "COUPLE BAR."

You tap Joel's bicep, pointing to the screen, "look at that, Miller," you shout over the music, "she thinks you and I are a couple."

Joel looks at the screen himself, eyes suddenly going wide. You raise an eyebrow at him, confused as to why he isn't just chuckling at the bartender's misunderstanding, but your expression turns to one of anger once Joel regains use of his brain and the only thing he can think to say is, "... ew?"

You hope you just misheard him over the loud music, but as Joel started to sputter out an apology, looking horrified at what he had said, you realize - a stranger thought you two were dating, and Joel thinks that's gross. You weren't interested in hearing him trip over his words while he tried to backtrack, and you desperately needed a distraction so you didn't start to cry.  You wave your hand in front of Joel's face, telling him to save it as you grab your beer and push past him to the dance floor.

This is definitely not your scene, the middle of a smoke-filled bar on the side of the road in the middle of nowhere, but you make the most of it, taking a swig from your bottle as you push through the crowd. Once you've made your way to the center of the crowd, you assume the position - eyes closed, bottle raised above your head, swinging your hips to whatever top 40 hit the dj decides to bleed into the last one he played.  You don't have to wait long before you feel a body push up behind you and you welcome the distraction. You don't open your eyes or lower your hand except to drink from your near empty bottle, but you do back your ass up against the stranger behind you. It's definitely not Joel. This person behind you is way too lanky; when his arms encircle your waist they lack definition, his thighs aren't nearly as beefy as Joel's, and… you get frustrated with yourself.  Joel just insinuated dating you would be gross and all you can do is think about how hot he is? 

You shake your head, trying to clear your thoughts and enjoy the moment. The guy behind you is getting handsy, and normally that would bother you, but Joel was right about that dry spell. One song bleeds into another as you gyrate against this stranger who now has his hand splayed across your stomach under your shirt.

You're ripped unceremoniously from your mindless grinding by a large hand on your shoulder. You wink one eye open though you knew it was Joel. You're not interested in hearing him out, especially not with this stranger's hand gliding slowly up your torso, boldly inching closer to your chest.

"Darlin'" you hear Joel shout over the music, "'m sorry. I didn't mean…"

You put your palm in front of Joel's face before moving your hand on top of the stranger's, whose fingers are teasing the hem of your bra. Joel can be sorry, but he's also going to see how decidedly not-ew the thought of being with you is.

"Whatever, Joel. You can think being my boyfriend is gross. This is fine!" You open your eyes and the look on Joel's face is one you've never seen before. At this point he isn't looking at you, he's staring daggers at the man behind you. Whoever he is seems blissfully unaware.

"Honey, I'm out of touch. I'm fucking old, you said it yourself! I don't know how to - hey, buddy, do you fucking mind?" The hand under your shirt loses its grip on you as Joel shoves the shoulder of the guy behind you. Suddenly his body unglues itself from your back.

"My bad, man. Didn't know she had a boyfriend," he shouts over the music as he disappears back into the crowd. You groan and roll your eyes.

"So sorry, Joel! Turns out when you look and act like my boyfriend, people think you really are! How embarrassing for you," you ramble into Joel's ear. You turn to walk off the dance floor, embarrassed, but before you're out of his reach Joel grabs your forearm, pulling gently until you're flush with his body. He towers over you, his eyes bore into yours.

"Please listen," he bends to speak quietly into your ear, "I'm sorry, and I mean it. We're friends, and I value that. I thought I was bantering, bein' funny. I know you don't want to be a couple at this bar. I know you want to be friends, nothing more, with me. But…" he trails off, pulling away to look at your face.

The atmosphere changes in a way that you swear is straight out of a movie. The lights pulsing and flashing are hitting Joel's face in a way that makes him even more handsome, which you'd thought previously impossible. While your beer bottle is empty, clutched into your hand that hangs limply at your side, Joel's drink is nearly full, still frosty, and dripping condensation through your shirt, soaking your lower back. Joel's eyebrows are raised, waiting for you to do or say anything. 

And then the dj changes the song. You are… intimately familiar with what begins to play and you shake your head, chuckling. What divine intervention drove the dj to start playing a song about ruining a friendship at this very moment? You have no idea, but you make a mental note to thank the universe as you smile at Joel. You push away from him for just a second, long enough to rip the label off your empty beer bottle. Joel looks confused watching you ball up the damp paper. 

You chuckle as you toss the label at Joel, it pinging off his temple before you spin your body so your back is plastered against Joel's front. 

You'll show him sexually frustrated.

Joel seems to take a second to read the situation because his body doesn't move. In fact, it goes rigid. Your hips sway against him anyway. Joel only breaks out of his spell when your arm snakes around his neck and you bury your fingers in his hair. Tugging gently on his curls seems to awaken something in him and his hands are on you in seconds. The hand clutching his beer comes to rest on your hip as the other picks up where your previous dance partner left off, creeping under your shirt and splaying across your stomach. 

"What are we doin' here, baby?" Joel rasps into your ear, his voice deeper and more strained than you're used to. "I guess I deserve you teasin' me, but two can play this game." Joel's nose prods at a spot behind your ear as he peels one cup of your bra away from your body, replacing it with his hand. Your eyes fly open to ensure no one notices, but everyone on the dance floor is busy paying attention to their own partners. Joel rolls your nipple between two fingers before giving it a flick; you try and suppress a moan.

Not to be outdone, you reach for the beer bottle in Joel's hand. You make sure Joel's eyes are locked on you as you lick a stripe up the neck of the bottle, taking a generous sip before handing it back. Joel's eyes widen and he smirks, bringing his mouth back to your ear.

"Think it goes without sayin' now, but I really don't hate the idea of people thinking you're mine," Joel accentuates his last word with a gentle nip at your earlobe that makes your head loll back onto his shoulder. 

"Are you listening to the song, Joel?" You reach up to place your hand on Joel's cheek, turning his face gently so your eyes meet.  He looks confused, but you can tell he's training his ear onto the chorus of what's playing.

I wanna ruin our friendship

We should be lovers instead

I don't know how to say this

'Cause you're really my dearest friend

Joel lowers his eyes back down to meet yours and smirks. "You an' me both, darlin'." His hand around your waist pulls you impossibly closer and you feel him grow hard against your ass. 

"Know where I last heard this song?" The final notes start to dissipate, melding seamlessly with the next song. Joel shakes his head and asks where. You smirk, nuzzling into Joel's neck before you lick a stripe up to his ear. "It's on my sex playlist."

Joel stills. You grin, giggling as he pushes you away gently. "I've gotta close out the tab," he says once he remembers how to form thoughts into words. "Meet me at the truck. And think about what song you're gonna put on once I get you home."

[fearcvlt]

not sure if you've received your first request yet so here i am. :3

recently, i've been going feral over Sargeant James Buchanan Barnes. he's all i've been thinking about. i've found little to no fics of him before he was sent off to war. and i'd really enjoy reading about handsome, heartbreaking Bucky in his early days.

go crazy, interpret this as you wish.

- 🥨

note. um... this was supposed to be a little drabble but i got a tiny bit carried away. i hope you enjoy it though !! my first request, yippeee <3 also sorry the lead up is cut so short... i realised i suck at writing flirting dialogue... thank u @dollfacefantasy for giving it a lil read in early stages :3 tags. nsfw, mdni. set in the early 40s (which idk a lot about so excuse that). showgirl!reader. sergeant!bucky. p in v. pullout method. pet names. pussyjob(?) briefly. no use of y/n. 1k words.

Being overseas for such long periods of time puts a different kind of strain on Bucky. He wouldn’t consider himself the sentimental type, but he’s glad to be back home. 

Damn, he’s feeling especially patriotic right now. Got a whole group of pretty girls dancing onstage as he sips from his glass of whiskey, reclining casually in one of the shitty seats in the bar. Yeah, it’s real good being back home. 

You’re a sweet looking thing, especially for someone wearing so little clothes. He ain’t used to seeing girls walk around in shit like that, but you are a performer. If this is the kind of thing that gets soldier morale up, Bucky’s all for it. Gotta be better than the shit he’s seen Rodgers doing when performing. 

You’re the kind of girl his ma would’ve loved — god rest her soul. Too sweet for a place like this, and certainly too sweet for the thoughts running around in his head. It’s been a long time since he’s been back home, and it’s been even longer since he’s seen so much skin. Bucky knows how to treat a girl right, but he’s only a man. 

He waits all patiently as you and the other girls finish up your performance before he’s pushing up off his chair, making his way across the room. Worst thing that happens is you walk away, which is fine. He’s handled rejections before (not that he often finds himself being rejected). 

“‘Scuse me, miss. Want me to get that drink for you?” Bucky smiles, an easy, lazy little smile as he leans against the bar counter next to you as you go to order a drink, head tilted down as he takes in your features. He reaches up to flick one of the ridiculously oversized feathers hanging off your little headpiece. “You looked real good up there, doll. Couldn’t keep my eyes off you.”

“Well, I won’t say no to a free drink. And thank you, I’m glad you enjoyed the show.” You reply, head lifting so you can meet his eyes. “Any chance I can get your name?”

Bucky’s smile widens at that, his hand reaching out to grab one of yours. He lifts it up to his mouth, pressing a gentle kiss against the back of your knuckles. “Sergeant Barnes — or Bucky, for a pretty girl like yourself.”

“A sergeant? I can’t believe I was lucky enough to get the attention of such an important man.” You tease lightly, drawing a soft little laugh from him. 

“Ah, you flatter me, doll. I’m lucky to have such a beautiful girl givin’ me the time of day.”

His words have you smiling, giving a little shake of your head in response. “Are you going to buy me that drink, Sergeant?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

∘₊✧──────✧₊∘

“Gotta say, doll,” Bucky pants into your open mouth, pushing your back up against his hotel room door. His hands quickly find their way under the long coat you wore, eager to expose that skimpy little costume you still wore underneath. “I’m real glad you ain’t a good Christian girl. Was startin’ to get worried I’d have to end our conversation with a cold shower.”

“Be quiet.” You huff in response, helping him work you out of your coat so you can feel his hands on you again. 

“Ah-ah. Don’t think you can start bossin’ me around, sweetheart.” He teases, dipping his head to the crook of your neck to press kisses against the skin as he grips at your hips to guide you along to the bed. 

Bucky lowers you onto the bed with practiced ease, hovering over you as he works deftly to peel the layers of fabric away from your body. He’s already sporting a semi under his damn trousers, cock twitching helplessly against his briefs as it slowly hardens at the sight of you. 

It’s not long before his own clothes are gone and he’s pushing into you with a low groan. He’s throbbing against your walls as he stills inside of you to allow you to adjust, forearms resting either side of your head and boxing you in against the mattress.

“Feel good?” He asks with a breathless little laugh as he watches the way your face scrunches up in pleasure. Cute. He’s not faring much better with the way you’re fluttering around his cock. “Look like you’re enjoying yourself.”

When he finally starts to move, it’s with purpose. He shifts his hips into a few different angles, watching your expression closely. When he draws a gasp from you, a grin spreads across his features — dark and predatory. 

As his tip starts to ram against your sweet spot with every thrust, you realise you’re fucked. Literally. 

It only takes a few minutes before you’re whining and writhing beneath him. He’s nothing but smug as your legs begin to shake, squeezing around his waist as if that’d be enough to slow the speeds of his thrusts. Your cunt forms a milky ring around the base of his cock every time he pushes in to the hilt, and he’s starting to feel a little dizzy at the sight of it. 

He feels like a bully with the meanness of each snap of his hips against your ass. You claw desperately at his back, chest, shoulders. Anything you can reach, really. All it seems to do is spur him on. 

“Fuck. Shit. Christ, doll.” He hisses, balls drawing up tight. He pulls out quickly, shifting one of his arms from the side of your head so he can press his thumb against the head of his cock, bracing it against your clit. 

He thrusts in slow, measured strokes, grinding against the sensitive bud until you’re tensing beneath him. His eyes flick between your pussy and your face as you cum underneath him, then he’s shooting a fat, creamy load all over your stomach with a ragged gasp. 

Another huff of laughter leaves him as he flops down on the bed next to you, his hand running through his hair — almost in disbelief. He glances over at you with a lazy grin, head cocking to the side. 

“Can you take me again, doll?”

[biblical-chronicles]

Puddles

________________________________________

where a small Anaïs brings the reader and Noel together.

________________________________________

The winter air bit at your cheeks as you pulled into Noel’s driveway, a little bag in hand containing the pedal he’d left behind at the studio. You could’ve just brought it to the next session, but you figured it’d be easier for him to have it sooner rather than later. Plus, you were in the area, and you also may have had a little bit of a crush on the man.

You knocked on the door, only having to wait a moment before it swung open. Noel stood there, looking about one step away from a mental breakdown, only muttering a quiet “God help me.” under his breath.

You blinked, caught a bit off guard. “Alright, what’s got you so dramatic this time?”

Before he could answer, the shrill voice of a small child echoed from somewhere inside. “NO, DAD, NO!”

You peeked around him and spotted the source of his woes—Anaïs, sitting cross-legged on the floor, clutching a wool hat in her tiny fists like it had personally insulted her.

“She’s supposed to wear the bloody thing ‘cause it’s freezin’ out, but no,” Noel said, throwing his hands up. “Apparently, hats are public enemy number one today. Yesterday they were fine, but not today.”

You couldn’t help but just laugh at his misery at which he just shot you a look of pure betrayal.

“Oh, don’t give me that look,” you teased. “This is brilliant. Rock legend Noel Gallagher brought to his knees by a three-year-old and a hat.”

Anaïs, upon hearing your voice, stopped her tantrum and turned. Her eyes lit up when she saw you standing there. “Y/N!” she squealed, abandoning the hat entirely and making a beeline for you, throwing her arms around your leg in a tight embrace.

“Well, hello to you too,” you said, squatting down to her level. “What’s all this fuss about, then? Your dad says you don’t like your hat very much.”

Anaïs pouted, crossing her arms. “It’s itchy, and it’s ugly, and I hate it.”

“Ah, I see.” You tapped your chin, pretending to consider her argument. “But you know, hats are pretty cool. Look, I’m wearing one too.” You tugged at the brim of your own beanie, grinning at her.

Anaïs tilted her head, clearly weighing her options. After a moment, she picked up the discarded hat and held it out to you. “You wear it.” she commanded.

“Alright, deal.” You took the hat, slipping it on and giving her a little twirl for effect. “How do I look?”

Anaïs giggled, clapping her hands. “Good! Really good!”

“Well, there you go,” you said, taking the hat off and handing it back to her. “If it looks good on me, it’ll look even better on you, yeah?”

Anaïs nodded solemnly, as if you’d just delivered the most profound wisdom of her short life. She plopped the hat onto her head, adjusting it until it sat snugly. “I’m ready!”

Noel, who had been watching the whole interaction, just let out a long, dramatic sigh. “Of course. Two minutes with you, and she’s a bloody angel. I try all mornin’, and I’m gettin’ screamed at like I’ve just committed a war crime.”

You just started laughing at him again as Anaïs looked up at you proudly. “See, Dad?” she said, tugging at his sleeve. “We’re wearing the same hat now. How cool is that?”

“Yeah,” Noel deadpanned, “so cool.”

Finally, you remembered the bag in your hand. “Oh, right, I came to drop this off,” you said, holding it out to Noel. “Your pedal. You left it at the studio.”

“You’re a saint,” he said, taking the bag and setting it on a nearby shelf. “Dunno what I’d do without ya.”

Before you could reply, Anaïs grabbed your hand, pulling you toward the door. “Let’s go, let’s go!”

Noel followed, grabbing his coat. “Oi, slow down, we’re not in a race.”

But Anaïs suddenly stopped in her tracks, turning to look up at you with big, pleading eyes. “Are you coming with us?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Noel said quickly. “She’s got work and—”

Anaïs cut him off with a firm, “No. I’m not going if she’s not going.”

You glanced between the two of them, biting back a laugh. “Well,” you said, squatting down again to Anaïs’s level, “I suppose I can join you. It’d be my pleasure.”

Anaïs beamed, reaching for your hand again, and Noel just stood there, watching the two of you with a look you couldn’t quite place. Maybe a bit of frustration. Maybe a bit of awe. Maybe a bit of love.

“Alright,” Noel said finally, voice softer than usual. “Let’s go, then.”

The three of you walked down the quiet street, the crisp air turning your breath into little clouds. Anaïs skipped along beside you, her tiny hand clutching yours tightly, while Noel trailed slightly behind, hands shoved in his coat pockets.

“You should come over more,” Anaïs chirped, looking up at you with a toothy grin. “It’s way more fun when you’re here.”

“Yeah?” you asked, glancing down at her. “What makes it so fun, then?”

She tilted her head, thinking for a moment before answering, “You sing better than Dad. And you know all the good songs.”

Noel snorted from behind you. “Oi, I heard that!”

Anaïs giggled, covering her mouth with her free hand. “It’s true!” she whispered loudly, as if he wouldn’t hear.

You couldn’t help but laugh, squeezing her hand. “Well, I’ll take that as a compliment.”

The walk continued in comfortable chatter, Anaïs alternating between skipping and walking, her energy seemingly endless. Suddenly, she stopped dead in her tracks, her gaze fixed on something up ahead.

“What is it?” you asked, following her line of sight.

“It’s a puddle,” she said, pointing to a shallow pool of water on the pavement. She leaned forward, examining it as if it were some rare artifact.

“You like jumping in puddles?” you asked.

Anaïs shook her head. “I never really did that yet.”

You blinked, genuinely surprised. “Never? Oh, we’ve got to change that. Look at your wellies—they’re perfect for it!”

Her eyes lit up with curiosity and excitement. “Really?”

“Really,” you said, taking her hand again and guiding her toward the puddle. “Come on, let’s try it out.”

With a bit of encouragement, Anaïs took her first tentative hop into the puddle, sending a small splash of water out around her boots. She froze for a moment, then burst into giggles.

“Look at you, already an expert” you said, joining her in the puddle. “Now, like this—big jump.” You leapt, sending water spraying around your shoes. Anaïs followed suit, her laughter echoing down the street.

Noel stood off to the side, watching you with admiration, a smile automatically forming on his face.

“Come on, Noel,” you called over to him, grinning. “Have some fun for once!”

“Yeah, Dad!” Anaïs chimed in, hopping up and down. “It’s fun! You have to try!”

He rubbed the back of his neck, looking torn. “I dunno… I’m not exactly dressed for this sort of thing.”

“Oh, stop making excuses,” you teased. “You can handle a bit of water, can’t you?”

Anaïs quickly walked over to him, tugging at his hand. “Please, Dad? Just one jump?”

He sighed, throwing his hands up in surrender. “Alright, alright. One jump. Don’t expect me to make a habit of this.”

You and Anaïs cheered as Noel stepped cautiously into the puddle, his boots making a soft splash. He glanced at you both, shaking his head, before taking a half-hearted hop.

“Oh, come on,” you said, laughing. “That was pathetic. Give us a proper jump, Gallagher.”

Anaïs giggled, bouncing on her toes. “Yeah, Dad! Like this!” She leapt into the air, landing with a loud splash that sent water flying.

Not to disappoint her, Noel gave a real jump this time, his landing sending another wave of water outward. You all laughed, the moment surprisingly carefree.

Then Anaïs, perhaps getting a little too enthusiastic, landed with a forceful splash that sent some muddy water flying right onto your face.

You froze, blinking as the cold mud dripped down your cheek. Noel burst out laughing, doubling over as Anaïs clapped her hands over her mouth. “Oops!” she squeaked, eyes wide.

You wiped at your face, trying to suppress your own laughter. “Well,” you said, grinning, “I guess that’s what I get for encouraging you.”

“Sorry,” Anaïs said, but she was giggling too hard to sound sincere.

Noel shook his head, still laughing softly, and reached into his pocket. “Lucky for you, I grabbed some tissues before we left,” he said, pulling a slightly crumpled packet out. He stepped closer, unfolding one and holding it up to your cheek. “Stay still, yeah?”

You blinked as he dabbed at the mud on your face, his touch surprisingly gentle. The closeness caught you off guard and your cheeks warmed as his brow furrowed in concentration.

“There we go,” he muttered, stepping back slightly but still far closer than you’d expected.

Before you could find something to say, Anaïs chimed in excitedly.“kiss! kiss! kiss!”

Both of you froze, eyes wide. “What?” you and Noel said in unison, glancing at each other before turning back to her.

“Please!” Anaïs pleaded, her little hands clasped together. “Just like in the movies!”

Noel’s eyebrows shot up, and he looked at you, his lips twitching as if he couldn’t decide whether to laugh or protest. “She’s got a wild imagination, hasn’t she?” he said, his voice a little tight.

You bit your lip, your own face heating up. “Well,” you said, trying to play it cool, “if the princess requests…”

Noel’s eyes locked with yours, then, as if on some unspoken agreement, he leaned in. The kiss was soft and brief, a tentative brush of lips, but it was enough to make your heart skip a beat.

Anaïs erupted into cheers, clapping her hands as she spun in the puddle. “Yay!”

You and Noel broke apart, both of you laughing nervously as your cheeks burned. “Happy now, then?” he asked her, ruffling her hair.

“Very happy!” she declared, beaming up at you both.

Noel turned back to you, his expression shifting to something softer. “As much as I’m not gonna make a habit out of puddle jumpin’,” he said, his voice quieter now, “I’d gladly make a habit out of this.”

Your breath caught, his words hanging in the air between you. You smiled, feeling a bit dazed but undeniably happy. “I’d gladly let you make a habit out of it,” you replied, leaning in to peck him on the lips again.

Anaïs clapped her hands once more, clearly delighted. “Does that mean she’s gonna come over more often?”

Noel chuckled, glancing at her and then back at you. “Yeah,” he said, his voice warm. “Definitely.”

Anaïs cheered, running ahead as you and Noel fell into step beside each other, both of you smiling like fools.

________________________________________

Right, as promised, here’s the Noel version. Didn’t wanna just nick the Liam fic, so I came up with this for today. Proper cute to write, hope you lot are into it.

And no worries, I didn't forget about all the other requests—day off tomorrow, so I’ll scribble me arse off for ya, swear down xx

[iamnmbr3]

Hey! I remember a while ago you said you were working on a sort of funny sort of serious drarry letter writing fic or something like that? Are you still writing it and if so could we see a little bit of it?

Hi anon! I am in fact still working on that fic. The premise is that basically a few years after the war Harry, who hasn't seen Draco since the trials, gets annoyed with Rita Skeeter asking him questions about whether he spoke at Draco's trial because there was some secret enemies-to-lovers thing going on and sarcastically agrees...not thinking about the fact that sarcasm doesn't translate well in print (especially when Rita has NO incentive to explain the context). Draco owls him about it and they start writing back and forth. Just a fun little cracky scenario I entertained myself with. I am still working on it though I've never published a fic before and idk if I'll actually post this.

If you like you can see a tiny excerpt from towards the beginning below the cut. Tho obviously it's still in draft form and in order to publish I'd need a beta to help me remove any egregious americanisms since I learned American English and also to figure out how to get it to format properly on AO3.

Potter,

Thank you for your reply. 

Frankly I am shocked that the quote is genuine. I had assumed it entirely fabricated or misreported by an unreliable secondary source. Do you mean to tell me you actually answered a question from Rita Skeeter of all people with the words “Yeah, that’s right. Everyone who thought we hated each other in school just couldn’t recognize the obvious romantic tension”? You actually said that? To Rita Skeeter. 

You needn’t worry about forcing the Prophet to issue a retraction on my account. As I said, it’s not my (less than sterling) reputation that’s being besmirched by this story. I am happy to let the story die on its own if you are. (Personally, I vastly prefer this coverage to the last time I was of interest to the press.). Do whatever you think is best. 

For your convenience I have attached a blank scroll since clearly you must be desperately short on stationary. Why else would anyone send back a response written on the back of the original message?

Sincerely, 

D. M.

P.S. It was five years, not six. 

***

Yes. I really said it. No “unreliable secondary source” (like you in fourth year you mean?) necessary. I was being sarcastic! It’s not my fault she left out the context! I probably should've seen it coming, but what was I supposed to do? Hermione made me promise not to hex any more reporters. 

I have a question though. If  you didn’t think the quote was real and you don’t want me to stop the rumors, why did you write to me in the first place?  

By the way, I forgot to say in the last letter. Tell your mum sorry about the reporters outside the Manor. Has she considered using the Fidelius Charm to hide the location? Or the location of your flat, for that matter. That’s what I do to keep them away from my house. 

