#but they're shitty at it so you can see the hard edges of the words they ripped out of a newspaper to make their collage

[violent138]

If any of the Batsiblings ever end up in serious medical trouble, to the point they've been forced onto bedrest or put into a medically-induced coma, their siblings will rotate in shifts (and require physical force to be removed sometimes) or hover at windowsills and talk at the patient and meddle so much that Leslie keeps having to smack their hands away from IV lines or wrestle back her stethoscope. But the second said sibling wakes up it converts spontaneously to around the clock taunting, shoulder punches that nearly send them and their crutches into the floor, silent help during PT, and someone coming by to coerce pain meds onto you with bedside manner so bad that you forget all about almost dying and start planning homicide.

[joeloverture]

snowbound | dbf!j.m. x f!reader

masterlist | updates blog | ao3 mirror pairing: dbf!joel miller x f!reader summary: [no outbreak] joel is the only guy you know with four wheel drive in the rarely-snowy state of texas, so it seems like a no-brainer to have him pick you up from work — until his truck breaks down, leaving you two to the classic 'huddle for warmth' solution. warnings: (18+ mdni) dbf!joel, age gap (assumed 20s/40s), reader borrows joel's coat, but does not wear it and uses it as a blanket, self-indulgent humor & banter, joel has sarah and she's a 15y/o menace which means liberties are taken with the timeline, blink & miss it drug mention, close proximity, unprotected piv sex, vaginal fingering, (mocking) dirty talk & dirty talk alluding to anal but no actual anal, daddy kink, degradation, dom!joel, brat!reader, brat tamer!joel, mild bondage (with a scarf), rearview mirror sex, clit stim, riding, doggy, a few pussy spanks, 2 spanks, truck sex, sort of edging, getting caught after the act [no use of y/n] word count: 12.3k a/n: this fic was a labor of love from a request i received earlier this month. i didn't expect it to be this long but i really enjoyed these two! massive massive massive shoutout to talia, @lovesickonmybed, for putting up with me + advising. this fic was way too much to handle on my own. they're the reason i pulled it off. joel is latino here, but i think game!joel can be interpreted as latino too, so read who you'd like.

“Looking ahead for our chances at wintry precipitation tonight – measurable snow, freezing rain, or sleet. It’s hard to get snow here in central Texas – if only, huh? We’re seeing some strong flurries tonight, turning into snow showers in the early morning. Low chances of any significant build up, but you can expect hazardous driving conditions. Black ice and low visibility will make extensive travel dangerous–”

The radio in Keith’s Hardware is old fashioned, curving around the volume and tuning knobs. It’s one of the ones that still has a dial pointer, which is almost always aimed at 92.7 if Keith’s in the back (country); 96.7 (pop) if it’s just you and the only other girl that works in the carpenter’s wet dream of a store. Right now, though, it’s neither of those stations. The pointer is at 162.4, the weather station.

You’d known you were in for it on the drive into work. Watch the weather and it’s real nasty out there airing from your parents lips on your way out of the house for your eight hour shift. The drive had been a gunmetal sort of gray, clouds streaked through the sky and spitting bullets of sleet at your windshield.

For a little bit, the weather had almost cleared up. You’d sworn you’d seen a splotch of sun when you’d tried to step out for break, just to be driven back in by your too-thin jacket and the cold as balls temperature.

Now, though? It’s fucking freezing, and the flurries that the weatherman mentioned are starting to fall. And as much as you’d told Keith that your shitty two-wheel-drive couldn’t handle it, he’d insisted on scheduling you and Liz for close.

Which is where Mr. Miller comes in.

Joel Miller, your dad’s buddy. Joel Miller, the grumpiest secret-softie you’ve ever met. Joel Miller, a knight in shining armor with his 4x4 Ford F150 instead of a horse. Although, if your fantasies are correct – and you like to think they are – what’s between his thighs certainly makes up for the lack of a horse. But he isn’t bringing you for a ride on his cock. He just so happens to be the only man your dad knows with a four wheel drive vehicle, or at least the only one willing to spare you from spinning out by giving you a ride home. Just thinking about it has a knot pinching in the back of your throat. His hands, big and wide and stretching over the gear shift. One muscled arm dangling over the wheel. Looking over his goddamn shoulder to back out —

Liz hops up on the check-out counter where you’re counting up the last of the cash, a spread of Hamiltons, Grants, and Jacksons. You wouldn’t expect a girl like her to work at a hardware store, especially one in the backstreets of the seedy part of town. Some sort of family emergency had driven her back to Austin from NYU design school, which you’re thankful for. Mainly because you get out of cutting wood panels since she has the better eye for measurements, but also because after years of sulking in Keith’s, you finally have someone to talk shit with.

“Those heart eyes aren’t for fuckin’ Alexander Hamilton,” Liz says, tapping her acrylics on your ledger to get your attention. You cough, flipping her off with your pen still in-hand. Liz hums, pretending to think about it as you put down the last numbers. “Although I wouldn’t be too surprised. You do love a geriatric man.”

“Joel isn’t that old,” you scoff, arranging the bills into slim white envelopes and then licking them shut. “He’s just an… acquired taste.”

“Sure, his jizz probably tastes like prohibition-era booze–”

“What the fuck,” you wheeze, hands going out to brace yourself on the closest display case. Your head dips as your chest shakes with laughter.

Liz stays completely straight-faced as she continues, “You’ll have to have 911 on speed dial because if you clench, his heart’s giving out.”

“It is not,” you say, voice still strained with the laughs that won’t stop punching out of you.

She puts her hands up in defense and crosses her legs at the ankles. “Hey, it’s not my fault you like playing whac-a-mole with Great Depression dick.”

“Liz!” You playfully shove her off of the counter, thrusting the envelopes into her hands. “You’re nasty. Fucking nasty.”

She splays a wounded hand over her heart, fanning herself with the envelopes. “You know you love me.” She slips into the office behind the register. You hear the click of the safe before she calls over her shoulder, “Any particular reason you’re fantasizing on the clock?”

“Not fantasizing,” you refute. Liz pops out of the back with a uncertain look scrawled on her face. “My dad talked him into picking me up today so I don’t drive into a snowbank.”

“Sounds like the beginning of a shitty porno.”

“Don’t give me hope.”

“I’m just saying,” she grins. “You can still come to mine. Only a five minute walk with zero chance of rejection.”

“You have such little faith in me.”

She purses her lips. “Mkay…. Pro-tip: Keith probably has some Viagra sitting around in his desk drawers.”

“Liiiiiiiz,” you say. You’re about to tune her out completely when familiar headlights light up the wet asphalt, beaming through the windows. The engine idles, a soft rumble through the linoleum floors. The truck lights dim, leaving Joel in the buttery shine of the streetlamp. His thick arms stretch across the wheel, and he rakes one large hand through his hair. “Shit, speak of the Devil.” You clip off your nametag, tossing it into your half-open bag. “Can you finish closing tonight? I promise I’ll make it up to you.”

“No problem, no favors necessary.” She closes the register. You fumble to get your bag over your shoulder, not wanting to keep Joel waiting. “Use protection!” she calls after you, and you make sure to flip her off one more time as the door clangs shut behind you.

A wall of cold hits you like a blade of lightning. Wind unfurls, mauling telephone lines and frosted treetops, rippling your jacket. Not even the worn scarf around your neck seems to be doing its job. Suddenly, every one of your limbs feels like an icicle. Joints almost freezing up, you half-jog, half-penguin strut your way to Joel’s passenger side. You wipe the ice off of the door handle with your sleeve. A few stray flurries dust you as you tug the door open, exhaling in relief as you haul yourself onto the side steps and into the toasty warmth of the Ford F150.

You cozy up in the seat, too preoccupied by thawing your hands with long, winded breaths to notice the affronted look Joel is throwing your way. “Are you tryin’ to catch your fuckin’ death, girl?”

“No death to catch. It’s not that cold.” The way you’re shivering says otherwise. Joel pins you with the raise of his brow.

Before you know what he’s doing, he’s groaning as he reaches over the center console into the backseat. You see a flash of his trucker jacket before it lands in your lap, flannel-lined and heavy. You use it like a blanket, draping it across your torso and wrestling your hands into the inside pockets. The canvas smells like car exhaust and off-brand Dollar General deodorant, two things that are so inextricably Joel. As much as you hate to admit it, the warmth is already inking its way across your skin – or maybe it’s just being next to Joel that’s heating you up. “Thanks,” you grumble.

When you adjust in your seat, the inside of your foot catches an empty Dr. Pepper can on the floor. It rattles when you accidentally kick it forward. You lean down and pick it up, going to place it down in the cupholder, only to find it overpopulated with random Home Depot and Whataburger receipts.

“Tax deductions,” he shrugs. “Gotta eat on the job.”

“And a…” You pick up the receipt and squint at the faded typography. “$3.29 strawberry milkshake is part of that, I figure?”

Joel grunts, “Tommy’s order.”

You smirk. “Sure it is.”

“Quit shit stirrin’ and put on your fuckin’ seatbelt.”

You reach back, fingers snagging it and tugging it down. Groping for the belt between the seats and the center console, it goes on for at least five seconds too long before Joel grabs the buckle and shoves it into the slot. His fingers brush your thigh as he pulls away from you and settles his foot over the gas pedal. The singular touch shouldn’t make butterflies beat at the walls of your stomach, but it does. Everything about him does.

Now that you’re all settled in, everything about him is also settling in. The fact that he’s only wearing a tight-fitting white t-shirt now that his coat is off. His sleeves are constricting enough that his muscles bulge below the strip of fabric. Ample scruff dapples his jawline, and his hair is disheveled in the way that you’ve learned you like it. You trail your eyes down his body, his tummy, across the undone drawstrings of his dark gray sweatpants, and no, you move on quickly from there, because you refuse to get riled up in the passenger seat.

He’s slowly peeling out of Keith’s parking lot, arm thrown over the back of your seat. You’re starting to fail at your mission of not getting riled up when you see the flex of his bicep, the way his eyes meet yours as he turns to look through the back window. He turns out of the parking lot and onto the relatively barren, icy streets–

“What the hell are those?”

Joel side-eyes you, brows furrowed. He follows the line of your gaze to his feet, which you’re used to seeing in New Balances or steel-toed work boots, but are instead wearing… fur-lined crocs.

“These here? Yeah, got ‘em recently, good for my days off with all this nippy weather. Sarah told me they’re ‘all the rage’ with the youth–”

You can’t help it. You damn near double over with laughter, clutching at your stomach. Joel’s coat nearly slides off of you, but you hang onto it with your pinkie finger, quickly going dizzy from lack of air. “‘All the rage’? Oh my fucking God– Joel, she was pulling your leg. Those are fucking hideous.”

“Hey, now–” He sighs, pinching his nose bridge with the hand that isn’t dangling over the wheel. “Zip it, I don’t needa justify my shoe choices to ya.”

“Does she do anything other than give you shit these days?”

“You’re one to talk about givin’ shit, y’know,” Joel says. Unfailingly, he smiles. The smile that pulls at the edges of his lips. The smile that he only ever gets when talking about Sarah. It doesn’t matter where – loading up his plate with barbecue, your dad asking him while he’s picking up junk mail in the morning, or on the job. If someone asks him about his daughter, Joel fucking beams.

He sucks on his teeth for a second, and then, “She’s picked up soccer. Goalkeeper. Damn good at it, too, all them other kids on her team can’t match her collapse dive.”

“Of course they can’t,” you say. “She’s got better reflexes than a house fly.”

Joel hunches over the wheel, effectively ending the conversation as he concentrates on the road. The only noise is the rumbling engine and the wagging of the windshield wipers as he attempts to navigate the black ice polka-dotted roads. It shouldn’t be as arousing as it is, seeing him in such a state of focus, his thighs tensed as he manipulates the gas and brakes to stop early, start slow. His arms thickening when he makes a right turn. Thumbs drumming drumming drumming on the wheel and maybe they’d do the same between your legs—

“So how’s work?” you blurt out.

Joel mumbles something that you can’t quite make out.

“Huh?”

“Fuckin’ ‘big shot’ gringos up my ass all day. Goddamn shitshow.” He shakes his head, his lips thinned. “I tell ‘em terraforming is gonna make it look like a Flinstone-owned-and-operated putt-putt course. They say do it anyway. I tell ‘em that orderin’ custom windows is gonna put us months behind. They say do it anyway, then come up jibber-jabberin’ all ‘bout how long it’s takin’. And it’s fuckin’... window madness, not one window in that hellhole matches another. Ain’t had so much trouble buildin’ a house since Sarah had me build her one from Hobby Lobby when she was little. Their architect musta been doin’ lines.”

You think you’ve seen Sarah’s dollhouse before when visiting, just in passing when the guest bedroom door was left open a smidge. You remember stalling in the hallway to look at it, with a fleece of dust growing on the tediously placed shingles and the oakwood front door left open like it’d been waiting for someone to come home. But Sarah outgrew it, and although Joel would never admit it, you know he’s too sentimental to leave it on the curb.

“How bad can building a dollhouse from a kit be?”

“With a five year old yellin’ like a drill sergeant in your ear? Worse than you think. She even made me rig the damn thing with electric so she could have her pink chandelier.”

You pout at him, “Wah wah, I’ll bet you loved it.”

“Was a nuisance at the time. But, uh, she was fiddlin’ with some ‘a the dolls I’d gotten her. Don’t think she knew I was watchin’, had gone to put ‘er to bed ‘cause it was a school night. She was readin’ this book I always read to her. Something about… a stuffed bear with a missin’ button and a girl that was tryna to buy him. I don’t fuckin’ know–” “Corduroy?”

“Yeah, that. Anyway, she was reading, usin’ the same tone I always used with her, tucked her dolls in for the night, and switched off the lights. I don’t think I loved it until then.” There’s a glistening in his eyes at the memory.

You smirk, “Sentimental bastard–”

The truck slides. Or maybe it coasts, skimming across the thin film of black ice. Joel eases down on the brakes, hauling to a stop next to a Minivan with its warning lights on. It’s a long stretch, and you can’t even see all the way down the highway with how thick the snow is. No two snowflakes are the same, but you find it difficult to believe when you’re looking at what must be millions of them. They pirouette, landing on window panes, rooftops, and wind-agonized tree branches. Everything is blotted with white. Red warning lights glare on the ice back at you.

“Shiiit,” Joel says as he squints at the road ahead of him. He scratches at his scruff.

“Tell me you’re not going to drive through that shit.”

“I’m not,” he says.

“Then how the fuck are we getting home?”

“Chill it–” “That’s the last thing I need to do,” you huff.

“I’m takin’ the detour.”

With that, he jerks the wheel — a bit too recklessly considering the weather, in your opinion – and pulls off onto a slippery backroad. The snow seems to have clung to the trees more back here, a sort of incandescent saran wrap over the oaks. At a bend in the road, icicles hang from a yellow sign that says CURVE 30 MPH. Joel takes it at ten.

You’re not checking out his hands while he drives, no, of course not. You’re looking at the gazillion lights on his dashboard display. “You usually have that many lights on?”

“Ain’t your truck, ain’t your business.”

“I’m ridin’ in it, ain’t I?” you mock his accent. 

Joel sighs heavily. “Drivin’ me up the fuckin’ wall.” His hands clench briefly around the wheel. “Auto repair shop’s been price gouging, I’m tryin’ to get Tommy to hook me up with his buddy in San Anton–”

“Won’t be able to drive to San Antonio if your bumper falls off halfway there.”

Joel’s voice is dry as bone. “Ha ha. You get off on bein’ a smartass?”

It’s three words – that’s all it is. Just a throwaway phrase that he probably doesn’t even realize he said. If it were anything more, you’d know. But Joel, saying those words in that order? Damn him, because it turns your blood effervescent. You stop yourself from rubbing your thighs together underneath his coat. You’re about to make another quip that’ll not only distract you, but also surely drive Joel up the wall, one of your favorite activities.

His truck putters from ten miles per hour to eight.

Eight to six.

Six to four.

“Motherfuckin’.... shit,” Joel says again, this time much more urgent as he wrests the wheel to the side. The truck skims over the frosted roads and onto the shoulder, rolls for two seconds, and then falls to a complete, utter stop. The windshield wipers pause while they’re still up. Heat no longer spits out of the dusty air vents.

It’s the loudest silence you’ve ever been in.

“...So do you get off on letting your truck break down or–”

Joel sighs in the way that dogs do. “Thin ice, missy.” He unbuckles his seatbelt and pulls out his phone. “I’ll give Tommy a call.” He stares at the screen for ten seconds. Taps it. Shakes it.

“No service?” you ask.

“No service.”

“Let me try mine,” you mumble, shifting in the car seat. Sure enough, zero bars. Even though you know it won’t work, you press your dad’s contact. It goes straight to voicemail. “Well, shit.”

“Shit,” Joel echoes.

It’s unspoken, but you both know the harsh reality of this harsh wintry night: no phone service, no operational truck, and… no heater.

