#cold-weather hazards

[bongreviewbd]

Why Your Tongue Sticks to a Metal Pole in Winter and How to Free It

In winter, some people, either playfully or unknowingly, stick their tongue to a metal pole, which can be dangerous. However, not everyone understands the scientific reasons behind it. In this article, we will explore why the tongue sticks to metal, the science behind it, and how to free yourself from this situation.

Scientific Reasons Behind Tongue Sticking to a Metal Pole in Winter

During winter, the air is dry and cold, and metal poles cool down quickly. When you touch a cold metal surface with your warm, moist tongue, the saliva on your tongue freezes almost instantly. This happens because the metal pole absorbs heat from your tongue so quickly that your body cannot replace the heat fast enough.

The saliva on your tongue quickly turns to ice, which causes your tongue to get stuck to the metal. This is not only uncomfortable but can also harm your tongue if you don't take immediate and proper action.

How to Free Your Tongue if It Gets Stuck

If your tongue gets stuck to a metal pole, don't panic. A simple solution is to use warm water or any other liquid. By pouring warm water between the metal and your tongue, the frozen saliva will gradually melt, and you can easily free your tongue. However, make sure not to use excessively hot water, as it can burn your tongue.

How to Prevent Your Tongue From Getting Stuck to a Metal Pole

Stay Cautious: Never place your tongue on any metal object during winter, not even as a joke.

Educate Children: Children may be curious about this phenomenon, so it's important to make them aware of the dangers.

Avoid Metal Objects: During winter, avoid touching outdoor metal objects like poles and railings, as they cool down rapidly and have a high capacity to absorb heat.

Conclusion

Sticking your tongue to a metal pole in winter is a hazardous situation. It primarily happens when your warm, moist tongue touches cold metal, and the metal quickly absorbs the heat from your tongue, causing the saliva to freeze. To avoid such situations, it’s essential to stay cautious. However, if it does happen, using warm water or liquid to melt the ice can help you free your tongue. Staying calm and taking quick, proper action can save you from injury.

Watch More: Why Are There No Great White Sharks in Any Aquarium?

Tags: metal pole in winter, tongue sticking, winter dangers, tongue stuck to metal, winter hazards, cold metal, metal heat absorption, winter metal pole dangers, tongue freezing, saliva freezing, winter safety, metal pole and tongue, tongue stuck to metal what to do, freezing metal in winter, heat absorption in cold metal, tongue freezing in winter, cold weather safety, preventing tongue sticking, dangers of cold metal, tongue stuck in winter

[always-a-slut-4-ghouls]

Even if someone HATES wearing like, any mask, you’ve gotta admit. Nice thicker fabric ones are great in winter. A mask, hat, and scarf are way more comfortable going to the store than either a naked face or a balaclava. If nothing else then you have to admit that it’s less awkward and stifling in public (you can take off the scarf and or hat and be less hot! Not the entire fucking thing! And if you’ve got a lot of hair, like me, you can let that do whatever) and way warmer than nothing. Even if you hate everyone else and don’t believe in covid, it feels way better than nothing when it’s-20 degrees Fahrenheit and windy outside! Especially in dry cold!

[natsaffection]

Redline. (Bonus) | N.R

Older!Motorsportboss!Natasha x Younger!Racing!Driver!Reader

Warnings: Age gap (N= 32, r=23), Fluff, Fluff, Fluff, 18+! MINORS DNI! (Fingering, begging, strap on use (r receiving), rough, overstimulation)

Word count: 7,4k

A/N: First side chapter! I hope the connections work well because this one includes five requests in one…so fingers crossed 🫶🏼

Thick sheets of water poured from the sky, turning the track into a hazardous mess. The FIA had delayed the start once, then twice, and now, the red flag was officially out before the race had even begun.

Cars sat motionless in the pit lane, engines off, tires cold, drivers waiting. The mechanics lingered by the garage doors, their radios crackling with updates from race control, but everyone already knew the truth.

The race wasn’t happening. Not now. The downpour was relentless. And that left you waiting. Your mind had been running through every possible scenario, memorizing every corner of the track, picturing every overtaking opportunity. And now? Now you were sitting in the garage, watching nothing happen.

The delay meant everything was on hold. No formation lap. No lights out. No adrenaline. Just the sound of rain hammering against the roof and the distant, muffled voices of team members discussing if the race would even start today.

You sighed, rubbing your temples. Your body was tense, your mind restless. You needed to shut it off. With a quiet huff, you grabbed your headphones, untangling the cord with slightly trembling fingers. You needed music, something to settle your nerves. Something to drown out the endless waiting.

That’s when you noticed it. A black jacket was draped over a chair nearby, thick and warm-looking. Without a second thought, you grabbed it. The moment you wrapped it around yourself, a familiar scent surrounded you. Leather. The faintest trace of expensive perfume.

And Natasha.

You sank further into your seat, pulling the collar up, breathing it in, letting the weight of it calm you. It was warm. Safe. Comforting. And before you knew it, you were out. The exhaustion won. Headphones still playing softly in your ears, Natasha’s jacket wrapped around you, you slipped into sleep.

Natasha had just finished arguing with race control, demanding to know when an actual decision would be made. The waiting was killing her. Everything had been meticulously planned for today. She had planned for weather strategy, tire strategy, race pace, everything, but not this. Not sitting in the garage for hours, staring at a rain-soaked track, waiting for the FIA to make a call.

Her body was cold, the wind seeping into the open garage, and her frustration grew. She needed her damn jacket. She walked toward the chair where she had left it earlier. Except..it wasn’t there. Instead, another jacket was draped over the back. She sighed and grabbed it. Only the moment her fingers curled around the fabric, she froze.

The scent hit her instantly. It wasn’t hers. It was yours. She clenched the jacket tighter, bringing it closer as if to confirm it. Yeah. It was yours.

And now, for some reason, it smelled like you and only you. Natasha’s lips parted slightly, her pulse kicking up just a little. It was a ridiculous, pathetic reaction, and she knew it. But God..she liked it. The idea that something of yours smelled like you. That you had worn it, had made it yours, had left a piece of yourself in the fabric.

She exhaled sharply, trying to shake herself free of the ridiculous warmth spreading through her chest. What the hell was wrong with her? She cleared her throat and looked around, until she found you. Curled up in the corner of the garage, head tilted slightly, lips parted, headphones still playing faintly.

And wrapped around you, her jacket. She had seen you in hundreds of moments. On the track, at press conferences, in the paddock, in her home, in her arms, but never like this.

Never this soft. Never this unguarded. And wearing her jacket like it belonged to you. Something deep in her chest tightened. It was undeniably, disgustingly adorable.

“Oh my God.” Yelena’s voice shattered the moment. Natasha sighed. Here we go. Yelena stepped beside her, arms crossed, grinning like she had just found the best gossip of the year.