Also, Hermione says wasting paper is bad. There is plenty of room on the back of this scroll so I don’t see why I shouldn’t use it.  

Harry 

P.S. Five years? So is nose breaking supposed to be a secret Pureblood friendship ritual or something? 

***

Potter,

One does not write letters on the back of other correspondence. It is simply not the done thing. Furthermore, as we can use magic, we can simply replicate an existing piece of paper indefinitely, thus preventing waste. The need to conserve and recycle paper is a purely muggle concept, though an ingenious one. I still don’t really understand how they can turn certain used materials into new objects without magic, though my neighbors have tried to explain it to me. 

Yes, just like me in fourth year (something I hope you know is included on the long list of things I deeply and sincerely regret about my past).

If you must know, I wrote to you because I thought you might suspect I’d planted the story for my own purposes. Clearly I vastly overestimated your ability to handle reporters. For future reference, silence is a wonderful way to prevent unfortunate quotes from appearing in print. 

Our previous correspondence two years ago made it clear to me you wouldn’t welcome further contact (I don’t mean to accuse you; I wouldn’t have wanted to associate with me either) but I didn’t think you would believe me if I simply denied it directly, and I was eager to avoid the impression that I would repay you for your forbearance with the same petty duplicity you had come to expect from me. I apologize if I’ve done the wrong thing. 

Unfortunately, both my mother and I are forbidden from concealing our residences with the Fidelius Charm until our respective five year Ministry-ordered probationary periods have expired. 

I will pass along your apologies next time I see her, though they are hardly necessary. 

Yours,

DM

P.S. I only meant that the incident on the train was about more than misguided feelings of rivalry. I blamed you (unfairly) for my father’s imprisonment and for my family’s sudden fall from grace both in mainstream wizarding society and among the ranks of the Death Eaters, and for the task that subsequently fell on me as a result of my father’s failure. It was my first true experience with any kind of hardship and I handled it extremely poorly. A better person would have questioned the ideologies and actions that led them to that point, but instead I sank further into the darkness that will now overshadow the rest of my life.

[guppygiggles]

Like Real People Do, Part 10! ♡ (Casper x Avery)

☁️ Summary: Following their mid-day nap, Casper wakes up in the middle of the night. Going back to sleep becomes a struggle thanks to Avery. Some promises are hard to keep, but maybe they can meet halfway?

☁️ Warnings: A bit of tickling/tickly language. Very suggestive, 18+ only.

☁️ Word Count: 1.5k

☁️ Author’s Note: Intentionally short; I like building tension, but not just for the sake of it, and any more would have felt performative to me. This is going where you think it's going (and there will be so... so much tickling when we get there, don't even get me started.)

Avery's bedroom was dark when I awoke. My hands instinctively groped for the edge of the quilt only to find that I was already covered by it, the room was just freezing. I curled into a shivering ball, pulling my knees up and tucking my thighs against my belly, feeling my toes touch Avery's back. No relief there, though - the back of his shirt was cool as ever, and I could feel the steady rhythm of his breathing as he slept. Closing my eyes, I tried to match my breathing to his, hoping to trick my body into falling back asleep. Waves crashing against the lighthouse’s tiny landing didn't drown out the gentle thrumming of rain, and such sounds would have normally been a potent lullaby for me, but the chill creeping into my bones demanded to be felt above them all. 

I considered my options. 

I could get an extra blanket, though I wasn't sure where Avery's linen closet was. I hadn't seen any random-looking doors in any of the stairwells. Maybe in the bathroom? I thought about the trip there, walking barefoot in nothing but my T-shirt and boxers down the flight of frigid metal stairs. My toes curled in protest. Scratch that option. 

Avery disdained any kind of nonrenewable energy source, so while I knew he had some sort of furnace in both his kitchen and his living room, I also knew they were solar powered somehow and I didn't know how they worked. I dryly supposed that if I survived until morning, I would ask him to show me. 

I sighed slowly through my nose, opening my eyes to stare at the back of Avery's head as it was smushed into his cloud-like pillow. He was cold, but maybe cuddling would help a little? At least I would die happy…? I didn't want to wake him up, but maybe if I was careful… 

Scooting gingerly, I looped my arm over Avery's side, letting my hand rest on his soft belly as I nuzzled my forehead between his shoulder blades. He stirred, stroking a clumsy hand down my forearm and holding mine once he reached it. 

“Dewdrop…?” 

A twinge of guilt; I shouldn’t have disturbed him. 

“Shh, go back to sleep. It's still dark.” 

“You’re freezing...” 

He rolled over, eyes barely open as his palm found my face, thumb stroking my cheek. The chill of his hand made me shudder, but my heart melted as I watched him blink away sleep, his visage all innocence and vulnerability with his glasses off. 

“Y-yeah, it's a bit cold in here.” 

“Come here, I'll warm you up.” He opened his arms for me. 

My brow creased, “I'm not sure that's going to work…?” I shuffled closer anyway, inching down his body, as to not assault him with my stale breath in his face. Maybe he was too sleepy to remember his body couldn't warm mine? His arms pulled me against him almost possessively, pressing me into his cold, pillowy body. I blushed a little as my head rested against his chest. 

“Just trust me,” he whispered, lips nuzzling my hair. 

It was quiet for a moment, and then a sound like my electric kettle emanated from Avery's body, making his skin hum with a building vibration. Slowly but surely, a warmth bloomed against my back, spreading from Avery's middle to the rest of his body. I lowered my knees, pressing the soles of my feet against the growing warmth of his legs as I let out a groan of relief. He never ceased to amaze me with the things he was able to do. 

“How are you doing that…?” I brought his hand to my lips, kissing his fingers. 

“Mmmn… Magic…” 

I giggled. “Magic” was what Avery said when he was too tired or too busy to explain something scientific, particularly his physiology, Cirropian gadgets, or his homeland itself. 

“I know that's not trueee,” I lilted quietly, reaching up to stroke my fingertip across the silky underside of his head. 

Avery snorted and giggled, tucking his head down. Instead of grabbing my fingers, though, he retaliated with a gentle tweaking to my unprotected side. 

My arm immediately snapped down as my knees came up, barking a surprised laugh as I curled into a ball like a rollie pollie. My fingers and toes tingled as the warmth of his body began to dethaw them; it was strange to feel Avery moving against me without his characteristic chill, but I had to admit, the warmth was healing… and it seemed to have made me more sensitive somehow, too. 

“Be careful… If you keep fussing, you’ll wake up the tickle monster,” he threatened sleepily, his hand slipping under my T-shirt to rub my belly. 

The squeak that came out of my mouth was almost inhuman as my stomach clenched beneath his huge palm; insurance, I guessed, but that warmth… Ohhh, it was heaven… I couldn't help but fidget, nestling my body back against his until there were no gaps between us, and then I knew we had left the timeline where I would go back to sleep. 

Avery's hand stroked my belly in lazy, circular motions, pausing occasionally to give a gentle squeeze. I was embarrassed how little it took to… distract me, and I tried to ignore it, but my fluttering heart would not be still, the warmth he'd ignited in my belly refused to cool. I sighed, yearning, blushing and unbearably human, but we hadn't gotten to that point, yet… and I was resolved to take things at his pace, as I'd promised. I closed my eyes dutifully; I would lie there quietly until morning if I had to. 

The rubbing continued, slow and gentle, for a while longer before Avery was still, his breath against my hair coming in regular succession once again. I had to admit I hated that he stopped, but I was relieved that he was able to go back to sleep, at least. 

What followed was an eternity of stillness, while Avery's body slowly lost heat until he lay cool and soft against my back. Apparently, whatever mechanism allowed him to warm his body only worked when he was awake. I shivered. I whimpered. I checked the time; it was three in the morning, and I was weak. Very weak, especially since I was cold again. My toes curled again as I thought about the unforgiving metal stairs, but they were just gonna have to take one for the team. I carefully slid out from under Avery's arm, crawling to the edge of the bed and getting up. I stole a pair of boxers and a clean shirt out of Avery's tidy dresser, then made for the door. 

“Where are you going…?” 

I winced, although the sound of his voice told me he’d been awake for a while… and his tone was far from critical. Rather, I thought, it betrayed a wisp of longing. 

“To take a shower… I can't sleep.”

There was a pause, and then:

“Would you like some company?” 

The same feeling as before - like a sucker punch, only now that I was standing, my weak knees were more of an issue. I stumbled a bit. A ticker-tape parade of questions exploded in my mind; I grasped the one that seemed most important. 

“Are you awake enough…?” 

I didn't expect it to happen like this. 

“Yes.” 

But I also didn't believe in “planning” special moments, especially intimate ones; in my opinion, the best experiences always happened organically. But what if Avery felt differently…? 

“Are you sure you want to do this now?” 

I thought about all the parts of my body that Avery hadn't seen, especially the parts that were freckled with self-inflicted scars, partially from acne, but mostly from picking. 

“If you are, then yes.”

I let a long silence fall between us as I thought hard. I felt sure that Avery would accept whatever I looked like, but while I was far from a traditionalist in terms of chastity, it was important to me that we were both in the right mind for such an experience. I was tired, but I was certainly well awake… especially after that conversation. 

I hadn't even heard him get up, but before I could speak again, Avery's arms encircled me from behind. I jumped slightly, then leaned back against him, goosebumps rising on my arms from the chill of his body.

“Don’t feel pressured to be ready,” he said tenderly, kissing my hair. 

“I am ready, though,” I turned in the dark, hugging him back and nuzzling into his chest, “I'm ready. Really, I promise.” 

He held me there in silence for a moment, then I felt him move away, followed by an arm behind my knees. I gasped as he lifted and cradled me against him, heading for the stairs.

“Can’t let your little toes freeze on the way down, hm?” He cooed, nuzzling me again. “Goodness, you're freezing… Please forgive me, I'll make sure to put a heater in my room.” 

I tried to hide it, but it was true… My teeth were starting to chatter. 

“Let’s just s-start with the shower,” I said, shivering in his arms. 

He chuckled sympathetically, “Coming right up.” 

[meetinginsamarra]

mayprompts2024, #2 box

So, I had this idea yesterday about a funny little "box"-AU.

I supposed it would become a short ficlet (famous last words) only to find out that it has a lot of potential and I have more ideas about what is going to happen.

I already worked over 2 hours today on it (time that I didn't really have in the first place) and it is nowhere from finished. I don't want to stress myself even more and/or rush this, therefore

Behold Part One of

"The Perfect Place"

--------

Sherlock turned up his collar and plucked up his courage.

Taking a deep breath, he plunged into his mind palace and went through every detail of his plan for the very last time before he would put it into action. He recalled stalking the man for two days, very carefully as to not reveal himself, to deduce all there was to be possibly gleaned from all the minutiae he could observe.

Sherlock found no flaw in his plan (of course he didn't, he never would because he himself came up with it). It had to succeed. There would be no second chance. It was now or never.

He entered and a tiny bell chimed above the door, announcing his arrival. Into battle, Sherlock thought.

“I want to buy a boxspring bed.”

+++++

John Watson startled badly in his seat when he heard the bell chime.

He had not been looking at the door since he had been fiddling with his gun for the umpteenth time (there were no rounds in it so it was safe) because it was boring as hell in the shop.

He had brought his illegal service weapon since the fourth day he worked here as a shop assistent, hoping against all hope that some benign person would storm in and try to rob the cash register (no robber worth their salt would even consider doing this) so that finally something fun and exciting would happen to him.

John had kept his hands and the weapon hidden behind the counter and thus out of sight from the potential customers (he was possibly mad but not that mad) and now he quickly shoved it into a drawer.

John stared at the surprise customer who had stumbled into “Bernie’s Bed Shop” and - holy moly - was he a sight to behold.

On a scale from 1 to 10 the man was a certified 11. John was already jealous of the mattress that would get to hug and caress and wrap itself around this sublime body every night. Life was just unfair.

Still, John could barely believe his luck. Finally, a customer who actually (apart from being the most gorgeuos human being John had ever seen) wanted to buy a bed, even one of those ridiculously posh and expensive ones with boxsprings. Also, being the first one asking for a bed in John's three and a half terrible weeks of working (suffering) as a bed shop assistant.

Thankfully, John remembered to plaster his most winning, helpful and customer-friendly smile onto his face (it was in fact not, resembling rather the anguished expression that a trapped animal with one leg stuck in a bear trap would have) and went around the counter to welcome the god. Godsend.

“Then you are in the perfect place. Bernie’s Bed Shop offers a lot of different boxspring beds. My name is John Watson, may I show you some variants or do you already have something special in mind?”

Sherlock blinked at John. Yes, you, he thought. His throat was suddenly dry with John Watson standing so close to him for the very first time. On a scale from dull to brilliant the man was a certified genius. Simply perfect.

“Show me what you have,” Sherlock asked, slightly husky and meaning something totally different. (He meant what was under these terrible grandpa clothes John wore, of course).

Please God, let him buy a bed, John prayed silently, being painfully aware that as a salesperson he had been utterly failing.

So far, he had merely sold a pair of cheap bedsheets to an elderly short-sighted woman and a heart-shaped decorative cushion to a sloshed builder. He had tried his very best every time when a customer had set their foot into the shop, being forthcoming and friendly and polite but somehow, they had all left more or less quickly without buying anything.

John did not know why that happened every time (it was his anguished smile, obviously) but he did know that this was his last chance to score or Bernie would definitely fire him at the end of this week. John would be without a job once again and would soon have to leave London because even the terrible bedsit he lived (existed) in would become unaffordable.

"Follow me then, please." John walked to the back of the shop where the premium beds stood. "May I present you the 'Royal Metropolis Deluxe'. It has every feature a boxspring bed can have that you could possibly imagine."

Just like your deluxe body, John thought.

I have a very vivid imagination, Sherlock thought and ogled John instead of the bed.

+++++

That's it for today!

Flower Shop AU? Coffee Shop AU? Tattoo Shop AU? Nope! All outdated. I felt there is crying need for a Bed Shop AU. 🤣

tagging some people (tagging on desktop seems to work) @calaisreno @totallysilvergirl @raina-at @lisbeth-kk

[finkinthisfrew]

Teacher's Pet (Pt. 2)

cw: 18+, teacher/student, slow burn, pining, public arousal

JSYK: this is a Matty x reader, but I personally dislike seeing Y/N in a story (I feel like it takes me out of it) so that’s why you get a new name lol sorry if you hate it

You: Hazel Thompson, a timid and unexperienced 26-year-old Masters Student Him: Matty Healy, an intimidating and authoritative 30-year-old Professor at an Ivy League

Teacher's Pet Part 2

When you got home after class, you couldn’t think of anything but him. You’d spent most of that morning eager to get home and get a head start on all your assignments. Now, less than an hour after your last class of the day, you were at home laying in bed imagining how it would feel to run your finger along the protruding vein of his tattooed forearm. Surely the skin would be as soft as it looked- and even prettier against yours. You imagined his grip on your thighs, certain to be just as strong as his already dominant demeanor, delighted by the thought of the bruises each finger would surely leave behind. “Professor…” you moaned over and over as you let your fingers play with yourself, clumsy and inept in comparison to the mere graze of Professor Healys arm against you when he brushed past you in the doorway. You imagined it was his fingers deep inside you as you sloppily swiped out one weak orgasm, then a second when the first wasn’t enough. Now, sweaty and dissatisfied laying half naked on your bed, you feel the burning need to try a third, but finally convince yourself to get up and take a cold shower instead- you really need to start working on your assignments. Immediately after you shower, you step out onto your tiny balcony, small enough for one other person to stand uncomfortably close, and light a joint. The weed helps a little and you eventually manage to start trudging through the first few assignments, working late into the night, not able to trust that if you went to bed, you wouldn’t spend the rest of your night desperately trying to fumble and grind Professor Healy out of your system.

How were you supposed to get through this week, let alone an entire semester…

———

It’s Friday, the day you’ve been aching all week for. Quite literally, actually. You’re tender between your legs as you walk across the school campus, the memory of your new Professor cemented in your mind. You spent every evening for the past four nights touching yourself at the thought of him, so desperate for some relief that you’d rubbed yourself raw. You felt like an animal, feral at the thought of him, practically dry humping whatever was in sight when the image of his intimidating stare drifted into your mind- what was wrong with you? 

Now, you anxiously walked up the steps of the charming old brick building in a dark grey pleated skirt- the thought of wearing jeans that morning made you wince. It also didn’t hurt that it was decently short, showing off your legs considerably as you walked down the hall a few minutes early towards the class you’d been thinking about all week. 

You weren’t disappointed when you saw him, looking even more captivating than last class, his curls completely out and free of gel today, a simple black t-shirt peeking from behind a buttoned-up chestnut brown cardigan. You noted how tight the t-shirt was, already eager for class to start in the hopes he’d take his sweater off again. Just like last class, he wore yet another pair of perfectly tailored pants with his black doc marten oxfords hiding where he stood behind the desk. You freeze in the hall, your hand clenched around the object in your hand, rooted to the spot just outside the doorway where you’d last felt him, the memory of his arm brushing against you still buzzing on your skin like a tattoo. He looks up at you, the red in your hand catching his eye.

“Is that for me?” He asks with a smile of amusement. 

You could die of embarrassment. Why did you ever think this was a good idea…

You consider lying as your cheeks flush with heat. Before you can change your mind, you quickly place the apple on his desk before scuttling off to take a seat, the sound of his chuckle sending a thick wave of pride through you- his laugh like a praise, lapping at your insides with its approval. You sit down, realizing you’ve already started to grow wet, and cross your legs tightly before reaching down to your backpack. You force yourself to watch your hands as you unpack its contents, pulling out your laptop, notepad and pens as other students begin to trickle in, one by one.

“I found out something that you’re gonna love,” you hear Rebecca say from behind you, startling you from your intense focus on your hands, desperate to not show your reddened cheeks to your Professor. Before you can turn around and ask Rebecca what she means, Professor Healy clears his throat, getting everyones attention. 

“Welcome back, class…”

“I’ll tell you after- you’re gonna die when you hear this…” she whispers quickly before leaning back in her seat.

Nothing could be more interesting to you than the man standing at the front of the classroom right now.

“I hope everyone’s had a pleasant week. As you know, today we’ll be discussing the reading I assigned to you last class,” Professor Healy says as he scans the room. Did he know how intimidating he was, or did he do it on purpose? Either way, you could already feel your knot of desire begin to grow as you listened to him speak, clinging to his every word. “I’m sure you noticed on the class information sheet I provided you all that class participation will count for 10% of your grade,” he continues. 

Great. 

You already hate public speaking, but to have to do it in the presence of the sexiest man you’d ever seen? You might as well drop the class now. You slump down in your seat as he begins to summarize the reading.

Luckily, you had managed to do a thorough job of reading the text, the mere thought of its words passing through Professor Healy’s mind enough to find it beyond fascinating, imagining all the potential ideas and thoughts he’d have while reading those exact same words. And you were right- he stumped the class with his analysis, suggesting theories no one even considered, showing the authors words in a drastically new light. He asks the class thoughtful questions, one by one, but it’s clear most people hadn’t done their reading- or at least hadn’t given it much thought.

“…and what does the author mean by the line ‘my fate is yours, only yours to know, only yours to choose- I give it to you,’” Professor Healy asks the class, pointing at Rebecca who, like you, managed to avoid being called upon for most of the class.

“Uhmm, that she wants him to kill her?” Rebecca answers sheepishly behind you as Professor Healy pauses his pacing in front of you both. He tips his head down and gives Rebecca an unamused look- one that would have made you yelp in fear if you’d been on the receiving end.

“No, Miss Schwartz. I’m afraid poetry is rarely so blunt in its meaning,” he says, his words more kind than they needed to be considering how poorly the class was doing with its participation. “I have to say, I’m disappointed in you, class,” he says, resuming his slow pacing. “I was hoping a group of masters students would be a bit more… creative.” He might as well have called the class stupid, the tone with which he spoke saying just as much. 

You can feel your peers embarrassment fill the room, expanding, pressing against your back, practically pushing you to speak. Before you realize what you’re doing, Professor Healy calls on you.

“Yes, Miss Thompson?” He says, raising his eyebrows at your raised hand in interest. “Did you have something to add?”

You take a deep breath, steadying your already shaking voice before speaking.

“I think… she’s talking about desire… and intimacy. About how true vulnerability is inherently intimate…” you begin quietly. 

You look up to see Professor Healy standing above you, looking down at your nervous stare. He can’t be more than a foot away from you, your neck almost straining from looking up at him. He raises his eyebrows and gestures with his head for you to keep going. His eyes are too intense and you drop your gaze to your hands before continuing.

“Well… trusting someone with a part of yourself- whether its a secret, a feeling, a thought… You have no control over how another will react- I think it’s incredibly vulnerable to trust someone. And something as vulnerable as giving someone your fate to do as they please with… That you trust them enough to give yourself fully to them… That’s incredibly intimate. So, yes, on one level I think that she is saying she’s giving herself fully to him, but I think her intention is deeper than that… I think she wanted to make her lover feel her… desire… for him… I guess I found that quite… powerful…” you trail off as you begin to stutter, bashful at your tangent, only realizing now that you could be wildly wrong with your angered Professor only a foot away from you. You look back up at him to see the corner of his mouth twitched up in the subtlest of smiles.

“Good girl,” he breathes as his eyes drop to your mouth, only loud enough for you to hear. 

You shiver, squeezing your legs together at his words as they caress the insides of your thighs. If you were wet before, you were soaked now. 

“A gold star to Miss Thompson,” he says with a smirk, this time loud enough for others to hear. His eyes finally leave your face, your burning cheeks suddenly cold, as if the embrace of his gaze was no different than that of his hands, cupping each cheek gently, wholly. He begins to pace again, continuing to dissect the text and leaving you to spiral on your own, replaying his words “good girl,” over and over in your mind as you imagined all the reasons why he’d say them again if you could choose…

“Alright class,” Professor Healy says with a clap of his hands 20 minutes later, shaking you from your dirty thoughts. “You have,” he checks his wrist for the time, “about 10 minutes to start on your reading for next week. I would recommend that you all take a page from Miss Thompson’s book and come prepared next class…” The shuffle of papers stirs behind as people frantically begin reading, but instead, you watch with flushed cheeks as Professor Healy walks back to his desk and sits down. He scans the now hushed and studious room and your stomach flutters when his eyes land on you. He reaches forward to grab something, then leans back in his chair, your eye contact unwavering. The apple is at his lips, and he takes a slow bite, watching you watch him. Juice dribbles out the corner of his mouth and he chews, then swallows- his Adams apple bobbing. 

Fuck, what you would do to drag your teeth down that neck of his… 

You subconsciously squeeze your legs together at the sight of him, then watch as he opens his mouth and wipes the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand, slowly dragging his lower lip down, all while still staring at you. You have to consciously stay upright, your body nearly collapsing from the display. His eyes lower back to his desk where he begins to scribble in his notebook, and you spend the last 10 minutes of class watching him as he writes his class notes for the day.

“You are dismissed,” he says as the clock finally strikes 4pm, neatly stacking his papers and placing them in his briefcase. “I’ll see you all next week. Have a good weekend- yes thank you, I will, Mr. Dawes. Miss Thompson? Would you mind staying behind for a moment?”

You freeze in your seat. A couple of your peers glance at you curiously as they all file out of the room, wondering what your Professor could possibly want from you two classes in a row.

“You little teacher’s pet- he’s obsessed with you!!! I’ll wait for you outside!” Rebecca says in a yell whisper, then grabs her bag and quickly runs out of the room, leaving you alone with him, once again.

"You wanted to speak to me, Professor?" you say nervously as you stand up to approach him.

“I thought I might spare you of the embarrassment your classmates seeing that you’ve soaked through your skirt, Miss Thompson,” Professor Healy says as he continues to wipe the chalkboard of his scrawl without even turning to look at you.

Your face turns bright red as you whip around to find a small but noticeable wet spot on the back of your skirt.

FUCK. 

“Oh, I m- must’ve sat in something…” you stutter in embarrassment before your Professor cuts you off.

“That absurdly tiny thing you claim to be a skirt wasn’t marked when you arrived to class, Miss Thompson,” he says, his tone almost bored as he continues to wipe the board.