“Hang tight,” Joel says, reaching over the center console and hijacking his coat from your lap. He wrestles his arms through the sleeves and zips it up. He shoves the door open against the hoarse wind that keeps the trees at a slant, hops out, then slams it shut hard enough for the vehicle to rock. From how hard the wind was blowing, stray flurries dust the truck’s interior.

You can’t really see what he’s doing – the snow’s too heavy, the hood popped wide open for him to investigate the truck’s viscera. You run your hands up and down your thighs, already feeling cold. Without the heater, it won’t be much longer before you turn to an icicle in the passenger seat. The hood bangs back down.

Joel climbs in from the backseat, slams the door as hard as humanly possible, and then scoots to the middle seat. 

You crane your neck to see him as he shakes out his cold-reddened hands before puffing air into his cupped palms. “What’s wrong with it?” You ask. 

He lets out a frigid breath. “Don’t fuckin’ know, snowin’ too damn hard to tell.”

“Ten bucks it was one of the lights on your dash,” you say.

Joel glares at you, still huffing into his hands. His fingertips are bright red to match his ruddy cheeks. Snow is sprinkled through his hair like soot, quickly melting to beads of water on his windblown curls.

“Got some… hand warmers up in that glovebox. Grab the whole pack.”

You lean forward, kneeing it open and rifling through all of his shit. Insurance papers, more receipts, Miller Contracting business cards, a folded pocket knife, lens wipes, and –

“When’s the last time these saw daylight?” you huff out a laugh as you hold up a battered box of condoms. 

Turns out, snow isn’t the thing that makes Joel Miller redder than a tomato. It’s the fifteen year old, very expired condoms hiding in his glovebox.

He clears his throat and averts his eyes. “Jesus. Forgot those were in there.”

You shake the box around and pluck a condom out of it. Looking for the expiration date, you turn it over and over in your hand. “August 31st, 2004. Really that long since you got some, Miller?”

“Put ‘em back,” he grumbles. “Pain in my ass.”

You snicker, replacing the condom box with the box of hand warmers. They’re unopened, still sealed. You snatch Joel’s keys out of the ignition and swipe them across the tape. “Happy?” you toss them over your shoulder.

“No.” He tears open the pack and rubs his hands together around the warmer, sighing when it begins to heat.

“Dick,” you grumble.

More tearing. “Brat.” Another warmer lands in your lap.

“Oughta get comfortable. We’re gonna be here a while,” Joel says.

“And whose fault is that?” You ask as you weigh the warmer in your palms. The front seat already feels cramped, and you’re quick to unbuckle your seatbelt. Your legs and arms fold like pretzels as you climb into the backseat. The curse that leaves you when you hit your head on the roof has Joel rolling his eyes.

“Pipe down. First thing in the mornin’ I’ll make the walk out to that country club a mile out and use their phone. Just gotta ride out the night. You ain’t ever roughed it before?”

You fall on all fours on the backseat, finally pulling yourself upright next to him. “Never had a reason to. Like, what if I have to piss? What if I get hungry?”

Joel shrugs. “Tough.”

The cold is starting to settle into your bones. Even your tongue feels popsicle numb, and your fingers are stiff where they wrap around the warmer. It’s like you’ve been trapped in a snowglobe and shaken up by a handsy toddler with how the wind rattles the truck and the snow swishes outside. You suppress a shiver, leaning against the door. Condensation is already building on the windows. Absent-mindedly, you begin to trace a portrait of Joel in the moisture. Your fingertip squeaks against the glass. Your masterpiece wouldn’t be complete without his signature scowl, so you’re sure to paint a frown on his face and his forehead wrinkles on thick.

“Didn’t know you were an artist,” Joel comments from the opposite side of the back. “Looks nothin’ like me, by the way.”

You smirk, “But you knew it was you.”

Because there’s nothing better to do than burn time, you spend the next ten minutes filling up the window with whatever nonsense doodles come to mind — hearts, stars, trees, and of course, the only one that Joel seems to be fond of: Sarah, smiling and curly-haired.

Reality only settles in when you’re done with the ephemeral illustrations, their outlines starting to dissolve back to regular droplets that streak down the windows. You’re stuck, for God knows how long, on this shady backroad that the Zodiac Killer would’ve loved during his heyday. With your dad’s best friend that you’ve been harboring a dangerous crush on.

And it’d be impossible to forget that it’s freezing fucking balls.

“Joel?” you say into the dark truck.

“Hm?”

Always one to speak your mind, you say, “It’s freezing fucking balls.”

A sound that might be a laugh leaves him. “Here,” Joel says, unzipping his jacket. He tosses it over to you, and you snuggle back up with it, nose burrowing into one of the creases in the fabric. His coat smells like him – like cheap body wash, chewing gum, and gasoline. 

You try putting your hands in the pockets, even going as far as to open up a new hand warmer for each one, but they’re full of loose change and, expectedly, more receipts. When you curl up against the corner between the door and the seat, the hard plastic bites into your oversensitive back. Sitting upright or cross-legged doesn’t work, and when you test drive sitting diagonally with your feet propped up on the console, Joel makes a disproving noise and swats gently at your shin. You prop your forehead up against the window, but it’s cold enough to give you a brain freeze. 

“Jesus Christ,” Joel snorts. “Get over ‘ere, you wuss.” He hauls you over, big hand splayed over your waist, and drags you across the bench to his side. You yelp in surprise, but only for a second before you’re crushed against Joel’s side. “Can’t have ya gettin’ hypothermia,” he jests.

You don’t know where to put your hands, but eventually, you settle on cupping his neck. Touching Joel, hell, even just being near him, is like being by an open furnace. Or maybe the heat is just your stomach doing somersaults at being this close to Joel after years of frivolous pining. His nape emanates warmth, the kind that flows down your arms and wraps comfortingly around your chest.

Joel exhales, the tendrils of his breath curling from the frigidity. He grabs his coat from the side and flattens it over the both of you, a piss poor replacement for a blanket, but all you’ve got.

Still, cold seeps in through the cracks in the doors, spoiling whatever lukewarm air remains. It doesn’t help that Joel had hopped in and out of the truck to play eye spy under the hood. The truck struggles to hold onto heat properly, especially when it isn’t producing more of it.

Joel sort of… flickers against your back. You think nothing of it until it happens again, this time in short bursts, and then turns into full on shivering.

“Who’s the wuss now, old man?”

Joel tenses up behind you. “Funny,” he says. With your hands cushioned against his neck, you feel the grate of his voice in his throat. “This is the best you’re gonna get unless you wanna be butt ass naked to share heat.”

It should be a joke. But the way he says it… doesn’t sound like a joke.

You go still, lifeless, not even sure if you’re shaking anymore. Because now, the only thought in your head is being pressed against Joel, his soft cock hardening against you, his palms splayed and rubbing over your stomach to keep you warm. And if his cock needed to get somewhere warmer, too…. Your clit twitches at the thought.

You smother the initial shock in your voice with your usual solution: sass. “So what, we’re gonna fuckin’ huddle for warmth?”

As much as you enjoy the idea, you're already dripping — and that’s just from your body being pressed against his, breathing the same air as him, closer now than you’ve ever been before. With no panties in the way, it’s not a stretch to say you’d be dripping down his thighs. You’d hate to have that conversation.

“Would you rather freeze to death?” Joel asks. You look up at him from where you’re curled into his side and find no gleam in his eyes. This isn’t just some knee-slapper for him. Joel Miller is being completely, irreversibly serious.

“I’d rather something less like Naked and Afraid, Joel!”

“It works,” he says, nose flaring. “They do it in those fuckin’... action movies all ‘a the time.”

“I didn’t know Hollywood was writing survival manuals for pervs–”

“God, you’re a piece ‘a work, ya know that?” His eyes flick down to you, and maybe it’s just the fact that this road is damn near pitch black, but his pupils seem larger than before. “Listen, I ain’t tryna perv on ya. I also ain’t tryna send you back to your old man with four fingers missin’ from frostbite.”

There’s no way you’re actually seriously considering this. You’ve heard of cold temperatures impairing thinking, but not like this. Your dad’ll go chasing after Joel with a pitchfork and a shovel if he finds out the man who was supposed to get you home safe and sound was cuddling naked with you. Cuddling naked with you in the backseat, no less. You’re certain Joel won’t try anything – he’s not like that. No matter how flustered you get in his lap, he’d never take advantage of you. What you aren’t certain of is your ability to stop yourself from asking him t0 take advantage of you.

This is practical. It’s only supposed to be practical. He wouldn’t be suggesting something this drastic if you both weren’t shaking like a rattlesnake’s rattler.

“Fine,” you say, already unwinding your scarf from around your neck. Determined to keep some semblance of boundaries up, you add, “No peeping, Miller.”

Joel makes an exasperated sound as you once again scoot out from his coat and across the bench, working yourself out of your shoes, your cotton zip-up, and then the stiff Keith’s uniform – a blue polo and jeans. Joel’s eyes are respectfully trained on the truck’s floor mats, which you’re only just now noticing has a sun-bleached Lisa Frank sticker tacked onto it. 

Down to your bra and panties, your heart rate picks up. Your fingers are so fucking cold that it’s hard to get your bra straps out of the way so you can unclasp the damned thing, and then it falls to the floor. Your nipples harden in the face of the cold. The only thing you keep is your scarf, which do you do your best to cover your tits with. Scooping up your discarded clothes and tossing them to the front seat, you let out a shaky breath.

Fuck it.

You shimmy out of your panties and get rid of them just as quickly. When you try telling Joel you’re decent, or rather indecent, nothing comes out. Instead, you have to clear your throat with a strained,  “All good.”

“Alright,” Joel says, rustling around. You hear his crocs scrape against the mat, and then his shirt swishing over his head.

He doesn’t tell you to look away, but since it’s implied, you look out of the window. The snowy trees tremble in the wind, and you almost wince when you see a small sliver of his tanned skin reflected in the glass. His crocs clunk on the ground when he kicks them off, and you watch his criminally tight t-shirt go flying over the passenger seat. You casually grip the Jesus handle, hoping that Joel doesn’t notice your fist tightening around it when you hear him untying the drawstrings of his sweatpants. When his sweats and boxers follow the path of his shirt, breathing gets a lot harder than you remember it being.

Just an hour ago, you’d been certain that this would be nothing more than a ten minute drive. Maybe, if you were lucky, he’d call you a casual pet name that would fuel the wriggling of your hand between your thighs that night. 

The tension in the air is thicker than molasses. Each breath you take is fragile.

“I’m ready when you are,” Joel says.

Since you’re already half-naked, and since chickening out is out of the question, you inch over to Joel’s side. The air tumbles out of your lungs in one fell swoop when your bicep meets his. With some fidgeting, you bring your legs up at an angle beneath you, wrapping around his side in a way that has you feeling a little bit like a koala. You talk yourself into keeping your eyes forward and then scrub your palms across your freezing arms.

Joel, more indifferent than you think anyone else in this situation could be, abruptly casts his coat back over the both of you.

And, fuck him, he’d been right. The engulfing canvas of his coat keeps warmth trapped where it can be passed easily between the two of you. Or maybe it’s just being confined and skin-to-skin with Joel that has you heating up.

The silence is cruel – it’s much harder to make conversation about work or dollhouses or whatever the hell else when you’re naked. Only the wind’s sibilance keeps you company.

You can get used to this, you think. Drift off into a somewhat sound sleep with your head on Joel’s shoulder and hope that you don’t drool all over him or moan his name in your sleep. More embarrassing things have happened to you.

But then, as if you’re the unluckiest person alive, the temperature drops even more, and suddenly, you’re shaking like a leaf all over again. Your teeth almost clack together as you try to stammer out to Joel, “C–cold, Jesus fucking… Christ that’s cold.”

Joel pouts down at you, but you don’t miss the way his lip quivers. “Should I call the wambulance?”

“Should I call the r–r–r–retirement home to pi…pick up a ru–runaway resident?” It sounded a lot better in your head than bouncing off of your frozen tongue, you have to admit.

“Drama queen,” Joel mutters into your ear. “Can’t do anythin’ more about it. Sorry–”

“Can I sit on your lap?” you blurt out so quickly that you don’t even have time to think about it. You grimace, partially covering your face with your hands. Shit.

Joel’s eyes widen. “Excuse me?”

You’re already half doomed. Why not go all the way? “Listen, it’s just fucking… fucking freezing, Joel. Holy shit.”

“That bad?” he chokes out.

“You’d be warmer than the seats,” you defend. “I’ll be careful, I promise. Best behavior.”

Joel seems to ponder it for a moment, brows stitched together while he looks down at you from where you’re furled up against his side. He gnaws on the inside of his cheek before giving you a slight nod. “Alright.” You nod in return, heart in your throat. “–But you better mean it when you say best behavior. Can’t have any ‘a this shit gettin’ back to your dad.”

Another nod. You hold your breath as you shinny your way onto Joel’s lap, mounting him from the front so his chest hits your back. In your attempt to get comfortable, you bracket your legs around his. His soft cock fits at the small of your back, and even though he’s as flaccid as can be, he’s big. Apparently your imagination isn’t too far off. Joel’s sharp intake of breath forms a pit in your stomach, and you know when you’re warming up for an entirely different reason than close proximity, you also know that you need to calm yourself down. Fast.

Think of something awful. Like that time that you had to dissect cow eyes in sophomore year biology. Think about mold. How many murderers you’ll walk by in your lifetime. Expired leftovers. Anything–

You adjust yourself in an attempt to get away from Joel’s cock. Instead, your hips move just so his cock slips between your thighs and bobs against your slit.

You whine.

Your body immediately locks up once you realize what you’ve done. Crawling out of the truck to die a hypothermia-induced death seems like a much kinder fate than facing Joel, but no matter how much you scream at yourself to reach out and unlock the door, your hands refuse to move. You hadn’t noticed how wet you’d gotten, and you have no idea how. It’s smeared across your thighs, and now pressed up against your back after Joel’s dick had dragged through it all.

Shit shit shit shit shit shit shit–

Chancing a look over your shoulder, you’re surprised to find the tips of Joel’s ears flushed, cheeks cherry ripe. His Adam’s apple bobs when you meet his eyes. Holy fuck.

You’ve flustered him.

For some reason, the thought makes your chest a lot lighter. You look away nonetheless, but this time, with a newfound gleam in your eye. There’s no such thing as a bad accident, right?

Maybe Liz was right about having to call 911, because when you ‘accidentally’ repeat the movement, Joel stops breathing all together. His cock, almost hard now, you’ve noticed, bumps against your clit. You almost swallow your tongue trying to keep your moan down.

“The fuck you think you’re doin’?” he asks, his gruff voice scratching at your ears.

“I didn’t mean to,” you lie straight through your teeth, a smug little grin spreading on your face. Something about his semi-hard cock between your bodies tells you he’s going to say no to your next suggestion. “Maybe you should put the coat between us, instea–”

“Are you outta your fuckin’ mind, girl?” Joel’s voice comes out raspy. He shakes his head, clears his throat. The vibrations rumble up your spine. “And take away the whole point of stayin’ warm? Now quit it. Ain’t that hard to sit still.”

You try your hand at listening – for all of two seconds.

You hike your hips up, fumbling with his coat as you slot his cock against your slit once more, pushing yourself forward. The coat slides right off of you, falling in a dark lump on the floor. Neither of you care — you’re both too heated for the lack of cover to make a damn difference. Joel hisses, a sound like water hitting an open flame. His hands fly down to your waist, anchoring you to his lap. A surprised noise squeaks out of you.

“What, you got rocks rattlin’ around in your brain?” Joel scowls. “You’re real impolite for a cocktease, sweetheart.”

Butterflies flap around in your stomach from his words. It’s enough to make your head tip against his chest so you can look up at him, lips shaped in a perfect pout. “I’m not,” you say.

“Not a cocktease, huh? Not even when you’re rubbin’ all over my lap?”

You gasp as your hands fly down to cover Joel’s, nails etching into where his fingers meet your bare skin. You tug at his wrist, trying desperately to guide him where you so desperately need him.

“Not happenin’,” Joel grunts, yanking your hands behind you and pinning them to your waist like you’re nothing more than a poseable doll. His large, work-worn hands make yours look damn near miniature as he holds you down. The sudden roughness douses your inner thighs with a new wave of wetness. “Jesus, girl. Poor thing, gettin’ all hot and bothered. Don’t blame ya for tryna get me to help out. Can feel ya dripping down my legs, gushin’ like a sprinkler.”

“S–sorry, fuck, ‘m sorry,” you whisper, words sticky with your arousal. Your clit twitches from his words, embarrassment and need doing all the work to keep you warm.

“Nahhh,” he says. “I don’t think you are, baby.” Maybe it’s the condescension he’s purring in your ear, maybe it’s the pet name; most likely, it’s a combination of both that has you convulsing in his lap. It’s like he’s found all of the right buttons to press to get you riled up, getting you back for all of your snide comments earlier. 