“Are you seeing this?” she whispered dramatically. “Is this what love looks like?”

Natasha rolled her eyes. “Shut up, Yelena.”

“No, no, no..I’m serious! Look at her!” Yelena gestured wildly toward you. “That’s the most adorable thing I’ve ever seen in my life. She’s literally cuddling your jacket. Like a lost puppy.”

Natasha huffed, shaking her head. She refused to entertain this conversation. “She was tired. Let her rest.” She turned back toward you. You were still sleeping, still curled into the warmth, still completely oblivious to the two Romanoff sisters staring at you.

And before she could stop herself, Natasha stepped forward. She crouched down next to you, carefully, silently, watching you breathe. The jacket had slipped slightly from your shoulders.

She adjusted it without thinking, tucking it back around you so you wouldn’t get cold. Yelena let out an exaggerated sigh behind her. “If this isn’t love, I don’t know what is.”

Natasha shot her a glare that could kill. Yelena grinned. Natasha shook her head. And then, she let you rest. Because, for once, you looked peaceful. And she wasn’t going to take that from you.

A few hours later, you woke up slowly. For a moment, the world felt muffled, the low hum of voices in the background, the occasional sound of footsteps against wet pavement, the ever-present drumming of rain against the garage roof.

With a quiet sigh, you pulled off your headphones and rubbed your eyes, blinking against the dim lighting of the garage. Most of the crew was still huddled around monitors, waiting for updates from race control, but no one seemed particularly hopeful.

You needed to move. Still wrapped in Natasha’s jacket, you pulled yourself out of the chair, rolling your stiff shoulders. Your legs ached from sitting too long, your body craving motion.

So you started walking. The paddock was quieter than usual. Drivers, engineers, and team members were scattered across the grid, waiting for an update that refused to come.

As you strolled past one of the hospitality lounges, you spotted a group of drivers gathered, laughing and joking like schoolkids on a rainy day. They saw you approaching and immediately smirked.

“Ah, look who finally decided to grace us with their presence.”

You rolled your eyes playfully. “I was literally asleep for like an hour. What’s the big deal?”

“Oh, nothing.” A driver grinned. “Just that you were knocked out in Romanoff’s garage, wrapped in her jacket like a baby bear in hibernation.”

Laughter erupted around you. You felt your cheeks warm slightly but kept your expression neutral. “You’re all obsessed with me. It’s embarrassing, really.”

Another driver raised an eyebrow. “No, we’re obsessed with the fact that you’re basically the only person who’s ever tamed Natasha Romanoff.”

You scoffed. “Tamed? Please.”

“Admit it.” A driver smirked. “She lets you get away with things no one else could.”

You shrugged, playing it cool. “I wouldn’t say that.”

“Really?” Another driver tilted his head. “Because last time I saw, she didn’t even let her engineers breathe wrong during race briefings, but when you interrupt her? She just sighs like you’re a mild inconvenience.”

The group chuckled. “Yeah, like a cat knocking things over and the owner just accepts their fate.”

You pretended to think about it. “Hmm. Maybe I’m just her favorite..”

A few of them groaned playfully. “Unfair.”

“Okay, but seriously,” one of them leaned in. “How is it? Dating your boss?”

You paused for a second, feeling the weight of the question. How was it? It was Natasha grilling you in strategy meetings, pushing you harder than anyone else, expecting nothing less than perfection. It was also Natasha leaving extra food in the fridge for you after late-night training, bringing you coffee exactly how you liked it, running her fingers through your hair when no one was watching.

You exhaled, shrugging. “She’s…Natasha.”

The group groaned. “Oh, come on, give us something!”

You smirked. “I don’t kiss and tell.”

“Oh, but you do kiss?” One of them grinned.

You laughed, shaking your head. “You guys are worse than the media.”

“We just want to know if she’s as terrifying off-track as she is on.”

You thought about it for a moment before smirking. “I’ll let you wonder.”

Groans filled the air again as a few of them shoved you lightly.

“You’re no fun.”

“Oh, I’m plenty fun.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever, Romanoff’s favorite.”

Just as you were about to tease them back, a voice crackled through a nearby intercom.

“Y/l/n.”

You froze. You didn’t even need to see the name attached to the comm. That voice alone was unmistakable.

The drivers around you all stiffened slightly, exchanging glances. You grabbed a spare earpiece, clicking the receiver. “Yeah?”

A beat of silence. Then, Natasha’s low, firm, unmistakably authoritative voice came through. “Where are you?”

Your stomach flipped. You cleared your throat. “Just walking around.”

“Come back to the garage.” A few of the drivers grinned.

“Ooooh.”

“She’s summoning you.”

“Better go before she sends a search party.”

You shot them a glare. “You guys are ridiculous.”

A driver smirked. “We’re not the ones being personally requested by Natasha Romanoff.”

You sighed, shaking your head but unable to hide the small smile on your lips. “I’ll catch you guys later.”

As you walked off, you heard one last parting joke from behind you. “Tell your girlfriend we said hi!”

You didn’t turn around. But as you entered the garage and saw Natasha waiting, arms crossed, green eyes locked on you like she had been tracking you the entire time, you couldn’t stop the warmth from spreading through your chest.

You barely had time to process before Natasha uncrossed her arms and tilted her head ever so slightly, her lips curling into an amused smirk. “Comfortable?”

Your brows furrowed. “Huh?”

She gestured toward you with a lazy flick of her fingers. More specifically, toward her jacket. The one still wrapped snugly around your body. Your stomach dropped as you glanced down, realizing exactly what she meant. Shit.

You had completely forgotten you were still wearing it. Before you could even attempt to play it off, Natasha took a slow, measured step forward.

“That’s mine.” Her voice was low, almost teasing, but there was something else in her tone, something that sent a shiver down your spine.

You cleared your throat, shifting on your feet. “Uh… it was cold?”

Natasha hummed, clearly enjoying this. “So, what? You just decided to steal my jacket?”

You crossed your arms, trying to regain some level of control in this conversation. “You weren’t using it.”

Natasha raised an eyebrow, stepping even closer. “That doesn’t mean it’s yours.”

You met her gaze, refusing to back down. “Finders, keepers.”

The smirk on her lips widened. “Is that how we’re playing this?”

Your heart skipped when she reached for the collar of the jacket, tugging it just slightly, just enough to make you stumble a step closer.

Your breath hitched. “Maybe.”

Natasha studied you for a long moment, her fingers still curled around the edge of the fabric. Then, before you could process what was happening, she tugged again. This time, harder.

You yelped as she used the leverage to pull you flush against her, your chests nearly touching. Your hands instinctively shot up, gripping onto the jacket as she hovered way too close, her breath fanning against your cheek.