“No I must have…” you trail off before realizing your Professor had just admitted to staring at your ass earlier. And on top of that, because of that, he knew that the spot on the back of your skirt wasn’t a stain, but your arousal. The way he spoke so nonchalantly about knowing what was going on inside your panties made you weak in the knees. Maybe it’s a bit fucked up, but you take deep pleasure in knowing he was thinking about your pussy. You’re thankful you were no longer sitting, or else the wet spot would’ve grown even more at this realization. 

“Wait, how did you know I had a wet spot if I didn’t come in with one? I’ve been sitting this whole time,” you ask in confusion, knowing there was no way he would have even seen it yet, considering he hadn’t looked at you once since you’d stood up.

He places the brush down and claps his hands free of the chalk dust before turning around to face you.

“I look forward to seeing you next week, Miss Thompson,” he says with finality, this conversation obviously over as he picks up his briefcase. “And I suggest you wear something more modest next class… perhaps in black…” he adds, glancing down at your grey skirt before turning and walking out the door.

He’s so INFURITATING. And yet, somehow, it only made you want him more.

You stand there for several minutes, eventually stomping your foot to the ground like a child having a temper tantrum, then quickly twist your skirt around so the wet mark is on your thigh- a much more innocent spot for a spill or a stain… You gather your things and stroll out the classroom, ready to go home and work out your frustrations when you feel two hands clasp around your shoulders.

“GIRL,” you hear as you jump in shock, turning around to find Rebecca gawking at you. “He must be obsessed with you or something- he never talks to students if he doesn’t have to- at least that’s what my friend told me. I’m Bex, by the way,” she grins, holding out her hand.

“Hazel,” you say, still in shock as Bex grabs your hand, then twirls you around with it, wrapping her arm around your shoulder before leading you down the hall. Her energy is a bit overbearing, but friendly and genuine nonetheless.

“SO. What I was going to tell you before I was so gorgeously interrupted by that literal walking sex dream…” she says with a sigh. “You’ll never believe what I learned about Professor Healy.”

Your ears perk up a bit as you both push the double doors open and walk out into the brisk fall afternoon. You half listen as you wondered if it was finally time to invest in a new vibrator, already prepared to disappoint yourself later in bed as Bex prattled on.

“He’s in a band,” she says excitedly. “And not only that- he’s the lead singer!”

“What?!” You stop dead in your tracks. “You’re not serious!” You say in disbelief. It wasn’t actually that hard to believe, considering how he looked and dressed, but you had a hard time imagining such a stern and strict man doing anything but teaching- let alone performing on a stage.

“Yeah, they’re playing at a bar in the next town over tomorrow night. My sister’s driving me up- she’s meeting some friends there for the show. Do you wanna come?” Bex asks you eagerly.

You had no idea how you were going to get your way through the semester with your mind constantly distracted from your studies by this forbidden man who would never be foolish enough to touch you, but you knew one thing for sure- you would crawl to that bar if you had to.

“I’m in.”

part 3

[girlboybug]

Crush

"he looks like he works with his hands, and smells like marlboro reds."

what's playing 🎧: crush by ethel cain

pairing : bfd!joel x reader (no outbreak au)

word count : 14k (oops)

*unedited*

CONTENT WARNINGS : SMUT, age gap, heavy petting, grinding, fingering, handjobs, references to m!masturbation, unprotected sex, creampies, light dirty talk, riding, soft dom!joel, but also switch coded joel if u squint, slight angst kinda sorta

TRIGGER WARNINGS : lowkey dubcon just bc of the power imbalance that comes with the age gap but everything is consensual as always. joel knew the reader when they were 4, 16 years have passed so now they're 20! brief mentions of messy home life and brief descriptions of verbal sexual harassment

A/N : i've been dying to write bfd!joel, and when i heard crush i knew what i had to do lolol. so sorry this took ages, it wasn't supposed to be this long but here we are lol. i hope you guys enjoy <3 comments really motivate me, so if you liked it plz lmk in the comments :3

your eyes continually drift over to the time glowing in the corner of the screen on your register, wondering when joel was supposed to swing by. you pray that he hasn’t forgotten his promise to your dad of checking out your air conditioner to see what needs to be repaired.

the tiny fan that sits beside your half drinken water bottle does little to nothing, and it only adds insult to injury. 

you think back to last night at dinner, in your air conditioned home, about the ‘exciting’ news your dad had to share. he rattled on about how he ran into an old college buddy and family friend, joel miller down at the pro bass shop—and of course it was at the pro bass shop. 

after a few jogs of your slightly depleting memory, you finally, somewhat, remembered a face to the name. you vaguely joined in with your parents’ reminiscing of how he used to come over with his little girl sarah for play dates, and occasionally babysitting you when your parents went out on their date nights. 

they also were quick to tease you about your little crush on him, one you swear you can’t remember, which in your defense, you really don’t, and desperate to change the subject, you asked about his wife, which only worsened the allegations of your crush on him. 

“goin through a divorce, it’s actually why he moved back here, but i’m sure you’re happy to hear that,” your dad snickered with a little nudge, and you wanted to bury your face in the steaming mashed potatoes on your plate. 

once you managed to wrangle them out of the conversation of your alleged feelings towards the man you barely remembered, it was briefly mentioned that he’d be coming by today to check out your broken down air conditioner at the store your parents owned and operated. 

you’re the cashier there, unwillingly of course, but it helps pay for your very expensive books you need for your classes, so it’s not a total issue. however, as you blanky look around the empty sweltering convenience store, you honestly consider closing up early and ubering home to soak in a nice, cold shower. 

the bell that hangs from the door rings at the front entrance, but you’re too tired and worn down by the heat to say your usual greeting, instead deciding to just remain slumped in your small wooden stool, aimlessly trying to angle your mini fan at the most optimal point of your face. 

your peripheral view catches a navy blue hued shirt, and your head lifts upwards to get a better look in case it’s a customer. 

your eyes fall onto an older man smiling down at you, crossed arms bulging from behind his short sleeves. something bubbles in the very pit of your stomach. “mr. miller?” you ask, slightly unsure, but he nods, chuckling when his arms drop to his sides. “heya hun, it’s been awhile, how are you?” he leans in for a hug, and you suddenly don’t feel the sweat that’s been stuck to your skin for the past three hours as you rise to your feet and off the stool to meet his arms that come around your waist. you manage to stutter a response of, “i’m good, and you?” 

“doin’ alright,” he says through a grin– oh god, his grin is so pretty, you think you almost see a cartoonish sparkle glint in his teeth from the fluorescent lighting.

your stomach bubbles up the more you take him in, and oh no. the worst possible thing just came to fruition.

your parents were actually right. 

he pulls back, hands still on the backs of your arms as he takes a moment to really look at you. “you’re so grown up now honey, i remember when you were just this big,” he holds a hand just below his hip and you join in his light laughter, feeling those fluttery feelings you felt all those years ago rush to your chest and tummy like a dormant volcano erupting. 

he hasn’t aged a bit, maybe a few more wrinkles here and there, and the crows feet beside his eyes deepen more now when he smiles, along with the grays that take the place of where some strands of brown used to be. but he’s just as beautiful as your fuzzy memories, if not more. 

“y-you look exactly the same,” you chuckle nervously, trying to not give in to the magnetic pull tempting your eyes in the direction of his chest and abdomen. he grows a little bashful, glancing away for a moment before he replies, a little pinker in the cheeks than before. “i definitely don’t weigh the same, sweetheart,” he sighs playfully, patting his stomach. 

you hear the traces of slight disappointment in his words and it saddens you. you shake your head, feeling even warmer under the heavy feeling from his eyes blanketing over you while you frown ever so slightly. “i think you look great.” you say truthfully, feeling nervous as soon as the words part from you, worried he might think you’re too forward, but instead he smiles again, looking down at his boots. 

“you’re too kind.” he grins, looking back up at you, his fingers running along the side of his beard. you feel flushed, glancing away from his smiles. 

“goddamn, it is hot in here,” he pinches at his shirt, pulling it back and forth to get a slight breeze. you nod vigorously, plopping back into your stool, fanning yourself once more. “i can show you were the ac’s at,” you offer, and he agrees. 

you guide him to the useless machine, eyeing it down with an irritated look, as if it were alive, and purposefully broken down to spite you. 

he walks over to it, bending down to its level and you balance on your heels awkwardly, overthinking on if it’s the correct social etiquette to say anything right now. 

“hmm, lemme get my belt from the truck, i’ll be back hun,” he nods at you, sending you a smile before he disappears out the store and back to his truck. 

when you’re sure he’s out of view, you curl in on yourself, holding your face and opening your mouth to let out a silent scream. 

all it took was seeing him for two seconds, for a crush you didn’t even remember existed until last night to come back immediately. 

when he returns, he sends you a smile before he goes right to work, setting up shop beside the air conditioner, toolbelt wrapped around the alluring circumference of his waist. 

you imagine what it’d be like if it were your hands instead of the worn down leather that envelops him, how his skin would feel in your palms and jesus, you are being so creepy right now. 

he talks while he works, listing about all the things wrong with the ac, jokingly calling your dad a cheapskate for not being willing enough to upgrade to a functioning one that wasn’t manufactured before you were born. and of course, you laugh, leaning against a counter, hoping he just so happens to turn to the side to spare you a glance and notice that you look effortlessly sexy. 

he mainly keeps his focus on the task at hand but, you keep hoping he turns to look over at you at some point. 

no customers have come in yet, and for once you are eternally grateful for a slow day. 

your eyes trail from his biceps, down to his strong forearms, they look safe, secure, like they could hold you and keep you locked in, and his hands…god his hands. 

they’re long, and big. his wide palms that splay across the side of the ac make the machine somehow look small in comparison. his fingers are so skillful, prodding and working at the screws and confusing bits you didn’t even know were a part of the contraption — but honestly the mechanisms of the ac are not what you care about right now. 

you care about how it would feel if it were your sides, your hips, being touched and caressed instead of the machine, and how his big strong hands could hold onto them, grip them, squeeze them tight like a real man would. 

you notice the way he swipes his forearm across his forehead, clearing away the sweat that beads over the skin, feeling bad that he’s doing so much manual labor in such terrible conditions. 

you depart from your shared space for a moment, padding towards the refrigerators stocked full of drinks. 

you return to him, tapping his shoulder and smiling brightly when he looks at you, eyes darting down to the cold root beer in your hands. “for you. least i can offer while you work,” you beam and he chuckles, switching some weight onto his left foot, his hand resting on his hip when he graciously takes the bottle from you. 

“well thank you hun,” he tips his head at you, unscrewing the cap and taking a swig. 

you watch the way his lips curl around the rim, how his hand just about swallows the entire bottle and the way his adam’s apple bobs while he drinks. you have to fight back the urge to squeeze your thighs together to alleviate the tingly feeling spreading inside you. 

“how’d you remember i like root beer?” he asks, eyes peering at you with a warm surprise, his fingers twisting the screwdriver into the side of the ac. 

you hop up onto the counter beside him, swinging your legs while you shrug. “just randomly came to mind i guess,” he turns to look at you, taking note of the way his eyes land on your bare legs first before they flicker back up to your eyes. you feel a little cocky about that. 

“always were a helpful girl,” he says, and you just about glow at his little compliment, folding a leg over the other while you rest on your palms, trying to hide how big your smile grows. 

“thank you,” you say quieter, shyer than you mean to. 

you two converse a bit longer, and you decide to sneakily flip the open sign to closed in the window while you listen to his responses. 

the topic of college is brought up, and you respond to his questions about how it’s going, what you’re majoring in, and you answer, creative writing, feeling flushed when he pauses his work to smile at you. 

“an’ you know what, you always were a storyteller when you were young, i bet you’ve only gotten better since,” he says wistfully, fondly imagining you typing away and creating stories he’d happily read all about. 

he’s not a big reader, but for you? he could be. 

when he finishes up, he calls you over, turning the knob on high and watching as the ac releases what sounds like a guttural groan before a gust of icy air greets your bare arms. 

you gasp and squeal in delight over no longer being slowly cooked to death in your parent’s mini mart.

“thank you mr. miller you’re literally the best,” you gush and he waves you off, gathering his tools as he nears the register. 

“ahh don’t worry ‘bout it. i’m happy to do it. ‘specially if ya had anyone else do it for you, i know you’d get charged damn near an arm and a leg,” he rests his hands on the counter and your eyes trace over his long fingers while you make your way beside him. you feel giddy when you notice the tan line on his ring finger. 

a reminder of the fact that he’s single now. 

you just nod, holding back from saying something along the lines of how you’d be more than happy to pay him for this service with a…different kind of service of your own in return. 

“so how much was the root beer hun?” he asks, flicking through the bills in his wallet. you immediately shake your head, ignoring his protests of accepting a free drink. 

“no that was on the house mr. miller, i will not take your money,” you say stubbornly and he squints at you, huffing in defeat. “you sure? don’t want you gettin’ in trouble with your folks if they find out you’re out here givin things away for free now,” his hands settle on his hips and he gives you a playfully testing look, still managing to cause a flurry of emotions to ripple inside your lower tummy. 

“who’s gonna tell them?” you counter, voice lowering just a little, eyes following in suit as you stare up at him. 

his soft chuckle fades between his parted lips at the shift in your demeanor. his jaw comes down for a second before his lips curl to the side. “alright, thank you sweetpea,” he concedes just an octave above a murmur. 

“is there anything else you wanted to get? because in all seriousness, they’d probably get more upset at me for actually charging you instead of just letting you have it for free.” you say truthfully, feeling positive that your dad wouldn’t mind joel taking a few things home free of charge. 

he holds out that big hand of his, chuckling when his gaze shifts to the ground before it rests back over on you. “nah s’alright hun, root beer was already mighty gracious of you,” but you’re not buying it, you head behind the register, arms extending along the expanse of the wall of products, pretending to sell the items like you’re showcasing the prizes on a game show. 

“you suuure? anything you want, completely free,” you offer temptingly and his lips collect themselves to the side of his mouth, chuckling mutedly, a little shake of his head as he watches you. 

“alright,” he leans forward, and you feel your throat get a little tight at his ministrations, suddenly noticing the slight glimmer of a chain hidden beneath his shirt. 

“can you get me that pack of marlboro reds behind you hun?” he points at the carton of cigarettes, and for some reason his request makes your stomach get tight. 

you think back to how not even a day ago you rambled about your visceral dislike for boys, discarding them as a waste of time — but joel isn’t a boy. he’s a man, and may the version of yourself who existed moments before he came in, forgive you for being a melted pile of hypocritical mush he’s managed to turn you into in the span of less than two hours. 

you can hear your mother’s scoff in your head as you find yourself feeling giggly at his choice of a freebie. it’s just so. manly. 

he’s so manly. 

you hand him the carton and he pockets it, not before taking a cigarette out, deciding to indulge early. “thank you sweetpea,” he smiles, cigarette already being placed between his lips. 

“no problem,” you nod with a grin. he eyes the closed sign before he looks at you once more with a knowing smirk. “closing early i see,” he pointedly nods at the sign and you shrug with a sheepish little smile, neither confirming nor denying the notion. 

“lemme guess—folks won’t mind? and would actually be more upset if you didn’t close up early?” he teases, and it almost feels like flirting. you decide to tell yourself it is. so you play along, rolling your eyes and waving your hand dismissively with an equally teasing ha. ha. ha laugh. 

“it’s been a slow day, so no, they actually won’t mind, for your information,” you fold your arms, wriggling your face blithely. he chuckles, lighting his cigarette, taking a drag before he continues. “d’you need a ride home then hun?” he asks, genuinely offering and you have to forcibly give yourself a moment to pause before immediately yelling an overly enthusiastic YES PLEASE. 

“are you sure? you’ve already done a lot for me today,” you act a little bashful, mostly because you are, but you also are attempting to hide the excitement bubbling inside you at the thought of being alone with him in his truck. 

he shakes his head, exhaling the smoke from his lips silently, unknowingly entrancing you. “ts’ not a problem at all, cmon,” he motions his head towards the door and you trail along like a lost puppy.  

you lock up the door behind you before you’re greeted by the sight of joel holding the passenger seat open for you. 

your face gets hotter than it was before he fixed the ac at the sight of his chivalry, pretending to curtsy with your invisible dress before you climb into his truck, mumbling a shy thank you, as he safely closes the door behind you. 

he hops in, and you read your address out for him as he turns the keys in the ignition. 

it’s a little silent for awhile, but it’s okay, you’re content stealing glances at him, hiding behind the fist that supports the weight of your tilted head, hoping he doesn’t notice the way your eyes cast over him adoringly. 

he’s so beautiful. you definitely had taste as a kid. 

he even looks strong, and not in an annoying machismo way, but in a natural, humble way. a kind way. 

you want to touch his broad shoulders, kiss your way down his biceps to his forearms and down to each and every finger of his. you want to kiss away all the callouses and take care of him the way he deserves. 

you can’t believe you’re daydreaming about him in such a way right in front of him, especially since it’s the first time you’ve seen him in about 16 years and this is how you react. 

oh well. 

the contrast of grey in his soft looking brown hair is so complementary, you hope he hasn’t turned into one of those guys that put dye over it, because frankly you think the natural look suits him quite well. 

you drift your stares down to his strong hooked nose, admiring how charming it is. you want to trace your finger tip down the slope of it, and uh oh he’s looking at you. 

you can’t be too obvious in your actions, despite the fact that you already are, so you just smile instead of whipping your head around in the opposite direction like you wish you could. “can i try?” you ask, motioning towards his cigarette, trying to play off the situation as to not expose the real reason why you were staring. 

he just chuckles under his breath, his smile lingering when he turns to look back at the road. “that’s ahh, not really a good habit you wanna get yourself into sweetpea.” he says with a small shake of his head. 

you almost give up right there, but you decide to push just a little further. “it won’t be a habit, i just wanna see the appeal is all,” you turn in the seat to fully face him, smile growing when he leans his head towards you in a jokingly exasperated tilt. he says your name warningly, and you deflate for a moment, worried he may actually be annoyed with you. 

you don’t say anything else and he notices, feeling bad at your silence. he sighs with guilt, wanting to remedy the incorrect thoughts you have of him being upset at you as he hands you the cigarette. you instantly perk, taking it into your own fingers. “careful now. you might choke, waters right there in the cup holder if it burns. don’t inhale it too long,” he instructs, watching you from the corner of his eyes to make sure you don’t hurt yourself. 

you wave away his worries, placing the stick between your lips, feeling warm all over when you get a thought that says it’s kind of like we just kissed through the cigarette. 

you inhale, hold it in for a few passing seconds before you’re proving his warnings correct, coughing loudly and not flatteringly whatsoever. 

you try to face away from him, your eyes beginning to water and your throat burning worse than when you smoked from a very suspicious wax pen. the last thing you wanted was for him to see you like this. 

he brings a hand behind your back, rubbing it soothingly as he sighs to himself, feeling a tinge of guilt for letting you smoke. 

“easy honey easy, drink some water,” he hands you the bottle of water and you down it, blinking away your tears as you hand him back his cigarette. “that was so embarrassing i’m so sorry,” you groan, burying your face in your hands. 

“s’alright honey, least now i bet you really won’t wanna make this a habit now right?” he asks, hoping you confirm your aversion to cigarettes. you instead choose to tease him a little, humming a contradictory response to his question. he squints at you and you giggle. “i dunno, might have to try again so i can really make sure.” 

he taps the ashes out the window, laughing at your reply. “you’re gonna get me in trouble with your dad there hun f’he finds out i turned his daughter into a little chain smoker,” 

you slide your hands under your thighs, watching him for a moment before you speak. “i won’t tell if you don’t,” you repeat yourself from earlier, alluding to something else, hoping he reads your mind and understands your allusions. 

he purses his lips in a slight upward furl, looking at you once he’s reached a red light. “someone’s gotten a whole lot sneakier since the last time i saw her,” you laugh, leaning into the headrest while you look at him. “a lots changed since,” you say, voice falling quietly and he holds your stare, his eyes betraying him by clearly darting down to your lips. the red light switches back to green, forcing him to look away from you. 

your chest bloomed at the way he looked at you in that moment, unsure if you’re delusional in even considering the possibility he maybe could reciprocate the attraction you’re feeling. but a little delusion never hurt anyone anyways. 

“it sure has,” he agrees, the corner of his eyes taking in your figure once more. 

but he shakes the thought from his head, almost rebuking it and instead deciding to change the subject. “can’t fault you too much though. sarah’s the same way sometimes,” he says through a chuckle that sounds nervous — did you make him nervous? 

again, you tell yourself you did. 

you sit up straight at the mention of sarah, visibly growing excited. “oh my god sarah, how is she? it’s been so long, i’m sure she doesn’t remember me,” blurred memories of playing with plastic makeup sets, and real makeup you two ‘borrowed’ from her mom, replay in your mind at the mention of her. 

he shakes his head, disagreeing at your slightly saddened thought of being forgotten by sarah. “she’s good, she’s in school just like yourself, and she does remember you hun! matter a fact, she’s home right now, if you’d like, you can come over for dinner and catch up with her,” you clap your hands together excitedly, nodding happily at his suggestion. 

“yes! that sounds amazing, i would love to!” you accept and he smiles at the thought of his two girls sitting together talking at the dinner table. 

“i’m sure she’s gonna lose her mind when she sees you,” he squeezes your knee and you go still, frozen in place when you feel the heat from his palm radiate into your skin. 

his touch is gone too soon, you want to hold his wrist and keep him there, but you pretend his fleeting touch doesn’t affect you as strongly as it actually does. 

the heat from his skin has become yours and you cradle it, pretending you’re not beaming in his passenger seat from it while he talks. 

“i’m kinda nervous, it’s been so long,” you say, pressing the backs of your fingers to your cheeks and feeling the warmth of nervousness flush to the surface of your face. 

“don’t be sweetpea, nothin to be nervous about, i promise,” he comforts your nerves with a soft voice, and you allow it to cushion you. 

—

joel was right about two things. 

you really did have nothing to worry about, you and sarah clicked right away as if no time had passed. she squealed when she saw you, racing towards you and enveloping you in a tight hug, rambling about how she’s missed you so much. it felt good to know you were never forgotten in her mind. 

he was also right about sarah being sneaky. 

or rather ‘persuasive’ and ‘just so happens to forget to mention certain things’ as she would put it. 

she managed to convince both joel (which didn’t take much convincing to begin with) and your dad to let you sleep over, which you were ecstatic about for obvious reasons but also because she saved you from having to scramble for a reason as to why you closed up the shop early. 

you’re in her bed now, sitting behind her while you help gather her hair into her baby pink bonnet, talking about anything and everything there is to talk about. while also getting ready to sleep off the high from the wax pen she has hidden under her pillow. 

“i can’t believe you’re really here with me right now,” she grins as you move back in front of her, leaning into her opening arms. 

“i know, me too, it’s been so long,” you hum, rubbing her shoulders. “i’m kidnapping you by the way, this was all just an elaborate scheme to lure you in.” she mentions casually and you laugh, falling back into her bed with her while you rest your head on her shoulder. 

“fine by me,” you say, and you mean it, but you don’t add that in.

“i’m happy you’re here,” she whispers, her nose scrunching up against yours. you smile, holding your forehead to hers. “i am too.” 

“are you busy tomorrow?” she asks, pulling the blankets over your bodies. you shake your head, curling under the covers. “nah, we’re closed tomorrow at the store and i don’t have school that day,” you say, feeling pure adoration as you watch sarah’s smile grow the more she listens to you talk. 

“why don’t we spend the day together then! my dad’s gonna be at work so we’ll have the house to ourselves,” she whispers as all the excitement from the day starts to add weight into your bones, easing you both into rest. 

you nod and smile sleepily, leaning into her arm that drapes over your side. “okay, i’ll call my dad tomorrow,” you yawn and she closes her eyes at that, content by your answer. 

— 

it’s 3am. you should not be awake. but you are, and you’re looking over at sarah, wishing you were fast asleep like she is. you carefully peel yourself out of her arms, gently covering her with the blankets before you pad out of her room and down into the kitchen for some water. 

you tiptoe down the stairs, your heart sinking nervously right into a tight spot inside your stomach when you see the fridge door agape, with a broad back sticking out of it, also in search of something to drink. 

joel rises and turns to see your stilled figure standing awkwardly, staring forward like you’ve just gotten caught stealing. 

he chuckles, scratching a few lazy fingers down his stubble when he shuts the fridge. “what’re you doin up sweetpea?” he asks, and oh god his voice is nice and gravely, a rasp from the depths of sleep that he evades every night careens around your ears and you nearly fold at the knees. 