His fingers find the fabric of your scarf, luring it off of your neck so he can cord it around your wrists. You squirm when you realize what he’s doing, and a breathless huff of his laughter brushes your cheek. “I’ll be damned if you ain’t gonna be, though.” He draws it tight, tight enough for you to feel your pulses bumping into each other. Joel leaves a fair amount of your unreasonably long scarf loose.

“Joel, what the fuck are you up to?”

“Teachin’ you some sweet southern belle etiquette, darlin’. Such a goddamn troublemaker, grindin’ on me like I’m some kinda… frat boy.” He shakes his head, disbelieving. “Pullin’ that shit with your pops’ friend. Real fuckin’ classy.”

“Like you’re so different. Who’s the one that’s tying me up? Huh, Mil–”

You hear the hit well before you feel it, a firm whack to your cunt that makes your vision blacken and electricity scurrying up your spine. It takes you a second to come back to yourself before a ragged cry pulls its way out of your lips. You jolt in his lap, bound arms bobbing in front of you as your body instinctively lurches for control. You damn near kick your feet, accidentally ricocheting yourself into Joel’s chest. His forearms hold you there. 

“Guess I’ll make it crystal clear for ya, baby, since that dumb lil’ head ‘a yours is havin’ some trouble. My truck, my rules. You’re ridin’ in it, ain’t you?” You nod reluctantly as he turns your words from earlier in his favor. “That was a warnin’, you showoff. Think you can bat your slutty ‘fuck me’ eyes an’ get away with murder.” He fucking tsks at you.

He pulls his hand away from your pussy, and you’re both surprised and not surprised at all to see it covered in your arousal, webbed between his calloused fingers. 

“Got a whole goddamn slip ‘n slide down here…” murmurs Joel. You whine, bucking your hips against him. “Oughta just…” he starts, nudging his cock towards your hole. The noise you make is pathetic. “Stop ya from ruinin’ my seats. Cork you right up.” You tense up, fully expecting the intrusion, but his dick passes your cunt right up, instead sliding up to meet your clit. It taps against your swollen nub, and if his goal was to stop you from ruining his seats, you’re certain he’s already failed with how quickly you gush all over the upholstery.

“But that’d be real nice, wouldn’t it? Givin’ ya what ya want so early on…” Instead of pulling away like you expect, Joel griiiinds the head of his cock against your clit. You moan helplessly, head falling back across his shoulder.

And then he does it again.

And again.

And agai–

“Joooooel,” you whine, knees jerking each time his tip meets your most sensitive spot. Heat spins in your stomach.

He backs his hips up “What? Thought you loved this with how much you were gettin’ at it earlier.”

You shake your head rapidly in the negative, chest rising and falling at a breakneck pace while he teases you.

“So you can deal, but you can’t play?”

“I think you’re just taking your sweet old time getting it up, old man,” you grit out, knowing damn well he’s stiffer than titanium behind you.

Joel hums. “Ah, she’s got jokes.” His cock slips back, quickly replaced by his hand engulfing your mound. Your clit twitches ever so slightly against his palm lines, and you’re almost convinced you could get off from that alone. His palm cracks against your cunt again, somehow even harder than the first time. You cry out, eyes burning from arousal and the slightest edge of pain.

With his thumbpad, he taps your clit like he’s just scrolling through the cable guide with a remote. Fleeting movements that have you wanting more more more. It heals the sting of his slap even if the echo of the hit still simmers in your stomach. Your cunt throbs so hard that it hurts, jumping up to meet Joel’s scarce ministrations.

When he retracts his hand, your hips chase the movement. “See this?” he taunts, fluttering his wet fingers in front of your face. You make a choked noise when his drenched middle finger breaches your lips. He doesn’t even need to tell you; you latch on and suck yourself off of his calloused skin. You’re mostly salty, but a little sweet, and tasting yourself on your own tongue by his insistence manages to make you even wetter.

Joel takes his spare fingers, just as soaked, and smears them all around your chin and lower cheeks. He presses down on your tongue as he does. You gag from the pressure, and you can’t hear his laugh over the roaring of your blood in your ears, but you feel it rattle his chest where it meets your spine. Your slick cools quickly against your burning skin, syrupy as it clings to your face. “Need a bib, baby?”

He pulls his finger from your mouth with a pop and your scarf-wrapped hands spring to wipe yourself from your lips, hoping to save yourself from the humiliation of having your own pussy juice anointing your face. You only scoop up a little before Joel lowers his forearm over yours, but for once, you’re faster than him. You swipe your wet hand over his mouth, smudging as much as you can along the scruff surrounding his mouth.

He wraps a burly hand in the scarf and yanks your hands back into place. All you can do in response is giggle, but the breath is swiftly knocked out of you when he drives his cock right into your clit. “Think you’re funny, don’t ya?” He asks, and finally grunts as he rolls his hip into you. A break in his resolve, a sign that he wants this, or at least the discipline of this, as badly as you do.

You almost weep from the pressure, that rope of pleasure in your stomach that he keeps knotting tighter and tighter and tighter with each stroke of his cock, his fingers. “Joel!” you cry out as he follows it up with another firm swat to your clit. His cock spreads your folds as he softens the bashing, nuzzling his tip against your spasming cunt.

“Really, oughta give standup a go one ‘a these days. Be a real hotshot.”

“Oh yeah?” you pant, light headed and woozy.

“Mhm. If the whole crowd’s drunk.” His cock nudges your nub with a new vigor.

“Assh–”

Right as you’re about to press down and follow the sensation, Joel senses it. His cock gives way through your cheeks, just in time for him to land a ruthless slap across your pussy. It’s harder than the others – makes your ears ring for a second, gives you a sort of visual snow that has you doubling over and gripping at the closest object for purchase, which just so happens to be the metal rods coming out of the headrest. 

“Ain’t what you should be sayin’ if you’re plannin’ on gettin’ what you want, sugar,” Joel tuts. He shakes his head at you. “Don’t wanna hear no lip from ya, girl.”

You open your mouth, argument on the tip of your drool-loaded tongue, but your halfhearted attempt at defiance doesn’t last long. Joel’s hand clamps around your chin, denting your skin into your teeth. He jerks your head to face him, knocking you down a peg with scathing eye contact. “You’re pushin’ it.” He loosens his grip.

“As if, Miller. If those pre-Cold War condoms are anything to go by, you’ve been dying for a chance to get your dick wet. Doesn’t matter how much lip I give you, you aren’t gonna blue ball yourself for much longer.” Satisfied, you raise your brows at him.

Turns out, he is going to blue ball himself for much longer, because he lands six slaps in rapid succession across your sopping cunt. The skin smarts, and you cry out. Your grip tightens around the headrest rod to the point of strangling it. Your eyes water, and you can’t tell if you’re crying. Too consumed by Joel, everything has melted into him – the smell of sawdust perpetually sewn into his skin, his cock sealed against your body.

“How many times are ya gonna poke the bear before you learn your lesson, you cheeky little shit?” Joel’s palm cups the inside of your right thigh, just above the knee. He traces circles with his thumb, and heat trails after him with everywhere he touches. “See, the thing about havin’ ‘pre-Cold War condoms’ is that I’ve had a helluva lot more time to learn self control than you. Can wait as loooooong as it takes for you to get your head on right. Don’t matter if you’re waterfallin’ down my seats or not, pretty girl. I’m giving you exactly what ya deserve.”

You whimper, trying (and failing) to get your magma hot core closer to Joel’s unfairly large hand, still splayed out on your inner thigh. You can’t stop how you squirm in his lap, smearing your arousal everywhere with each movement you make.

At a snail’s pace, his hand begins to inch up your leg. Joel pauses to grope at you as his hand travels upward. Handfuls of your skin, rubbing at your scalding hot thighs. Your patience is wearing thin by the time he gets midway there. You need him to touch you. And that’s just the tip of this impossibly destructive iceberg.

You shouldn’t be doing this, shouldn’t have let him go down this shitty backroad, shouldn’t have agreed to your dad’s ridiculous idea of Joel picking you up, shouldn’t have asked to be naked on his lap, shouldn’t have gotten naked on his lap, shouldn’t be leaking like a twenty-year-old pipe in a building he’d been hired to renovate. If your dad ever finds out–

“Joel, please, please – plea…” you trail off, dissolving into incoherent whimpers as his hand hovers over your cunt. You’re running hotter than a radiator now, and if you both wanted to be warm, then you’ve got your wish. Although mostly gibberish, Joel has to understand what you want from him. It’s just that the bastard is unwilling to provide.

Joel reaches down to pinch your clit, and your body can’t even discern from pleasure and pain anymore. You react the same to it all, back arching as you try desperately to plant yourself on his cock. “Shhh, shhh, quit runnin’ your filthy mouth. Only gonna get yourself into more trouble.”

You swear you hear angels singing, swear you see the pearly gates when he gives your clit a merciful rub. Melting into him, you exhale shakily.

“See? All nice ‘n quiet when she’s gettin’ what she wants.” You wouldn’t even dream of mouthing off to him now.

“I want – I need…” you gasp out, putty in his hands. Moldable to his liking. Everything you’d pretended not to want.

“Go on,” he coos. “Tell daddy what you need.”

You don’t even hear him say that word. You’re too hooked on begging, begging, begging. “Please – Joel, oh god, please – I need… I need… please please please, fuck, it hurts–”

Joel clicks his tongue. “Nuh uh. Start over. Always such a chatterbox ‘cept for when I need ya to be.”

“Wha…?” you ask, admittedly dazed from the harsh treatment that you’ve come to crave more of.

“Tell daddy what you need,” he repeats, words molasses slow.

You clench, gushing even more all over him. Shit, your next paycheck might have to go to replacing the goddamn seats if you keep up like this.

“D–D… D-” you start stammering out, but you’ve lost autonomy over your body long ago, and apparently that goes for your tongue, too. “Da– Da… pl–”

“Any day now,” he scoffs.

“Daddy!” you spit out all at once. “Please, please, daddy, fuck – fuck me, daddy, please, I want your cock, daddy. Feels so fucking big. Need it daddy, it hurts… please, ngh– daddy!” Tears are burning the corners of your eyes, fueled almost entirely by arousal and partially by frustration. You squirm, cunt crying all over the place. 

“M’kay, baby,” he says. Running a hand down your chest and squeezing your nipple on the way down. He slides his hand down your stomach to cup your mound, giving your clit slow, gentle circles. Your hips jump forward, and this time, he doesn’t stop you. “Daddy’s got ya.”

At the first intrusion of his middle finger in your cunt, you jump. It’s a lot compared to what he’s been giving you, but nowhere near enough. A second finger slips inside. He doesn’t have to do much work to stretch you out — you’ve been seeping out of you since you first got on his lap. He’s all too quick thrusting them in and out of you – the messy squelch of your pussy filling the backseat has you burying your chin against your chest, averting your eyes. The heel of his palm bumps persistently at your clit with each shift of his fingers inside of you.

“I know you ain’t a virgin, but you’re soakin’ like one. Too damn cocksure to ain’t have had a cock in ya before. Prancin’ around like a glorified dick trap.” You inhale sharply when his fingers scrape that spongy spot inside of you that you can never reach yourself. A moan rips out of you. The combination of him talking down to you and rubbing your g-spot has you dangerously close to cumming. Your moan is quickly swallowed up by more of Joel’s condescension. 

He starts mumbling to himself then, obscenities that make you clench even tighter around his fingers. “Gonna get you all sore baby, make you regret beggin’ for this dick like a horny ‘lil bitch that ain’t ever been laid in her life. Fuck you so hard you’ll be cryin’ for daddy’s cock up your ass instead, turn you into an anal slut, too.” He’s too busy listening to himself talk, too absorbed in his own world to feel you balancing on that razor-thin edge.

The noise you make is inhuman. You pulse around him, doing your best to stave off your impending release. “Daddy–” you warn, but he cuts you off then, too. Joel grinds his cock between your ass cheeks, his precum dripping down your slit to meet your trembling cunt. 

“Ever been fucked here before baby?” He swipes his tip along your asshole, and the way you shudder is answer enough for him. “Don’t get all jumpy, sweetheart. Ain’t gonna fuck ya there right now. Be cruisin’ for a bruisin’.” Still, he replaces his tip with his free hand’s thumb, simply rubbing at the ring of muscle. You fidget in his lap without an end-goal. You just want to be close to him, want to take everything he’s willing to give you. His fingers hook just right inside of you. “Would love to be the first to unlock this pretty backdoor. If this tight ‘lil pussy’s anything to go by… Christ. You’d look so pretty squirmin with my cock in your ass, baby–”

“Daddy!” You scream as your orgasm guts you. His fingers and his voice rip your climax right out of you and your cum streams down your inner thighs and Joel’s hand, still smacking against your clit with each thrust. Your cunt spasms around his flexing fingers. He has to fold an arm over your chest to keep you from sliding off his slippery lap entirely.

All the way through the aftershocks that make your limbs quake, Joel holds you upright against his body, still bumping his palm and fingertips against your clit and g-spot. You swear you can feel him smiling against your shoulder.

“Didn’t tell ya you could cum, darlin’,” Joel murmurs, flicking his cum covered finger across your clit. You wince in overstimulation, a whine catching in your throat.

“‘M sorry, daddy,” you pant. His hands go up to 

“‘S okay, babygirl. Pretty pussy couldn’t help it when I was talkin’ ‘bout fuckin’ your ass, huh?” His hands rove up your stomach to play with your tits, palming and stroking, getting his hands all over every carnal part of you.

You hum into his bicep, “Mmmm.”

“That’s alright. Don’t mean you’re gettin’ away with a slap on the wrist though. C’mon, up,” he guides with a small slap to your thigh. You adjust, bringing yourself onto your knees so he can enter you from behind. You look down at his sturdy thighs, flexing as he adjusts himself between your legs. He gives you one more teasing thrust through your thighs, poking your oversensitive clit one more time before reaching down to spread your folds.

You moan as he presses against your entrance, and it’s not the best time to have a come to Jesus moment, but – Joel’s size was in no way over exaggerated between your legs. You stiffen in realization, and Joel, attentive as always, notices. He guides your chin to face him and nuzzles his nose up against yours, mouth tracing down to your lips. Your breath mingles, stagnant in the long-forgotten chill. A cushion of softness against all of his spiky edges that showed up tonight. “You’re on top, baby. Take it as slow or as fast as ya want.”

Nodding at the reminder, you find yourself that you don’t want to take it slow. You want to be as sore as he’d promised, want to feel him for days and be reminded of this every time you look at the winter morning’s frost on the shingles outside.

Sinking down over his throbbing length yanks the air out of your lungs as you seat yourself with him bottoming out and going balls deep in your cunt simultaneously. He grunts against you in surprise, softening the blow of your heady moan. “Attagirl,” he huffs into the crease between your neck and shoulder. It’s a stretch, searing up your thighs and to your lower back. You’re brought back to yourself when Joel rolls his hips into you, making the pain liquefy into mind-numbing pleasure. You spend thirty seconds waiting for him to fuck up into you in a way that changes your philosophy around the world, but instead, he’s still and solid inside of you.

“Go on,” Joel coaxes, placing a steady hand just shy of your mound. “Gotta prove you deserve to cum again.” He taps your thigh as if he’s telling you to giddy up, and the shame warms the back of your neck better than any heater ever could.

You whimper. His hands coast up your thighs, squeezing your hips tight before falling to grip the seats below. You’re still weak from your last orgasm, shaky legs struggling to hold yourself up as it is. “Daddy… I can’t…” 

“Ain’t no different than fuckin’ y’self on that vibrator or dildo or whatever the fuck’s in your nightstand. Girl like you, gotta have a wimpy ‘lil fucktoy somewhere.” His words make you clench around him, and he groans into your neck. Joel looks up at the front window, now covered in snowflakes. He smirks when he spots the rearview mirror. “Oughta make you watch yourself. Show a pathetic, cockstarved slut what happens when she bites off more than she can chew.” At that, you mewl, grinding yourself down. The chuckle he lets out is lined with cruelty.

Joel pins you to his chest with one burly arm and leans forward with a hash of grunts from effort. He reaches out towards the rearview mirror, lowering it to face the middle seat that you’re both braced on. He sinks back quickly, and it almost gives you whiplash before you make eye contact with yourself. You can see everything. Tremors travel up your legs and into your arms. Your body is getting freezer burn from how cold and hot you are at the same time. Pleasured tears threaten to spill over your waterline. Joel’s smug fucking face as he murmurs endlessly at you. 

Your mouth is parted as you take yourself in, truly a pathetic, pretty little picture as you pant. “C’mon,” Joel coaxes, squeezing your ass. “You can do it. Make daddy proud. I’ll even give you a boost.” Joel reaches to your tied hands and quickly undoes the scarf, letting it drop to the floor. You flex your fingers and then reach out for the chairs ahead to get a good grip.

You prop yourself up on your knees, anchoring yourself to the two chairs in front of you. Using a combination of your upper and lower body strength, you rise halfway off of Joel’s cock before your body gives out. His balls slap wetly against your clit. He laughs, still not touching you at all. Your head flops forward as you look down to where the two of you meet, and then at the mirror where his cock is buried deep inside of you. You whine in dismay.