Her voice dipped into dangerously low territory. “You look good in my clothes, detka.”

Your stomach flipped. Your mouth opened, but no sound came out. Natasha’s smirk deepened, clearly satisfied with herself.

Then, as if nothing had just happened, she released you. You stumbled backward slightly, heart hammering, your brain still trying to catch up with what the hell that was. And then she delivered the second bombshell.

“The race is canceled.”

You blinked. “Wait, what?”

Natasha leaned against the workbench, arms crossed again, completely unfazed. “The FIA just called it off.”

Your stomach twisted. “They did?”

Natasha nodded. “The storm is only getting worse. No point in waiting it out.”

You ran a hand through your hair, exhaling sharply. “So… we just go home?”

Natasha shrugged. “Unless you’d rather sleep in the garage.”

You shot her a look, but she was already grabbing her things, clearly ready to leave.

She paused by the exit, glancing over her shoulder at you.

“Are you coming?”

The car hummed steadily, the open road stretching out ahead as the last remnants of daylight cast golden streaks across the sky.

You sat in the passenger seat, one leg tucked under you, absentmindedly playing with the zipper of her jacket.

Natasha, on the other hand, was completely at ease, one hand resting on the wheel, the other lazily draped over the gear shift.

You sighed, stretching slightly. “The new car is nice.”

Natasha smirked slightly, glancing at you. “Yeah?”

“Yes.” You ran your fingers over the leather seat. “Sturdy. Strong. Feels…reliable.”

“That’s the point, dorogoy (sweetheart)”.”

You hummed, pretending to consider something. “I bet you could do all sorts of things with a car like this.”

Natasha’s fingers tapped idly against the wheel. “Like?”

You hesitated for half a second before shrugging, trying to sound casual.

“I don’t know,” you muttered, staring out the window. “Like… maybe someone could get bent over the hood or something, Ha! imagine..”

Silence. You immediately regretted it. You could feel Natasha’s eyes flick toward you, even if just for a second. You swallowed. “That was just a thought-”

“Huh.” she mused, way too relaxed, way too amused. “Interesting idea.”

Your face flushed instantly. “Forget I said anything.”

“Oh, absolutely not.”

“Natasha-”

“No, no, I think you were onto something.”

You groaned loudly, covering your face. “I WAS JOKING!”

“Mhm.”

You peeked at her through your fingers, her smirk now fully intact, her eyes practically glinting with mischief.

“You think about that a lot, huh?” she teased.

“Oh my god!”

“Aerodynamics. Can’t have too much wind resistance.” she mused, completely ignoring you.

“I hate you so much right now.”

“Do you?” she smirked. “Because I think you’re flustered, sweetheart.”

You whined, hiding your face in your hands. “I AM NEVER SPEAKING AGAIN.”

“Shame.” Natasha exhaled through her nose, smirking. “Because now I really want to see what happens when you win the next race.”

Your head snapped up. “What?!!”

“Win the next race..” she said, completely nonchalant, eyes on the road. “And maybe we’ll see just how sturdy this car really is.”

Your brain short-circuited. “I-”

Natasha just smirked wider, shifting gears effortlessly. “What’s wrong, baby?” she teased, glancing at you. “You were just joking, right?”

You whimpered, staring at her. And Natasha? She just kept driving. Like she hadn’t just ruined you completely.

——

The moment she stepped in her garage, days later, she halted. There, in the middle of the garage floor, was a group of mechanics, all hunched over, intensely focused on something.

Natasha narrowed her eyes, stepping closer. It took her a second to register what the hell was happening. They were racing toy cars.

Tiny remote-controlled cars zoomed across the floor, weaving through obstacles made from spare parts and stacked tires. The mechanics were completely absorbed, cheering each other on, and right in the middle of it..

You.

You were crouched low, gripping a tiny controller, your eyes locked on the miniature car speeding ahead of the others. Natasha stared. Before she could say anything, one of the mechanics spotted her.

“Shit, boss is here!” Instantly, the whole group scattered like guilty schoolchildren. Some grabbed tools, pretending to be busy. Others straightened up, wiping their hands on their uniforms. One guy even picked up a clipboard and nodded like he was taking notes.

Natasha arched an eyebrow, watching them all awkwardly shuffle away. Then, her gaze landed on you. You hadn’t moved. Instead, you were grinning.

Natasha exhaled, crossing her arms. “Really?”

You shrugged. “We had time.”

Her lips twitched, but she didn’t let the smirk form. “And this is what you do with it?”

You held up a spare controller, wiggling it between your fingers. “Wanna play?”

Natasha deadpanned. Silence. “No.”

You just kept grinning. “Scared you’ll lose?”

Natasha narrowed her eyes. You smirked. Checkmate. With an exasperated sigh, she snatched the controller from your hand. You tried to hide your excitement but failed miserably.

The game was on and fifteen minutes later…Natasha Romanoff, feared Team Principal, was fully immersed in a miniature race. Her forehead creased in concentration, fingers pressing the buttons with sharp precision, eyes locked on the tiny red car speeding ahead.

“What?”

Your car cut her off perfectly, sliding into the lead. You let out a victorious laugh, flashing her a smirk. “Too slow..”

Natasha gritted her teeth, her competitive instincts fully kicking in. “Oh, you little-”

She pressed forward aggressively, maneuvering her car with flawless skill. The mechanics, who had initially tried to get back to work, were now casually watching from a distance, whispering bets on who would win.

Natasha was determined. She lined up the perfect overtake, waiting for the exact moment to strike. Then..Her car clipped yours. Spun out. Crashed and stopped. You burst out laughing. “DID YOU JUST TAKE YOURSELF OUT?!”

Natasha blinked. Then she stared at the tiny car, still flipped on its side. She exhaled slowly. She dropped the controller onto the table, turned on her heel, and walked away. Not a word. Just pure, silent, defeated dignity.

You called after her, still laughing. “C’mon, I’ll give you a rematch!”

Natasha didn’t look back. But as she reached the door, you caught it. The tiny, amused smirk pulling at her lips. Minutes later you were still grinning like an idiot when your phone buzzed.

Meet me outside the garage. Now.

Your smirk widened. Curious, you stretched, cracking your knuckles before making your way toward the exit. The pit lane was quieter now, most of the team either finishing up for the night or handling last-minute checks. The evening air was cool against your skin as you stepped outside..

Two cars. Both engines purring, sleek and ready. You knew instantly what this was. Natasha stood beside one of them, arms crossed, that signature smug, unreadable expression on her face. But her eyes, her eyes gave it away.

She wanted a rematch. Your mind flashed back.. Back to the moment everything had started. Back when you were lost, broken, hesitant to even step into a car again. Back when Natasha had stood in front of you, unapologetically blunt, pushing you, challenging you.