“just uh, randomly woke up and i couldn’t go back to bed. was just gonna get some water, sorry,” you sound meek and joel shakes his head, and walks closer. you panic a little. it’s a good panic. 

“nuthin’ to be sorry about hun, i’ll getchu some water,” he holds your arm, smiling softly down at you, nodding at you for confirmation. once again his touch abandons the skin of your upper arm when he leaves to fetch a cup for your water. 

your hand graces the skin he touched as you watch him pour you water. he hands it to you, and you thank him quietly, taking a sip from the old plastic disney princess cup he picked out for you. 

“so what woke you up? you feelin’ alright?” he murmurs, coming in close again to press the back of his hand to your forehead. you weren’t overheating until he decided to do that. 

you swallow hard, shaking your head beneath his hand. “n-no no—well i mean yes, yes i’m-i’m okay, i just wake up randomly at odd hours of the night for some reason sometimes,” you say hushedly, afraid to disturb the peaceful silence the night brings. 

he nods understandingly, withdrawing his hand from your face and you want to tell him he can keep it there, but you mentally digress. 

“happens to me too,” he sighs, visibly tired with a hand lazily running down his stubble. “sorry you’re goin’ through it too then hun,” his thumb runs a small circle over your shoulder comfortingly and your body molds around the curve of his fingers. 

“it’s okay,” you mumble shyly and he smiles softly, his touch stalling on yours before it drops back to his side. the air that fills the quiet kitchen turns into something warm and calming when it floats between your tired bodies, and it feels nice. feels domestic. soft smiles mirror each other on your faces and you look away, unable to handle the weight of his stare. 

“so, do you um…do anything that helps you fall asleep?” you ask curiously, mostly just trying to make conversation to keep him tethered to you, even for just a moment longer. 

he scratches his scruffy beard and sighs, nodding like he’s somewhat ashamed to admit. you grow curiouser, deciding to test the waters and inch in just the tiniest bit closer. “and what do you do?” you question through a whisper. 

“i smoke,” he responds just as hushed and you chuckle. “sounds like you’ve got a bad habit.” you prod, lightly teasing and he takes the playful jab, chuckling along with you. 

“well, we’ve all got our vices,” he smiles at you in a way that's playfully guilty, and you roll your eyes with the same playfulness before speaking again. “was i stopping you from taking a smoke?” you ask, and he shakes his head, denying the notion. “no no, and if you were it’d probably be for the best,” he shrugs and you grin. an idea occurs in your mind. 

“can i smoke with you again?” you ask bravely and the volume in his laugh rises before he’s silencing himself so as to not wake sarah. 

“ain’t happenin’, shouldn’t have even happened the first time,” he immediately shoots down your request but you have a sneaking suspicion you’ll wear him down. 

“but you said it helps you go to sleep,” you counter with a pout and he sighs with faux exasperation. 

“hun,” he says warningly again, eyeing you in a way that pins you where you stand. “first time seein’ you in what? 15 to 16 years and i’m already becomin’ a bad influence on you.” he says amusedly, his fingers dipping into the pocket of his plaid pajama bottoms, tracing over the curve of the loose cigarettes that await him. 

“it’s not like you’re giving me hard drugs mr. miller,” you say, tilting a shoulder at him persuasively. his eyes trace over your face for a few passing seconds, taking in the way you look back at him before he decides what to do next.

“last time, understand? just to help you sleep.” he says, but it sounds like he’s more so reminding himself than he is you. 

“okay,” you smile, following him to the loveseat that faces the window, and you assume this is where he usually smokes. 

he cracks open the window, and sits down into the plump cushion, leaning against the very texan quilt that drapes over the seat. you sit down on the arm of the seat, stretching your legs above his knees, the closeness in proximity feels so personal, and you want to live the rest of your life in this quiet and intimate hour with joel. 

he hands you a cigarette, watching you put it between your lips, his available hand straying off to the side to grab the lighter that’s on the tray beside the loveseat. 

he flicks the lighter on and your faces become illuminated by the small flickering flame. he looks beautiful as he carefully lights the end of it, his eyes on the bud of it while your’s memorize each and every wrinkle that crinkles around his eyes. 

“inhale, careful now,” his words of concern blanket over you and pave a smooth passageway for the smoke to enter into your lungs, successfully preventing you from breaking out into another coughing fit. 

you inhale, and keep it before you fan it out the window. he smiles and pats your ankle that rests beside his lap. “there ya go,” he nods the crown of his head at you proudly. you bow humbly, handing him the cigarette. 

“feels nice. makes me feel warm,” you mumble tiredly, watching the way he takes a drag effortlessly. “don’t get too used to it now,” he chides, words shadowed amidst the mist of his smoke. 

“i won’t,” you reply with a knowing smile as he goes to hands it back to you. he pulls his hand that holds the cigarette back, eyeing you. he says your name in that tone and you wave him off, taking the cigarette from his fingers. “kidding,” you remedy his worries of your possible nicotine addiction in the nearby future, inhaling another drag.

you two go back and forth like this for awhile, until the cigarette becomes an unrecognizable little stub,

“feel sleepy yet?” he exhales through a fanning breath, and you nod, watching him flatten the bud into the ashtray beside his side of the armrest. 

“good,” he yawns, lazily running a hand across the side of his beard. “got a long day tomorrow — or today technically, an’ so do you little miss, try an’ get some rest.” he drawls softly, sleepily, and you nod your tired head at his words, free falling into them. 

“goodnight sweetpea,” he says with a gentle finality, leaning in to hold you by the back of your head, pressing a chaste kiss to your forehead. you crumble into his touch, shutting your eyes as if to fossilize yourself in the moment. 

“goodnight,” you whisper, feeling cold when he pulls away. you wish you had thought of something more to say, anything at all that would’ve kept him in your presence for just a little longer, but now you’re stuck sitting alone in the living room, watching his broad back ascend up the stairs, wishing you were trailing behind him, with your hand in his. 

you finish the rest of your water before you’re trudging back up the stairs, the weight of exhaustion lowering its heft onto your shoulders with each step upwards. 

and as you crawl back into bed with sarah, despite the attempts to push the thoughts away, all you can think about are the ways in which her father could tire you out until you fell asleep.

___ 

after that day, the miller household practically became your second home. more often than not showing up to their house rather than your own after school and work. 

at first you were worried that maybe you were beginning to overstay your welcome, that maybe they just didn’t know how to tell you to stop coming over so often. but they quickly put those insecurities to rest when sarah called you wondering why you hadn’t shown up after work, saying how joel set a plate for you at the table and it was getting cold. 

they were just as attached to you as you were to them. 

they really loved having you over, loved getting to make up for all those years you all went without each other, taking the time to relearn everything there is to know about the other. 

for instance, joel learned you have an affinity for tight tank tops that ride a little too low on your chest and rise a little too high whenever you bend down. 

his fingers have a tendency to straighten out your spaghetti straps, and he always murmurs something along the lines of, showin a lotta skin today huh hun? 

you’d grow warm under his touch, hiding behind a pretty grin and an excuse of oh, heat’s just gettin’ to me lately, or his personal favorite,  damn dryer shrunk my clothes again. 

he doesn’t mind whatever your excuse is, he’d just hand you his flannel, telling you to at least wrap it around your waist whenever guys were around, because i know how men think, he’d explain and you wouldn’t argue, you’d happily accept his flannel and listen to his heeding. 

you wonder if he was having the same thoughts he was trying to prevent other men from having about you. 

you like to tell yourself he was. 

but there is one thing you don’t have to convince yourself of. joel really, truly, and utterly cares for you. 

joel is nothing if not protective, he just wants to look out for you, make sure you’re safe, that you’re okay, and so when you called him at work, voice trembling and meekly asking if he can pick you up, naturally, he abandoned his meeting at work to race over to you. 

creating blueprints for a new apartment building suddenly became unimportant the second he heard your voice crack over the phone.  

he could hear the way your breath paused for a moment, only to come out shakily through tears when he asked if you were alright. your audible sadness casted immediate worry and concern over him, instilling itself in his chest. 

he sees you now, rushing to walk out of the store, locking it on your way out, and he hops out of his truck, wanting to be the first thing you’re greeted by as soon as you raise your head. 

relief rinses through you the moment you see joel standing in front of his truck, your eyes betraying the attempt at strength you were fighting so hard to have the second he pulls you into his arms. 

his hands feel warm and heavy behind your back, rubbing all the quiet sobs out from you with each gentle circular movement. 

“oh babygirl,” he murmurs under his breath, feeling his heart break with each little gasp you make through your tears. “what happened?” he asks, unintentionally causing the tears to fall harder, making you fist at his button up. 

“today has been so bad,” you finally say, your head resting on his strong chest, shaking fingers tracing over the seams of his button up in an attempt at self soothing. 

“wanna get inside an’ talk about it?” he asks just above a whisper, keeping his voice soft for you. you nod, twisting the knife in his chest when you sniffle. 

he helps you into his truck, shutting the door behind you, meeting back with you soon once he’s in the driver’s seat. 

“now what happened honey?” he asks, and you take in a deep breath through the tears, waving your hands at your eyes to try and stop the stinging sensation at your waterline. 

“today has just been one bad thing after the other,” you wipe away the stray tears with annoyed fists, wishing they would cease their incessant presence. “first, i got into a fight with my dad, he called me selfish and inconsiderate for not canceling class to come down to the shop earlier and that there’s no point in attending class because i’m just gonna get overwhelmed and quit anyway,” you barely manage to say tearfully, further etching a frown into joel’s features, his chest aching at the way you’re visibly hurting. 

he says your name tenderly, matching the way his hand reaches out for you to hold. you squeeze his hand, holding onto it when it rises upwards to cup your cheek, his thumb wiping a stray tear across your cheekbone. 

you lean into his palm, shutting your eyes at his touch. “and i’m scared he’s right, today in class i was so stressed all i wanted to do was walk out,” you whimper ashamedly, and joel shushes you, bringing his free hand to fully hold your face, turning your gaze back up to meet his. his hold on you is delicate, like you’re a dandelion amidst a strong breeze, and all he wants to do is keep you with him, safe and sound. 

your cheeks are cradled by his hands, his calluses turning into a thing of comfort against your cheeks, along with his thumbs that swipe away the tears that refuse to concede from your lash line. 

he holds you like this for a while, wordlessly guiding your breathing with his, evening out your sporadic hiccups induced by your crying, settling your nerves down to a more manageable level. 

your eyes flutter shut at the safety he drapes over you, your smaller hands holding onto his wrists, mindlessly running your thumb along his knuckles. “wish you were with me at work today,” you mumble, imagining the way he would’ve protected you from the creepy customers you had to deal with. 

“what else happened?” he lightly coaxes it out of you, wanting you to get everything out so you don’t have to carry the burden of the day’s stress on your shoulders. 

“these guys came in, and they were just so weird,” your hands tighten around his wrists, recounting the uncomfortable interaction you were subjected to. 

“kept…kept making weird jokes about everything…i said if they needed anything to let me know and i heard one of them tell their friend i better be careful saying things like that, and they like—ugh,” you take a moment to catch your breath, refocusing on the way joel’s gently running his fingers across your temples, something he’d do for you in the middle of the night whenever you’d get a headache. 

“they kept making jokes about me taking off my clothes because it’s summer and it’s hot or whatever i dunno it was stupid but they kept ‘suggesting’ i should lose the tank top because walking around in a bra is the same as wearing s bikini at the beach,” you grimace at the fresh memory, and joel wants to take it away from you, wants to wash you clean of all the pain you felt today. 

when you look up at joel his jaw is clenched, lower jaw jutting out in anger, his hands falling from your face down to your hands, holding them in his, while he shakes his head. “fuckin’ disgusting,” he mutters to himself. “probably good i wan’t there, woulda fuckin’ killed them,” he utters under his breath, and more so to himself, his hands migrating down to your hands, squeezing them hard. his eyes that hold an image of what he’d do to the men who harassed you dissipate as soon as they shift back up to you. “i’m sorry hun,” he sighs, cupping your cheek, cradling you into his palm, speaking gentler this time, “an’ as for your dad well…he’s an asshole. but i know you already know that,” he pauses to smile at your little giggle. 

“he couldn’t be more wrong about you. you are so smart hun, an’ you can and will accomplish everything you set your mind to.” the soft gravel of his voice tides around you like an embrace, enveloping you in it as an attempt to wash you clean of your distress. 

your eyes well and your heart soars up high inside your chest at his kindness. 

“thank you mr. miller, you are so nice to me, it—it means so much coming from you, and i can’t even begin to explain how grateful i am that you even came here at all,” he left work for you. you groan with guilt at the remembrance. “and—god i’m so sorry that i just like, randomly called you at work i’m so sorry you were probably super busy, i just didn’t know who else to go to,” you ramble with guilt, but joel’s already shaking his head as you rattle off with apologies, his hands coming back up to your cheeks, stilling the words on your tongue. 

“hey hey hey,” he shushes you softly. “no apologies, okay?” his thumb runs under your lash line, clearing away your tears. “i’m glad you called me, rather you call me than have to hear what happened from someone else.” he pacifies your guilt for calling him, and he does it successfully, watching the upset furrow between your brows disappear. 

your lip trembles and you suck it in between your teeth, closing your eyes and leaning forward into his chest. he takes you in with no hesitation, his arms forever acting as a sanctity for you to hide in whenever you need. 

he hesitantly pulls away from you for a moment, mumbling a soft, give me a sec sweetie. he shifts around to the pull at the bottom of the driver seat, extending it backwards and giving him more space between him and the steering wheel. 

“cmere,” he says above a whisper, opening his arms for you once more. you’re being guided into his lap, gently wrangled in until you’re wrapped up in the thick protection of his strong biceps. he rubs your back, head resting safely on top of your’s, keeping you down to earth, keeping you in his arms. 

he takes in all your tears, takes in every racking sob from your chest into his, his lips every so often pressing their silent reminders of his presence into your temple. he rocks you back and forth, his soft shushes folding over the sound of your fading cries, lulling you into a calmness you didn’t know you could feel. 

“you’re okay, you’re okay,” he promises, and you believe him. you finally raise your head from his chest, the scent of him still lingering around you, his presence feels pliable, the way he’s looking at you, eyes downturned and scanning all over your face lovingly feels like a sign you know isn’t real. he says nothing, just clears away your stray tears, and that’s when you act. 

you lean in, holding his wrist and intertwining your fingers as your lips do the same. you sigh into his mouth, ascending in his arms when you feel him kiss you back just as rushedly, almost like if he’s too slow you’ll vanish from him. 

but it’s him who vanishes first. he pulls apart from you with a gasp, shifting you further away from him in his lap, your heart immediately cracking straight down the middle. “what’re you…what are you doing?” his questioning comes out breathless, he feels like he’s asking himself rather than he is you, and he prays you say the right thing, he prays that you call him disgusting and that you climb right out of his lap, removing the temptation and opportune to lean back in. 

but you don’t. “i’m sorry,” you whimper, embarrassment flushing through your whole body, he shuts his eyes, exhaling slowly through his nose. “i’m too old for you, you know that right?,” his knuckles drag across your cheekbone, and you nod solemnly, swallowing hard. “i’m not a kid though, joel,” you say shakenly, nerves rattling your bones when you say his name for the first time, unhidden by the lieu of mr. miller. 

“compared to me, you are,” he sighs, his hands gripping his own thighs, weighing them down to prevent them from gravitating to your’s. “i’m too old for you,” he repeats to himself, closing his eyes and leaning into the headrest, the sight and feeling of you looking up at him in his lap is too much for him to combat. “i’d be takin advantage of you,” he mutters, shaking his head, guilt starting to settle into the base of his chest. 

you’re quiet for awhile, and he takes it as his answer. that he’s right, this is wrong. 

but you contradict his thoughts. reaching up to pull his gaze back onto you. “you’re not taking advantage of me, i know that i want this.” you promise hushedly, and he wants to believe you. your eyes connect once more, a quiet tug of air being shared between the two of you, and you’re willing to let him have it, to let him have all the air you can offer and more. he leans in and you stay still, watching when he inches backward when he gets too close, like you’re a flame whose flicker burns too bright the closer he gets. and when you inch in, you can’t get yourself to break the seal and press yourself into him, a weight of nerves keeping you stagnant before him. 

his stare rises and falls down from your eyes to your lips, and you feel it in your bones that your body needs to have him more than it needs anything else. your gaze rests on him while your body acts for you, your hand finding his and holding it, squeezing it. “please,” you whisper, your words leaving you before you can process them. he swallows down everything holding him back, lurching forward to take your lips into his. his hand slides from yours, and up your arm, squeezing it as a test to see if you’re real. his hand moves from your cheek to the back of your head, kissing you hard and keeping you still, greedily wanting to keep you all for himself, wanting to memorize the taste of cherry coke on your tongue and raspberry lip balm on your lips.

it smears across his own lips, your taste immersing with his own, his mustache and beard tickling your skin just like you imagined it would, and you moan in his mouth at the feeling, flicking your tongue desperately over his, mindlessly bucking your hips against his. he groans deeply into you, grasping your hips and rocking himself into you, not a single thought in his head, just a carnal need to feel your cunt satiate the ache traveling down his cock. 

you pull apart for a breath, lips still pushed together, foreheads melded in close, hips crashing into each other with need. “feels so good,” you whimper into his mouth, the pleasure from the friction making you blatantly honest. 

he nods in agreement, never having heard truer words. his fingers indent the shape of themselves into your flesh, his hips acting on their own, desperate to push up into you while his mouth catches yours once more. 

he groans, his cock twitching when he feels you slip your tongue into his mouth, a little moan of your own floating out when you taste a hint of root beer from his kiss. 

your movements grow rushed, hands finding the heft of his flannel and fisting it to steady the heavy rocking of your hips crashing and tiding over his cock. 

desperation flows in your veins where your blood once was, replacing all sense of anything except for the physical need to rut your cunt against his bulge. he can’t keep up, all he can do is let his head fall in your shoulder, his big hands coming around to find purchase on your welcoming hips. his thighs clench underneath yours, tensing when he feels you dampen him through his pants. 

“baby,” he finally lets out shakily, thumbs running circles over your hips. “can’t—shit,” a beat passes with an involuntary grunt falling from his lips. “cant, can’t do this here,” he breathes, eyes hanging low upon you, his hips betraying his words with each thrust that meets your pelvis. 

you slow your movements, catching your breath quietly, nodding in a silent agreement. “i don’t wanna stop,” you admit truthfully, no longer feeling bashful about the fact.  

his cock aches at your honesty and he exhales through his nose, his hands tightening around you. “don’t have to,” he swallows, eyes drifting down to your hardened nipples. “just not here.” 

his answer satiates you, which almost leaves him regretful when you climb off his lap and leave him cold and void of your warm cunt pressed up against him. 

he starts the truck and all you can do is stare at the concentrated look on his face and his hands gripping the steering wheel. 

you wonder if he’ll hold you by your throat the same way. your thighs squeeze together tightly, causing the hem of your jean shorts to rub against your clit just enough to soothe the ache inadvertently caused by joel. 

he notices, eyeing you up and down, lips parted just a breadth at the sight. his hand itches to alleviate some of the pressure you’re carrying deep inside you, but instead he alleviates some of his own first. his right hand falls from the steering wheel for a moment, just to squeeze his cock when he watches the way you squirm and stare up at him from his passenger seat. 

he turns away, knowing he’ll crash if he keeps staring at you, bringing his wandering hand back to the wheel. 

“can i touch you?” you ask, seemingly innocent and his eyes shut for a passing second, a curt  shake of his head joining the action. “not a good idea—“ he really wants you to though “gonna make me crash,” he exhales, though his hips say otherwise, inching towards your side with need. 

your hand trails from his thigh down to his crotch, palming over him gently, and he grips the steering wheel, jaw vibrating with low groans. 

a 10 minute drive has never felt so far until now. 

your fingers curl over his bulge, straining against the seatbelt trying to lean in as close as it’ll let you until you decide to rid yourself of it all together. 

“seatbelt,” he says warningly, and with concern, but you wash it away the second your lips meet the side of his neck, with your hand pawing over him to ensure his submission. and joel just about crumbles far too easily at the touches. 

you’re impatient, he definitely sees that now, and you’re making it way harder than it needs to be for him to maintain his self control. 

“i thought about this a lot,” you hum in his ear, leaving kisses in the wake of your warm words. his throat gets tight just like his lower belly, excitement strumming through him when he halts at a red light. 

he turns towards you now, his hand dipping between your thighs, a little upward curl of his lips teasing the side of your cheek, his scruff leaving kisses of their own on your skin. 

you stifle a whimper, holding onto his wrist when you grind down on his fingers. “thought about touching me like how i’m touchin’ you?” he murmurs, pressing chaste kisses to your jaw. you nod, your chest pounding at the wave of realization of what’s happening. it excites you. 

“thought about it too,” he pulls away from you when the light turns green, and you stay frozen, your body suddenly unsure of how to function with a lack of his touch and proximity. 

“didn’t wanna admit it to myself, but i thought about doin…a lot more than that whenever you’d come around,” he pays you a once over, his eyes lingering over the plushness of your thighs that fill his passenger seat. 

“your skirts and shorts kept gettin’ so damn short, i felt guilty for wondering if it was on purpose,” a smugness takes over his face when he glances at you. “an’ now i know it was.” 

you flutter at his confessions, a sense of pride swelling in you at the confirmation that your little tactics seemed to have paid off. “i just wanted your attention,” you say softly, words falling like pillows and he catches them with open arms. 

his glance shifts from his crotch, up to your eyes knowingly, and he smiles faintly. “i can tell you that you had it even before you started wearin all that,” he rests his hand on your thigh, guiding the wheel with his left hand now. “but i can’t say i minded the change in outfits.” he brings his fingers over your clit, putting pressure over it and you whine quietly, bucking your hips into his touch. 

“if you ever want me to stop you need to tell me okay?” he tells you, and he’s serious, his fingers pull away for emphasis and you nod profusely, holding onto his wrist desperately. “i promise, joel i don’t wanna stop,” you plead with him, and as a simple man that he is, he doesn’t seem to need much more convincing. the pads of his fingers run circles over your clothed clit, and you grind down into it, hungry for more. 

“i want you,” you pant and he chuckles, drumming his thumb against the steering wheel. 

“you’ve got me.” 

“but i want more.” 

— 

it’s quiet when you arrive back at his house, the driveway is thankfully void of sarah’s little yellow volkswagen and relief blankets across your shoulders knowing she isn’t home. 

he ushers you inside, his broad, strong chest pressed up against your back with his hands guiding you by your hips. 

he closes the door with his back, leaning against it, watching you turn around to face him. it’s quiet for a few ticking seconds, and he watches as you lean in closer towards him. he doesn’t stop you but he doesn’t lean in to meet you halfway either. he says your name like he’s unsure if he’s even allowed to utter it, purposefully avoiding eye contact. you hum a soft little “yes?” and he sighs, his eyes falling shut for a moment. 