He wasn’t lying when he said he was going to get you sore. You can only moan. It’s pleasure like you’ve never had it before – too much, not enough, painful, so good. “Please, Joel – I can’t… can’t handle it.”

“I’ll decide what you can handle,” he says.

“You’re– you’re so fucking mean,” you rasp.

“Gets you this soaked, baby. Don’t see your pussy complainin’. You love bein’ treated like a piece ‘a meat. Like a little fleshlight for men to fuck.”

You clench, tight. “Ah!” Joel fucking sniggers behind you, but a rush of confidence spills through you at the underlying moan in his throat.

Determined to get what you want, you tighten your grip on the front seats. Haul yourself up, almost so that the tip slips right out, and then collapse back onto Joel’s cock. And, shit, it’s a lot. You doubt you could handle his cock in missionary, but being made to ride him in such a compromising position, sprawled out across his shitty backseat? That’s an entirely different animal, one that you hadn’t expected to have to handle.

You focus on doing just enough to please him and just enough to keep yourself intact. You repeat your movements two or three times, rising and falling. Little moans and whimpers, some pained, some good when he nudges your g-spot just right, slip in and out of you.

“Mmmm, yeah, that’s it. Daddy’s ‘lil wannabe pocket pussy. Doin’ a ‘lil better baby. Keep doin’ that. Jus’ keep doin’ that.”

You’re shaking like a leaf on his cock as you somehow manage to lift yourself another time before fucking back on him. “Daaaddy.” Your lips quiver as you form the word. A single tear runs down your face from overexertion, and he’s quick to wipe it up with his thumb as if it was never there. You look truly whorish and pathetic, just like he’d wanted, bouncing on his cock with the last of the energy you have left in you.

His tip jabs against that goddamn spot again, and you double over on the center console. You take heaving breaths, making eye contact with yourself in the mirror, desperate to please as you attempt to keep humping him with the change in angle. You’re letting out strings of disoriented words, but barely can tell that you’re talking.

“I fuck you dumb already? Slutty little girl. Told ya you were in for it. Ain’t ever had much of a knack for listenin’. Gonna dick you down now, sweet girl.” He drags your legs into the crook of his elbows, holding you upright for him as he shifts to his knees between your legs. Braced on the center console with your pussy settled on his cock, the new angle makes you cry out. You hold yourself up on your elbows, giving shallow rolls of your hips in return as Joel gets settled inside of you.

The first thrust makes your eyes roll back so far that you see black. “Feel good?”

“So… so fu–fucking goo… good daddy,” you whimper into the console, gripping the sides of it just so you have something to hold onto.

“Swallowin’ daddy’s dick whole in this greedy cunt. Goddamn, drippin’ down my fuckin’ balls. Such a masochistic slut, all after a poundin’ from an old man. All up in a tizzy for this cock.”

You moan your agreement, completely submissive to Joel’s wills. You move like a ragdoll for him, letting him yank you back on his cock while he meets you there, thrust for thrust. He pulls out, a small mercy, but when he sheathes himself back inside of you in full, it’s the beginning of a punishing pace.

You don’t even notice yourself drooling all over the console until Joel says something about it. “Droolin’ from two places. Yeah, baby, you needed this. Daddy’s pretty cockslut.” You whine especially loudly when Joel drags you back across the console, damn near fast enough to give your stomach rugburn. 

Hands framing your spread legs, Joel hooks them both around his torso, using the leverage to plow into you. You’re boneless beneath him, mouth frozen in silent moans. His hips meet your ass with each shove of his cock in your sloppy cunt, the obscene sound of slap after slap pealing out within the truck. “Damn lucky we’re in the middle of nowhere,” Joel growls on another thrust. “Someone woulda been knockin’ on the window long time ago with how loud you’re bein’.”

“Mmph,” you gasp when Joel tosses one of your legs up and over the passenger seat. You hold yourself there as he digs his fingers into your other thigh, shifting his spare hand to your mound.

“Daddy please please please plea–” you start panting like a broken record, desperate to feel his hand on your clit, which throbs with inattention on the console. You grind frantically on the edge just in case he denies you again. 

Joel laughs above you, fully smudging two fingers across your clit in a blur of indescribable pleasure. “Ain’t gonna make ya beg this time. Can’t wait to feel ya creamin’ ‘round me… maybe I’ll make ya lick that up too. Nasty bitch.”

“Joooel, oh fuck, please…” you whine as he continues railing you, this time fiercely tweaking your clit in-time with his movements.

The new position has his thrusts meeting your cervix, and you scream, pleasure corkscrewing through your body. There’s nowhere for all of it to go with how viciously it burns in your stomach – all you can do is take it and whine for him. “Takin’ it real good. See what happens when ya behave? You get this fat cock splittin’ your whore cunt in two, jus’ like you were askin’ for.”

He grips your hip tight, clearly expecting an answer. You slur, “Mhm, daddy!”

Joel rubs faster circles around your clit, spouting filth while he drills your pussy. You can tell he’s chasing his own release, too, hips frantically fucking in and out of you, his cock twitching every single time you clench. You’re burning up as he jackhammers your pussy. Your second orgasm of the night brims low in your stomach, “Come on, baby, know you’re close. Feel this slutty pussy squeezin’ me. You gonna ask permission like a good girl this time, or are ya gonna go back to your defiant little slut self?”

“No, daddy,” you whimper, suspended in thin air over orgasmic bliss. He’s rubbing your clit erratically, doing everything he can to hold you in place. “P-please daddy, can I come?” You practically scream it out.

“Go ahead,” he says. “Come for daddy’s, come allll over daddy’s cock.”

The band snaps. Your back arches, and you feel time stop in the second before you fall slack on the console, spasming from the best orgasm of your fucking life. Your clit feels like there’s fucking pop rocks on it, something that not even your vibrator has ever achieved. “Thank you daddy!” you cry out, repeating it as you lose all feeling in your bones. You hardly have any control over your body anymore – it’s just Joel Joel Joel Joel. Sated and weary, you just lay there, letting Joel fuck into you.

And fuck into you he does – roughly, helping you ride out your orgasm as he pursues his. “That’s my girl,” he says, and you swear that alone could make you cum all over again. “Lettin’ your daddy use this juicy, well-fucked cunt to get his own.” He can’t hold back his moans, that’s how you know he’s close, grunting and gasping as he rocks his hips into yours. His hand lands on your ass in a sharp smack, and your pussy clenches in exactly the way that he expected. He lets out a particularly ragged noise, folding himself over you to nip at your neck and rest his forehead against your shoulder blade. “Daddy’s close, where do ya want me, baby?”

“Tits,” you whine. It’s a miracle you can even get that one word out, but somehow, you manage a few more. “Come on my tits, daddy.”

“Fuck!” Joel shouts, yanking himself over you. You help him roll yourself over and sit up on your elbows, and he jerks himself once, twice, before spraying his load all over your tits with the loudest groan yet. His brows fold together as he cums, eyes drooping and his mouth parted as he takes deep breaths.

You sit there for a handful of heavy minutes, listening to each other’s jagged breathing and the sawtoothed wind outside. You’re both so fucked. Literally, and figuratively. Stuck in the buttfuck middle of nowhere, you with your dad’s proclaimed bestie’s cum drying on your tits, and said bestie staring at you with post-coital puppy dog eyes and your cum all over his balls.

You’re the first to speak up, still winded. “That was… that was good.”

Joel nods mindlessly, tongue swiping out to lick his lips. He beckons you closer, and on trembling legs, you bring yourself to the backseat. You return to your previous position, huddled up and curled next to the door. Joel fumbles around under the back bench for a little until he comes up with a small, sunbleached pack of princess-themed pocket tissues that have to be as old as Sarah is. He dabs at your chest before stuffing them into the closest empty cupholder, and then brings you closer to his chest.

You don’t notice yourself falling asleep when all you can feel is Joel.

There’s better ways to wake up than a furious rapping on the window, but that isn’t the first thing you notice. You blink your eyes open groggily, only to face an egg yolk sun cracking wide open over the treeline and snowmelt bleeding out from every given surface. Joel’s behind you, nose in your neck, snoring softly with his arms wrapped around your middle. You take a moment to admire him – his sun kissed skin and his peaceful expression. It takes you a moment to remember you slept with him. You slept with Joel, and it was the best fuck of your life.

You’re stretching, on the verge of a yawn, when you see the familiar head of black hair over the window. “Shit!” you shout. Joel jerks to life behind you, mumbling something that sounds a lot like ‘what?’. 

You scramble to pull the coat over the both of you from where it fell off of you in the middle of the night, covering your naked bodies. “Get dressed!” you hiss to Joel, searching for wherever the fuck your panties ended up last night.

“What the hell’s gotten into ya–” he starts, and you feel the exact moment that he realizes Tommy Miller is outside of the truck. “Motherfucker,” he curses, swaying towards the front seat to snag his clothes. You see him almost put his head through his T-shirt armhole three times before he gets it right. His sweatpants are next, which he tugs up his bare legs without even searching for his boxers.

“Joel?” Tommy shouts outside. “Wake up, sleepin’ beauty!” He knocks on the door again, the windows blurry from melting snow. You have that to thank, at least. It buys you enough time to tug your polo over your head, but not enough time to button it all the way up.

“Fuckin’... dumbass,” Joel huffs as he clips the lock on the door and kicks it open, looking at least somewhat composed. You take deep breaths, looking between the two of them. “How’d you find us?”

Tommy looks Joel up and down, scrutinizing him. “What happened to southern gentleman manners? I came out here to save ya from Mt. Everest, brother! Least you could say is ‘thank you’.”

“Thank you,” you fill in for Joel, even if the last thing you’re feeling is grateful.

“Her daddy threw a hissy fit, y’know? Told him you were fine and we’d go lookin’ for ya in the mornin’. We saw all that backup on the highway, I went this way, he went that way, turns out my gut was right. ‘Course my dumbass brother would take this route… hey, you’re truck’s a fuckin’ mess.” Tommy sinks his hand into the closest cupholder, pulling out a wad of tissues that have been soaked in his cum. You hiss as if you’ve been scalded with boiling hot water.

Joel starts, “Tommy–”

“What the fuck is this shit?” The realization seems to dawn on poor Tommy when he’s peeling apart the tissues, and he drops them like they’re a thousand pounds. You can’t even bring yourself to scold him for littering as the wind carries them away. “Joel. You dirty dog!” He says, eyes flitting between the two of you like it’s the most impossible thing in the world.

Your heart picks up to a speed that can rival most NASCAR drivers and your face burns like hot asphalt. You look pointedly down at the ground.

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ,” Joel seethes, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Get outta here, you little shit.”

Tommy’s hands go up. “Hey now, I ain’t doin’ anything. That is not a conversation I wanna have with her daddy.” He clears his throat, effectively clearing the air along with it. “So, uh, truck break down?” Joel grunts in affirmation.

“Been tellin’ ya you need to make a stop at the auto shop… C’mon, I’ll get y'all home,” Tommy says, jingling the keys to his own truck. “Call a tow on the way.”

Joel drags his feet all the way to Tommy’s passenger side. You get your wallet and jacket together, winding the latter around your waist. The sun almost blinds you on your way out, and Tommy stops you.

“I hope you didn’t let ‘im stick it to ya with them prehistoric condoms. You’re smarter ‘n that.”

“God, no,” you huff out.

“I dunno what’s stupider, lettin’ my asshole brother hit it raw or gettin’ a UTI–”

“Okay!” you announce, hands going up as you round the back of Tommy’s truck. “Conversation over.” You’re still smiling playfully at Tommy as you clamber into the back of the truck, sighing when the air conditioner hits.

Just like that, back to the same old same old sunny, shithole state of Texas. Joel looks at you in the rearview mirror and winks at you. You guess not everything has to stay the same these days.

[taehyunsluvr]

Baked goods

Warnings: nsfw, afab!reader, sub!taehyun, meandom!reader (?), premature orgasm, oral (m receiving), not proof read, shitty plot, kinda brat taming if u squint real hard

Lmk if I missed any <3 !! MDNI !!

Summary: Your work friends have tried to help you succeed in your love life but it never seemed to work out. Until you meets your neighbor who's innocence intrigues you.

Word Count: about 2K

a/n: Ik this is shitty I've never written a fanfic before so I'll try doing different plots than basic ones like this (This isn't proof read so sorry for dumb mistakes lol)

You looked down at your buzzing phone. Is this why you always set 17 alarms? Because none of them could wake you up correctly? Either way you sighed deeply and flung your legs over the edge of the bed. The cold wood floor of your new apartment, the open window with a gentle breeze, everything about your new life was perfect. Except one thing. Every one of your friends, AND I MEAN EVERY ONE, had started getting into relationships, and here you were, in your apartment, alone. The only good part, was you had your options open. That was something only single people could do. Naturally. You sighed, got ready for work (which was one of the only things keeping you going at this point), and left your new apartment in a hurry. Sleeping through you alarms definitely didn't help with your time management.

You finally got to work. Your once clean and put together hair was now disheveled. At work you don't have many friends, but the ones you did have were the best you could ask for. As soon as you walked to your desk, your two coworkers and best friends decided to talk to you. "Hey Y/N do you have a date to the wedding?" One of them says. You look up at them, "No I don't why do you ask?" Your other friend answers, "We were just curious cause the wedding is next week. We wanted to know if you were coming single."

The two of them sit down on the opposite side of you. You can't say no. They're both too sweet. But what you really don't understand is why they would assume that you're gonna show up single. It almost made you annoyed. "No. I'm not coming alone." you say, making both of them look at each other. "Then who are you bringing?"

You shrug, "I'm bringing my boyfriend. You've both met him before."

You can't believe yourself right now. You lied about having a boyfriend. You didn't even know that there was going to be a wedding. You think about retorting your lie, but you don't think that you can because they were way too excited. "I knew it! I told you she would have someone."

The blonde girl, Winter, says to the black haired boy, Huening Kai, Hyuka for short. "Yeah yeah. I'm just surprised that she hasn't told us anything about him yet." Winter puts her hand on your shoulder, "I can't wait to see the guy you bring. If hes not hot I'm kicking him out." "I want to meet him." Hyuka says as he stands up. You nod.

"Why did I do that.." You say to your self as soon as you leave work. They're probably not even going to believe you once they meet your 'boyfriend'. You don't know how but I have to come up with someone or something. Then literally just as you're thinking that, you crash into something tall and hard.

"What the hell..?" You say as you back up and look at the man you just bumped into. Is this a romcom? How is he so handsome? And how did you just happen to bump into him right now..

You pray to whatever god gave you this chance in your head.

"Watch where you're going." He says coldly. Maybe you weren't so lucky. He was a bitch. A brat. But you played it off. It didn't really matter how he acted. That wasn't important. You try your best to put on a nice face. "Oh no! I'm sorry. Are you okay?" You ask him. He steps back, dusting off his clothes. "I'm fine. But watch where you're going." "I'm so so sorry." You say, reaching out your hand to brush off his jacket. He looks at my hand, then back at me. "No, it's fine. Just watch out next time."

You nod and look him up and down. He's very attractive. You could definitely take him to the wedding. But what if he already has a girlfriend? There's so much to consider. "Um, are you still here?" He says, making you snap back from your thought. "Oh yeah. Sorry. I was just thinking." you reply, careful not to break your composure.

"So uh.. Would you mind giving me your number so we can keep in touch? I mean if you're okay with it." You say. Seriously? How fucking corny was that. He looks at me.

"Why would you want my number?" "Well because you're cute and I'd like to get to know you better." "Really?" He laughs but clearly is flustered. A slightly smile

"So would you be willing to give me your number?" "Yeah sure." He takes his phone out and types something on it. He hands it to you, "There you go." You add the number reading the name " Kang Taehyun" on his screen. You completely forgot to ask for his name before. You walk away and to head home. Was this a dream or real life. You can't believe you just asked someone for their number. If you didn't already tell Winter and Hyuka that you had a boyfriend you would have totally been bragging to them about this.

As you walk, you realize that you're both heading in the same direction. Is he stalking you or is it just a coincidence? Maybe getting his number really did raise your confidence a little but too much.

"Are you stalking me or something?" you say, laughing.

He turns his head, "No, I'm not. I'm just going to the same place as you. But thanks for the offer." You scoff. "I own the bakery down here."

You're slightly taken aback by the fact that HES a baker. You would have thought he was a personal trainer, a model, something like that. "Lets walk together then." You pull him by his arm to be closer to you. He doesn't move away. You get to the bakery's front steps, pausing before he invites you in awkwardly. "We're closed right now but I need someone to test some of our new recipes anyways. This was your chance. You could possibly make him fall for you so you could take him to the wedding. So you take the chance to ask him if he's in a relationship. "I'm guessing you don't have a girlfriend..?"

"No. Not at the moment."