“Race me.”

And now? She was doing it again. You exhaled slowly, heart pounding with a mix of excitement and anticipation. Natasha raised an eyebrow, the corner of her lips twitching. “You just gonna stand there? Or are you actually gonna try to win this time?”

Your eyes flickered to the cars, fingers already itching to grab the wheel. A slow grin spread across your face. The cockpit felt smaller than usual. Or maybe it was just your nerves making the air feel heavier. Your hands gripped the wheel tightly as the lights overhead cast an artificial glow over the track. It was just a race. Just another challenge. But you weren’t going up against just anyone.

You were racing Natasha Romanoff. Your lover. Your mentor. Your damn boss. And worst of all? She was one of the best. A voice crackled through the radio. Her voice. “All set, sweetheart?”

Your stomach tightened. She only used that tone when she was either mocking you or about to ruin your day. You adjusted your gloves, clearing your throat. “You really don’t get tired of losing to me, huh?”

There was a short silence. A low chuckle through the radio. “Bold words from someone who used to be scared of getting back in a car.”

Your jaw clenched, but the teasing lilt in her voice told you she wasn’t trying to bring up the past to hurt you. No, she was pushing you.

Just like she always did. “Don’t hold back.” She continued, her voice dropping into something more serious. “I’ll know if you do.”

And she would. You exhaled slowly, steadying yourself. The track ahead was empty, quiet, waiting for the storm to begin.

“Three…Two…One…Go.”

Your tires screeched against the asphalt, the car lurching forward with an aggressive jolt. Your heart slammed against your ribs as the sheer force of acceleration pushed you deeper into your seat.

Natasha’s car was right there, pulling ahead as expected. Your fingers twitched. You knew she’d try to control the pace, make you react instead of setting the tempo. Typical Natasha..

But you had learned. You weren’t just following orders anymore. You shifted gears, pushing the throttle harder, and Natasha’s car loomed just ahead, her rear wing practically taunting you.

Her voice returned over the radio. “You’re awfully quiet back there. Getting nervous?”

Your lips curled into a smirk. “Wouldn’t want to hurt your ego too soon.”

Natasha let out a soft huff. “Cute.”

The first corner approached, and Natasha braked late, forcing a tight defensive line. You reacted instantly, shifting inside, but she covered it.

Of course she did. Her driving was calculated, ruthless, frustratingly efficient. You gritted your teeth, the familiar challenge igniting something in you. She wants me to play safe. To respect her lead. No chance in hell. The next set of corners came fast, left, right, hairpin..each a perfect opportunity. You faked a move to the outside, making her defend hard.

It worked. The instant she adjusted, you cut inside, braking later than you should have. Natasha realized it too late. Her car twitched, caught off guard. And then you were ahead. The rush hit you all at once. You overtook her. You overtook Natasha Romanoff.

Her silence over the radio was deafening. “…Huh.” Just that. No anger. No irritation. Just surprise. And that fueled you.

The adrenaline surged through your veins as you floored the throttle, pushing the car faster than you had all night. The next corner approached, a high-speed sweeper that demanded absolute precision.

You didn’t hesitate. You sent it. The car gripped perfectly, the g-force pinning you to the seat. It was exhilarating. The radio crackled again. “You’ve been holding out on me.”

Your breath was heavy, pulse erratic. “You told me not to.”

A short laugh. “I did.” Then her tone shifted. “Alright, Detka.”

A shiver ran down your spine. That was a challenge. And you knew, Natasha wasn’t holding back anymore. You barely had time to react before her car loomed in your mirrors, closing the gap with terrifying efficiency.

Your heart pounded against your ribs as you checked your mirrors, Natasha was right there. She wasn’t holding back anymore.

Her car was gaining, inch by inch, the headlights glaring in your mirrors like a predator stalking its prey. You swallowed hard, tightening your grip on the wheel as the track blurred past you.

You had her, for now. But Natasha wasn’t just any driver. She was calculated. She was ruthless. And worst of all? She was faster than you.

The next corner approached, a long, sweeping left-hander. You knew what she was about to do before she even did it. She dived inside, taking the more aggressive line, forcing you wide.

Shit. You had two options, fight her for the space and risk a collision or play smart and get her back on the next sector.

Your pulse spiked. This wasn’t a championship race. This wasn’t about points. This was about beating Natasha.

You feigned giving in, easing off the throttle just enough to let her pull ahead, just for a second. And that’s when you struck.

You tucked in behind her, riding her slipstream, your car practically glued to her rear wing. The second she cleared the turn, you darted right, flinging the car into the racing line before she could defend.

Natasha saw it, too late. She had to lift off the throttle for just a fraction of a second. And that was all you needed.You shot past her, taking back the lead with authority.

The radio crackled. “Y/n, Y/n...”

You grinned. “Takes one to know one.”

A sharp laugh from her end. But then, a shift. Her tone dropped, lower now. “Alright, baby. No more playing nice.”

A chill ran down your spine. And then she was gone. Or rather, she was everywhere. Natasha went from defensive to absolute attack mode. Her car was flawless, her aggression relentless.

Every corner you took, she was there. Every straight, she gained. She was forcing you into mistakes. And worse? It was working.

You felt your rear tires struggle for grip, just barely keeping traction as you fought to maintain control. Your breathing was ragged. Your fingers twitched.

She was pushing you to the edge. And yet, you loved it. The thrill, the chase, the sheer intensity of it all. This was what racing felt like. This was what you lived for.

Your body burned with adrenaline as the final sector approached. Three more corners. One chance.. You threw the car into the braking zone, the tires screeching under the force. Natasha was right behind you, just waiting for you to slip. The exit was critical. You braced yourself, prepared for one last push, but then, she was gone.

You blinked. Checked your mirrors. Nothing. Your radio crackled. “Checkmate, detka.”

Your stomach dropped. You snapped forward, eyes widening as you saw it, Natasha had switched her line. She had let you overcommit to the inside. And now..She had the perfect exit. Her car shot forward like a bullet, flying past you before you could even react.

The finish line loomed ahead. She was too far ahead. You gritted your teeth, pushing with everything you had, but it wasn’t enough. Natasha crossed the line first.

You slammed your hands against the wheel, frustration and admiration mixing into a wild, heated mess inside your chest. The radio crackled again. “You’re fast.”

You exhaled, jaw clenched.

“But I’m faster.”

Your breathing was erratic, your pulse hammering. You had lost. But God, you had never felt so alive. You pulled into the pit lane, your hands still shaking as you climbed out of the car. Before you could even process what had just happened, Natasha was already there.

Leaning against her car. Arms crossed. Smirking. Smug. Smug as hell. You pulled off your helmet, your hair a mess, sweat dripping down your forehead.