“this ain’t right,” he reminds himself, and his hands begin to loosen on your hips. you clamp a hand over one of his, the other coming up to lure him back into you, a gentle palm of yours cupping his scruffy jaw, thumb running across the crows feet that gather at the corner of his eye. “says who?” you counter gingerly and he chuckles breathlessly, shaking his head in your hold, feeling all restraint trickle straight off him the second his eyes catch yours. 

you move your hand away from his when his grip grows tight again, letting your now free hand hold both sides of his face when you go up on your tippy toes to meet him for a kiss. 

he catches you off guard and pulls you deeper into him, your crotches pressed flush together when he slips his tongue into your mouth, hooking and reeling you in. 

you moan into his mouth and it eggs him on, sending his hand into a downward motion towards your ass. he feels smug when you whimper in his mouth, pushing harder against his cock when he squeezes your ass. 

he rubs over your ass posessively, squeezing it hard, almost in disbelief that he gets to have you like this. kiss “need you to tell me if and when you wanna stop,” kiss. you don’t reply, you just fall into him whenever he presses his lips back to yours. your lack of a response leaves him discontent and he pulls apart an inch, eyeing you down expectantly. you huff impatiently, hooking your arms around his neck. “promise. i will.” which is good enough for him as he melds into you once more. 

his hands roam all over you, caressing, holding, squeezing all the places that only his eyes have traveled. 

it feels good, it feels all encompassing, to feel the trails of fire his hands leave all across your skin, and you can’t get enough. “can we,” a kiss to your throat, “go to your room?” you ask, somewhat breathless and he pauses for a second, eyes tracing the outline of your bitten lips before he nods. he holds your hand, leading you into his bedroom. 

the second you’re inside you’re guiding him into his own bed after having shut the door. he gazes at you amusedly, handing you the reins for a moment, keeping his hands on the edge of them while you take charge. he thinks it’s cute. 

you sit him at the edge of his bed, straddling him while you push at his chest until his back meets the mattress. you’re leaning back down, holding his face in your hands, your lips hastily meeting his once more. he welcomes you, his hands holding you down on top of him by your hips. 

you grind down on him, panting in his mouth at how good it feels to have him pressed right against your cunt. but it’s not enough. you need more. 

your hands travel down his strong chest, fixing towards unbuttoning his flannel. he lets you, busying himself with unbuttoning your little denim shorts, but he wants to unwrap you slowly. he wants to make a show of it. 

he flips you on your back and you gasp, feeling hot under his stare and stature above you. his knees rest on either side of you, indenting the bed while he maintains eye contact. his fingers take their time unzipping your shorts, and you whine quietly, bucking your hips towards him. 

he pushes you back down and shushes you. “patience.” he murmurs, rubbing his thumbs over your upper thighs. he doesn’t rush taking your shorts off, wanting to savor the feeling of getting to do this for as long as he can. the vision of you in his bed, wet, and impatient, laying before him in your little pink panties is about to make him burst. 

he’s still fully clothed above you and it casts a warm feeling throughout your bare body. you bring your knees close to your tummy, shutting your legs at your sudden shyness. he moves in closer, shaking his head with his palms on your knees. 

he pushes them back down, slipping a hand between your thighs. you gasp, arching your back into him and exhaling with relief when his fingers trace over your clothed clit. “i wanna see you honey,” he careens you gently, coaxing your shyness away. your legs part for him, and he takes full advantage, running the pads of his fingers up and down slowly, feeling the slickness start to bleed through your panties. 

he pushes them to the side, swirling over your clit and feeling proud when you moan into his shoulder. he dips into your little soaked hole, exhaling into your neck at how wet you are. “barely e’n touched you and you’ve already made a mess,” he tsks you lovingly, hints of teasing in his words, and it only excites you more. your stomach and chest get tight at his touches and the way he talks to you, it’s so unreal, and you could honestly cry in this moment from how bad you want to fuck him. 

“i always get like this for you—oh,” you cry out into his shoulder when he pushes his thick middle finger inside you, his digit so long that it easily hits the little spongy spot inside you that you usually struggle to reach. 

“aw sweetpea,” he coos, kissing your forehead while his finger curls inside you. “got you walkin’ around all hot and bothered with no release, i’m sorry,” he kisses your temple, his gentleness contradicting the way he’s fucking you with his finger, grunting under his breath at how tight the fit is when he works in his ring finger. 

you choke on a gasp at the stretch, starting to wonder if his cock will fit if his fingers are already making you feel like this. 

“you gonna make it up to me?” you whimper, still maintaining an air of playfulness in your response. he chuckles, pulling apart ever so slightly to look at you, to watch the way you struggle to stare up at him with his fingers in your cunt. 

“i’ll make it up to you, and then some,” he says, his voice falling low on a raspy curve. you believe him, his response feeling like a promise he intends to keep. 

he’s on you again and you invite it wholly, legs coming around on either side of him go trap him into you. his fingers fuck into that sweet little spot inside you, every single flick of his wrist has your lower back bucking up into his touch. 

his palm hits your clit with every movement, it’s almost cruel, giving you just an inch when you need a mile. you’re running your hands all over him, kissing him messily even when there’s a mix of your saliva dribbling on your chin and air is depleting from your lungs. none of it matters, all that does is consuming as much of joel as humanly possible. 

your fingers struggle to unbutton his flannel once more, shaking and trembling too much to do it as ladylike as you wish you could but he doesn’t mind, it makes his cock twitch knowing he’s the reason why you can’t stay still. 

“feels so good joel,” you whimper, fucking yourself onto his fingers when you finally undo all the pesky buttons on his flannel. he kisses your cheek, his beard tickling your skin while you slide your hands underneath his wife beater. 

“good honey, s’all i wanna do,” he curls his finger right there, drinking in your cries with his lips clamped over yours. your nails drag down his chest and he winces above you, your lips still brushing together. “sh-shit m’so so sorry joel,” you remedy the scratches with gentle caresses but he shakes his head, kissing your chin. “no no s’alright baby—kinda liked it,” he chuckles, thumbing over your clit, precum starting to leak through his boxers at the way you keen into him at the little action. you giggle at his response, raking your nails softly down his chest, fingers suddenly halting only to begin trembling when he picks up the pace inside you. 

“want more joel, i—fuck,” you’re panting, arching up into him, the saturation of the room is getting dimmer and glittery, it’s hard to keep your eyes open and the pounding in your chest and cunt is nearly blinding you. “need more of you, please? please god i’ll do anything,” your desperation is loud and clear and you couldn’t care less. he can feel it, can feel you gripping his fingers, squeezing him so good and he certainly hears how ready you are for him; he revels in the slick clicking sound eliciting from between your legs because of, again, him. 

he swipes the tears gathering at the corner of your eyes and he shushes you, kissing you wherever your tears appeared, rubbing that little spot inside of you soothingly. 

you hum in pleasure, hands traveling up to his shoulders. “don’t need to cry honey, i’ll give i’to you,” his promises fan out over your lips, slipping his fingers out of you. 

the loss of his fingers inside you feels cruel, you feel clingy, all you want is joel near you, around you, on you, and in you. 

the sound of his hands undoing his belt hangs in the air, quiet and low breaths of desperation flicker from out your lips while you watch him pull himself out of his jeans. his cock, fat and heavy, and twitching, falls with heft on your lower tummy, resting with impatience on your skin. 

you whimper, hand nervously wrapping around it, your fingers barely able to cover the thick circumference of it. “you’re huge,” you choke, unintentionally adding fuel into his ego and he chuckles, shaking his head when he kisses you. 

“you’re flatterin’ me,” he murmurs against your lips, wrapping a hand around himself, guiding his tip to circle around your clit. you gasp, curling upwards into him, your forehead resting on his broad shoulder. you kiss his bare skin, the comfort of his skin to yours soothes you while he slides his cock up and down your folds. 

“oh—ooh,” you suck in a big breath, hands flying to his forearms to hold onto when he starts to push in, his tip inching into you feels just as big as it looks. “shit,” you whimper at the burn that follows along with the stretch that he pushes into you and he pauses with concern. he hovers above you like a gracious adonis and it almost makes you forget the twinge of pain between your thighs. 

“you need me to stop?” he asks, his words of gentleness cradling you and you shake your head, running your palms down his chest. “no, please keep going, i can take it,” you nod as further emphasis, pushing your hips up, aching to feel more of him. 

he brings his lips to your’s again, sighing when he feels your little moan escape into his mouth. his cock rocks into you at a steady pace, unintentionally pushing you further up into his bed, and he holds onto you tighter, not wanting you to move an inch away from him. 

“haven’t felt like—shit,” he shudders something like a whimper against your lips, and you have to hold back a moan at the sound. “ha-haven’t felt like this in so long honey,” he swallows hard, caressing the side of your face. “haven’t thought about someone like this in years’,” he groans, pushing his cock in deeper. 

your clit pulses at the way he speaks to you, the way he fucks you. “had to fuckin’ jerk off like i was a teenager again after you’d leave—y’have no idea what the hell you’ve been doin’ to me honey,” he messily kisses you between each word, his thrusts growing heavy and rough inside you, the fat head of his cock prodding perfectly into the spongy little spot inside of you. 

“should’ve told me sooner joel,” you whine, bucking your hips to feel more of his cock. “touched myself every night thinking of you,” you whimper out, eyes falling shut when you feel his lower half brush against your clit. he pushed in especially deep at your confession, and you gasp, holding onto him tighter. 

“joel—fuck, sl-slow down, it’s so much,” you cry, barely able to hold onto him while he starts to pound into you, like he’s lost the reins and his body is in control now, an energy and stamina he hasn’t had since he was in his 20’s was back in full force and it all went into fucking you stupid. 

“m’sorry honey—you just, ohfuck, feel so good an the things you’re sayin’ i just—fuck i can’t help it,” he breathes out, pressing a chaste kiss to your bitten lips. “just take it for me baby,” he groans, his hands squeezing your tits before traveling down to your hips. 

his head hangs low while he splits you open on his cock, struggling to keep his eyes from shutting, but he forces them open to watch the way his cock stretches you wide. “you’re so big,” you whine, teeth coming down to sink into the heft of his shoulder. he groans in your neck, sending you a particularly hard thrust. 

the scent of cigarettes wafts around you the more he buries his face in the crook of your neck, his lips nip at your skin and you whimper into his shoulder at the thought of you going home smelling like him. 

his calloused hands mold to the shape of your body no matter where they travel, forming perfectly around you to hold onto you as tight as he can. 

silence falls between you two, the only communication occurring is the shared grunts and groans that slip into each other’s open mouths. his forehead rests on yours, occasionally moving to your collarbone or ducking down to graze his teeth across your breasts, tongue darting out to wetten your nipples. 

the sound of your soaked cunt getting fucked is near obnoxious—it’s loud, and you pray that the windows in his bedroom are shut, because there’s no doubt that if they aren’t, his neighbors will hear everything. 

your legs shakily hang off his lower back, pushing him in deeper and deeper. 

his thrusts start to slow in pace, and each drag of his cock inside you feels hypnotic, feels amazing, and he groans the same sentiments in your ear, kissing the skin behind it. “m’sorry,” his hips pause to a halt and you panic for a second, wondering if you somehow did something wrong. “everything okay?” you ask softly, clearing the hair away from his eyes. he nods, avoiding eye contact embarrassedly. “my back—startin to cramp up on me,” he mutters, pulling out of you and you hold back a sound of disappointment from the lack of weight on top of you. 

he sits up, back facing away from you, head in his hands. “i’m sorry honey,” he apologizes, still not looking at you. you frown, shuffling on your knees towards him. you hold him from behind, kissing the side of his neck. 

“don’t be.” you murmur, moving around in front of him now. you push at his chest gently, clambering on top of him. his eyes widen, a grin slowly spreading across his lips while his hands rest on your thighs. “what’re you doin?” he asks under a raspy breath, his cock twitching underneath you with excitement. 

you hold his shaft, realigning him with your eager hole, leaning down to press a kiss before you speak. “i’m taking over.” is all you say as you sink down on his cock, wincing at the intrusion. 

his eyes roll back and his head falls into the pillow, his hands starting to grip your hips. “baby,” he moans to himself, his cheeks growing hot. you have to inch him in at a cautious pace but he doesn’t mind, your tight warmth is something he welcomed wholeheartedly. 

you start to grind your hips experimentally, hoping it feels good for him. you honestly have no idea what you’re doing. you’ve only had sex once but you don’t know if it even really counts. 

if a guy putting it in then pulling out because he came too fast counted then, sure you’ve had sex. 

however all of this; it’s different with joel, that was a boy, and now you’ve got a man’s cock buried in your pussy. and you want to make him feel like one, you don’t want him to feel ashamed about his age or anything like that. you’ll make him forget about everything. 

you shudder a breathy moan at the new position, resting your hands on his broad chest, admiring the beautiful man that rests under you. “tell me what makes you feel good joel,” you murmur, head falling towards him, making direct eye contact with him. he swallows hard, his cock aching at how fucking hot you are. 

“shit baby, just use me how you want, use my cock honey.” he groans, licking his fingers and bringing it to your clit. you whine, almost toppling over on top of him at the contact, but you hold yourself up, determined to make both yourself and joel feel good. 

you grab his hands, unclamping them from the grip that rested around your hips and instead dragging them up your sides and onto your breasts, silently telling him to squeeze as much as he pleases. 

and that he does. 

he squeezes them, bucking his hips upwards into yours as he watches the way your flesh fills the gaps between his fingers. you rise and fall onto his cock, bouncing on it with a rhythm that hits every sensitive spot inside of you. 

you look down to where you meet, sucking in your bottom lip at the sight of him disappearing inside of you each time you lower yourself onto him. you rock back and forth, whimpering at how deep he can reach in you. you watch the way he swirls his fingers over your clit, touching you better than you could ever do on your own time. 

“c’mere honey,” he groans for you, and you obey, bending down to rest on his chest. he stops you before you can fully lay on top of him, holding you just under your ribs. he pulls you into his mouth, sucking over the soft flesh of your chest, tongue licking messily and hungrily all over your breasts. you gasp, arching your back into his mouth. “j-joel,” you moan, struggling to maintain the rhythm you built. 

his teeth tease your nipples and you shiver, your nails digging into his shoulders at the sensation. you bounce on his cock, mind going numb and fuzzy while your senses take over, each thrust feeling like electric in your veins. 

after he’s done sucking bruises into your soft flesh, your hands reconnect once more, and you pin them down beside his head, hovering above him while you ride his cock. 

i love you, almost slips from your lips while you stare at each other, chests rising and falling heavily, mouths parted, tongues darting out to wet your lips with hunger. the words hang in the air without sound, you’re sure of it. 

you grind down onto him as far as you can take him, feeling him nudge your cervix, and you whimper at just how deep he can go inside of you. he takes your moment of weakness as an opportunity to flip you right back to where you all started; underneath him. 

you gape at him, unable to process his quick movements. you’re laying at the foot of the bed now, and he’s grabbing your calves, tugging you closer towards him. he pushes back in and wastes no time in pounding you like nothing happened. he grabs your leg, pushing it up further towards your chest, angling himself in even deeper, pure desire fueling him. “shit baby,” 

he mutters, his hair falling in his eyes as he kisses your jaw. 

he rubs your clit with his thick fingers and you cry out, starting to tremble uncontrollably beneath him. “think m’gonna cum joel, m’so so so close,” you whine, your eyes falling heavy with your impending orgasm. 

“let me have it honey, cmon,” he kisses his encouragement into your cheek, fucking you with determination to make you cum, hard. his fingers never relent on your clit, and you can’t stop the panting that leaves your lips, all you can do is writhe beneath him while he fucks you through your dizzying climax. you moan his name in breathy chants, spasming as your body tries it’s best to ride out the stimulation that joel bombards you with. 

his hips grow messy and sporadic, he’s catching your lips in a hot kiss, tongues clashing and saliva falling to the corners of your mouth. barely taking any time to break apart for air. “m’almost there—where can i…” he trails off breathlessly, unsure of how to ask in a way that a gentleman would ask but you don’t care, you don’t need him to sound like one, not when he’s fucking you as if he’s never heard the word before. 

“inside, y-you can do it inside, please,” you beg with need, curling your legs around his hips and pushing down on his lower back. he shudders, and has a millisecond to want to ask you if you’re sure, but he can’t stop pushing himself inside you, it feels too good, and he’s glad you’re trapping him between your legs, because he never wants to stop. 

“sh-shit, i’m cummin’ honey,” he shakily moans in your mouth, struggling to keep his kiss coherent but the way your spent cunt tightens around him makes him lose all sense. you whimper against his lips, feeling hyper sensitive to each and every touch, but the feeling of him cumming inside you is unlike anything you’ve ever felt. 

he slowly pulls out of you, peppering your face with kisses when you make a sound of discomfort. you two lie in a comfortable silence, trying to catch your breaths. you turn to look at each other, and he smiles at you, leaning over to cup your face in his palm. “you okay?” he murmurs softly, running his thumb across your cheekbone. you nod into his touch, holding the back of his hand with yours. “yeah,” you grin. “you?” 

he chuckles heartily, and nods as well. “yeah. i’m alright,” he sends a playful wink and you can’t believe that it still manages to make your tummy flutter with butterflies. you suppose he’ll always have that effect on you. 

you stare at him for a little longer, testing the waters to see if he’ll stop you as you lift up his arm and scoot closer to him. and when he doesn’t, you smile to yourself while he only pulls you in closer, tightening his arms around you. you can feel his heartbeat against your back, and you’ve never felt more soothed before. 

you trace the veins on his strong arm that cradles you into him, your head resting on his other bicep. you don’t want to disrupt the peacefulness that’s settled upon you both, but you have questions that just might do that. 

“joel?” you ask and he hums a response. “would you ever want to do this again? or not even this but just…like…hangout?” you unknowingly grip onto his arm with nervousness, and hope that he says yes. 

he takes in a breath and you shut your eyes at the impending rejection. “honey,” he starts, and your eyes glisten with tears already. “i don’t know if this is something we should’ve done to begin with—not that i regret it—lord,” he shakes his head, chuckling dryly to himself. “lord knows i don’t regret it. but i don’t know if this is something we could sustain. i want to though, sweetpea trust me that i do,” he tilts your chin towards him, feeling his heart break when he sees your watery eyes looking back at him. 

“oh honey,” he sighs sadly, shifting you around so you can look up at him properly. his arms encase you, his warm hand running up and down your back while he pressed gentle kisses to your forehead. “why?” is all you manage to ask and he shuts his eyes, resting his chin on top of your head. “your dad’ll shoot me down and hang my body in front’of the whole neighborhood if he knew. and sarah? i don’t think she’d take kindly to me datin’ her best friend.” you hate that he makes perfect sense and you hate that you sound childish, that you didn’t even take either of those things into consideration. 

“we don’t have to tell them—at least not now? and we don’t have to be anything serious, i just…i like being around you.” you softly murmur, feeling pathetic as tears line your lashes once again. he thumbs across them, ridding your eyes of their wetness. “i like being around you too,” he returns your sentiments, leaning down to peck you. it feels gentle, domestic, and you can’t imagine going without more of them. 

“i’ll still pick you up after you have class, i still want you to come over for dinner like you usually do, nothin’ has to change and,” he closes his eyes for a beat. “—despite everything i said, i…i don’ know if i could handle not havin’ you around honey, feels like somethin’s missin’ when you’re not around.” he admits, and to himself as well, for the first time. 

you bloom with happiness at his words, surging forward to kiss him. he holds you by the back of your neck, tracing circles into your jaw. you hold his face in your hands, pressing kisses along his cheeks, feeling warm all over and when he laughs. it’s filled with a comforting airiness. 

he holds your wrist, turning to kiss your palm. he plucks your index finger, bringing it to his lips to kiss gently. “got me wrapped around this little thing,” he says just above a whisper, and your heart aches, overflowing with adoration. 

the door suddenly opens downstairs and you both share a look of horror. 

“dad? i’m home!”

[shadowuserannie]

grabbing a red pen (my destiny is in my hands)?

So the basis of this AU is essentially a world where all the characters are humans, and characters with labeled "powers" under a certain category are officially "anomalies" unofficially "freaks". It's a human superhero AU.

It begins with Fitz and Dex, respectively 12 and 10, and Fitz having had his telepathy for a while but stuck in Sophie's situation of being unable to control it. Because his father/Alden is the police commissioner of the capital of the United Cities, Eternalia/Shangri-La, Fitz is constantly exposed to the thoughts of criminals and trying his best to keep his powers hidden because he's scared he'll be arrested.

One day he runs into some trouble and meets a tiny kid who in no way should be running around the streets in a vigilante costume, but a kid genius's gotta kid genius when he figures out his mom is part of the Black Swan's Collective.

One thing leads to another, and flash forward to present/plot REALLY kicking off two years later, with Team I-Need-Help-Naming (working title so far is Team Rebel) rounding out at a quartet; co-leaders Techno and Mentalis, members Silvem and Reign, and gaining a new guy who for some reason that's got to be totally unrelated to the Neverseen, picks the alias "Lodestar" because it feels right.

Hmm.

That can't possibly mean anything bad, right?

Bonus excerpt below;

Team Rebel: Gala Infiltration

‘Linked up now. Everyone in position?’ transmitted Fitz. His eyes scanned the guests flowing inside the ballroom of Everglen Manor, trying not to twitch. Biana was right next to him, and his sister was nosy and smart-a combination he absolutely did not want to deal with on a mission this precarious.

‘I’m watching the guests coming in. On the gates.’ Techno replied.

‘Already inside.’ Tam stated, and Fitz finally spotted him-in the disguise.

Biana narrowed her eyes as her brother suddenly started to snicker, covering his mouth as he tried to stifle his laughter. “What’s so funny?” Was there something on her face or messed up? Biana glanced down at her dress, resisting the urge to pull out a mirror compact. They weren’t supposed to play pranks during galas, but it’d been a full week and still no retaliation from Fitz for her ‘chandelier ghost’.

“Just remembered something.” Fitz replied, grinning innocently. Biana’s eyes were practically slits. That wasn’t a ‘prank’ smile. But if it wasn’t, then what was it?

‘Tam, are you-’

‘If Keefe is already here then shut up and don’t find me.’ Tam transmitted. To his and Dex’s credit, Fitz wouldn’t have recognized him if he hadn’t been able to trace thoughts and finally found where Tam’s mind was.

‘No, he’s ETA in two. Reign?’

‘Here, in your banisters.’ Fitz’s eye promptly twitched from the effort of not looking up. He didn’t notice the suspicion in Biana’s eyes. ‘Also, you look amazing, anh.’

‘Don’t.’

“Hey.”

Fitz didn’t notice Biana had spoken until she’d elbowed him. “I’m going to find a better conversation partner.” Fitz winced as she strode off.

‘Biana’s mad at me now.’

‘Your sister?’ Techno asked.

‘Yeah-oh no.’

‘You’ve spotted the Neverseen?’ asked Reign.

‘No. Tam.’

‘What?’

///

Dempsey Pemberley, 18. Tried to flirt with her last time when his mother was talking to Mom. Biana gives him a wide berth.

Audric Aiken. He’s nice, but boring. Biana has heard about him being a supposed gossip but considering his behaviour when she’s around him makes for a dull evening.

Shayda Adel. Biana is not going near her with a ten-foot pole.

Then Biana notices the handsome girl.

A sparkly, black dress fading to a flounced silver skirt with layers of satin falling just above the knee is complimented by silver heels, with netting sleeves showing off her strong shoulders. Simple silver jewellery along with a pendant necklace pulls the look together well-which Biana appreciates. Her short hair has been styled back and pulled into a small Japanese knot style with a silvery butterfly hairpin coiling it all together, which doesn’t quite reflect her Vietnamese features but who is Biana to judge? She looks stunning. There’s no way Biana could’ve missed a girl looking this good.

“Hi, new here?” She greets, like an absolute omnisexual-blind fool.

She startles, silver earrings sparkling, and turns abruptly to face her. A blush spreads across her creamy skin as she takes in Biana, and she absolutely basks in the attention. Her aquamarine jewellery should compliment her eyes well, along with her own pink, one-shouldered dress.

Biana takes the opportunity to check her out-she means look over. Yup. Totally. Her front bangs have streaks of silver, shining too brightly to be dye, and the light bounces off her pendant. The shadows shift just a moment, exposing a distinctive curve of a symbol before it vanishes again.

She flashes the other ‘girl’ a smile that makes her blush harder.

“Can I get you a drink?”

“Uh-sure.”

‘Her’ voice is nervous but doesn’t crack and is distinctly feminine. Biana keeps her smile on as she waves down the waiter tending the gala bar. “Sparkling cider for the two of us, non-alcoholic, please.”

Biana steps a little closer to the ‘girl’, twirling a lock of hair around her finger.

No matter the gender, the reaction proves that tonight's gala she’s going to make sure one of Team Rebel’s members comes away with a crush on her.

And maybe she’ll get answers on their agendas if she plays the game well.

[agentmarvel]

Pairing: John Price/Reader

AU - Professor!Price & TA!Reader

MDNI - 18+ (minors and ageless blogs WILL BE BLOCKED)

Part 2 of 2 (part 1 here)

Read on ao3

♡

Kate Laswell is the only person John tells about you. It’s her guidance he seeks when he realizes how far up the creek without a paddle he is. Figures you have your confidant, he may as well assume his own. He’s known her longer than anyone else, and he knows she knows all the loopholes, since she faced a vaguely similar situation a few semesters before. All worked out well for her, so there’s hope for him, too, right?

John sits in her office, door locked and lights off. It’s safer that way; far less potential for eavesdroppers and interruptions.

“Oh, you’re in deep on this one, Price,” Kate chides with a grin over the edge of her coffee mug.

“That’s putting it mildly. What am I supposed to do here, Kate? It feels like every decision I make is wrong.”

“Why don’t you start by telling me about her,” she implores as she takes a sip, a soft smile etched into her fine-lined features.