"A handsome guy like you should have a girlfriend. Or a boyfriend. Whatever you're into." You sit at the bar of the bakery crossing you arms while leaning on the cold table top. He has basically no reaction. Is this guy celibate or just extremely experienced to the point nothing effects him. "Thanks, but I'm not interested in dating anyone at the moment." You ask "Why not? You look to be around that age." "Because I don't want to. I'm only 22." He answers while sorting through the different options of baked goods. You hesitate. You want to act how you usually would around guys, but thinking back on your past experiences maybe that wasn't such a good idea.

"Why? No guy wants to be single."

He looks confused by what you meant. "So you've never gotten to third base in other words. I could tell by how many times you've checked me out." You threw the entire friendly girl act out the window, even though he invited you into his bakery out of his own 'kindness' after hours. "I- No I didn't.. Im just.." He says stopping his movement, tensing up while dodging your eyes, moving them to various objects around the shop.

"Give me a break. You're too obvious. At least try to be conspicuous about it." You run your fingers through your hair while teasing him. The dimly lit bakery almost seemed to help push the mood in the direction you were hoping for. You're enjoying this. Usually the guys you talked to before would start getting defensive and concerningly aggressive if you spoke to them this way. But he almost seemed to like the way you were talking down to him. "Take off your apron." You meant it to sound like a request but it ended up sounding like a full on demand.

He stayed silent and surprisingly complied. You raised an eyebrow. Did you misread him for a virgin? He gave in too easily. Either way, it didn't matter. Bringing him to the wedding wasn't your goal anymore. He slid off his apron, and you burst out in a laughter.

"I knew you were a pervert. You really are a virgin. This is too funny." You stood up and walked around the counter.

"Im not a pervert-" His words were cut short by the force of you hand on his hardness. He could barely form a sentence. His hips bucked shamelessly into your touch.

"How are you explaining this to me then? Use your words. I'll stop if you want, but I know you wanted this." He didn't even bother to respond. His head fell onto your shoulder, and you could feel his warm breath on your skin.

"No I... keep going.." He says between bated breaths. He let out a louder whimper as you gripped his cock. He leaned back up, his bangs messily covering his eyes. "Please.."

You stopped and unbuttoned his work trousers, they fell to pool around his ankles. He definitely wasn't small. You weren't confident you could fit it all but you had already left all your reasoning at the door as soon as you entered. You kneeled down, and without hesitation took his whole length down in one go.

As you slowly moved, you could sense how sensitive he was. His cock was begging for attention, twitching at every small movement you made. He was moaning softly, and breathing heavily. You pull your mouth off, teasing his tip with your tongue. You digged your tongue into his slit and swirled you tongue around his swollen glistening tip. He let out a strained moan. Even though you couldn't see him, you could already tell that he was a nervous wreck. You forced his length back down your throat, taking whatever you couldn't fit into your hands. You could feel his hands almost grabbing your hair, but as soon as he felt you slightly halt he moved them firmly to his sides. He shivered profusely. His whimpers grew louder.

"Wait I-" Without warning you feel his hot seamen spurt out onto your tongue-- and also practically all over your face. It was sweet, with a hint of saltiness. You could tell he took care of himself. "I-I'm so sorry I didn't mean to.." You wipe the bit that got on your face and stood up.

"Open your mouth."

"Huh? Why-" You pushed your fingers forcefully into his mouth, hitting the back of his throat. He gagged around your fingers and moaned lightly due to the sensation. You pulled them out slowly, wiping his saliva on his own shirt. His face glistening with sweat as it beaded on his forehead. His hair was sticking to it, but it somehow made him look cuter.

"You're so kinky for a virgin."

His eyes slightly widened on your judge of his character.

"Not at all! You just- it was so sudden.." His was still breathing heavily from his intense premature orgasm. You helped him pull his work pants back on. You couldn't believe you escalated the situation this far. The scent of the baked goods somehow managed to mask the lewd scent of cum that was usually so pertinent.

"So.. do you have any plans in the next two weeks?" "Not really.." He was still attempting to retrieve his composure. You could tell he wanted more, but you weren't seemingly willing to comply. "There's a wedding coming up and I want you to come with me. My coworkers are quite literally dying to meet you." "Why?" "They think we're dating." "And why would they think that? We just met today.."

"Because I told them we are.. and you should repay me. Even if you wasted my gift on that weak excuse for an ejaculation."

[folkookie97]

❝ blue valentine ❞ — JJK

— SUMMARY: ❝ No welcoming hugs or your voice humming one of his songs while you cooking one his favorite recipes. Jungkook noticed that you already knew about everything he did. ❞

— PAIRING: fiancé!Jungkook x female!reader

— TYPE: angst

— WORD COUNT: 883

— WARNINGS: Inspired by Babe (Taylor Swift), Ambiguous/Open Ending, Cheating, Infidelity, POV Second Person, Established Relationship/Engagement, Argument, Swearing

— NOTES: Sorry guys but today my mood is something like 'Look at this... they're holding hands. I want them dead'. But I hope you like it <3

— RELEASE DATE: February 14, 2024

— CROSSPOSTING: ao3

"You already know, don't you?"

The words left Jungkook's lips before he could control them. As much as he wanted to sound kinda nonchalant, he felt a pain in the back of his neck starting to bother him beyond usual.

He noticed what was about to happen the moment he entered the living room, closing the door behind him and without any sign of your presence waiting for him to come home. No welcoming hugs or your voice humming one of his songs while you cooking one his favorite recipes.

Jungkook noticed that you already knew about everything he did. He could see it in the dark circles under your watery eyes that kept looking at the TV in the room, even without paying real attention to the movie.

You just nodded your head, feigning disinterest about your fiancé's question — even though he could notice how your hands tightened the blanket that protected yourself from the cold.

"Honey—" Jungkook started, feeling his voice tremble and the bitter taste of blood in his throat. How many hours had he been almost biting his own lips?

Probably since he got on the plane to go home.

To come back to you.

You didn't even move, you just switch the focus of your attention for a few seconds. At the same time your eyes met his, Jungkook's heart broke into thousands of little pieces. But the gaze didn't last long. “Don't do it. I don’t wanna talk about that now, Jungkook.”

Before he could get the chance to argue against it or beg you to listen his apologies, you glared at him one more time, sending tremors through each of his limbs. He could barely sustain an exchange of gazes with you.

His fiancée. The love of his life. The one he longed to care for and protect until the end of his life. The one he should never break the heart to.

"Today is Valentine's Day."

Damn, he had really screwed up.

Swallowing hard, he nodded his head. "I... I know."

Your mocking chuckle reminded him that you knew him better than anyone. "I often can recognize your shitty attempts to lie to me. But you already knew that, didn't you?"

Fuck. "My love—" He tried to get closer to you and your double bed's edge, but the simple stretching of your hand towards him stopped his body.

Where was your engagement ring?

Something in your mind clicked on. "STOP CALLING ME LIKE THAT! ARE YOU DEAF? Didn't you listen me telling you that I don't wanna talk about your fucking cheating right now?" Jungkook's heart skipped a beat at the acidity in your tone.

The scary and new doubt in his thoughts was breaking him more than ever. "Where's your ring?"

"Wow, I'm glad you care about our engagement. When I saw so many pictures of you and that hot girl kissing at an afterparty of one of your shows, I really thought you had forgotten about it for a few minutes."

Jungkook whimpered due to your sarcasm, ignoring the fire in your gaze as he sat down next to you, already letting a river of tears run down his flushed cheeks. "Please, honey... You know I love you. That... that was a terrible mistake."

"Oh, Kookie..." His nickname never felt so painful on your lips. "I think 'terrible' is a very simple word to express how humiliating this is for me."

You felt like throwing up when he whimpered again, the bright tears suddenly progressing into a loud, annoying cry. You never imagined you would be so repulsed by looking into his Bambi eyes.

"I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry. Please forgive me. Please, honey..." Jungkook sobbed, ignoring her grumbles and pulling her into a tight hug.

You tried to push him away, taking off the weight of his arms that held you, afraid that you might escape after a blink of an eye. He couldn't lose you. He couldn't do it. "JUNGKOOK! LET GO OF ME! STAY THE FUCK AWAY!"

The more you tried freeing yourself from his body, the more Jungkook cried like a little child. You hated seeing him cry, almost as much as you hated him in that moment. Almost as much as you hated the pain in your heart begging yourself to forgive him. Begging yourself to keep loving him. Begging youself to give in and ignore your own mind.

You barely realized you were also a blubbering mess until you found it difficult speaking without letting out little shaky cries. "I fucking hate you. I... I hate you so bad, Jungkook. I hate what you did to me. To us."

"Me too..." Jungkook's voice sounded more broken than before and mixed with loud crying as he lightly opened his arms, freeing you from his desperate hug. "I hate myself too..."

"You disgust me, you're so disgusting. How could you do this?" You sobbed again, using all your effort to look away. If you let yourself be carried away by those pretty eyes that begged for your forgiveness, that story would repeat itself one day. You couldn't handle the possibility of living that situation all over again. "Oh my God. You really blew this. I hate you. You don't... You don't deserve me."

"I know..."

He really knew.

[mspaesthetic]

what brush did hussie use to draw everything

He used the default hard round brush preset in Photoshop with the Pencil tool. Some newcomers to digital art might hear the word "pencil" and get confused, thinking it refers to a literal pencil texture brush, but it's a distinct tool from the typical Brush tool. In other programs, similar brushes might also be called the Binary brush or Pixel brush.

The Pencil tool is basically the same as the Brush tool, but draws the strokes with pixelated hard edges. The Brush tool on the other hand draws strokes with anti-aliasing, smoothing the outline of the strokes. This is done with semi-transparent pixels, something that the Pencil tool specifically does not use (hence why it could be called a Binary brush, because a pixel is either fully opaque or not).

Something to note is the version of Photoshop Hussie used: CS3. In CS3, if you had pen pressure enabled, the minimum brush size the strokes could go down to was 2px only (if the brush diameter was set to at least 3px). Setting it to 1-2px would not net you any benefits out of having a pressure-sensitive drawing tablet. In other words, brushstrokes can't taper off to 1px thin ends.

(Bear with me since I currently don't have a computer with Photoshop installed so I'm using these kinda shitty old demo gifs that weren't supposed to be used)

Photoshop CS3 brush engine

The brush engine changed slightly in versions after Photoshop CS3, however. Starting from Photoshop CS4, setting the brush size to 2px with pen pressure enabled would make the 2px brush size invert and jump up to 3px as the minimum brush size, while only going back down to 2px if you applied pressure or drew at an angle or something. (I unfortunately don't have any images on hand demonstrating this clearly.) Only setting the diameter to 3px makes the ends 2px, as you can see below.

Photoshop CS4 brush engine

You can still see this shitty behavior in Photoshop CC versions to this day:

Photoshop CC 2024 brush engine

Maybe this doesn't really matter too much if you're normally drawing hero mode panels, but it does produce slightly different results when drawing sprites.

Also if anyone tries to sell you on using a square brush, disregard them. They're an idiot, plain and simple.

[itsjusthockey]

Hung Up - Quinn Hughes

He's a captain. I’m so happy.

This was supposed to be a happy fic 🧐🤔

I will probably write something happy for him because I am currently living for him

Enjoy and submit requests

w.c: 889 (credit to gif maker)

You finally dip into the realm of the unconscious when your phone begins buzzing on your bedside table. The loud noise, coupled with the bright light of your upward-facing phone, makes you cringe. You debate ignoring it; you should ignore it. Yet, that little voice in your head makes you roll to the side and look down to see who is calling you this late in the evening.

When you see the contact, you want to throw your phone at the fucking wall.

Of course, it’s him.

The buzzing continues, and you stare hard, hoping if you focus enough, the contact will change. You know the simple thing to do is ignore it, but when it keeps ringing, you finally grab the device and click answer.

You’re met with a seemingly dead line when you pick up. He’s never been great with words or emotions, for that fact, so neither of you speak. Instead, you both sit there for another minute before he finally breaks the silence.

“I got it.”

The three words are rushed, but you know exactly what he’s talking about.

“I got it, just like you said I would.”

As he finishes, he lets out a shaky breath, and you can hear him shuffling around.

You don’t know what to say; you really don’t. If it were a month ago, you would have cried happy tears, flown to Vancouver, and partied until the break of dawn. Now, you can’t even find a word to express what you’re feeling. And if you’re being honest, you don’t know what you’re feeling.

“(Y/N)?” His voice is small, and you cringe at the softness of it.

“Yeah, um, that's amazing, Q,” you pause to breathe out. “You deserve it.”

The conversation dies again, and you find yourself staring into the darkness, wondering how the hell you got here. You should hang up, knowing you should remove every aspect of him, but you stay on the line.

Minutes tick by until he speaks again.

“Luke and Jack told me you’ve been ignoring them.”

The mention of Luke and Jack sparks a fire within you, breaking the uneasy silence.

“That’s not fair, Quinn," you retort, your voice edged. "I haven't been avoiding them intentionally. It's just... it's complicated."

There's a tense pause on the line, and you can practically hear the hesitation in his voice as he responds.

“I know. They're just worried about you, about us.”

You let out a soft I know and take a deep breath, trying to collect any of your scattered thoughts. You feel millions of emotions, and you wonder why he keeps doing this to you. Every time you feel okay, he drags you back. Suddenly, you feel one specific emotion: anger.

“Why did you call me Quinn?”

He stammers for a second, and you continue.

“I am trying my best to move the fuck on here. I have finally got my shit together for the first time in weeks, and suddenly you wanna talk? Pull me back just enough so I can keep thinking about you?”

Quinn's silence on the other end is deafening, and you can almost feel the weight of your anger hanging in the air. It's a valid question, and you need an answer.

“I promise I’m not trying to mess with your head, (Y/N)," he finally admits. "I just... I wanted you to hear it from me. It felt wrong not to tell you."

Your anger begins to subside, replaced by a mixture of frustration and sadness. You do know Quinn, better than anyone else, and you know he's not intentionally trying to hurt you.”

“I get it. Every day I want to call you and tell you about the shitty day I’m having. But I stop myself.” You pause. “You can’t keep doing this to me. I'm trying to move on, to heal, and every time you call, it makes it that much harder."

There's a long pause, and you can almost hear Quinn struggling to find the right words.

“I'm sorry, (Y/N). I don't want to keep dragging you back. I just... I miss you. I miss us.“

Tears well up in your eyes as you hear the vulnerability in his voice. Despite the anger and frustration, you still love him more than anything.

“Please, Quinn, just stop. I can’t hear this right now.”

“I know, (Y/N). I know I'm hurting you, and I hate myself for it. But I can't act like I'm not dying without you."

He’s not being fair, and you want to punch him. You have to protect yourself and not allow him to pull you back. Not until you both figure out what went so wrong in the first place.

“I love you, Quinn," you admit, "But we are not doing this. Not now.“

There's a long pause on the line. “I know, (Y/N). I just... I can't let you go. You’re all I can think about.”

You wipe away a stray tear.

“Then find something else. I’m not ready to do this. I need time. You need to leave me the fuck alone, and when I'm ready, I’ll give you a call.

You hear him start to speak and begin to plead his case again, but you’re done. He’s hurt you enough.

You hang up the phone.

[delopsia]

I absolutely adored and loved the Rhett headcanons. Can we please get matching Bobby ones pretty pretty please with diabetes inducing amount of sugar on top 🥺🙏💕💕💕

Aaaaa, thank you! I was hoping somebody would ask for a set of Bobby headcanons! :D This got a little long again 💃

✧˖° General Bob Headcanons

Snores, but very, very lightly? To the point that he sounds more like a cat purring than anything. If you tell him he does it, he goes red in the face and denies it, even if you have video evidence of it. Bobby hears snoring and immediately thinks he must be snoring loud enough to guide ships through the fog...

Bob has this funny thing where he intentionally buys damaged products. He got left out of things a lot as a kid, the last to be picked for dodgeball, was always last to be partnered up for assignments, little things that never felt all too great.

So now he's taking home a dented can of Lysol because he knows how shitty it feels to be left out.

It is so, so easy to make this man smile. You can make the dumbest joke of all time, and Bob's got a cheesy grin that's brighter than the sun itself.

Bob doesn't always have the words to describe what he's feeling or trying to say. No matter how hard he tries, those words simply don't bubble up in the ol' noggin, and he's stuck stuttering until he can come up with something.

The longer he can't find the words he wants to use, the brighter his face goes. Blushes from the tips of his ears all the way down into his chest. Poor baby looks like he's been sunburnt

Buys trinkets that remind him of his friends, and he's got an entire shelf dedicated to housing them. A glass-blown phoenix that he found in a gift shop, a plush coyote that he picked up at the zoo, a horseshoe because his momma loves horses.

Has a talent for origami. It started out as a meaningless thing to ease his nerves, but it quickly devolved into an obsession. Flowers, elephants, stars, butterflies, he knows no bounds. He's been known for leaving them in places and waiting around the corner to see who takes it. There's no better feeling than watching someone find it and take it with them.

That being said, Bob showers his significant other in them. Once he becomes comfortable, you will never know peace. There are stars in your cups, there were origami flowers lining the edge of your clawfoot bath this morning, and you've been finding hearts for months.