Natasha tilted her head. “Not bad, rookie.”

You glared. “Rookie!?”

She pushed off the car, stepping closer. Too close. Your breath hitched as she lifted a gloved hand, tracing her fingers lightly along your jaw.

“You’re getting better.”

Your pulse spiked. Her gaze was intense, heavy, scorching. Your lips parted, your voice barely a whisper. “You planned that the whole time.”

She smirked. “Maybe.”

You narrowed your eyes. “I hate you.”

A dark chuckle. “No, you don’t.”

And then, she leaned in, her lips brushing against yours, just barely, just enough to make your knees weaken. Your breath hitched. Natasha smirked against your mouth, her voice dropping into a dangerous whisper.

“Now let’s go insid. I’m not done winning tonight.”

The couch was warm beneath you, the soft hum of the TV in the background a comforting buzz. Natasha was next to you, arm draped lazily along the back of the couch. Close enough that the heat of her body soaked into yours, her fingers grazing your shoulder absentmindedly.

Because somewhere between laughter and quiet conversation, her hands had found your skin. And yours had found hers. You were straddling her lap now, your fingers tracing the sharp lines of her jaw, her strong shoulders, while her hands roamed lower, gripping your hips, fingertips teasing the hem of your shirt.

You sighed into the kiss, letting her pull you closer, heat building, slow and intoxicating. Then, Natasha shifted. Her fingers dipped beneath the fabric, slowly pushing your shirt upward. Your breath hitched. And before you even registered it, your body tensed.

Natasha noticed immediately. Her hands stilled. Her lips hovered over yours, her green eyes flickering with something unreadable as she pulled back just enough to study you.

Her brows furrowed. “What’s wrong?”

Your pulse hammered. The words sat heavy in your throat. You didn’t know how to say it. But Natasha could read you too damn well. And in that moment, her eyes darkened. Her hands slowly lowered from your shirt, like she thought she had done something wrong.

Her voice dropped to a whisper, softer this time. “Did I..Did I push too fast?”

The uncertainty in her tone made something twist painfully in your chest. She thought you were rejecting her. You immediately shook your head, reaching for her hand, gripping it tightly. “No, Nat. No, it’s not that.”

Her gaze searched yours. “Then what is it?”

You exhaled slowly, trying to steady yourself. Your fingers fidgeted with the hem of your own shirt, your breath uneven as you finally forced yourself to say it. “We’ve never..never done this in the light before.”

Natasha blinked. You could tell the words caught her off guard. Her grip on you softened. “What do you mean?”

You bit your lip, looking away for a second before murmuring, “I don’t… I don’t like showing my back, Nat..”

Natasha understood immediately. She was quiet for a moment, her gaze unwavering. Then, carefully, she lifted one hand, tracing the back of her knuckles along your arm in a slow, soothing motion.

“Why?” Your throat tightened. “Because I hate it.” Your voice was quiet, raw. “It..it reminds me of everything. The crash, the pain, the months.. It’s ugly, Natasha.” Your voice cracked, barely above a whisper now.

Natasha exhaled slowly. Not in frustration, not in impatience, but in understanding. Her hands moved carefully now, not under your shirt, not near your back, but to your face. She cupped your cheeks, her thumbs brushing over your skin in slow, deliberate strokes.

“You think I would see you any differently?” she murmured. You didn’t answer. Because part of you did. Part of you thought she would look at you and see it first.

See the damage before she saw you. Natasha must have sensed it, because her grip tightened slightly, grounding. “Y/n,” she said, voice steady, certain. “There is nothing ugly about you.”

Your chest ached. You tried to look away, but she didn’t let you. Her thumbs brushed over your jaw, tipping your chin slightly, forcing you to meet her gaze.

She was so damn close now. Close enough that you could see the sincerity in her expression, the unwavering truth in her eyes.

“I love you.” she whispered. “All of you.”

She let her fingers trail down now, still slow, still careful. She traced your collarbone, the curve of your shoulder, then skimmed her fingers over your waist, but she never pushed. Never forced.

You realized then. She was waiting. She was waiting for you to make the next move. Your heartbeat pounded. And then, finally..you moved. Your hands trembled slightly, but you reached down, gripping the hem of your shirt.

Slowly, you lifted it. The scar, raised and jagged, stretched along your lower back, a permanent reminder of the crash that nearly took everything. You couldn’t look at her. You stared at the wall, waiting for something, anything.

Then, she touched you. Not in fear. Not in hesitation. But with reverence. Her fingers ghosted over the scar, tracing it so softly it almost tickled. You shivered. And then, her lips. She pressed a soft, lingering kiss right above the scar.

Your breath shuddered. Natasha pulled back just enough for her voice to reach you. “This?” she murmured, her fingers still tracing lightly. “This is a part of you.”

She leaned forward, her lips brushing against your shoulder now, then up along your neck, whispering against your skin.

“And I love every single part of you.”

Something inside you broke. The walls, the self-loathing, the years of hating that part of yourself, it all cracked under the weight of her words. You exhaled shakily, leaning forward, pressing yourself into her. She didn’t hesitate. She held you. Not just in a way that meant comfort. But in a way that meant everything.

For a moment, you just stayed there, pressed against Natasha, her arms wrapped securely around you. You felt the shift before she even spoke, the way her body relaxed slightly, the tension from earlier bleeding away into something softer, something unspoken but understood.

And yet… you couldn’t ignore it. The atmosphere had changed. It wasn’t bad, not uncomfortable, but the weight of what just happened still lingered in the air. You pulled back slightly, just enough to see her face. Natasha’s hands remained steady on your waist, holding you in place, anchoring you.

You bit your lip, hesitating before you spoke. “…I’m sorry.”

Her brows furrowed immediately. “What?”

You exhaled, feeling foolish. “I just..” You glanced away, rubbing at your arm. “It felt like I ruined the moment.”

Natasha was silent for a beat. Then, suddenly, she laughed. It wasn’t mocking. It wasn’t dismissive. It was soft. Amused. Fond. You blinked up at her, confused. “What’s so funny?”

She shook her head slightly, still smiling. “You think I need sex all the time?”

Your face heated instantly. “No, that’s not what I-”

Her fingers curled under your chin, gently tilting your face back up.

“I don’t need anything from you, Y/n.” she murmured. “Not tonight. Not every night.” Her thumb brushed over your jaw, tender and deliberate. “You’re mine, with or without that.”

Her eyes were softer now, not demanding, not teasing, just full of something deeper. Something that settled inside you. You exhaled, finally allowing yourself to relax, your forehead dropping to rest against hers. “…I love you.” The words were quiet, but certain.

Natasha’s fingers tightened slightly on your waist, like she was holding on just a little harder. “I know.”

You smiled, rolling your eyes. “Say it back.”