He ponders for a moment on where to start, but when the dam breaks, it all just spills out. Nothing and everything, all at once. He tells Kate how fucking beautiful he thinks you are, all the things he absolutely adores about you, even the tiny little details, like your stupid red pen and the time he saw you yell at a vending machine on a bad day. He tells her about the way you work so well with students, and how helpful you are to him; what a stellar conversationalist you are, but how well you listen as well. He tells her about how you always make him laugh, how reassuring and kind and caring you are, how you really are every single thing he’s ever wanted rolled into one singular being, and he hasn’t been able to stop thinking about that very thing since -

“You’re falling in love, aren’t you?”

“Aw, hell, Kate… What kind of pubescent horseshit - ”

“Answer the question, John.”

“Kate - “

“Yes or no, Price.” Her voice is firm but friendly, telling him to cut the shit and at least consider the possibility.

In a stunned silence, John sits with his thoughts for a moment, eyes locked on Kate as she cocks an eyebrow. He thinks back on his short-lived first marriage, how that the military was both the beginning and end of it. Felt more like convenience and holding off loneliness in his time between deployments than it ever did truly being in love. The second, while lasting exponentially longer, also felt equally as devoid. While he cared for that second wife on some level, it didn’t quite reach the depth of how he feels now, how he feels about you. If neither bout rang of actual, genuine emotional connection, then he can say with absolute honesty that, no, John Price has never really been in love. Not until now.

Everything around him seems to slow to a stop. He can no longer hear the ticking of the clock on the wall, only the rhythmic pounding in his chest. It’s like a switch is flicked, and the lightbulb in his head brightens until it bursts, sending fragments flying into every corner. He’s not stupid enough to try to touch that filament, so he allows it to settle. In a haze of falling glass, suddenly it all makes sense to him again. A revelation that he can’t tamp down now that it’s been put into words.

“...yeah, I think I am.”

Every nerve in his body is alight, begging him to scream it from the rooftops, make sure the whole world knows. 

He can’t yet, but he wants to.

“Christ,” he mutters instead, raking a hand through his hair. “I’ve gone and fucked all this up, haven’t I?”

“Perhaps,” Kate muses, tucking an errant blonde strand behind her ear before folding her empty hands together on the desktop. “I mean, you did reject the poor girl at a very opportune - not to mention vulnerable - moment…” She sighs. “But I don’t think you’re completely beyond the realm of forgiveness. Find the right way to apologize to her, and she may start to let you back in.”

He’s unusually hesitant. Apologies have never been his strong suit. He’s painfully headstrong, rarely wrong and rarer to admit, so this is new territory. Mentally, he ticks off all the clichés, like flowers or a box of chocolates with a little card of a briefly expressed remorse or a surprise picnic where he spills his guts to you in hopes of some form of clemency. He wants to plan something bigger, more grandiose, more romantic, but Kate interjects before he can even begin.

“I can see the gears turning. Stop overthinking it, John. Just buy the girl some damn flowers, and tell her you’re sorry.”

♡

He did it. Bought you flowers, that is. Early this morning, he picked up a big fall arrangement in a stunning crystal vase. Took him way too fucking long to choose and he was almost late, but John’s pretty sure it’ll all be worth the look on that gorgeous face of yours when you see it. He takes his time placing it perfectly on your desk, giving you the fullest view upon first sight, and he tucks a little white envelope under the edge of the glass. 

It took quite a bit of time for him to even write the note inside. He wanted to convey how he feels without dragging out a full confession of just how hopelessly head-over-heels he is; that goal seemed to fall short beneath the tip of the pen as he all but outright tells you he loves you in neatly corded letters. The words on the page felt sufficient at the time, and he has to shut himself in his office to stop himself from second guessing to the point of re-writing it or just throwing it away period.

When the light kicks on in your office a few minutes after the start of his day, John feels his stomach flip. He hears a striking thud and a gasp of ‘aww’, and he’s cursing inwardly that he just had to have a student come in right at 8:00. After a few beats of silence, he hears a couple sniffles, and it has him a bit worried. Mr. Garrick would probably be understanding if he wanted to pop in and check on you, but he continues to talk to John like he doesn’t notice it, even if his expression softens just a little and his eyes dart to the side each time he hears it, too.

“So, does this mean you’re looking forward to finishing it?” John asks in earnest. Kyle had been quite vocal all semester about how much he was looking forward to exploring Stephen King’s Carrie, especially with it falling right around Halloween. It’s been a long time since John’s seen anyone but you get excited about his choice novels, even if they do tend to change every year.

“I actually, uh, finished it last week,” Kyle admits shyly. “Honestly, I just couldn’t put it down. I couldn’t just stop at her turning around to go home after all the shit she blew up! I needed to know what happened next, so I read ahead.”

Well, there’s no way John can be upset about that. It’s not every day one of these kids expressed interest in anything they’re reading. More often than not, they bitch about the amount of reading - if they even do it, that is. He can always tell the students that use Cliffs Notes or Sparknotes instead of actually doing the reading. So, the fact that Kyle, even just one student, is genuinely enjoying it - no, genuinely looking forward to reading more - seems to make all the work John’s put into this semester worth the while.

They go back and forth for a while, discussing the thematic elements and John details the rationale behind the novel’s subsequent banning in a majority of American schools. It’s a long geekfest between the two of them, and the only disruption is Mr. Garrick’s sudden realization that he’d stayed far too long and was late for his class.

“Thanks again, Professor Price!” he chirps, slinging his bag over his shoulder. “I’m really looking forward to what’s next!”

He darts out of the room, practically slamming the door behind him. John cringes as the latch bounces into the frame, and he sighs heavily, grateful for today’s break in his normally hectic schedule. Only two students on his books today; one of which is already out of the way, the other not until this afternoon. Gives him time to do more overthinking while he waits for you to free up. 

Settling himself further into his chair, John logs into his desktop and starts inputting grades from last week. Keeping his hands busy will help in keeping his mind busy, considering the small second voice in your office. From the sounds of it, it’s Ms. Graves.

It fascinates him, the way the two of you interact. You speak with her much differently than the other students who occupy your days without classes. There’s a much more candid sense of honesty, and he’s never heard either of you speak with such raw enthusiasm.

“What about ’Lullaby’ by the Cure?” he hears Pia ask.

“Good choice; how about Echo & the Bunnymen’s ‘the Killing Moon’?” you respond. He hears a hum of consideration, a few exchanged whispers - and some laughter - and that gets his attention.

Yeah, fuck it. He’s too invested in eavesdropping now to continue to pretend to be busy.

He hears the exchange of several more artists: the Cramps, Electric Light Orchestra, Prince, Oingo Boingo, the Doors, Bowie, Blondie, Siouxsie and the Banshees; all of which strike him with a baton of nostalgia. Lots of favorites in there, especially music he enjoyed growing up; some of his father’s top choices, too.. He’s only marginally impressed that the two of you can volley like this; you do enjoy 90s boy bands, after all. Bound to know plenty, eh?

Speaking of which, he hears Pia thank you for your suggestions. Her backpack rattles as he’s sure she’s tossing it on her shoulder, and he hears your office door close. He’s pretty certain you’ll have another appointment coming in soon, so he takes the opportunity to pop over.

“What was that about?” he asks from the now open doorway, expression curious. You look up from your laptop and smile more sincerely than he’s observed in a while, and John sees that big bouquet sitting front and center on your desk. That stirs his stomach and wakes the butterflies, fresh from the cocoons he’d tried to build over the weekend. They flutter this way and that, and he’s filled with a renewed desire to kiss you; one that never wanes, but ebbs and flows in intensity. Right now? Oh, right now, he wants to so god damn bad…

“Pia learns better with music. She listens while she reads, and it helps her remember the content when she listens to it again. Her grade has improved a lot since we started making playlists together.”

It sends a wave of warmth through his chest, the thought that you’ve been doing this for a few weeks. You’re arguably more dedicated to his students than he is at times, which says quite a bit. He’s pretty sure the look on his face matches up to those cartoons a lot of his students watch - what’s it called? Oh! Anime! He looks like every character that’s ever seen food or a pretty girl - heart eyes, pink cheeks, and an open mouth bordering on drooling.

“We sit down together at the start of every unit and make a playlist that matches the decade. Helps keep her centered in the story and prevents overlap so no information bleeds over from another book. It’s remarkable, reading her work and seeing her test scores; she’s really flourishing, Professor Price.”

John’s awestruck.

“Oh! Can I ask a favor?” Your inquiry draws his eyebrow up, implying you may ask. “Would you be willing to let her listen to music during the final? I’m willing to go old school, if you’re worried she’ll cheat; I have an old iPod at home that I can load up with the music, and we can keep it locked in your office until then. You’re welcome to go through it, too, just to make sure nothings hidden or anything. I just really - “

“Hey,” John says softly, effectively silencing you. “If you think she’ll do better being allowed to listen to music, we can make that work, love. I trust your judgment.”

If the incoming is any indicator, the flowers were the right call. You’re thawing, spring seemingly on its way, and Price will have to send Kate some sort of gift of gratitude.

You leap from your desk, and the next thing he knows, you’re throwing your arms around his neck, giving him a tight squeeze. He doesn’t register what’s happening in time to wrap himself around you, palms rising to meet you a beat too slow, and he finds himself missing the warmth radiating from your skin as you step back just as quickly. Your hands clasp in front of your chest, and you’re positively beaming.

“Thank you, Professor! I… We really appreciate it. Pia is going to be so happy!”

He can’t fight off the smile on his face. It’s absolutely adorable when you get excited; you’re wearing the same expression as the day he agreed to dance with you. He refuses to let this end the same way, so he takes a different path.

“She seems different with you,” he notes aloud. “Definitely not the same Ms. Graves I see in class.”

“Oh, I, uh… I know her pretty well outside of class. I… dated her brother for a while when I was doing my undergrad work.” You don’t seem too pleased to admit the latter, judging by your expression and the sudden appearance of nerves. He’d be lying if he said he was pleased to hear it. His stomach gnarls itself at the mere thought of you being with anyone else. To consider that someone else has kissed you, touched you, made love to you; that’s enough to make him crazy if he dwells on it too long. 

Don’t get him wrong, he’s under no illusion that you’re some sort of saint, even if just the sound of your voice is pure heaven. You’ve spoken about your dating history before, though it’s typically just in overheard fragments to Mr. MacTavish.

“How long?” He wants to clap a hand over his mouth, but it’s too late. The words came out, and he can’t take them back or play it off like he isn’t actually curious. Instead, he stays still, hoping the look on his face reads as if this is friendly conversation and not him prying where he oughtn’t.

You seem surprised by his question, and his blood floods with panic.

“You don’t have to answer that,” he quickly throws out, raising his hands. “I’m so sorry; that was inappropriate.”

“Two years.” You shrug like it’s nothing, and John swallows his gum by accident. He wasn’t expecting that. Maybe a few dates, a couple months tops, but two years? Doesn’t seem possible for a guy like Phillip Graves to sustain a relationship that long, given his penchant for obnoxiously blatant flirtation and his wandering gaze, practically eye-fucking anything with a pulse.

"What happened?" Fuck it. He's going to be a Nosy Nellie. It’s selfish and shady, but he can learn a lot from this. Come hell or high water, he swears he’ll treat you better. He’ll take the lessons learned from lesser men’s fallacies (and/or women’s; he’s got some questions after the last conversation he eavesdropped on between you and Johnny).

“He couldn’t seem to stop flirting with other people, and I’m pretty sure he loved his car more than he ever loved me.” Your laugh is dry and humorless, but your wry smile does extend to your eyes. That tells him you’re over it. The hurt you may have felt when it happened doesn’t linger. Good news for John.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” he replies, trying his best to be sympathetic. You shrug again.

“What are you sorry for? You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Doesn’t mean I don’t still feel bad that it happened. You deserve better than that.”

He wants to tell you what you really deserve; how you deserve a man, not a man-child. You deserve a man who’s going to take good care of you, worship you, love you selflessly. Someone who will make you breakfast, warm up your car for you in the winter, hold your hand every chance they get. Someone who only has eyes for you. Someone like John.

But he can’t say that, so he doesn’t.

“Yeah, I do,” you agree with a nod. “Know someone who wants to treat me right?”

You say it with a laugh, and John smiles hesitantly, choosing his next words carefully.

“Yeah, I think I might.”

“Oh, yeah? Anybody I know?” It’s coy and cute. You know exactly what he means; he has a feeling you just want to hear him say it. I’d treat you right, honey. Let me show you. He pulls his lower lip between his teeth, giving you a look that feels way too suggestive for the current environment.

“Yeah. I think you know him pretty well, actually,” he shrugs, nonchalantly holding his expression. “He’d be good to you.”

“Well, slip him my number, would ya? I could do with a nice date night soon.” You throw him a wink before turning back to your laptop, and John slowly slinks back into his office. Before he can close the door, you call for him again. He pops his head back in and sees his white envelope held up between your index and middle fingers, the flap torn open.

“Thank you for the flowers, sir. They’re beautiful.”

♡

There’s a rule in film: if you mention a gun in the first act, it must go off in the second. That’s not directly how the quote itself goes and this most certainly isn’t a film, but it still rings true.

It was only a matter of time before the proverbial gun went off, now that Price has inquired into your history with Phillip Graves. He didn’t expect it to happen so soon, though. Only a week passes before the soon-to-be-graduate rears his ugly little head.

“Oh, feminism, huh?”

The voice comes from your office, sultry and low, just barely within a range for John to hear it. His skin prickles, hairs on the back of his neck standing on end. He knows that voice; it’s the very one that’s haunted him for days now, whispering sweet nothings into your ear and holding you close in a way John is desperate to, but cannot yet. It’s Graves, the little prick, and that makes him nauseous.

You’re trying your hardest to explain the running theme of feminism in Carrie with the unit coming to a close, and Phillip’s ignoring the help you offer in favor of instead taking certain liberties with twisting everything you say into some sort of line or innuendo. Like that would ever work on you; you’re too smart not to see through that bullshit. You shut him down every time and ask him to focus on the material so you don’t have to deal with him next semester.

Still, it wrenches John’s gut in a way that bleeds him of his patience. He meant it when he said you deserve better than Phillip, and after the things you told him, there’s no fucking way he’s letting that weasel worm his way back in. You would never, he knows, but he doesn’t want Phillip having even the slightest sliver of hope.

Before he can stop himself, he’s knocking at the dividing door.

“Come in,” you call sweetly. He opens the door and sticks his head in, plastering the kindest, fakest smile on his face. You return the look as Graves sucks at his teeth, looking markedly impatient and making his irritation known.

“I’m so sorry to interrupt,” John says, syrup seeping into his tone. “But I think I might have accidentally deleted my gradebook. Can I borrow you for two quick seconds?”

“Of course,” you answer, tone laced with a bit more haste than either man apparently anticipated. “Excuse me just a moment, Mr. Graves. I’ll be right back in.”

You stand and push in your chair, making John’s stomach leap in the process. You’ve got on that burnt orange corduroy skirt that hugs your hips the way he’d someday like his hands to do and a plain, black, long sleeve top that matches the cling. It does nothing to disguise your perfect figure, his ideal figure, thrusting his erratically-beating heart into his throat entirely involuntarily. He never forgets how beautiful you are, not even for a second, but the visual reminders are always welcome.

He can feel the relief rolling off you in waves. Your expression stays neutral as you smooth out your skirt. There’s a gentle sway in your steps as you round the desk and follow John into his office. As he closes the door gently, you bee-line for his computer. A few clicks, and you look to him over your shoulder, perplexed, while he moves to stand behind you.

“Professor, your gradebook is fine. It’s right here.” You point at the monitor, and John nods.

“I know.”

“Then why - “ 

The words die on your tongue as John’s hands delicately close around the curve of your jaw. He hears the softest hitch in your breathing as he leans forward, half-lidded eyes searching your expression for any indicator that you want him to stop. He owes you that much.

“I should’ve done this weeks ago,” he murmurs, stroking a thumb across your cheek.

“John, what are you - “

His lips crash into yours, mouths meshing together like pieces of a puzzle, a perfect fit. It feels like centuries he’s waited for this moment, and the fire it spurs in his soul feels only comparable to the sun, licking up his throat like a solar flare.

You’re hesitant at first, rightfully so, but it doesn’t last long before that flame of desire kindles within you, and you melt into him, body molding to his. A particular breadth of warmth spreads across his chest as your hands come to rest against it. The tips of your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt, twisting it in your fist as you tug him impossibly closer. He’ll take the time to map and memorize every inch of you when he isn’t so consumed by the way you move in tandem without faltering as you become so wholly entangled with each other.

As his arms ensnare your waist in a vise-like hold, one of your hands, so soft and kind, nails painted a pretty shade of plum, threads itself into his hair. John has to bite down to stop himself from outright moaning into your mouth, the favored fantasy that often played out while he masturbated seemingly coming to life just in one movement. Your lower lip somehow gets trapped between his teeth, though, and you are the one to moan, hushed and soft, just for him to hear. 

Fuck, if that doesn’t fuel the fire inside his abdomen. He’ll do anything, any-fucking-thing, to hear that sound again and again and again.

He walks you backwards until he feels the edge of his desk pressing against your backside. The hold he had on your waist is abandoned in favor of assuming a sturdy grip on the back of your soft thighs. No warning is given when he suddenly lifts you, depositing you on the top of his desk. He slots himself between your knees and leans over you, still wrapped in this heated exchange. The tip of your tongue flickers against his only briefly, and it makes him borderline feral with want.

Your thighs get one little squeeze before John lands one hand on your back and the other just below your ear. He guides you down until he’s practically laying on top of you. Instinct guides your legs to hitch over his hips, and he’s well aware that you can feel the growing bulge in his slacks pressing up against your covered center. He ruts into you feverishly and mindlessly, desperately chasing another of those sweet little noises.

He almost whines when he feels you pulling away from him, mouths separating only for you to press your forehead against his. There’s an attempt to reconnect on his behalf, but you decline with the softest whisper of his name.

“John, there’s still a student in my office.” He can feel the smile on your lips as he moves to your neck. His lips seal over a spot where he can feel your pulse racing. It sends more blood south, having even the slightest inkling that you’re just as affected as he is, and he struggles to stave off the urge to rip a hole in the middle of your pantyhose and see just how affected you are.

“So?” he grunts, nose nudging your ear lobe as he lowers his voice more. “Let the little bastard sit there. Let him hear how a real man treats a fuckin’ prize like you.”

You swat his chest playfully, chiding him for encouraging you to shirk your responsibilities; the responsibilities assigned to you by him, no less. Your thighs squeeze his midsection again when you guide his face back to yours, stealing another peck before holding his gaze with a softer expression.

“He’s a nightmare, I know, but he’s still paying for a quality education. Just give me ten minutes to wrap this up, and I’m all yours.”

I’m all yours - those three simple words loop in his head, a phrase he’s ached for, longed to hear, for months. His heart clenches at the thought; summer nights on the porch swing, his hand on your thigh while he drives, letting you fall asleep on his chest. He wants it all. He wants every inch of love and affection you can offer and wants to give his in return. In this moment, the way you’re looking at him through your lashes, it’s so sorely tempting to say three different words back. He can’t yet, but he wants to.

“I hate to seem impatient, love, but I don’t think I can wait another ten minutes.” His thumb strokes across your cheek endearingly, and just beneath his finger tips, he can feel your heartbeat hammering away. “Don’t know how I ever lasted a minute without you now that I’ve got little taste of ya.”

You let him kiss you again, chaste and tender, a stark contrast to the frenzy he felt in the minutes before.

“You always been such a sweet-talker, Price?” you whisper with a grin, reaching up to brush a loose strand of hair away from his forehead. He huffs out a muted laugh, trying to stifle his amusement. “Keep it up, and I might just let you keep me.”

John’s quiet a moment, basking in your borderline ethereal glow, before he murmurs, “I like the sound of that.”

A beat passes, appreciative and intimate glances exchanged, the two of you sharing breath. Oh, how hard-pressed he is to move, to allow the contact to dissipate, to willingly let you out of his arms, his sight, to shoo away the little leech awaiting on the other side of the door. It’s unfathomable, in his mind. Months of waiting, weeks of agonizing, and now that he’s got you exactly where he wants you, he has to let you go for even a second? Inconceivable. Preposterous.

With a gentle palm against his chest, though, you manage to convince him. He wraps his fingers around yours and lifts himself off of you with a checked grunt. God, you look beautiful like this - splayed out across the top of his desk, skirt rucked up higher than would be decent to make room for his large frame to slot between your thighs, chest rising and falling steadily, though you still seem breathless. The sight alone requires him to reach down with his unoccupied hand and adjust his stiff length just to make the wait bearable.

He pulls you to your feet, still careful to keep you close to him. Graceful touches follow as he helps you right your hair and smooth out your clothing. When nothing wayward is left to stall, you press your lips to his one more time and turn on your heel, eyes promising a swift return as he plants himself back in his chair.

♡

It doesn’t go further than that for the remaining weeks of the semester, but that doesn’t mean Price isn’t counting down the days. While there’s still plenty of heated makeout sessions and aggressively building sexual tension, he finds other ways to show his affection in the interim; he brings you coffee every morning, walks you to your car after hours because it gets dark out far earlier in the winter, sets the heater in the lecture hall a few degrees higher than he’d like to ensure you’re comfortable throughout classes.

Restraint is gentlemanly. Just because he’s no longer deterring himself from chasing you doesn’t mean he’s willing to forgo all the rules. Though he’s following his heart down a path that leads straight to you, his stubbornness won’t allow him to jeopardize your future. Plausible deniability until you’re safely under the tutelage of another professor.

He discussed the transfer with you long before requesting it. You were surprisingly amenable to making the change once John made it clear that it wasn’t based on your performance. He adores you, admires the work you’ve put in for both him and his students, and he’d be remiss if he let you think for a second that you’ve been anything less than perfect.

No, no. He only broached the subject in hopes of fostering the seed you’d planted months ago. The little seed that is only now peeking through the topsoil. A burgeoning affair of the heart that he’s hoping to see blossom into something far more beautiful very soon, something you can grow together. He’s already fully committed to making sure it gets plenty of water and sunshine, but having you remain his TA would flood the garden and keep the skies cloudy. Nothing could flourish unhindered that way. 

That’s not quite how he phrased it to you, though. He still plays his cards close to his chest and has yet to confess the full extent of his feelings. You’ve off-handedly mentioned bits and pieces of your near future plans - plans that John’s certainly a part of - but any discussion about where your entanglement is headed beyond stolen kisses has been… unclear. He’s not a presumptuous man. It’s not his place to assume you’re on the same page, to assume you want an actual relationship with him.

So, to avoid the pressure of expectations or labels, he simply said, “I’d feel better about seeing where this goes if you were under another instructor. It would be unfair of me to ask you to wait another semester. You don’t deserve to be kept a secret, love.”

The request was put in shortly after, though Simon had already signed off on it over a week before John even mentioned it to you.

He only briefly second guesses that decision seeing you now, hovering in the doorway between offices. You look as beautiful as always, sporting a simple, sensible sweater dress that accentuates your delightfully buxom figure. What’s unusual is the mournful smile on your lips and the banker’s box in your hands.

Your watery eyes, swimming with unshed tears, scan over his office. You sigh heavily through your nose, biting your lip to stop it from quivering. John is immediately thrust into comfort mode, ready to soothe whatever savage beast has upset you so. 

“What’s the matter, sweet girl?” he asks softly, pushing aside the last of the stack of final exams atop his desk. Those can wait a bit longer; another day if need be.

“Oh, nothing,” you answer, clearly willing your voice not to crack. “Just a little sad that this is the last day. I’m really going to miss my office.”

It’s the little sniffle that follows that makes his chest ache. He’s smart enough to read between the lines. This has nothing to do with your office.

Without thought, Price automatically pushes his chair back and stands, shortening the distance that separates you in just a few strides. He takes the box from your hands, setting it in the empty seat closest to you. You’re looking at the floor now, avoiding his gaze. A curled finger beneath your chin tilts your head back up and gives you to choice but to look at him. 

“Don’t you give me that nonsense,” he chides with a soft smile. “What is it really, darling? Tell me what’s on your mind.”

A few stray tears fall between blinks, and John is quick to wipe them away with the pad of his thumb. He’s sure you can see every ounce of worry etched into his features, even as much as he’s trying to mask it. 

“I’m scared, John.” The admission surprises him. “I don’t like change. I don’t like not knowing what to expect.”