Hates when people stand behind him. It's more of a nervous thing than anything because there is nothing worse than thinking you're alone and sensing someone looming behind you. If Bob can find a spot where his back is to the wall, you best believe he will be there.

Bobby can play the guitar and the piano, but he's so, so shy about it. He doesn't know where to look or what to do with his eyes while he's playing it, and he really, really doesn't know what to say if you compliment him on it.

Green thumb. Every plant is safe with Robert Floyd; growing up on a farm, it's hard not to get good at growing things. From dandelions to lettuce, he can garden just about anything.

Also happens to talk to the flowers as if they can hear him. "Hi buddies, are you getting enough sunshine?" "Hold on, hold on, I'll water you in a second." "Do you need me to rotate you?"

Eats all one type of food before moving on to the next thing on his plate. It's more of a focus thing than anything; Bob just doesn't...think to switch from the mashed potatoes to the green beans until the potatoes are completely gone.

Speaking of food, Bob unintentionally gives his S/O food-themed pet names. Honey, peaches, sugar, pumpkin, sweetie. He hardly notices he's doing it; it's just one of those things that happened.

Bob could very well have his vision corrected with a simple surgery, but he chooses not to have it because he's so used to having glasses. He's been wearing glasses since he was five; they're a part of his identity at this point.

He's one of the unlucky ones who turn bright red when he drinks alcohol. Didn't realize it until someone pointed it out, and now he absolutely will not drink in public because he's afraid of turning as red as a stop light.

Drinks his coffee black. Primarily because he can never get the ratio of additives to his liking; too much creamer, but then it's too much sugar, and oh, well, would you look at that, he accidentally grabbed the salt instead of the sugar.

Animal lover to the core. Please take him to the zoo or the aquarium, he's been dying to go, but nobody will go with him :( His favorites have always been the red pandas and the jellyfish. For no reason other than he finds them cute.

Bob's got thighs for days. God, is it a sight to watch him struggle to get into his jeans. He's always gotta jump to get them past those perfectly pale thighs.

Does this thing where he gets lost in your eyes when you speak. He's listening, but good lord, he is absolutely drowning in the way your eyes twinkle as you talk to him. Chin in hand, humming along to whatever you have to say.

[cozy-mp3]

hard feelings

abby x gn!reader

the aftermath of seattle is proving hard to deal with

word count: 1.6k(ish)

warnings: angst/hurt + comfort, abby is bad at processing feelings and so is reader, they're trying tho!!!, everyone cries, lev is mentioned a couple times, mentions of nightmares, kind of canon compliant?, not intended to be ellie bashing, only briefly proofread

a/n: honey, i'm home :D i promise i didnt mean to be gone this long!! i just got out of the habit of writing + using this account, i'm sorry :( i wrote this to help ease back in to everything, i missed u all and i'm gonna devour all the stuff in the ellie + abby tags that i've missed tomorrow

abby is tired. she’s so tired she can feel the weight it, the way her limbs feel like they’re almost too heavy to maneuver, the way her mind feels fuzzy around the edges like she has to pause before each passing thought in order for it to make sense. she can’t let herself sleep though, because sleeping means she has to let down her guard. she knows couldn’t live with herself if something happened to you or lev, she couldn’t save her father or manny or owen, she couldn’t protect them and she lost them and she can never make that mistake again. 

a smaller, weaker, more ashamed part of her can also admit it’s somehow easier to sit out here on the deck, to watch the peaks of the cliffs for the shadowy figures of scars or wlf even though seattle is far behind you all. it’s easier to sit and watch and defend because that’s what she’s good at, she can’t listen to the way you and lev whimper in your sleep from nightmares, the way the two of you toss and turn and thrash to get away from things she can’t see. 

she doesn’t know how comfort you, she can’t lie and say everything will be ok, she’s never been good at lying to you and she’s hesitant to fill you with false hopes, even more so lev, to treat you both like you’re too slow to see some vague, distant goal even, if it would bring you some comfort. but she can do this, she can sit out here with her gun in her lap and a mug of shitty instant coffee by her side and protect you both so that you won’t have anything to add to the things that scare you from your sleep.

she startles when the door to the cabin open and you slip through, you footsteps muffled by your thick, fuzzy socks. she can almost pretend nothing over the past week happened as you shuffle over to her in your old checkered pajama pants and a hoodie that’s soft and worn and smells like the detergent they used at the stadium. she can’t ignore your tired eyes though, the way they’re bloodshot from lack of sleep and haunted in a way she hadn’t seen before the girl from jackson and her friends had come to hunt her down. this is the only time she’s ever been glad she’s argued with you, that she hadn’t given in to your instance that you travel to find joel with her despite the fact you were healing from an injury at the time. she doesn’t think she believes in god or whatever prophet the scars worship, but when she thinks about that day too long she knows she could get on her knees and thank whoever, whatever, for preventing you from going on that trip.

you hesitate when you’re in touching distance from her and it takes you making a hesitant, aborted step towards her for abby to finally relax her posture enough to reassure you. she sets the gun down beside her cold mug of coffee, and with practiced ease, spreads her legs enough that they’ll be a comfortable cradle for your body before she holds her hand out to you. it doesn’t take long for you to get situated in her lap, your chin resting on her shoulder and your arms wrapped tight around her ribs, it’s a position you’ve been in countless times before.

“what are you looking for?,” you ask quietly, your voice tired and worn even to your own ears, it makes your brows furrow in discontent but there’s not much you can do to fix it. you shift and press your cheek to the firm muscle of abby’s shoulder, your eyes trained on the vast expanse of ocean behind her, it’s still dark enough that the moon casts a white reflection on the small waves that crest and break gently against the side of the boat.

“nothing,” abby replies, her head tilting so she can feel more of your skin against hers, you’re soft and warm and familiar in a way that makes an uncomfortable knot form in her throat, “there’s nothing there,” she continues, clearing her throat instead of acknowledging the urge to cry.

you nod, not quite knowing what to say in response to her so you shift one of your hands to stroke the tense plane of her back instead. everything has been harder than it should be since you’d left seattle. you’d dealt with loss and pain before and you thought you’d grown out of nightmares about people and what they could do to you, it’s frustrating, feeling these emotions that you’d dealt with so easily before threatening to overwhelm you the way they are.

“you should be in bed,” abby tells you after a few minutes of silence, the continued lapping of the water at the hull of the boat and your combined breathing the only sounds in the quiet still of the night.

“so should you,” you counter, shifting backwards on her lap so you can look at her face, your hand cupping her jaw, “come back with me?,” you question gently as you stroke the pad of your thumb over the skin beneath her right eye, she has tired bags that look dark enough to be bruises and the left side of her face is partially covered with gauze to protect a cut that you know hurts more than she lets on.

“i can’t,” she starts with a frustrated pinch between her brows, “i need some fresh air, i’ll come in later,” she sighs, unable to bring herself to tell you about the way her chest seizes with anxiety whenever she isn’t within arms reach of a weapon, that she convinces herself that behind every hill and peak along the coast the sniper who killed manny is waiting to take you away from her too.

“then i’ll stay,” you say, ignoring the long, suffering sigh abby lets out at your response as you lay your head against her shoulder again, “i feel better when i’m with you, so i’m staying,” you add softly to quieten whatever argument she was about to level you with, though you question if your honesty was the best response when her arms tighten around you and she makes a choked sound in the back of her throat.

“don’t say that,” abby mumbles, her lips brushing your hairline and her eyes burning with tears, “god, please don’t say that,” she says a little louder as she shakes her head, “this is all my fault, i ruined your fucking life, you should hate me,” she continues and with a start you realize she’s crying, her tears falling hot and wet against your skin.

“oh, abby,” you whisper and once again you curse the way your mind seems to want to work against you, the way you can’t come up with comfort for her the way you could before, “i don’t blame you for any of this, abby, listen to me,” you plead, your hands desperate as they find her jaw once again, your fingers clumsily wiping away her tears, “listen to me, abigail, none of this is your fault,” you persist as sympathetic tears sting at your own eyes.

abby doesn’t reply, though she allows you to guide her head against your shoulder, to rub soothing circles into her back and hold her against you as she sobs. you find yourself carding your fingers through her hair the way you would after a rough patrol, your nails scratching lightly at her scalp in a way that used to make her sigh in contentment but now only makes her cry harder.

she cries for long enough that your knees are beginning to get stiff where they’re bent either side of her, but the pain is dull enough to be ignored, especially as her sobs quiet down into strangled, hiccuping breaths that she lets out against your neck. you don’t force her to speak but you do steer her head away from you, just far enough that you can use a knuckle to wipe away the tears that cling to her lashes and to the tops of her cheeks.

“i love you,” you tell her a few moments later as she reciprocates the gesture, her calloused thumb brushing away the wetness on your cheeks, “i’ll always love you, ok?” you ask, using your hold on her jaw to finally force her eyes to meet yours so she can see that you aren’t just placating her.

“i love you,” abby replies, her eyes red rimmed and puffy but her gaze genuine and steady on yours, even as you bend down to kiss her forehead, “god, we’re a mess,” she mumbles with a wet laugh after she’s pressed a brief kiss to the corner of your mouth, her grip on you loosening as you stand up and tuck her hair behind her ears.

“it’s ok, we’ll work it out together,” you reassure her, giving her the best smile you can muster, weak but honest, “come back to bed with me?,” you ask again, wrapping your fingers around her wrist to gently tug her to her feet. she makes a face like it’s painful but allows you to help her to her feet and lead her inside the cabin, her steps clumsy enough that it gives away her exhaustion but willing to follow you regardless.

it’s warm and dark inside despite the dawn that was lightening sky you’d left behind and lev’s sprawled out across the mattress you share, his breathing deep and slow as he sleeps. it takes a moment to manoeuvre yourself and abby around him without waking him but you manage, settling under the covers and letting abby tuck your head beneath her chin. she insists on sleeping with her back to the door and you’re both so exhausted that you can’t fight her, but as you close your eyes you promise yourself you’ll talk about it with her in the morning, all of it, you’ll work it all out.

[eluxcastar]

Ok lets go SImply reblogging your oneshot for my req isn't enough i need to analyze and annotate the entire thing like a literature professor and tell you Everything. (✿◡‿◡)

pantalone might be ooc

He's not!!!!!! by which i think this is fairly a Really Good portrayal of the guy considering the 5 sentences we know about him. He's strict!!! frankly a little scary!! And also chill and positive about loverboy!! But it felt Just Right!!!! ( •̀ ω •́ )✧

descriptions of blood

description so good i might as well have killed that man myself

...pretend that his lore has a spot where this fits perfectly

I think i can make it fit!! would you be cool with making minor changes if so?

"You're very good at what you do."

Imagining the same voice as sebastian michaelis saying this with the sexiest buttersmooth voice is eviscerating me. Very self-indulgent but praise kinks will always slay so hard.

...on the verge of stabbing him a moment ago. 

This,, and the small thing i wrote about loverboy launching them both out the window to escape an onslaught of assassins in my other req. get you a ship where one of them has completely normal knee-jerk reactions to kill the other <3

...as he crushes their hand beneath his shoe without mercy

Fatui Harbingers - House of Wolves - KIERU 0:15

...Instead, Pantalone looks unfazed by it all, stopping as he reaches the other side of you, free of most of the blood. He greets you with a knowing smile as he usually does.

hey ririto this is so ominous and eerie for some reason not known to me. Just the backdrop of grey and snow and probably a gruesome corpse right next to loverboy and Pantalone has a silent smile through everything. Delicious sentence 10/10.

"I knew making you a banker was a good idea,"

THIS IS SO. The confidence and quite calm assurance that pantalone says this with is SO. You'd never be sure whether to lean into it and let out a sigh of relief,, o r back up further becuase it sounds so good but all in the wrong ways.

...thumb brushing across your bottom lip slicked with blood.

fellas is it professional to feed double edged words of honey to your young inexperienced subordinate while kneeling in front of his battered and bruised self who killed someone for you,, and run a gloved thumb across his blood soaked lip. ( ͡• ͜ʖ ͡• )

"Who knew you had so many other talents,"

you are infusing these dialouges with crack cocaine giggling kicking my feet while being slightly concerned because Sir. What do you mean by that.

"Ah ah," he says, a harshness seeping into even just that sound. "Stay."  You stay put,

thank you for making loverboy so Ouppy.

"Lord Harbinger," you try to say

yes,, this could be a minor thing to adjust: i think we could actually fit this oneshot somewhere AFTER he gets his vision,, and BEFORE Pantalone becomes the Harbinger Regrator. Can be a valid reason for Pantalone to see that reader failed to kill the assassin from their shitty negotiation meeting,, and wanting to newly test him again after he had his vision + ambitions awakened to see if he can get past the fear of killing NOW. (Even then,, maybe due to inexperience/unfamiliarity of using visions, reader didn't think to raise his advantage of supernatural powers against another visionless man in this scenario.)

I'd think his first kill was one of the factors that caused him to leave after his 3year duty, not sticking around for Pantalone's promotion to Regrator.

"You are much like your father."

Top 10 things Not to say to someone with daddy issues-

...they're as wet behind the ears as you are.

Dear diary, Today i learned a new speech of expression

...Pantalone's hand that rests on your chin moves... "Now, try again. Dear banker, whatever do you mean?" 

this whole paragraph. What on earth do you mean 'ooc pantalone'. This is the MOST pantalone thing you could've written. Strict and intimidating about improving reader's meek attitude. a Push in the right direction.

"Is this a test?" you manage, words muffled by the way he squishes your face like putty beneath his fingers.

(thank you for making loverboy so Ouppy) x2

...and you know who, regardless of how 'anonymous' that source may have been in his words.

I MAY BE STUPID. （；´д｀）ゞ I CANT TELL. who you are hinting towards 😭😭

"Hold this," he adds, an unnervingly tender instruction for the way he was just behaving. 

There he is. its reminding me of: the same pantalone that washed reader with a clock in my very first req to you.

...looking probably about as pathetic as you think you do.

POV: You're Pantalone looking down at Loverboy.

I forgot how much of a bug-eyed wet dog loverboy is before his time-skip "character development" so to say. Thanks i love him.

"next time someone approaches you from behind, don't wait to stab them. Don't reach for your wet knife with your wet hands, either. Both of those things will get you killed."

I think pantalone is entirely having too much fun with observing Loverboy try climbing the ropes to how REAL fatuus run business.

"Come now. You want to go home and back to Liyue, don't you? I'm tired of this cold." 

Σ(っ °Д °;)っ back to liyue??? Loverboy is Liyuean??? pantalone stays in liyue??? I ALWAYS THOUGHT arlecchino called pantalone a bitch in Signora's funeral for "never leaving the comfort of his homeland?" Whuh-?

ALL IN ALL,, CLOSING THOGUHTS,, GOOD FOOD RIRITO DINNER HAS BEEN SERVED, ATE, AND LICKED CLEAN 10/10 ILY

I GOTT THIS JUST BEFORE I WENT TO SLEEP AND ONLY JUST GOT THE TIME TO ANSWER IT BUT I KNEWWW YOU WOULD GET THE HOUSE OF WOLVES REFERENCE

That is true actually and I realised after I posted it that like, wtf is in character for him?? 😭 he's said like two things and while I have memorised those things they're not a lot to go off but I'm glad you enjoy him (ﾉ´▽｀)ﾉ♪

Also if you can make it fit, feel free ☆(≧∀≦*)ﾉ I sorta only had a vague idea of where it might go, but at that point in time, loverboy works abroad in the Northland Bank. I'll also throw in that he travelled there for that job and unfortunately does not come from Liyue 😔 (unless he's supposed to?? I got the impression he was from Snezhnaya) it was more a "I bet you'd love to be back at a desk job rn" or something to that effect, loverboy is going back to the bank once things are settled where he belongs but Pantalone isn't going with him (hence why they're in Snezhnaya when this happenscause I also interpret at as him not liking to leave Liyue)

I'm so glad the J Michael Tatum love never stops but also you're so right praise kinks absolutely do. I also noticed that them trying to kill each other is like, a repeated theme so far 😭⁉️ LIKE WHEN PANTALONE WENT TO FIND HIM LAST ONESHOT HE WAS GONNA KILL THAT FUCKER

Confident possibly mildly degrading Pantalone is literally my favourite thing, like I chew on him. I chew on him being unnervingly calm because what would he have in the eyes of a wet mop boy besides an unwavering poker face. Get yourself a man who uses the blood of your enemies like your lipstick and knows he made good choices stationing you at his shady probably money laundering black hole of debt he calls a bank

Yk I agree actually I was trying to figure the timeline out in my head and realised it would've made more sense to happen before he was a Harbinger so I agree with this revision that actually makes it fit the lore and if I ever decide to make it a longer multichapter fic I'll definitely fix that 💀 t'was a victim of laziness

YES YES THIS Pantalone basically shaping him up so he doesn't literally die and being strict with it get so him. He'll prompt him to say it again but won't let it slide because that behaviour isn't going to be beneficial, especially not with someone who may be working under him long-term

I went back to read the part about the anonymous source line came from, and I think I figured out what happened here, so allow me to explain  (;ﾟдﾟ)   Ok so, it has a bit to do with the weird way I wrote this because when I said I wrote this on the train that was half a lie. I wrote some of it on the train and the rest at the library where I also edited what I already had because the spelling mistakes were atrocious. I did write down who it was but cut it when I decided it cluttered the story a bit which retrospectively was also a mistake because I didn't think about the fact it would seem like I was hinting at something at the time (ﾟ▽ﾟ*) the shorter, boring answer is that there's no one Ririto did a big silly and cut context in the chaotic editing this suffered

LMAO NOT THE CLOCK AGAIN

I love him the wet mop boy. I was like I want him to be at least a lil pathetic rn because his concerns are completely different. He's thinking about how to not die, and how much he misses his mom and his much fatui dick his dad must've been riding before death to think this career path was worth it (slash JOKING but he is still wondering why his father would have done this job willingly) that and I think men who whimper are cute thanks for coming to my Ted talk

HE IS ENJOYING IT and I love it sm

Hehe I am glad to know you haven't gone hungry today (^o^) and such high ratings for the banker and loverboy

[bloodyknucklesforme]

The Night We Met | Guest Check

A chance encounter with his superior's wife at a local pub sends a young John Price down a path of heartbreak

cw: angst, abusive relationships, cheating

He still remembers how she looked that night, almost twenty seven years later. She was only twenty four, curled up in a corner, book in one hand, pint in the other. Her dirty blonde hair framed her cherub face. He was twenty one, barely a man, not yet grown into his bones.