She smirked, tilting her head. “I love you.”

There was a gentleness in the way she said it, a sincerity that made warmth bloom in your chest. Then, suddenly, she shifted, lifting you effortlessly as she stood up.

“W-What are you-”

“Movie night.” She declared it like it was final, carrying you toward her room as if you weighed nothing.

You huffed. “I can walk, you know.”

“I know.” she replied, grinning as she dropped you onto the bed. “But this is more fun.”

You shot her a look, but the amusement in her eyes was infectious, and you couldn’t help but smile. Natasha grabbed a blanket, throwing it over both of you before settling in beside you. You instinctively leaned into her, her arms finding you again, pulling you close.

“Alright.” she murmured. “Pick a movie.”

You tilted your head. “You pick.”

Natasha hummed in thought before flicking through the options. “What about something mindless?”

You scoffed. “You mean an action movie?”

She smirked. “Obviously.”

You rolled your eyes but didn’t argue. You just let yourself relax into her, feeling her warmth, feeling safe. The movie started, but neither of you were really watching. She ran her fingers through your hair absentmindedly, and you sighed, eyes fluttering shut. Maybe another night, you’d continue what had been interrupted. But for now, this was enough. Just her. Just you.

1 Week later, your team had cheered, cameras had flashed, hands had clapped against your back in congratulations. You had done it. You won the race. And somewhere between the press interviews and the champagne-drenched celebration, you’d completely forgotten the joke you had made in Natasha’s car just days before.

The drive after your victory had been smooth, quiet, almost too quiet. Natasha sat behind the wheel, calm, unreadable, in control. You were too exhausted to question it, your body still buzzing from the race, your muscles sore, adrenaline still wearing off.

So when the car slowed, pulling off to the side of a dimly lit stretch of road, you barely blinked. It wasn’t until she put it in park and exhaled slowly that you finally looked at her.

“Something wrong?”

Natasha hummed, tapping her fingers against the wheel. “Feels like something’s off with the car.”

Your mechanic instincts kicked in instantly. “Want me to check?”

She smirked, already stepping out. You followed, stretching slightly as you stepped into the warm night air. She stood in front of the hood, lifting it slightly, pretending to inspect something. You sighed, rolling your eyes. “Nat, I used to be a mechanic, let me-”

Before you could finish, she turned to face you fully, smirking. “Actually, sit up here for a second.”

Your brows furrowed. “What?”

She patted the hood. “Come on.”

Something about the way she said it sent a shiver through you. But you didn’t argue. Didn’t question it. You pushed yourself up, perching on the warm metal, your legs instinctively parting slightly for balance.

Natasha stepped forward, standing between them. “You really forgot, didn’t you?” she murmured, tilting her head slightly.

Your stomach flipped. “Forgot what?” you asked, trying to keep your voice steady.

Natasha chuckled. Her fingers trailing up your thigh, pressing just enough to make your breath hitch.

“You won.” she murmured, voice smooth, controlled. “Which means…I get to keep my promise.” You blinked. And then it hit you. The joke. The stupid, stupid joke.

“Win the next race..and maybe we’ll see just how sturdy this car really is”

Your mouth went dry. “Oh..” you breathed, barely a whisper. Natasha hummed, her smirk deepening. “Oh.”

And then, her hand slipped between your legs. You gasped the second she pressed against you, her fingers teasing, exploring, but not giving. Your knees weakened, your fingers gripping the edge of the seat. “N-Natasha-”

“Shh, sweetheart.” she murmured, her breath warm against your jaw, your pulse. “Relax.”

Her fingers brushed over you again, slow, testing, cruel. “Fuck..!”

“You like this, huh?” she whispered, dragging her lips along your throat, her pace still unhurried. “I haven’t even started yet.”

Your hips shifted involuntarily, chasing friction, chasing anything. Natasha chuckled, her grip tightening, keeping you exactly where she wanted.

“So desperate already.” she murmured, pressing a kiss just below your ear. “Thought this was just a joke?”

“I-I don’t-f-fuck..” Her fingers pushed inside you, slow, deep, devastating. Your head tilted back, a gasp breaking past your lips.

“That’s it..” Natasha groaned, her pace still infuriatingly controlled. “Take it.”

You were trembling, your legs weak, your body burning up. She moved with purpose, her fingers curling, pushing you closer and closer to the edge. Your moans cracked, your hands gripping onto her. “g-god-”

“Come for me, baby..” she whispered, commanding, knowing. “Right here. Right now.”

And fuck. You shattered. Your body arched, a wrecked moan breaking past your lips as you came undone in her hands. Natasha groaned, watching you fall apart, watching you completely lose yourself. But she wasn’t done. Not yet.

You barely had time to recover before Natasha was pulling you in, kissing you deep, slow, consuming. Her hands were everywhere, gripping your hips, your waist, your thighs, keeping you close, keeping you grounded.

You whimpered against her mouth, your body still shaking, oversensitive. And then..You felt it. A bulge. Hard. Firm. Pressing against your inner thigh. Your breath hitched, your body tensing slightly. And Natasha? She felt you freeze.

And she smirked. “Finally noticed?”

Your eyes widened, your brain catching up to what your body had already felt. She’d been wearing it. The entire time. The entire fucking drive.

“You..”

She chuckled, low, dark, amused. “What’s wrong, baby?” she murmured, tilting your chin up, forcing you to meet her gaze.

“You were so eager to be fucked on this car.”

Her hands trailed lower, gripping your hips. “So let’s see if you can handle it and turn around.”

Her voice was low, steady, dripping with command. You blinked, chest rising and falling too fast, your mind spinning.

“Nat, I-”

“I said, turn around.”

You shuddered. And you did. Because you always fucking listened. Your palms pressed against the warm metal of the hood, your breath coming out uneven, shaky.

Natasha stood behind you, silent for a moment, just watching, just taking you in. Then, her hands slid over your waist, down your thighs, exploring, feeling, claiming.

“Look at you.” She murmured, dragging her lips down your neck, your spine. “So good for me.”

Her fingers hooked into your waistband, tugging your pants down slow, teasing, deliberate. The air kissed your bare skin, your body burning in contrast. You whimpered, hands gripping the car for stability.

“That’s right.” she cooed, lips pressing against your shoulder. “You’ve been running that mouth for days.”

Her hand came down on your ass, sharp, making you jolt. “Time to back it up.”

You barely had a second to brace yourself before Natasha grabbed your hips and pushed in.

“Oh, F-Fuck-!” Your moan cracked, your body arching, stretching, struggling to take all of her at once. Natasha groaned, fingers digging into your skin, giving you a second to adjust.

“Take it all..” She whispered, voice thick, heavy, possessive. Your fingers curled against the car hood, your body already trembling, already overwhelmed. And then, she moved. Slow, deep, devastating.