“I promise you, my dear, everything is going to be perfectly fine. Professor Riley will take excellent care of you. He’s a wealth of knowledge; well-versed, brilliant. I trust him. As for your office, it’ll be exactly as you leave it any time you want to come visit.”

“It’s not just that,” you interject, chewing at the inside of your cheek. There’s something more on the tip of your tongue, and he tilts his head just enough to prompt you to say it. “I just… I won’t get to spend as much time with you, will I?”

Price frowns.

“You’ll have all the time you want with me. Needn’t but ask, and I’ll be right there.”

That’s not what he wants to say. What he wants is to tell you that he’d sooner have you planted in his lap every second of every day so he never has to be away from you, that he doesn’t particularly enjoy the thought of sharing your time with any other man for any period of time (even if it is just Simon), that he values every fleeting moment he spends with you over any material thing in existence...

“It’s not just about what I want, John,” you counter in a hushed, wobbly voice. “What do you want?”

He sighs, taking your pretty face in his large hands. His mind is racing through a rolodex of anything and everything he could possibly say to keep that more lax, collected façade he’s curated intact; but the second he feels another tear drip onto his hand, it all goes out the window. He asks you to look at him, and you do. You look up at him with those bright, kind, teary eyes, and any ounce of resolve or restraint left in John’s body crumbles to bits. He takes a long blink and just lets the words come out how they may, consequences be damned. 

“I want you. Whatever you’re ready for, whatever you’re willing to give, I just want you.”

Words are often said to carry weight; some far too heavy, some not quite so, but all with their own heft. Like rocks tied to the soul, his grandmother used to say. Choose them wisely, and use them with caution, lest you be burdened by the stones in your mind. But John Price has never felt so weightless and free as the moment a syrupy, surreptitious smile settles on his lips and he utters a phrase he didn’t ever anticipate using before even taking you on a proper date: “I love you.”

Your expression softens. Dumbstruck, your mouth opens and closes like a fish out of water. Your eyes search through even the deepest recesses of his, looking for some sign of deception or jest, but there is none to be found. Never will be. Not with him.

After a few beats of silence, John clears his throat, admittedly a bit sheepish.

“You don’t have to say it back. Just couldn’t -”

“No, John, I-I… I love you, too.”

He doesn’t waste even a fraction of a second pulling you into him further for a searing kiss, one you melt into as soon as his lips meet yours. It’s nothing like the dozens of times he’s kissed you before; there’s nothing frantic or frenzied or feverish about it this time. True, it gets his heart racing all the same. His blood still sings with the same carnal cravings. But his mind and body do not share the driver’s seat this time. No, this time, his heart has the wheel.

It’s almost instantaneous, how hard he gets while just kissing you. Happens every time, but this is the first where he doesn’t feel such an innate need to hide it from you. He has nothing left to hide anymore.

You’re held there in a languid but torrid lip-lock until your fingers curl into the collar of his sweater, like you’re trying to pull him impossibly closer. The first little tug begs for more, and John takes a step forward to grant your wish, effectively backing you into the wall. The second tug draws his hands downward, skating oh so gracefully along your sides until his firm grip settles around the curve of your hips. He gives you a gentle squeeze there, just tense enough to make you gasp before he licks into your mouth.

The feeling of his tongue sliding past your teeth seems to spark something wild in you. You abandon the give of his collar, instead weaving your fingers through his hair. An experimental tug makes him grunt - something you seem to like given the way your back arches from the wall, canting your hips up into his. John takes the opportunity to wedge his knees between your thighs, pressing securely against your clothed cunt. Your tongue prods his back as you grind into him a time or two, and like an electric shock, the motion has him pulling back just enough to speak clearly.

“You want me, pretty girl?” he asks gruffly, breathlessly. It’s near impossible to stop his eyes from migrating, but the way you’re fighting the urge to let your eyes roll back when you rub yourself against him again keeps him entranced. “Tell me, baby. Tell me what you want.”

“Just… Just want you,” you pant, biting your lip, failing to hide the sweet little whimper that slips out. 

“Yeah? That all you want, sweetie? You already have me. I’m all yours.”

“You know what I mean, John.” 

He chuckles.

“You’ll need to be more specific than that, love. I haven’t spent all semester with a TA that can’t use her words, have I?” He clicks his tongue, shaking his head. “That won’t do at all, my love. Tell me exactly what you want, and I might just give it to you.”

“I-I want - oh fuck - I want your cock stuffed so deep i-inside me that I can f-feel it for days.” You whine, assuming a steady pace. It’s the most gorgeous sound he’s ever heard. “Need you to fill me up. Been waiting for months, John.”

His mind goes blank. He’s dumbfounded. An entire dictionary at his disposal, and the only word that comes out of his mouth in response is a hushed, “Fuck.”

You seem to have usurped his confidence, based on the way you’re looking at him as you whisper, “Let me show you.”

Before he can process any of it, you’re guiding him back to his chair and sinking to your knees. Deft fingers make quick work of his belt while you mouth openly along the bulge in his slacks. He swears he’s dreaming when those dark blue nails unfasten the button and begin to pull down his zipper. 

Something in him short-circuits when he looks down and sees the wet patch you’ve left just above his knee. Either you’ve soaked through your panties, or you don’t have any on; he’ll find out which is the case soon enough, but it’s enough to keep him hard for hours.

His eyes dart back to your face, and you’re looking up at him expectantly, tugging his pants and briefs down in tandem, asking him so very sweetly to have a seat. Like a well-trained dog, he obeys, lower layers shoved to his ankles. Tugging a hair tie from your wrist, you make quick work of pulling your hair back. Once done, you only break eye contact to trail a fingertip down his throbbing erection, a haughty smirk tugging at your lips every time it twitches beneath your touch.

“You’ve got the prettiest dick I’ve ever seen,” you mutter, palming it as it lays against his stomach just enough to incite a sharp gasp.

“Don’t tease me, woman,” he groans. “Been waitin’ just as long.”

Almost too delicately, you wrap your hand around his cock, middle finger and thumb barely missing each other. You give him a tight squeeze, making those fingers meet as you painstakingly slowly begin to pump the base. His head falls back against the chair with a muted thud, and the second his eyes close, you have your lips wrapped around his tip.

Your tongue flickers over that sensitive spot just below the head, and John sees white spots behind his eyelids. It’s been so long since anything has felt this good. In fact, he’s not sure if anything ever has. Nothing compares to you. Not by a long shot.

As heavy as those eyelids feel, he lifts his head, forcing himself to watch you work so he can commit every second to memory. That warm, wet, wanton mouth of yours just keeps sucking him deeper, worshiping each inch you take with appreciative hums and whimpers. The pressure is perfect, especially with your tongue pressed to the underside. Your soft hand works the length you’ve yet to reach, the drool leaking from your lips lubing it up for you.

When he finally nudges the back of your throat, you gag, but you don’t pull back. You push just a little farther first, forcing him into the start of the curve and giving him a swallow. What in the actual fuck did John Price ever do right to deserve an angel like you, huh? How in the hell did he ever get this fucking lucky?

The moment your head starts bobbing in his lap, he swears he’s actually died and gone to heaven, or rather, the closest thing he believes in. He has a deathgrip on the arm of his chair, and to ground himself, he has to put one hand on the back of your head; not pushing, not guiding, just resting to keep himself from floating away entirely.

It’s almost overwhelming, just how god damn good you feel. He’ll never get over it. He’ll never get used to it.

You haven’t stopped stroking that extra length since you started, but the other hand is conspicuously absent. He wonders what that hand is up to, but he can see the smallest sense of movement in your shoulder, and he knows exactly what you’re doing.

“Hands on my legs, love. Don’t you dare touch that cunt,” he growls, renewed confidence seeping down to his marrow. Pretty eyes narrowing just slightly, you place your other hand on his thigh. He can feel how wet your two middle fingers are, slick against his skin. The noise that comes out of him is one he doesn’t recognize - somewhere between a whimper and a moan, but somehow neither - as he grabs your wrist and pulls that hand to his lips. Taking those two fingers, he licks them clean. You’re just as delectable as he imagined, and the need to get his mouth on you rears its head. That little voice in the back of his head tells him you deserve it; it’s only right that he shows you how much he truly loves you after making you wait so long.

You pull his cock from your mouth with a wet pop, kitten-licking the tip between ragged breaths. Still pumping him and keeping pace, you duck your head down a little more. You begin alternating between sucking on his balls and tracing the seam up the middle. It’s only a few switches, but it feels like dozens before you start sucking on his dick again. His hips buck involuntarily, grip on your head tightening when he feels every muscle his abdomen tensing.

“Gonna cum if you don’t ease up,” he warns, but you continue with a hum. He has no choice but to guide you away by your hair, and he just about cums anyway at the sight of you.

Your makeup is smeared, little gray streaks running the length of your face. Your entire chin is glistening in the low warmth of the fading sunlight from the window. A few small, silvery strings of saliva and precum keep you connected just a second longer. Any hope you may have started the day with that your lipgloss would stay put was dashed by the first kiss, but is now an absolute impossibility. John almost feels bad about ruining your morning’s work, and by almost, he means not at all. The smile on your face is more than well worth it.

He stands, pushing the chair back with his legs.

“Get that gorgeous arse of yours on the desk, love.”

Divesting himself of his remaining clothing, he sees your eyes widen just a hair.

“Jesus, John,” you whisper, gaze roving his body like it’s a modern marvel. “You’re fucking perfect.”

“You’re one to bloody talk,” he retorts, letting the hem of his sweater fall from his hand. It crumples into a pile with his slacks, and he’s back on you sooner than it hits the floor.

Another blistering kiss, and he can taste himself on your tongue. It’s heady and intoxicating. Enough so that he’s already laying you back on top of the desk, just like the first time he kissed you. 

Like muscle memory, your legs come up astride his waist, and his hands are rucking your dress up over your hips. You only break away from him long enough to pull it the rest of the way off before pulling him back in. The hands used to guide you down work tirelessly to unhook your bra, and both offending garments are tossed aside carelessly. He’ll help you find them later.

He’s the one to disengage this time, the one to stare, the one marveling at the wonder before him. To say you’re beautiful, gorgeous, or any other synonym in his repertoire would be a disservice. There really is no word in the English language - or any other, for that matter - that really captures just how breathtaking you are. Every curve, every line, every mark, mole, freckle, dimple, it merely confirms what he’s surmised from the start: you are perfect.

A slew of words escape him, none of which are coherent to either of you, between the kisses he places along your jaw, down your neck, across your chest. His large hands cup your breasts, pushing them together in the middle. He seals his lips around one of your nipples and lets his tongue move in mindless patterns, adding little sucks or nibbles when he hears you give him a little sigh. The other gets the same treatment immediately following, but he doesn’t forget his mission. A mere detour won’t derail him.

John makes his way down your stomach in a slow trail, leaving hot, wet, open-mouthed kisses. Your hand is in his hair again, and you’re watching him like a hawk, brows furrowed in a throes of ardor.

Another prediction is seasoned as fact when he reaches your pussy. He doesn’t recall any underwear being removed, and yet, you’re bare to him. The evidence of your arousal extends from your lips to your inner thighs, and his cock throbs tirelessly between his legs at the mere thought of his effect on you. 

“Cheeky little minx,” he comments, heated breaths washing over your slit. “Were you planning on tonight going this way?”

Almost bashfully, you shake your head.

“I don’t like panty lines,” you cop. “Don’t think anyone else needs to imagine what’s under my clothes.”

He huffs out a chuckle before taking a knee, hitching yours over his shoulders. His arms circle beneath your ass, wrapping around until those big paws are settled on your hips. The tips of his fingers dig into the meat as he hauls you closer to the edge of the desk. 

“You’re so fuckin’ beautiful, sweetheart,” he murmurs between the kisses he lays against your skin, kissing up one thigh, then the other, never taking his eyes off yours while he licks the slick from his lips. “Most stunning creature I’ve seen in all my life. Don’t think I’ll ever get enough of you.”

You’re not given the chance to respond before he descends, licking a stripe through your folds with the flat of his tongue. You yelp, grabbing a fistful of his hair. He feels your legs tense, but his hold keeps them from closing around him. As much as he’ll enjoy the free earmuffs on the impending colder nights, he wants you spread out right now.

He drinks you down, savoring how good you taste. You’re keening high in your throat, pulling his hair, digging your heels into his scapulae; he’d gladly spend the rest of his life between your legs if you’d let him.

The tip of his tongue nudges your swollen clit. You arch off the desk, panting. He sucks it between his lips, putting just the right pressure on it in a thrumming cycle. The sounds you’re making whisper of being close to the edge, and he wants to keep pushing.

“John, please,” you whine, squirming in his iron grip. “I want your fingers.”

He releases your clit, flicks his tongue over it one more time just to see you jolt. If you’re going to ask so sweetly, who is he to deny you?

“Yes, ma’am.”

Untangling one arm, Price wastes no time guiding his middle finger into your sopping entrance. It slides in like this is where it belongs. He uses the opposite thumb and forefinger to spread you open, eagerly easing a second finger in.

His hands are much larger than yours; thicker, longer fingers, meatier palms, knotted and scarred knuckles from his time in the service. Two of his digits equal three of yours. He’s gentle, cautious, and the addition of his ring finger lures him into a trance of wonderment, watching with rapt attention as your hole flutters, stretching to accommodate him.

You clench around him, a scarcely audible hiss sneaking between your teeth. The depth he reaches is far more than you’d ever manage on your own, he knows, and when he crooks his fingers, catching that sweet spot, you bow up again, grinding down into his hand.

The blissed out look you aim at him sparks the frenzy, and he’s ravenous, devouring you like a man starved. Lapping at your clit, hand keeping a steady pace, it doesn’t take long before you’re issuing a warning that you’re close.

“Cum for me, pretty girl. Not stoppin’ ‘til you do.”

Your thighs clamp down around him when his efforts double. A dull thunk is barely heard as you throw your head back, and almost on cue, your walls are squeezing him, pulsating as a sharp bout of convulsion hits. He can’t make out the words you’re saying, so he tenderly guides you back down from the peak until you release him.

The heave of your chest as you try to catch your breath gives him pause. While he’s desperate to feel you wrapped around him, milking him for all he’s worth, he’d still be plenty satisfied finishing himself off at home if you needed a break. You look absolutely wrecked already, smeared makeup and mussed hair, sweat beading above your brow. He’s clearly done a number on you already, but when you spread those perfect legs again and start palming your tits in a way that makes his mouth water, John finds himself grabbing a throw pillow from the couch beneath the window.

In a rare display of raw, brute strength, he gathers both your legs in one arm and lifts your ass from the desk just enough to wedge the pillow in. He’s bumped into his own desk enough times to know what a nasty mark it can create, and he’ll be damned if you’re left with any bruises other than the ones he creates with the intimate intent of branding you as his.

“You ready, love?” he asks softly, guiding his drooling cock through your folds. Your wetness slicks him up nicely as you nod, tacking on a gentle ��please’.

His tip settles in just the right place, and he pushes home in one fell stroke. Your eyes roll back, mouth falling open in a silent moan, and John feels as if the air has been punched from his lungs. He has to steady himself to keep from cumming right then by holding just beneath your rib cage, the natural curve of your waist. It fits so immaculately in his hands, and it roots him into place.

This is real. You’re real. You’re really here, and this is really happening. 

“John,” you mewl, placing a delicate hand over one of his.

“Just… Gimme a second, sweetheart,” he mutters with a kind squeeze. “Feels too fuckin’ good bein’ inside you like this.”

One moment bleeds into another, and you’re so patient as he collects himself. No push, no prod, no protest; just the tips of your fingers tracing the veins in the back of his hand until he’s ready. When he is, he gives you a gentle tap of confirmation before experimentally rolling his hips.

He groans, the feeling still so intense as he works in shallow thrusts. You fit him like a glove, like you were made for him and him alone, like you’re meant to be his. A step away from the precipice does him no favors; he knows he’s not going to last long. With the way you’re wrapped around him, looking up at him with a degree of reverence reserved for someone who hand-painted all the stars in the night sky just for you, how could he?

His hips draw back further each stroke now, and he begins to pick up his pace. The meat of his thighs claps against your ass as he pulls your hips towards him at every collision. Your nails bite into his forearms. Every sound you make fuels his primal need to hear more, and he knows he’s hitting all the right spots when you’re slurring out swears and babbling nearly incoherently beneath him.

A bead of sweat drips down to the hollow of his throat. He glances down at where you’re joined, watching your sweet cunt stretch to swallow down his thick cock. A milky white ring has formed around the base. As many times as he’d pictured this exact moment, nothing in the most feral corners of his imagination could’ve conjured something so inherently erotic. Seeing his length disappear inside you over and over assures that he’ll never be satisfied with fucking his fist again, not after this.

The pad of his calloused thumb finds your swollen clit with ease. He rubs in tight, calculated circles, applying a little more pressure when you nearly shriek his name. He needs to see you come undone for him again.

“That feel good, love?” You nod. “Yeah? You like that, huh? Can feel that pretty pussy squeezin’ me. You’re takin’ me so well, honey.”

You’re barely coherent beneath him as he drives into that spot that keeps you breathless. He doesn’t know what you’re begging for, but you keep saying ‘please’. You’re trying so hard to keep your eyes on him, and they keep threatening to roll back. The sight only spurs him on. 

Any semblance of control is lost when you warn him that you’re close again. Words of encouragement pour out like a fountain before he can process what he’s saying. Your whole body tenses, walls clamping down around his length in even pulses, and John folds himself over you, fucking you through the waves.

“Shit, I - oh, fuck! - John, I-I… I love you.” You struggle to get it out between pants and moan and whines, but his heart soars all the same. He ruts into you feverishly, peppering your face with sloppy kisses as he chases that high. There’s no controlling the near whimpers that escape him as your orgasm pushes him to the brink of his own.

“‘Bout to cum, baby. Where do you want it?” he sighs into your mouth.

“Inside - please, want you to cum inside me.”

That’s what does him in. He pushes as deep as he can, tip kissing your cervix as he pumps rope after rope of warm white into you. The edges of his vision blur. He can’t remember a time in his life that he’s cum so hard, but he knows it won’t be the last. Not when there are too many months to make up for.

One more kiss, and he whispers back, “I love you, too.”

[alexanderwales]

Review: The Case of the Sleeping Beauties

The Case of the Sleeping Beauties is a novella that I wrote back in 2015. Ambitiously subtitled "a Utah Sinclair mystery", it did not make any significant splash. It's got 67 lifetime sales, a 3.8 rating, and a single proper review. Some of this is simply a lack of marketing: back in 2015 I had written some fanfic and not much else, and was still working as a software engineer. I'm not sure why I wrote this novella, or decided to put it up for pay (unlike virtually everything else I've written, it's never once been up for free), but I consider it an abject failure, at least as far as writing for money goes. Also the cover sucks. The whole thing is 20,000 words, so short enough that I can easily blow through it in an afternoon. Also (still) available in EPUB, MOBI, and PDF for patrons, but I don't have firm numbers for how many people read it that way, nor if it did anything to encourage patronage.

But is it an artistic failure as well?

There is actually another Utah Sinclair mystery, it was intended as a trilogy of novellas that together would be long enough (and coherent enough) to stitch into a full book with the three cases being individual "acts". I don't know the last time I reread The Case of the Sleeping Beauties, but my guess is that it was while I was trying to complete The Case of the Slaughterhouse Prophet, and that would have been almost a decade ago.

The story was written at a time when I was playing Malifaux, a skirmish game, and is clearly heavily inspired by that, though with the serial numbers filed off. It follows Utah Sinclair, a private detective of the yonside as he wanders around a rambling city trying to figure out where undead prostitutes are coming from.

Mild spoilers follow.

Prose

The first thing I noticed is just how much noir it's channeling, and how much is being put into descriptive phrases. Stuff like this:

The first human through the portal from earthside had found himself on the outskirts of an empty city, one that seemed like it had been cobbled together by an orgy of deranged architects.

Or this:

There were a few maps of Cathopolis, but they only agreed on the areas that the Priz maintained control over. Everywhere else was a geographical bedlam.

Or this:

He was the sort of person who was waiting to disgorge his thoughts, like a mother bird ready to feed a starving chick.

Or this:

I had a revolver strapped to my ankle, one affectionately advertised in the back of the penny dreadfuls as the Silent Witness. It was supposed to be a subtle weapon, but it was still a gun, and if I’d paid chits for it instead of pulling it off a dead man I might have written a nasty letter to the manufacturer about its supposed silence.

Or this:

It took me a moment to realize it, but he was dressed up like a Catholic priest, all in black with a white collar. Even if he’d been standing in the middle of the Vatican with the Pope vouching for him, it wouldn’t have been convincing. Partly it was the scars on his face, but it was also the head that had been shaved with a secondhand blade. The snub-nosed shotgun at his side didn’t help matters either.

I assume that this is channeling Raymond Chandler, since I read a lot of detective fiction when I was a teenager (my dad had loads of the stuff) and Chandler was always a favorite. I think the density of these flourishes could be higher, and if you're going with this style, it's better that it's liberally peppered in. You don't want to sink into the rhythm "normal" prose only to have a tiny speck of flourish pop out at you.

There were a lot of things that I tightened up while reading, partly because this is the easiest thing in the world when reading in GDocs, but I don't know that I'll push a change to the ebook, partly because I would need to figure out how. Most of these changes are fairly minor. There's an overuse of semicolons, which I think I was in love with at the time, a romance that hasn't lasted. There are a few minor tweaks that are just on the order of "no, the phrase 'mechanical fingers' might be misread as poetic, it should reworded to be clear that these are prosthetic". A few of the tweaks are just to reduce down how much text there is, making it more punchy, so "the Priz didn't tax any property that a person might want to claim in this part of the city" becomes "the Priz didn't tax property in this part of the city", and this is essentially inarguably better, tighter, cleaner prose.

Also I fixed some typos, and those do make me feel like I need to figure out the reupload.

Character

I think I've gotten better at character voices through the years, but here I kind of doubt myself, since everything seems fine in that regard. Utah and his partner Ralph don't talk enough early on in my opinion, and there might be a few too many characters introduced in rapid succession, which is a problem when they're not advancing the plot. Cyanide Sally is a bartender who owns the House of Skulls, and she serves a bitter almond special that's (supposedly) fatally poisoned one time in every hundred, and this is very fun ... but it's irrelevant to the plot, it's just fun for the sake of fun.

I do think that Ralph gets speaking lines a bit too late, given that he's the second main character. My advice to my past self would be that he should be getting characterizing dialogue from the word go, and that this central relationship should be better understood by the reader much earlier. And they should be more distinct from each other: the orthogonality thesis is that every set of characters should only overlap where there's something interesting to say with that overlap. Cover up the names and see if you can tell who said what line! This does not work for Ralph and Utah, but I think it does work for most of the other characters. And I guess I wouldn't say this is fatal, since it's not like there's some grounding character arc between our detective and his sidekick.

Utah himself is ... fine. Some of his characterization comes through in the narration, and there were a few moments I particularly liked from him, but I'm not sure that I could sketch him out in a sentence. He's down on his luck, loves to break rules, lies through his teeth, scrambles around and gets back up from the hard punches. I'm not sure that this is enough. A job should be more than a job, I guess, and I do get the sense that he's skeeved out by the necromancy, but ... well, that brings us to the other thing.

Theme

This is, if you squint, or maybe even if you don't, a cop story about sex work. It also kind of doesn't have that much to say about either of those things.

Utah is a private detective, doling out justice for people who can pay him. In real life, private detectives come in a variety of flavors, but one of the most common is just the pursuit of things that are not actually criminal issues, like breach of contract, or adultery. This is a criminal issue within their world, but it's one that no one in power is pursuing. There's some clear contempt for the regular cops from Utah, and some further contempt for the law itself, since he breaks all kinds of laws in this lawless world, including murdering two men, which doesn't greatly affect him. This is self-defense, but still. I don't think there's some great thesis on criminality or justice here, and the novella overall is justice-neutral, seemingly unconcerned with what's right or wrong, only trying to work the problem. This is maybe fine?

And the sex work stuff is seen through the lens of Utah, and this is also seen as maybe being just morally neutral in a matter-of-fact way, something that people do in order to get by, no different from working in a coal mine or whatever. And there's exploitation, but that's no different from working in a coal mine. So I think this story has a viewpoint, but not a thesis.