An August night, English summer in full swing. A cold pint was all he wanted that evening, gathering around a table with his mates, talking about football scores. There she was on the other side of the room.

He was drunk but not sloppily. He kept having to tear his gaze away. He'd always thought she was pretty. Slapped some sense into himself plenty of times about her.

He'd looked before. Captain Irons' wife was hard to miss. They lived on base, she didn't work so she used any excuse to get out of the house. He'd seen her at the commissary and around town on his off days or helping one of the other wives with their babies.

There was the usual gossip. She was ten years his junior and they'd already been married for several years. It hadn't gone unnoticed, a May-December marriage. Irons was from a wealthy family so he understood. A recruit had recently been made to run 10 klicks for accidentally calling him Captain December (A name John had actually come up with one drunken night). Irons was a great solider but a pretty shite man once you got to know him.

"How's your book?" He found himself standing awkwardly in front of her table, a boyish smile on his face.

"It's okay," she shrugged, setting it down open face on the table. "Got it from a charity shop. Some cheesy mystery."

"Sorry to pull you away. John Price." He offered his hand. He cursed himself on the inside. They'd met before. She knew who he was.

"Poppy Irons." She shook his hand, chuckling. He didn't like her last name, too cold compared to her first. Though it was fitting for a Poppy to marry a solider he supposed. "Do you want to sit?"

Yes

"No, it's alright. I've already bothered you enough." He was so stupid. "Have a nice night, Poppy."

"Thank you, John. You too."

He gave her a nod and returned to his table.

"The fuck was that?" His mate, Michael Garrick asked. "You taking the piss? That's the captain's wife."

"I was just saying hello." He defended. Michael shook his head and took another sip of beer.

He saw her again a couple weeks later. Michael had bailed last minute so he was alone at the bar. She was in the same corner with a new book. This Charming Man played on the shitty old speakers. He was never a huge The Smiths fan. He could see her mouth the words to herself.

"Hope you're enjoying this one more." He said, standing again at the edge of her table.

"Barely." She smiled, dropping it haphazardly on the table. She nodded her head towards the empty seat. He sat down this time. "Do you read at all?"

"Haven't had time recently but I always liked Lord of the Rings." He felt embarrassed. He should have lied. Said something like Philip Roth or Hemingway. Something mature

"I love those books," she said, eyes bright. "I read in some magazine that they're trying to make new films based on them."

"That'd be wicked."

They spent the evening talking. He offered to walk her home.

"I appreciate it but William can be a bit weird about other men and I don't to get you in trouble." She laid a hand on his chest. "Thank you, though."

He made sure she got into a cab and when he got on base, he took the long way back to his barracks, passing the Irons' house, hoping to get a glimpse of her inside. The curtains were drawn close

It continued on like this. He'd see her in that same corner with a book, he'd interrupt and they'd talk and drink. She was an artist, grew up in a small town in the midlands. She did watercolors. Went to school for it, fancy scholarship. Irons had met her at some art gallery and they were married within the year. She didn't like talking about him.

"I fear you might never finish another book again." John chuckled.

"Believe me. I have time. I like talking to you." Her cheeks were flushed pink. It was becoming his favorite color.

They'd stay till close, end up in his car, still talking. He could recreate the first night she cried to him so perfectly in his head.

"I feel like I made a mistake. William wants kids and I...I don't know if I'm ready for that."

"He can't force you." He said, laying a hand over her's. She nodded but it wasn't believable to either of them.

She kissed him a week later. Too many drinks, tucked away some dark side street. Her lips on his, tasting like cherries. She could take him into her mouth and tie him into a knot with a mouth like that.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have done that. I'm sorry, John." She took off before he could say anything else. When he walked past her house later that night she was looking down from the upstairs window.

It didn't stop them from meeting again, the same dark side street. He hid her from any curious gaze, caught between him the brick. She tasted sweet.

The next time, her husband out of town, he drove them down a near abandoned country road, turned all the lights out and flipped over the back seats.

They were like teenagers, sneaking about. She cried a lot once they finished. He'd hold her against his chest.

"Does he hurt you, Poppy?"

"No. Never... I just made a really big mistake."

"We can stop whenever you want."

"It's not you."

She wasn't happy in her marriage. It was obvious to anyone now. Any event she trailed along behind her husband like a kicked dog. He kept talking about having a son soon, maybe by the end of next year. John watched her pick at the skin around her nails whenever the topic came up.

They kept meeting in dark parking lots, driving down dark roads. They'd fuck, she'd cry.

"You should leave him."

"I can't."

"You're not happy, Pip. It kills me to see you like this." He cupped her cheek, thumb rubbing away tears.

"I don't have any savings. I don't have a job. I don't have money or even family to fall back on. John, I'm alone."

"You got me. I'll pay for your solicitor."

"If they find out... you could lose everything too."

"I love you, Pip. You're worth it to me."

He'd break his back to support her. Get her out of this marriage that dragged her down like this. Cut the chain, maybe put a ring of his own on her finger.

Michael got married that Spring. Her name was Ella. John was his best man. The captain and Poppy attended of course. Ella and Poppy seemed to hit it off. John fantasied about raising their kids together in a couple years.

Poppy bumped into him during the reception. A sly smile on her face. Her voice was low and excited.

"I'm going to leave him this Summer. I'm going to sell some paintings to pay for a solicitor. Do you promise you'll wait for me?" Her eyes were hopeful, brimming with joyful tears.

"I'll wait twenty years if I have to." He assured.

They started talking about the future. Their future.

"Do you want kids?" She asked.

"One day. Whenever we're ready."

"I want a daughter. I know you're not supposed to say that but that's what I want. A little girl."

"You have a name picked out?"

"Nina. It's simple but pretty. I read it in a book years ago and i just fell in love with it."

"I like Nina."

"Do you like any names?"

"Grace. My grandma's name. Both my parents worked and I spent most of my time with her. Good woman, kind woman."

"Nina Grace. I like it."

"Me too."

It was June. If he was lucky they could spend their one year anniversary together. Seemed wrong to celebrate an affair but he'd long gotten over the guilt of infidelity. He was putting away any cash he could. A deposit on a flat, court fees, money to tide them over till they both got new jobs, anything they needed. He'd do it all.

The night was cool. Summer was brimming at the edge of the month. He liked June. It felt like change and freedom.

She got into his car, eyes red.

"Pip, what's wrong?" Had Irons found out? He'd take her away right now. He'd give it all up right now. She shuddered, a fresh wave of tears dripping from those big brown eyes he loved so much.

"We have to stop."

"Pip... what happened?" If he hurt her, he'd kill him. Fuck it all to hell.

"Nothing happened, John. We just can't do this anymore. We never should have done this."

"You're not staying with him. Pip, tell me you're not. Baby, he makes you miserable. You can leave me but fuck leave him too. Don't do this to yourself." He took one of her hands between his two, squeezing it. "I just want to see you happy."

She sighed and cried into her other hand.

"I'm pregnant..."

He leaned back in his chair.

"You don't have to keep it, Pip. I know you don't-"

"I do! He already knows. I have to keep it. I am keeping it."

"Is it mine?" They'd gotten sloppy in recent months, rarely wearing a condom. He never asked if she was on the pill. Didn't matter if she was now.

"It's his. It just has to be his."

He felt a pain in his chest, twisting about down to his stomach.

"Poppy... do you kno-"

"I just need it to be. I need to have this baby. I need them to go to a good school and to not have to worry about their parents keeping the heat on. I need William to be the father because that's what best for him."

"Him?"

"William wants a son."

"What a cunt," he scoffed.

"John!"

"What am I supposed to say Poppy? Congratulations? You're telling me you're taking my child away!"

"He's not yours!" She slammed her hand on the dashboard.

"Four years fucking him and you couldn't pop one out but ten months with me and you're expecting."

"Fuck you!"

"You already have." He snapped. Her lip quivered before breaking down into sobs again.

"I'm sorry, John. I'm so sorry. If I leave now and its his, I will never see this baby again. I don't have the money to fight for custody. I might get a year." She laid her hands over her stomach protectively. "I'm not ready for this but its my baby. Mine. I can't risk losing them."

"I love you. I love that baby. I know I'm not rich like him. I don't have the family name or an estate. I'll work however much I need to make sure you keep them. Break my fucking back doing it. I'll do it, Pip. I'll do it for you. Don't shake your head. You know I will. I love you."

She cupped his cheek. He let his first tears rolling down to her fingers.

"You've got your whole life ahead of you, John. Don't wait for me. I'm sorry I've fucked this all up."

"You've got your whole life too, Pip."

"And I've fucked it all up already." She kissed him. "I love you and I'm sorry."

She got out of his car and ran off.

He got deployed the next month. Six months extended to eight then ten.

It was February. He and Michael Garrick were sharing a room on base. Room was a kind word for shipping container.

"Ella called today. Captain's wife had her baby."

John quirked an eyebrow. He forced the bile back down.

"Boy or girl?"

"Girl. Nina, I think."

"Good for them."

He wouldn't meet her for almost a year. A Christmas party at the Irons new house off base.

They had her in a little frilly pink dress and she kept taking off her shoes. She walked right up to him and clung to his leg. Poppy gave him a worried look as he picked her up.

"You're lucky, Captain. Two beautiful girls." He forced a smile.

"Suppose I am." William was not as good of an actor as John was. John almost refused to hand her back to them.

He saw Poppy sporadically for the next two decades. He watched Nina grow from a distance, saw that she had the same unhappy expression her mum always had.

He stole a toothbrush from their house once. Sent it off to be tested for DNA. It wasn't a strong sample but he still got the results. He was too much of a coward to look at them. He'd already failed them. He should have fought harder, come back for them. It was too late now.

A test wouldn't change anything. Nina wasn't his, no matter how much he wished she was. He never got to teach her to tie her shoes, how to ride a bike, how to fish, how to drive.

She still grew up with the Garrick's kids. Kyle and Jasmine. She grew up looking so much like her mother. Her and her little brother. On rough nights he lulled himself to sleep at the idea of being their father. Having the Captain's family.

In some cruel twist of fate, he got what he wanted. He sat in the waiting room of a small hospital near the little beach town they always holidayed at.

They were dead. Poppy, Sebastian and Captain Irons. Nina was too far in a state to identify them. It had to be him. Michael offered to go down with him. Poppy was Ella's best friend. He asked him to watch over Nina. Make sure Kyle took good care of her.

"It was quick, if that offers any comfort," the medical examiner said.

The Captain was first. Broken neck when the car rolled. An accident he caused driving too fast on a wet road.

Sebastian was next. Just sixteen, same age he was when he joined the service. Just a baby. John brushed the hair out of his face like his mum always did him. His head hit the window so hard it broke, he didn't even know he was dying. John hoped it felt like sleep.

Poppy was last. He sank to his knees when the sheet was pulled back. He hadn't seen her in years. She looked like Nina. She'd started to grey a little. She was still the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. If she'd walked into his restaurant just the day before and asked for him to take her back he would have done it. He waited for her.

John kissed her forehead.

"I'll take care of her, Pip. I'll take care of your baby. Your little girl. I'll take care of her. I promise you."

He sorted out the funerals. Let Nina wallow in her grief. He assured her that he would handle it all.

Had a solicitor go through the wills and estates. He gathered up all the papers needed. Among the birth certificates, he found Nina's.

Nina Grace Irons

He clutched that paper to his chest and sank to the floor of the Captain's office. He cried like a child.

Tag List: @queen-ilmaree @macravishedbymactavish @gogh-with-the-flow @water-bearz @pvssytrux

[thisapplepielife]

Written for the @steddieholidaydrabbles December challenge.

Elf You

Prompt Day 20: Magic AU | Word Count: 1000 | Rating: T | CW: Language, Sentient Toys | Tags: Elf on the Shelf AU, Elf!Steve, Elf!Robin, Elf!Eddie, Elf Magic, Platonic Stobin, Crack Taken Seriously, Silliness, The Magic of Christmas

'Twas the night before December, and all is quiet except for the grandfather clock in the corner of the living room tick, tick, ticking as it edges ever closer to midnight. December is approaching, with only seconds to spare as the small town of Hawkins, Indiana sleeps.

When the clock strikes twelve, two little sets of eyes snap open, alive and alert for another holiday season. 

Two little Scout Elves, but no shelf to be found. No, sirree. That's amaetur hour, and they've grown past those early pranks. No, these little elves use their magic to put on big productions. Bigger and grander each night, leading up to Christmas Eve.

They were born for this. 

But right now, they've got to get their bearings after nearly a year of slumber.

Steve stretches, pushing his little fabric arms over his head. 

Robin stands, trying to work the kinks out of her back. She'd been twisted in the tote of decorations, and now her back is killing her. 

"Hey, Robbie, you okay?" Steve asks, walking over and looking at her. 

"They've got to be more careful with me next year, I'm getting too old for this shit," she complains, sitting upright. 

Steve helps her to her feet, and they dust themselves off. Being an elf is fun, but it's only for twenty-four days a year. The rest of the time they're shoved in a box in the attic. Dormant.

Shitty parents tell kids they flew back to the North Pole, but that's a goddamn lie.

The first night is hard. They don't have a plan for their nightly chaos. They have to do it on the fly, so they better get started, right away.

"Marshmallow mini golf?" Steve suggests. 

"We did that last year!" Robin whines. 

They're running out of new ideas. They've done everything twice at this point. 

"How 'bout a messy kitchen?" another voice asks, and they snap their heads towards the sound. 

"Who the hell are you?" Steve asks, putting his hands on his hips. This is their territory. "And…where the hell are you?" Steve asks. 

They can hear him, but they can't see him. 

"Yeah, interloper! Who do you think you are?" Robin demands, backing Steve up. 

Steve looks around, but there's nobody there.

Not until Steve spots the box on the counter, brand new and unopened. Slightly wobbling.

Together, they pull open the cover, and there he is. Another boy elf, with dark eyes, and long hair, trapped behind cellophane.

"What's your name and what are you doing here?" Steve demands. 

"I'm an Elf on the Shelf. We're gonna be friends 'til the end."

"Oh brother, he belongs on The Island of Misfit Toys," Robin says, snarky. "That's a Good Guy line. That's a whole different kind of magic doll. Not our department. So, clearly evil."

"I'm not evil," he says. "I'm an elf."

"That's what they all say," Robin says, looking at Steve. "Let's just leave him wrapped up. Problem solved."

Steve sighs and rubs his forehead. 

There's a little name tag on the counter: Eddie.

"Well, you were an idiot, when you showed up, too," Steve tells her, crossing his arms, annoyed. Looking back through the plastic, "Your name is Eddie."

Eddie just nods.

"Why aren't you out of your box?" Steve asks him. Eddie has elf magic. He can teleport. Surely, he can get out of a fucking cardboard box. If not, oh, brother.

Eddie looks unsure, and Steve rolls his eyes. If Steve had fingers, he'd snap them, but he doesn't. So, he just thinks really hard and uses his own elf magic to get Eddie out of his packaging.

Robin looks at Eddie, "Well, it was nice to meet you. But we've got this house covered. They've got two kids, and we're two elves. We don't really need a third," Robin is explaining, when they all hear a baby cry.

Well, shit. There's three kids now. That's what happens when elf magic keeps you dormant most of the goddamn year. You don't find out about big changes until way after the fact.

So, new elf. Steve went through this when Robin showed up after the last kid, and now they're best friends. So, maybe this will be okay. 