Your head dropped forward, a wrecked moan escaping your lips as she set the pace, dragging you back onto her cock with every thrust.

“Natasha!”

“Thought you wanted this?” she murmured, voice mocking, teasing, but laced with something darker. Her hand trailed up your back, pressing between your shoulder blades, forcing you down further, making you feel every inch of her.

“This is what you wanted, isn’t it?”

You whimpered, barely able to breathe, your body already so close, already so gone.

“Natasha..fuck—I..can’t..please..”

“Yes, you can.” she growled, thrusting deeper, rougher. “You’re gonna take everything I give you, baby.”

Your legs shook, pleasure burning through every nerve, your stomach tightening. Natasha could feel it, sense it, hear it in the way your moans turned into wrecked, breathless cries.

“Gonna come for me?” she whispered, her hand slipping between your thighs, rubbing tight circles over your clit.

“Fuck! fuck, Natasha!”

“Do it.”

And fuck- You did. Your moan cracked, your entire body convulsing against the car, your pleasure hitting you like a tidal wave. Natasha groaned at the sight of you, at the way you completely fell apart for her. And yet..she didn’t stop. The Moment You Realized you were screwed.

Your fingers curling against nothing, searching for something to grab onto. But there was nothing. Just Natasha’s hands on your hips, her strap deep inside you, her pace brutal, unforgiving.

“Na-!” Her fingers dug into your waist, keeping you perfectly still as she moved, dragging you onto her cock with every thrust.

“This is what you begged for.” she cooed, her breath hot against your spine.

You whimpered, your legs already trembling, the pleasure too much, too sharp, too overwhelming. “T-too much- fuuck…”

Natasha chuckled, her hand sliding up your back, pressing between your shoulder blades, forcing you down even further.

“Too much?” she repeated, mocking, amused. “Oh, sweetheart.” Her pace quickened, her movements sharper, deeper, taking you apart completely.

Your body was failing you. Your legs were shaking too hard, your breath ragged, broken. You couldn’t hold yourself up. You couldn’t think. Your mind was completely blank, completely fucked out. Your hands had no grip on reality, no grip on anything at all. So you stopped trying. You let go.

“Fuck, look at you.” Natasha groaned, feeling you go completely limp beneath her. You whimpered, eyes unfocused, your voice wrecked, weak.

“Ohh..” she whispered, pressing kisses against your spine. “You don’t have to do anything.”

Her grip tightened on your hips, her pace deep and devastating. “Just let me take care of you.”

And fuck, that broke you. “Come for me again, sweetheart.”

Natasha’s voice was soft, knowing, completely in control. “I know you can.”

Your body shook violently, pleasure ripping through you, your moan breaking into something wrecked, something wordless. Your vision blurred, your entire world reduced to nothing but the feeling of Natasha inside you.

She groaned, watching you shatter, feeling your body completely give in to her. “That’s my good girl.” she murmured, pressing kisses to your shoulder, to your jaw, to the corner of your lips.

Your breath came out in short, shaky gasps, your entire body completely spent, completely hers. And Natasha? She just smirked, her fingers trailing down your spine, grounding you.

“Not so funny now, huh?”

And fuck. You were never joking again.

-

-

-

-

[amdiriel]

lonely pt. 2

Azriel x fem!Archeron!reader

SUMMARY: After a vulnerable moment of comfort, Reader tries to navigate Azriel’s increasingly flirtatious behavior without assuming anything. Because she really shouldn’t. Right?

WARNINGS: FLUFF, slight suggestiveness, a bit of hurt but SO much comfort, not proofread we die like men

NOTE: thanks for so much love on part 1! I have some ideas for new Az fics, so lmk if you're interested in being on my Azriel taglist! xox diri

WORDS: ~4.2k

part 1 main masterlist

•••

It had been about a week and a half since my little breakdown in my room, my cycle coming and going just days after it. I attributed my moment of uncharacteristic hopelessness to hormones.

I hoped Azriel would too, since I had trouble fully looking him in the eye ever since out of embarrassment. After a night of deep rest post-letting-it-all-out, I woke the next morning to a spill of hindsight in my mind, grumbling at my ridiculousness into my pillow. Despite my cycle being a royal pain in my ass, it was a few days where I could hide safely in my room.

So the next few days, I was determined to be fine. I was great, living the dream, no worries here, wielding a grin and a dry joke as always.

The first day after my cycle ending, I wake up to blissful absence of pain in my abdomen, and treat myself to a long bath.

Afterwards, I take advantage of a brisk morning walk, the sunshine making the late winter weather less intolerably cold. I barely get two blocks from the River House before a shadow passes over my head.

I tilt my head back, squinting through the direct sunlight. Then the shadow descends at an alarmingly fast rate and touches down near-silently beside me. “Good morning,” Azriel murmurs.

I jump at his sudden appearance, the bubbling nervousness at his closeness making it more pronounced. “Shit—Azriel,” I gasp, calming myself with a breath. “What the hell?”

He chuckles lowly and nudges me slightly as he matches my resuming pace. “Sorry. Occupational hazard, I’m afraid,” he says, not sorry at all.

I huff and roll my eyes, even as my lips curl up as well. “I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. You need to wear a bell.” His laugh curls around me.

“I’m not sure it would go with my leathers,” he pretends to muse. “A collar would really ruin the effect of my scariness. Not to mention the whole point of being Spymaster.”

I snort, shaking my head. He nudges me again, drawing my gaze back up to him. I find his eyes warmly on me.

“I’m glad to see you out and about,” he says. “I was worried about you.”

I let the sweet words warm me for a quick moment before I huff a small laugh. “It’s my cycle, not sickness. I’m good.”

He shrugs. “Still. I know it’s much worse for you and your sisters now that you’re all fae. You handling them alright?”

My expression softens. “You’re sweet. I’m fine. I didn’t have much pain as a human, so I think as far as fae cycles go, my pain now is relatively mild. I mostly just don’t want to do anything,” I reply with a shrug of my own.

Azriel eyes me for a moment. “Alright. But you’ll let me know if you need anything, right? I haven’t forgotten about our agreement, you know,” he says with a sly smirk.

It takes a second for it to dawn, but soon a blush blooms on my face as I remember that night. I huff a sigh, finding it within me to laugh a little at myself. “So, what, you want me to come to you any time I have a problem?” I ask dryly.

A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Yes,” he answers plainly.

I give him a look. “Are you now our resident therapist too?” I deadpan. “Your resume’s long enough, Shadowsinger, you can take a pause every once in a while.”

He laughs again, shaking his head at me. “I may be busy, but never for you. Never for family,” he replies, and with such sincerity in his eyes that my steps falter for a moment.

Fuck. What happened to cool and collected, Archeron?