Does a story need a thesis? Does a little novella like this need to have something to say about the world and the people in it? I don't know, I guess not, but I sure do prefer when there's something to grab onto. I am a sucker for story structure though, and a nice little character arc, and this piece ... does not really have that. Utah is challenged, but he's not challenged to his core, and does not grow and change, and this probably fine for a 20k word novella.

I think in the end it's more of a "wouldn't it be fucked up" kind of story, and in this case I don't particularly like that, since it's not fucked up enough.

Ideas

One of the other things that I look for in any story is cool ideas, and this is one of the things that I like most about reading long ago pieces, because sometimes I've forgotten those ideas.

The idea density is okay, but I would have liked to see more. A weird fiction setting is a playground for ideas, and I feel like especially in the back half, there's just not enough playing going on. It is only 20k words, but that feels like it's enough for easily twice as many little fucked up weird things. So that's what I would do, include more fucked up weird things. (The part where they go to the manor is the one that stands out clearly to me as needing more fucked up weird things, there should have been some kind of magic sculpture there or a steampunk maid or something.)

Of all the stuff that I had forgotten about, my favorite was the necromancy lobbyist, a guy who just really believed that necromancy should be legal, but was supposedly not a necromancer himself. So he's just talking about like regulatory schemes and social mores, and this is funny. I'm glad he wasn't a bad guy in the end, for some reason I thought he was going to be involved in the plot in a more critical way. Instead, he's just a happy little academic.

Conclusion

Fun to reread, and no, I would say not an artistic failure. Definitely feels like it wants a second mystery to follow after it. I believe The Case of the Slaughterhouse Prophet is approximately half written, which with editing work means only a quarter written, but again, the numbers mean that there's just no way that I can justify that as anything but a labor of love.

I wouldn't say that this is the best thing I've ever written, but I think it compares favorably to the other mid-length stuff. Definitely would have been stronger with a thematic core, and with more cohesion between protagonist and plot, but I also think that's fine.

I guess, having read it after nearly a decade, I'm feeling weirdly defensive about it for no particular reason. It might have been one thing if it had just not sold, that's partly just down to the lack of marketing and also the market for novellas being bad. But it also scored poorly in terms of ratings, and on top of that, never got enough reviews for me to get a picture of what was not hitting right, which leaves me grappling in the dark.

So I'd say that I learned approximately nothing from this, except that I had some more ideas for a Weird West kind of story, if I ever end up writing one of those.

[shadowcatzone]

okay so we've talked about bio!xingyue child before. You have to imagine this:

Imagine Dan feng and Yingxing hovering (figuratively) around the egg. "It could hatch any minute now!" They'll say. They've been saying that for weeks. Ever since the egg came into existence. They're not letting anyone into the house anymore (a small house they bought close to Dan fengs estate (would you trust the preceptors with an egg??)) And absolutely 0 work is getting done. Unlike in the beginning, they now stare at the egg all day (figuratively), what can you do.

Then one day the egg cracks. More and more. Until a piece of eggshell falls out. You know the old men are losing their minds at this point. From within the egg, they can hear a mix between chirping and crying. They help the child out of the egg. It's a newborn! With vidyadhara ears and a short tail (about as long as a newborn baby -short) and tiny tiny nubs on their head. Their eyes are closed still. A bath and a clothing session later, the child is lying in a wicker basket, Yingxing in the kitchen, Dan feng watching over their kid.

He pokes their cheek after yingxing brought tea for the two. The baby is not amused. Though their tiny hand wraps around Dan fengs finger and something changes. A strange feeling the high elder never had before. Yingxing needs to do a double take as the first tear rolls off Dan fengs cheek, it crystallizes before dropping on the tiny blanket. "Love, is everything alright??" "No... they're so beautiful... i'm- i can't..." there's now exactly one(1) thing the high elder loves more than Yingxing. Yingxing doesn't mind, and moves over to- maybe console his husband??

They spent three days in complete seclusion. So much so that the remaining hcq wonders if they "left" (nonono, not on this post, haha) before eventually returning to (semi-)normal life with a nonchalant "oh, yeah, by the way, the baby hatched three days ago." "WDYM THREE DAYS AGO!??" auntie baiheng is the most disappointed that they didn't tell her immediately. But they're all very pleased to find out that the baby has heterochromatic eyes and therefore both of their parents eye colors.

Dan feng is literally the worse parent because it's his child (only secondary yingxings) and he will spoil them way too much. "I'm their parent too, and i think you should-" "excuse me, did you lay the egg??" Usually the end of all arguments from that point onward. ("You can't always work-" "did you lay an egg?" "WHAT DOES THAT HAVE TO DO WITH ANYTHING??" "DID YOU OR DID YOU NOT?)

Ahem.

They do feed them every 4-6 hours, but their child isn't particularly vocal about food (unless they wait the full 6 hours, which is when the baby starts babbling (upsetly) but not crying or screaming just yet.

Dan feng loves this child so much. Until it gets disgusting. They were already chewing on his fingers (without teeth) whenever they could. One time they gripped into the tip of Dan fengs tail and- well, Yingxing had to not only console a very upset toddler, but also a very upset high elder. They did rip out a chunk of hair(fur? Feather?) From his tail as their prize. But as soon as they start crawling, they put everything into their mouth.

Truly terrible times come upon them when their child's horns break through, closely followed by their teeth. There is no sleep on the luofu. Never has been, never will be, ever again. This is when they decide to care for the baby in shifts. But they still love their child, of course. They just wish it was not in pain and maybe a little bit quieter.

_____

1.i love that we all simultaneously agree that dan feng can't cook. He's the high elder, what use is cooking to him (hahahahahah)

2.sometimes you find something so beautiful that your brain just. Melts for a minute. Specifically when babies are involved-

3.this was only supposed to be the reaction of dan feng upon interacting with his child for the first time. Consider the rest bonus material.

[stabbyfoxandrew]

ALSO kevjean a kiss after a bite - dayurno :3

(requests closed!) 34. A kiss after a bite

There’s no better place to be than under Jean Moreau. 

That’s what Kevin is thinking right now. 

Or what he would be thinking if his brain hadn’t melted into a useless pile of goo. He just can’t help it. The moment his back hits the mattress, all sense flies out of his head. He’s not sure how long they’ve been at it. Or how long Jean’s been at it. He’s the one doing the work. That’s how he likes it. How they both like it. 

Kevin keens when Jean bites down on his collar, turns his head to the side to allow better access. Jean uses it, sinks his teeth into Kevin’s neck hard enough to make him whimper. At the sound Jean raises his head to look at Kevin and his eyes are almost black. “Too much?”

Kevin shakes his head, “No. Kiss me.”

A tiny breath of relief, then Jean is smiling and dipping his head back down. Kevin is about to protest, but then he feels Jean’s lips brushing against his neck. He reaches for Jean’s face and pulls him up to look into his eyes again. “I meant up here.”

“Then you should’ve been more specific,” says Jean before he kisses Kevin’s jaw. He nips at his cheek, then finally presses their lips together. It’s chaste considering where Jean’s mouth has been tonight. And he pulls away far too quickly.

“Jeannnn,” Kevin whines. “Give me a real kiss.”

“Hmm… Maybe I won’t,” Jean says, making a face. And Kevin knows it’s meant to tease. That’s what makes it more annoying. It’s supposed to rile Kevin up and get on his nerves. It works. 

Of course it works. 

About the time Kevin starts to pout, Jean surges forward to slot their lips together. Kevin grins against his lover’s mouth, thinking he’s won. But he should’ve known better. Before he realizes that Jean is moving, he’s got a clever hand wrapped around Kevin’s cock. He gives it a few lazy strokes and Kevin groans. He’s been close for what feels like hours. Just a little more—

As if he can sense Kevin’s impending orgasm, Jean takes his hand away. But uses the opportunity to shove his tongue into Kevin’s mouth. They kiss that way, hot and heavy, until Kevin is short of breath and desperate. Then Jean pulls away, “Satisfied?”

“Almost.” Kevin pants.

“Can I go back to what I was doing now, your majesty?” Jean asks, quirking a brow.

“Yes,” Kevin says, dropping his head back into the pillows. “Please.”

[echantedtoon]

Waning Obsession Ch14 Epilogue

(Hey everyone. I just wanted to thank everyone who read this far and liked my story enough to read it to it's end. I had a lot of fun writing it and it makes me happy knowing some people loved it enough to read it fully. If you liked this consider checking out my other works. Thanks to everyone for reading this, faving it, or leaving a nice comment. And thank you to Koyoharu Gotouge for creating such wonderful characters and giving me the opportunity to make this wonderful story.)

Church bells chimed in the morning.

Flowers. Soft petals. Meant for their beauty to symbolize the beauty of the bride.

Organ music. To match in chimes of the steps of the bride walking down the aisle.

An audience to shed tears of happiness for many happy moments to come from this union.

Smiles shown at one another in the joys of the moment.

A breath to fill her lungs trying not to cry as she smiled up at the man in front of her. The one she were going to marry and have a life with. But this moment couldn't wait. This magical moment after a year. Some say it was fast but she supposed it was called love at first sight for a reason.Or at least it was supposed to be. A wedding was nothing if a groom never had given up on the woman that grabbed him by the heart and refused to let him go whether she wanted to or not. Whether she knew or not.

The softness of the cushion under her legs helped little to calm her nerves. Neither did the figure of the tall man next to her dressed in the traditional black attire for the ceremony. The smiles of the few guests in attendance also did little to comfort her pounding heart after being brought to this place. Everything happening so fast and too soon. Only to clutch her wrist and bring it up to his chest. The stare of six darkened eyes of love and obsession. A fine line between both melting into one unholy merge. He supposed she knew what would happen after that night when she awoken the next morning after that day.

The war had ended roughly a year after that. He was filled with more determination than before to end it knowing that he had a ceremony to host. His father's reaction was as expected. Disappointment at both of his sons marrying ones not from nobility. His brother a farm girl, and himself a candle carver. But he didn't care. For once in his entire life he did not care about his father's disappointment. He could take his anger with him to the grave, he more than made up for his disappointment by leading several bloody battles personally and ending so much of the enemies forces by hand alone.

He EARNT this.

He DESERVED this.

He NEEDED this!!

That's why she chose him over staying. She needed him too. That's why she was here dressed in the finest silk shiromuku and sitting next to him patiently as the priest continued on with the rites of ceremony.

"BAH!"

It was only briefly interrupted by one of his infants. The chubby young boy probably did not appreciate being held in one place for so long by his grandmother who quickly shushed the fussing three month old into being still again. It was a gift from whomever gods was watching him he supposed. He wasn't expecting the shock of finding out in a short amount of time he himself would be becoming a father, but he nearly passed out when not one but two children were born unexpectedly. He remembered the exact moment the doctor relayed to him the good news that he would become a father. ...He would not speak about how angry his father was for springing the news he was going to be a grandfather on him or how one of his men had to poor water over his head in order to wake him up from his fainting spell-..

No one was allowed to speak of that moment again!

Currently his smiling mother held one while his twin napped blissfully unaware of everything Yoriichi's arms. Both twins seemed to favor his mother and brother, tolerated his brother's wife, and absolutely refused to let his father hold them. As soon as their tiny eyes laid on their grandfather's faced they wailed and wouldn't stop fussing if he ever held them making his father give him scolding looks and telling him he'd have to start training them to stop that soon....He conveniently ignored him every time. The only thing he cares about is how happy his mother was with them and that was more important than making them tolerate his presence. He missed enough of their early life as it was during the pregnancy and first month. It was only by pure chance he was visiting the very day they were born. It has been an intense few hours of himself pacing the corridors with Yoriichi trying and failing to calm him and their mother patiently sitting by with a smile as his fiance was shut away with the finest doctors and midwives. Until his heart stopped when the screaming stopped, a baby wailed, and a little while later a midwife had come out of the room with a small blanketed bundle in her arms....he couldn't bring himself to move so the infant was given to his crying grandmother to hold. Which he didn't mind. She seemed in happy bliss holding her first grandchild in her arms. The boy was the spitting image of his mother with those big turquoise eyes that blinked at them as he sniffled.

He was...tinier than he imagined. So chubby and watery eyes. So unlike him. But at the same time a deep pride of something he created was seated beneath the shock.

"Oh he's just so precious," Akeno cooed expertly shushing the whimpering boy in her arms before looking at the smiling midwife. "But how's my daughter-in-law?"

The midwife smiled happily. "She's doing just fine. She's in a small rest before she births the second child."

His head SNAPPED to the midwife all six eyes wide. "SECOND?!"

"Yes! The doctor discovered that she's in fact having twins-"

THUD-

Yoriichi tried and failed to catch his brother before he again collapsed to the floor.

....He was NEVER speaking of that incident again either.

His hands squeezed hers tighter as she smiled at him from under the hood of the shiromuku. A smile that was his and his ALONE as he vowed to her.

"The gods may have brought you to me, but they won't take you away from me. I will deny them just like they've denied me. You're mine eternally." 

[from-ultra-space]

Nori’s First Mission

//This will be the second entry in Nori’s Stories, a collection of drabbles and short stories about the little blue dude or his little blue friends. This one is unrelated to the first but if you want to read it you can find it linked in my pinned post. Nori’s First Mission covers, well, Nori’s first mission out of the city. It happens many years before the current time and includes: blood, major injuries, mention of death (although no one dies), a little bit of found family, Nori imaging a sunrise, and is overall pretty long. I was hoping to show a bit more than what I have but that would take too long so just posting as it is. Hope you enjoy :)

-Mod Cucco //

     It was a little while after the team originally found Nori that he went on his first mission. He had been trained in common Ultra Beasts (specifically how to avoid them) and general procedures for how things worked. Still, just because you're trained in what to do if something goes wrong doesn't mean that's always what happens. It was supposed to be something simple, the mission that is. Nori was going to follow a few of the members in the Ultra Defense Force outside the city, collect some basic data to update their records, and maybe learn some stuff from more experienced people along the way. 

     The sky was always dark but Nori was noting it anyways, just like how he noted the sound the group made as they walked further from the light of the city. Osmund, the lady in charge of the expedition, marched confidently in front with something that could be considered a flashlight. As Nori was the only Recon Squad member there he also marched in the front, and even though it was just to gather the highest quality undisturbed data, it made Nori feel important.

     After a few minutes of quiet walking Osmund decided to be the first one to talk. "Your name is Nori, right? Sorry, I'm terrible with names."

"Yes, at least I think my name is Nori," he said back, "I'm not quite sure after all that's happened"

Osmund nodded, "I heard about that. I'm sorry Phyco couldn't find your family, not to mention losing your memories must have been a struggle. Still, I'm happy to have you working with us!" She smiled when she patted Nori on the back. "Just a tip but you don't need to be stiff to be professional. If you keep your posture relaxed while talking all fancy it helps your back and your confidence."

Nori hadn't even noticed he was tense until she said that. "Oh uh… thanks!"

"Hey It's my job. One of the reasons why Phyco sends all the new guys with me. That and the fact that I've walked this route so many times I'd notice if anything was off."

     They walked for a while longer after that. Nori noted (just as he was told) every rock and ancient building foundation. Each sample was one more weight added to his already sore legs until he eventually asked for a rest. Nori carefully went through his data and thanked his suit for being comfortable even if it was a little bulky. From the vantage point he was at there was still light emanating from Megalo Tower and for a moment Nori could imagine what a "Sunrise" might have looked like. Maybe there would be stars, tiny sparkles in the sky that would represent the people's dreams. Maybe there would be farms longer than buildings were tall. Maybe there would be "Trees", plants so big you could live in them. Just as Nori was about to write this down in his Personal Thoughts section of the notes he got interrupted by Osmund.

"We must have taken a wrong turn." She said, "I don't remember this place. Dalis, what's the distance to Megalo Tower?"

One of the members of the Defence Force, who must have been Dalis, looked down at an instrument with a confused look on his face. "That's strange, the number hasn't changed since I last checked it," He thought for a moment, "That must have been at least 20 turns ago. It's just… strange. I did a full diagnostic on it before we left, there should be no issue with it."

"Well nothing we can do about it now. Let's turn back before we get into any trouble… Nori, what's beeping?" Osmund asked.

Nori didn't notice anything though. It took him a bit to find what instrument was going off, his energy monitor. The small device was beeping like crazy, probably for so long that Nori had stopped noticing it. To put it simply, this was not good. "This is not good." Nori replied.

Dalis yelled, "Alright everyone get going. GO." Immediately everyone picked up the pace. Someone called the headquarters for a Lunala but it wouldn't arrive until well after the standard time simply because of how far out they went. Nori was so caught up in the group that for a little bit he didn't even notice that Osmund wasn't following them. 

"Osmund, come on!" Nori called out. She didn't move, just stared in the direction everyone was running.

"oh no. not good." Osmund murmured. "DON'T RUN THAT WAY" The entire group halted as Osmund finally ran to catch up with them. "TURN AROUND NOW!"

Nori was confused. Why wouldn't they head back? Why was it so bright all of a sudden? Nori's head hurt and he felt like he might fall over. Where had he felt this before? The world seemed to slow. Behind him the universe tore itself in two, and a monster entered the world. 

     Nori turned around In horror, his legs shaking as two hands emerged from the Wormhole, each larger than him. The hands forced the rift wider until the creature’s torso could fit through. Before Nori even had a chance to think, the Ultra Beast’s long needle of a mouth had focused its next target, him.

It was that moment that the Buzzwole came crashing down like a force of nature and everything went red. Somehow Nori wasn't dead. Somehow Nori was still conscious and as he lifted his hand to his head he felt something there aside from the blood. Don't panic, he thought, pleaded really, Osmund. Where is Osmund? 

     Nori crawled through the rubble spread by Buzzwole's entrance. He could see the destruction it had caused now,  people fell to its might, some fled but probably wouldn't get far. Finally, he saw Osmund. She was trapped beneath a rock that fell when she must have shoved Nori out of the way. He stumbled across the chaos until he fell next to her, both terrified and in pain. It was there that they waited for help. Osmund was nearly dead, barely breathing but still struggling to stay conscious even if it was only to warn Nori everytime the Beast returned to look for them. It felt like a long time before any help arrived.

     Sometime between rescue and being transported back to the city Nori must have fallen asleep, because the next thing he remembers is waking up to Phyco and Soliera looking down at him. He was told that the Buzzwole had been defeated and that everyone had survived, even if they did so with injuries. A large chunk of rock had to be removed from Nori’s head and it would leave a permanent scar just above his eye, but surprisingly he and Osmund sustained the most damage. Ms. Phoris (as Phyco had called her) would most likely not be able to go out on missions due to complications with her legs. Still, that certainly wouldn’t stop her from training others in the future. Nori would always be her favorite student though, enough that she even gave him her last name.

     While much has changed since this incident (mainly safety procedures) it’s content continues to affect those involved. Aside from the main physical injury Nori received, from this point forward he almost refused to get too close to any kind of Ultra Beast or pokemon. It also kickstarted Nori’s relationship with Osmund, one of the primary people who he considers his family, as he has none by blood. Like a few other of the accidents Nori continues to find himself in, it still bothers him a little, even if he won’t admit it.

[riddle-me-ri]

Hello!! :D Hope your day has gone well!!

What are your thoughts on various Mad Hatters? Which one is your current favorite??

(Also could you recommend a Jervis comic mayhaps?? Been wanting to try read Batman Rogue comics ^^)

💤

Asdfghh where how where how...where do I begin with the mad lads asdfghh I'll give a tiny explanation as to why I love the versions I write for, that's a decent place to start lol. So, sorry not sorry you've opened the floodgates lmao, because of that there's a read more tab, sorry if you weren't quite expecting this lengthy response.

Arkhamverse Jervis: Definitely one of my favorite voices for him by far (Roddy for BTAS/TNBA is still a huge favorite). Also, his voice tapes with Strange in City absolutely twist my heart every time (not to mention the end of his mission when you go back to see him. He only wanted a friend hng), I think they could've done a lot with him, his short mission in City left much to be desired. The Wonderland hallucination in Origins and the storybook from Knight where amazing. While the writing is a wee topsy turvy, I do adore how they showed progression to his unyielding mental state (via, rhyming, literally Batman or anyone being Alice, and any word associated with Wonderland must be a part of it in Knight). And in City hinted at just how unnerved Jervis can be about himself and how he feels when he's lucid. I definitely get inspired by a lot of his character beats and traumas for sure (in my writing btw lmao)

BTAS Jervis: Ahaha the golden mad lad, my first Hatter encounter! I've always been a fan of Alice in Wonderland when I was watching BTAS (wanting to know what the hype was about as an animation student) so when I saw an episode called Mad as a Hatter I was intrigued lmao. I had no idea Jervis even existed and what a super strong intro episode too. Again Roddy is probably my favorite voice for him. Just...it's so warm and pleasant to listen to. I also appreciate that they didn't make this Hatter a one-trick pony? Nowadays a lot of DC writers sorta stick to the kidnapping/murdering women thing but BTAS Jervis literally tried to stop Batman before Batman could even do anything, so he can get Batman out of the way, he stole from Gotham's elite so he can run away on an island of his own? Also probably one of the more mentally stable of the Hatters and definitely the most romantic.

TNBA Jervis: Aww Ratter, sweet mad lad. I love rodents so the fact that the fandom has dubbed this version ratter and for the right reasons makes me so incredibly giddy. He's supposed to technically be BTAS just a different design, and as jarring as the changes may be, I think it still works, and again we see different motivations of Jervis other than him finding an Alice.

Secret Six (2006) Jervis: Hehehehe definitely one of my favorite Jervi. I absolutely love this mad, brilliant, druggy, powerful, silly nudist. This version is a prime example of just how powerful Jervis can be and why he should be depicted more as a threat (I have a thought that most of the time, Jervis leans more into his whimsy/playful attributes as a way to catch enemies off-guard, that's not to say he isn't that way in general, but I can see him using it to his utmost advantage). Also just wanna point out that this version was written by a woman, Gail Simone, who has canonically pinned Jervis to having amazing rizz and not to mention fangirls/fanboys that wanna marry him (and has an incredible "head" game) and I will forever love her for that.

Joker's Asylum Jervis: Aww, ohh, dear sweet mad lad, gotta grab tissues for this guy. One of the stronger of the Mad Hatter-centric comics. This comic delves into Jervis' psyche which a lot of DC writers almost refuse to even look at or consider (like...guys, I can do it...if I can do it I KNOW you can too). This comic shows what the Arkham games hint at, and that's that Jervis has/feels REMORSE. Probably one of the few rogues that do, he genuinely can't help it. He wants to get better, he wants to not be a threat. He wants companionship but fails miserably every time and the cycle continues. When I read this comic, it wouldn't leave my head for days. It is definitely what inspired my fic Love and Suds because my story is somewhat of an "what if" scenario like what if he did have someone there when he was spiraling and trying to fight off the delusions and madness.

Gotham Jervis: asdfgjkjj it...it took some time for me to like this one lmao. I have grievances across the board with Gotham as a whole. What they did to Jervis is no exception to that, he's interesting that he's a pure hypnotist and how apparently there are rules to that. It's one of the first (if not the only time?) Jervis isn't a scientist, but purely a hypnotist (before becoming a hypnotist criminal, it happens). I won't go too deep into him, esp. if you haven't seen this version but yeah just...he has potential he really does, he's just another example of a Jervis done dirty (and not the fun way)

Harley Quinn The Animated Series Jervis: red-head jervis, red-head jervis, red-head jervis my beloved. I love Jervis with red hair almost as much as blonde (and that's just personal preference cause I'm blonde lmao) From an artist stand point, his design is just really, really appealing to me. The bright complimenting colors, the wild spiky hair, the teeth, and the coke fingernail was a neat added detail (a buddy for S6 for sure). He was so criminally underused I will never forgive the show for what they did (him and other rogues as well). He's also very giddy, fun, but also still demented and violent.

To say the least...I can't choose just one current solidary favorite, I have grown to love them all in various ways, from their design to their personalities and voices. But my top three will definitely have to be; BTAS, Arkhamverse, and Secret Six. Joker's Asylum is also a super super close fourth. When I write for my "general" Hatter, I usually borrow traits, traumas, and mannerisms from these four.

As for comics I would recommend, here's a couple Jervis-centric ones to get you started. Also be weary and make sure you have an ad-blocker just in case. You shouldn't have to know too much backstory from other comics to understand them.

Secret Six (2006) Issue #1

Joker's Asylum: Mad Hatter

Sorry this got so long lmao, but thank you for letting me infodump and fixate on the Mad Lads, I've been having a rough time lately, and this has definitely lifted my spirits thinking about these guys lol.