Then he sees Eddie dangling from the light fixture. Maybe not. 

"Stop that, asshole," Steve says, jumping up, grabbing Eddie, sending them both to the floor. "Stop messing around, and help us think of something to do tonight," Steve demands.

"Cookie baking mess?" Eddie suggests.

"Been there, done that," Steve says, "that's first year shit."

Robin puts her hand on her chin, thinking, "We really don't have much time. We'll be able to plan better tomorrow. Marshmallow bath in the sink?" she suggests.

Steve groans. It's easy. But the kids like it, and their mom always has marshmallows in the pantry.

"How about a ski slope," Eddie says, and they both turn to look at him. 

"Tell me more…" Steve prompts.

Eddie is looking around the kitchen, a little frantically, clearly trying to come up with a fully formed idea. Steve waits. Robin waits. 

And finally Eddie pops up onto the counter and grabs the full roll of paper towels and takes it to the living room, and the couch, right near the tree. He stacks up two pillows from the couch on the floor, and stands back, thinking.

"Like this," he finally says, and gives the paper towel roll a good shove, unrolling it down over the pillows and onto the ground. 

Steve looks at it. 

Robin looks at it.

This could work.

"We could rummage through the Barbie clothes," Robin suggests and Steve nods. That's a really good idea. 

Steve gets in the box with the Barbie stuff, and digs around until he throws out a snowsuit, some skis, goggles. A Christmas sweater. This will do just fine. 

They all get dressed, and in place, ready for the kids in the morning. 

Eddie might not be such a bad addition, after all.

Notes: Yeah, I don't know. They're elves. Magic elves. 🤣

This is the ski slope idea Eddie came up with.

"Friends 'til the end" is a Chucky catchphrase. Also, a magic doll. Just a very different one, lol. The Island of Misfit Toys is from Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.

If you want to write your own, or see more entries for this challenge, pop on over to @steddieholidaydrabbles and follow along with the fun!

If you want to see more of my entries into this month-long challenge, you can check them out in my Steddie Holiday Drabbles tag, right here!

[blightdaddy]

15 and 17 for pasha, 31 for orin, annnddd 39 for linnarel 💖

HELL YEA TY!!

for refence: pasha, orin, and linnarel!

as usual, under the cut just in case! bc spoilers (definite spoilers this time)

15) Who else has a crush on Rook?

so, like, maybe i had this whole silly thing in my head where pasha had a messy on-and-off situationship with varric. messy in the sense that, like, they knew it would never actually work - their work would constantly pull them away and deep, deep down, pasha wants to settle. varric wasn't really the settling down type of dude. AND ALSO following world ending catastrophes for over a decade is exhausting and they don't wanna be pulled into it anymore! but when they had some down time and found each other, shit just made sense. he was one of their best friends!! and while pasha would never say they were in love with him, they did love him. they did some real mental gymnastics to just accept they'd never get what they wanted from him. and like... pulling them into the inquisition and then having them come with him to chase down solas AND THEN DYING was a very shitty thing to do!! also the way pasha kicks shit open and is ripped as hell, who wouldn't have a crush on them???? this was a long-winded one im sorry!!

17) Any companions they don’t get along with? How does Rook navigate this?

SO. LIKE. i am going to preface this with i am weak for good ol' enemies to lovers type shit. jessie, when i tell you i am WEAK for it... pasha is a lil gruff, rough around the edges. emmrich is gentle and kind in a way they just weren't used to. like yes, he's competent and powerful and very good at what he does but people suck and he's going to get himself killed. and WHAAAAAT the fuck do city mages know about roughin' it up??? they have different views on the world around them and they butt heads. but pasha quickly realizes they've underestimated him, choosing to see good in people doesn't mean pushover, it doesn't mean weakness. he can keep up with the rest of them and he's sharp as hell (with the tiniest bit of a bitchy streak if you press the right [wrong?] buttons). and pasha is not immune to the charm of a smooth talker. and ok maybe they like how proper and put together he looks all the time. maybe they also really like how he can and will roll up his sleeves and get a lil dirty. maybe they like the way he talks and the way he words things. maybe they look at him one day and they're like "oh no he's hot." he softens those rough edges and she likes that about him. hey listen, i sat here for like a minute in a voice call with some friends and i went "hmm who WOULD pasha dislike, they don't dislike anyb--OH MY GOD WAIT." you did this, this happened bc of you.

31) Which locations (Docktown, Arlathan etc) does Rook like to visit the most? And the least?

is harding's lil green house an acceptable location??? orin likes the shade of harding's hair and her optimism and her freckles the plants! least favorite place is treviso, he doesn't have fond memories. and while there are people there that he cares about, he thought he'd be gone for good after he left. dee's least favorite place is dock town bc my computer does not like it when i go there. between the rain and the architecture, my pc sounds like a jet engine during take off.

39) What’s it been like, living in the Lighthouse?

linnarel is decidedly not a people person and he's just hyper aware of everybody's presence. my beautiful princess with a disorder can put personal feelings aside when on a job but he's not very good with people. the others will be the first time in a very long time he's had to be around others for more than a few days and boy howdy do they test him. while he would warm up to them eventually, it takes a good while. ALSO FUCK THE FADE HE HATES IT HERE WHY IS THEIR HOUSE FLOATING WHY IS THAT GHOST THANG ROWING A BOAT THERE'S NO WATER THEY'RE IN THE AIR

[dez-wade]

I can’t stand people who won’t even listen to any criticism (NOT HATE) about their fave ccs like it’s genuinely so aggravating. People fr fr need to stop treating ccs like they’re this higher presence that can never have a word spoken against them that’s not positive otherwise you automatically hate them it’s so fucking unhealthy to think like that. I’m seeing on Twitter some people just genuinely being like “hey I think maybe bad should just listen to why Etoiles and some fans think it was a bug even tho bad is refusing to back down from his belief that it wasn’t” and there’s so many people being like YOURE JUST HATING HIM IM SO SICK OF PEOPLE HATING HIM. Brother what? People are allowed to give their opinion on the behaviour of another human being. Honestly this whole event is so fucking draining as a viewer I’m genuinely considering just taking a break from QSMP until it’s done. Between the hate that teams were receiving from red fans the first few days to now blue team talking about how they feel discouraged because green team fans are saying they didn’t deserve the win and now you’ve got more hate but that in turn is making fans even more on edge about people just giving genuine feedback/criticism omfg I’m so tired 😭 sorry for the rant I just had to get it out <3

Yeah. It's kinda a complicated situation because you have also to consider there're two types of that don't take criticism: Those who think their CCs are perfect angels that can't do no wrong, and the wounded animals who are used to getting so much hate that everything is perceived as hate. BBH fans are the second, at least in these past few days because let's face it, the Blue team is getting a lot of hate. People are being nice to Green because they befriended Red and because they're feeling like the underdogs.

I agree that Bad was wrong on this one, I'm watching Tubbo and he explained to BBH it was a bug because he said that he used spawn multiple times to hide from events, like the hunger one. BBH wasn't aware of this because he simply assumed it always worked on Spawn, he never went there in an disaster. He should have listened to Etoiles. But it seems like he understood in the end, thanks to Tubbo.

Anyways, this event is going to be hard to discuss especially when shitty situations like this happening, so it will be toxic all over. As much as I'm sorry and disappointed or Green, I am quite worried about Blue getting even more hate and getting discouraged.

[sunflowervolvimp3]

When bb and vampy are laying in bed facing each other, and both just holding one another, they were talking about their day but bb is so so sleepy she’s using all her energy to keep her eyes open and she’s just looking at vampy and running her thumb up and down his cheek slowly. Trying so hard to stay awake cus she wants to spend more time with him since she was at work all day but eventually her eyes are just to heavy for her and she closes them 😔 and vampy is just bursting at the seams like he fucking can’t she’s his BABY and he just pulls her even closer and puts her face in his neck cus he knows she likes to sleep like that 😭 kissing her head one million times 😞

Harry can tell Y/N is about to fall asleep.

She's been resisting the pull of rest for the last forty-five minutes, fighting valiantly against the drag of her eyelids as she's relayed her day to him. Her speech has been drifting in and out of coherence for the last fifteen minutes, her words falling off the edge of her tongue like a rock off a cliff— quickly plunging further and further down, until out of sight completely. And yet, just when Harry thinks that she's finally dropped into a chasm of sleep, her even breaths stutter, and she begins her story anew, her topics drifting like her speech.

"And there was this other customer today," Y/N stifles a yawn against Harry's shoulder as she moves her thumb slowly and evenly over the stubble on his cheek. "Who threw a fit because we were out of cream for their coffee. They said—" another yawn interrupts her speech. "—that milk didn't..."

Her voice trails off again, just as it did two minutes ago. Harry suppresses a smile, rubbing her back in time with her breaths. "The milk didn't what?"

"Hm?" Y/N's eyes flutter open again, although not quite to the same degree that they were before they fell shut. "It didn't taste the same. And I reminded them that...it's milk, not cream, so of course it...doesn't..."

Despite the warmth spreading through Harry's immortally frozen chest as he watches his lover battle her exhaustion, he hates to see her deny herself of her needs. He can't help but think that she wouldn't be so resistant to things like sleep if he could participate in the human habit with her. If he were to fall asleep first, Y/N would have no trouble curling into his side and closing her eyes without argument.

It's crossed Harry's mind once or twice to fake it. He's an excellent actor— he's had to be, to survive two centuries pretending to be mortal. He's sure he'd have no trouble closing his eyes, evening out the breaths he doesn't actually need, and lying still enough to convince Y/N that he's lost in a sea of sleep. But the idea plants a seed of discontent in his chest. He lies to his love so much, and so often. He can't bring himself to weave another deception at her expense.

"Angel," Harry keeps his voice low, barely a whisper echoing around his bedroom. "You're exhausted. Go to sleep."

As expected, this statement of truth is met with stubbornness. "Not tired."

Y/N can feel vibrations roll through Harry's chest as he fights back laughter. "You can barely finish your sentences, love. You can tell me more about your shitty customers in the morning, over breakfast. But for now, you need some rest."

"Don't wanna," Y/N tugs herself closer to Harry by his shoulders, inhaling the tobacco and vanilla scent of his cologne as she does so. "Barely saw you today, H. Wanna keep—" Another stifled yawn. "Talking."

"You know you undermine your arguments when you can't even open your eyes to make them, right?"

Y/N blinks her eyes open, unaware that she had let them fall close again. "They're open, asshole. Maybe it's yours that aren't open."

She feels one of Harry's dimples appear under her thumb as she strokes his cheek, and knows that he's laughing at her. If she had more energy, she'd push him away. But it's late, and despite running cold, being pressed tightly against his body is still the most comfortable place to rest. The only thing missing is—

Harry gently guides her head to rest in the crook of his neck, and the sigh of content that falls from Y/N's lips seizes his undead heart like a vice.

"My eyes are open. Which you would be able to tell if you could do the same."

Y/N hums in acknowledgement of his response, but doesn't form a counter argument. Instead, she lets her hand fall from her lover's cheek to his chest, too tired to note the unnatural stillness where his heart should beat.

"That's a good girl." Harry's lips press to the top of her head as her breathing evens out for the final time that night, and she finally drifts off the edge of consciousness. "Sleep. I'll be here when you wake up."

Despite not being awake to hear this promise, Y/N knows that it's true.

[burning-fcols]

"Fuck you asshole! I opened up to you! I trusted you! You knew how much that shit would hurt me but you went and did it anyway! Go to double hell!" husk @ angeI for break up verse -  ✩   「 @helluvaxhazbin 」   ✩  

「 ☆ 」 Every. Damn. Time... Every time Angel thinks they're getting somewhat close to a reconciliation— even if they can't risk going back to how they used to be, they can still not want to rip each other's throats out —it ends up like this. Screaming their lungs out, spewing vile at one another. Lies and truths intermingled so intensely it's difficult to figure out which is which. Hatred and love and anguish an uncontrollable fire burning within his gut, threatening to incinerate him like all the stories of Hell insisted would happen. Frankly, he'd rather that than this.

Angel knows he messed up. He handled things horribly between them... had hurt Husk in a clumsy effort to keep him SAFE. Yet he can't entirely regret his decision. Only how it had happened. He was nothing but bad news for the feline... A pretty bit of poison that was going to get Husk killed in he continued to indulge. Angel never has been one to openly feel sorry for himself. Always submitted to someone else's will, pulled along like a puppet, he's careful never to show how much the strings dig into his skin. How every faux choice makes him feel less and less alive... But this time, having played the unknown martyr instead of the self-preserving asshole—

Is it really so bad for him to want Husk to accept WHY he did it?

No. Husk can't know. Who knows what the idiotic feline might suggest if he was aware Val was the reason Angel didn't want to be with him anymore. He's too loyal. Too hard-headed. He might not see the situation as clearly as the spider does. Better he thinks Angel came to the conclusion on his own... and merely regrets how it had tumbled out of him. Even if that makes apologies ring hollow even to Angel's ears.

❝ SHUT UP! JUST SHUT TH' FUCK UP!! ❞ Voice breaks, throat aching from more than being overworked in the studio. Fists clenched in front of him, claws dig into shaky palms. Entire form trembling, tears pool in his eyes, feeling hot as his boiling blood as they drip down a reddened face, ❝ I said I was sorry! How many times do I have ta keep sayin' it 'til ya get it through yer thick skull?! I hurt you! I KNOW I hurt you! An' I fuckin' HATE myself for it, alright?! An' if I could do it again, I would'a handled things diff'rent! But I CAN'T! I can't fix th' shitty thing I've done! ❞

Raising his gaze, desperation still overwhelms the glossy hues despite the indignant fire alongside it, ❝ I get why ya hate me, I DO. But I also can't fuckin' stand it... I-I can't... I can't keep doin' this. ❞ Voice loses it's edge the longer he speaks, clenched fists reluctantly falling to his sides. Tense posture loosening in defeat, wide eyes take in Husk as if actually watching him die. But at least Husk is only leaving his life instead of— ... It still hurts. More than anything that's happened so far.

❝ It hurts too much... Ev'rytime I'm around you, I— I feel like I'm dyin' all ova' again. There's esctasy an'— an' escape... an' it's ev'rythin' I eva' wanted. But then reality sinks in. An' I rememba' where I am an' WHO I am an' all the fucked up shit I did an' that you fuckin' hate me an'— an' it's not an escape at all. I don' WANT this. I don' want ta feel this way. ❞ I didn't want to DIE. ❝ An' I know you don' eitha'. ❞ That's why one of them has to stop this. ONE of them has to get clean, before they both overdose on whatever twisted relationship they've gotten hooked on now.

❝ I love ya, Husk. ❞ He mutters without looking at the other man, sweet words bitter on his tongue. Wiping at his eyes with an arm, it does nothing to stop the barrage of tears, ❝ An' I didn' go through all this shit ta keep ya safe, only ta make yer life a Double Hell... ❞ Emotions clouding his judgement and forcing his words, Angel doesn't notice his slip of the tongue. ❝ So, fine. I'll fuck off an' leave ya alone... Fer good now. ❞ No more hate-fucking. No more forgetting in the moment. No more playing pretend in the softness of the afterglow. No more clinging to the rare moments when things are unexpectedly soft the entire way through...

No more hopes lifted when things are soft even WITHOUT sex, only for them to come crashing back down when reality shows itself again. 「 ☆ 」

[galaxydrcaming]

@lcnelylcves

Frankie didn't think most of the demigods understood the twins. They were broken in a way that few others were, broken long before they got to camp. And Frankie didn't see that as a problem. Their jagged edges were who they were. "I only know all of Luke's whining over you, that's true. But you don't know me either, thinking I give a shit about the logical decision. Bitch wants to hurt one of the few people I really care about, I think that's a good enough excuse for stabbing someone, and no one ever lets me stab people." Rolling her eyes, Frankie drew out a knife, flipping it in her hands to play with it. "Go tell Luke, maybe he'll do it properly this time." No, Frankie didn't mean it, but she always spoke harshly. It wasn't to be cruel, despite what people thought of her. While she was certainly capable of it, she always preferred a more violent cruelty. Her words were just casual to her, a product of her hard upbringing. Nodding once when Annabeth said she'll take her up on it eventually, Frankie knew there was no point in talking more about it. "I agree on the fuck Hera thing, babe. But they all suck. It's not their fault. Everyone's selfish and shitty, the gods just have more power to be extra shitty. And parents are always shitty to their kids, so that just double downs on it."

"It's not like I want him whining over me." She mumbles, having made a face at the comment as Annabeth sighs and drags a hand over her face. "I'm just pointing it out, doesn't matter if you care or not." Annabeth says as she puts her hands up. "Hey, I'm not going to defend those assholes after one of them stabbed me, but stabbing monsters is different than stabbing a mortal, even if they deserve it." She glares over at her at the next words but chooses to ignore it instead, knowing that it'll just start up another argument. "I'm a little surprised that you don't think it's their fault that they're so shitty, and despite not having the best of examples, not all parents can be shitty, god or mortal wise."