But I swallow and arch a brow. “Sweet. But you’re barely here enough to be able to do so for the many members of our ever-growing household,” I say, thinking about our nephew Nyx.

He shrugs a shoulder, his wings unfurling then furling in a subtle motion that catches my eye. I’d always found them fascinating. “Then how about this—I’ll never be too busy for you,” he says, a note saucily that my widened eyes turn upon his smirking face.

I grasp for words for a moment, and I see his eyes delight at my moment of hesitation. I shut my mouth and switch tactics, laughing. “Why Az, you are positively Rhys-like today.”

His brows raise, expression lighting in challenge. “Oh am I? Enlighten me, sweetheart.”

I bite hard on the inside of my cheek at that damned pet name again. This male just made it so bloody difficult to be dignified at all. I swear, every moment in his presence is a fight for my life. “You’re all—” I gesticulate over his person, “Swaggering. It’s unnerving. Please, for my sanity, resume your duties as our resident brooder. You’re putting me off.”

His head tilts back with a hearty laugh that startles me into astonishment. “Well, we wouldn’t want that, now would we?” he drawls, suddenly feeling like he’s looming over me.

Stupid, tree-like male.

I don’t reply except for a disbelieving huff at his forward behavior. His smirk is self satisfied as he halts, taking a step back with a sketch of a bow.

“You’ll have to resume your walk without me, Ms. Archeron,” he says, and I wrinkle my nose at the use of my surname. His smiling eyes rove over it, dipping to my lips before locking with my own gaze again. “Think you can manage?”

I scoff and manage to flip him off as his enormous wings unfurl and beat his figure into the air. His rumbling chuckle disappears as his shape grows smaller in the sky.

—

The following days, he wasn’t as blatantly swaggering, as I had called him, but he was…

Forward. Disarmingly so.

I couldn’t seem to avoid his presence if I tried, if merely to kick some sense back into myself. First it was the library—when I had settled into the cozy window seat, my usual perch, an hour into my reading, he had strode in his silent yet confident way of his. I had stilled, as if hoping he’d simply not notice me. Fool. He notices everything. And he certainly had wasted no time sidling up to my perch and leaning over to observe what I was reading. His warmth and masculine scent was a pleasant yet oppressive blanket to my poor sensibilities. And I barely survived when he had hummed “Any good?” practically into my ear.

Or there was lunchtime—I’d wander into the kitchen to make something quick and simple for myself, and when I walked into the dining room he’d be sitting there already, looking up with a small, unassuming smile. When he bade simply, “Sit with me”, I had no choice but to obey and eat with him. In my suspicion, I confess that I switched the times I went to get lunch by random intervals, in which each and every time he either was already there or showed up soon after.

I couldn’t tell if it just happened that way, or if he was being overly clever in his intentional variation.

Now, three weeks post-meltdown incident, Azriel had been gone a few days on Cauldron-knows-what business, so I’d loosened up, no longer bracing myself like he could walk into the room at any second.

Which is apparently my folly, since as soon as I round the corner into the dining room one morning, I found him standing at the sideboard, back toward me, making a cup of tea.

I halted, nearly rearing back as my mouth started to form the word shit, but quickly clamping it down. But even the smallest of noise alerts someone as discerning as him.

He turns and calls my name with quiet warmth, and I banish the wince from my face. “Hey,” I say simply. “When did you get back?”

“Last night,” he says, abandoning his tea to draw near. My head tilts back as he stops in front of me. “How have you been?” he asks with a soft smile.

His quiet care is almost more flustering than his forwardness. “Well. Fine,” I answer. “And you? Your mission or whatever successful?”

He huffs amusedly. “My mission or whatever was just fine,” he replies. Then he returns to the sideboard. “Tea?”

“Oh, uh, sure. Just bla—”

“Just black. I know,” he says, throwing a smile over his shoulder at me. I blink in surprise, cheeks pink. He’s been paying close enough attention that he knows that?

Of course he has, dummy. He probably has dossiers on everyone in this city with information down to the way they take their tea, the pragmatic voice in my head deadpans. You’re no exception.

I blink again as he draws near with a second cup, passing it to me. I take it with a small thank you, sipping it gratefully.

Just when I start to squirm on my feet at the silence between us, he speaks. “About what we talked about that night a few weeks ago—” I still. “You’re alright in that regard? And don’t lie, I’ll be able to tell.”

I huff a sound between a sigh and laugh, looking down. “Well, I haven’t had a night as bad as that one since then, so that’s good right?” I say with wry self-deprecation. He doesn’t reply. “But really, I’m alright. Just winter blues, I suppose.”

“No, I don’t think it is.”

I roll my eyes in a small flash of annoyance. “Alright, not just winter blues. But they certainly don’t help. But I’m fine. Really. You did really help that night,” I admit softly.

I don’t really notice my teacup is empty until he gently takes it from my hand and sets it next to his already abandoned cup. “What helped most, sweetheart?” he asks gently.

My tongue felt stuck to the roof of my mouth—speaking my vulnerability aloud both impossible and foreign. Letting him in last time didn’t hurt. It helped, a small voice whispers in my head.

I take a breath. “Just—talking through it. Physical touch too, um…” I fight to stay steady. “It’s grounding.”

He hums, nodding. There’s a light touch to both my elbows, and my eyes shift down to find that he’d silently reached for me. I allow the touch, but don’t dare go further, suspended in the fear of the unknown.

“You don’t have to be afraid to ask for that,” he murmurs quietly. Suddenly I’m very aware of the air we’re sharing, how close he’s gotten to me. His hands slide slowly to my upper arms, my breath hitching as the warmth of his palms bleed through even my heavy sweater.

The panic sets in before I can think this interaction through, before I can rationalize that maybe, just maybe he wants to be close to me, wants to touch me. Instead my eyes find the clock and seize the subject change before me. “Don’t you have Valkyrie training in five minutes?”

Azriel stills and follows my gaze to the clock. His jaw works once before the fleeting tension is gone. “You’re right. I should go.” He squeezes my upper arms gently before letting his hands drop. “Stay warm today. Wind is supposed to get bad, and temperatures will drop rapidly once the sun sets.”

I nod, giving him a brief smile. “Of course, you too. Stay warm, I mean.”

He returns my smile before leaving the room.

A whoosh of air leaves my lungs as soon as I’m alone again. Idiot. Silly, foolish girl.

—

Azriel was at his wits end.

He’d been pulling far more stops than his usual personality allowed, hadn’t he? She was certainly clever enough to notice that he was acting much differently around her, right? Had he just not been forward enough?

And still, she did not allow him closer, as close as two people could be. He'd given her every sign he could think of without embarrassing himself.

Impossible girl. Can’t you understand that all I want is to comfort and coddle you?

He must not have taken care to erase any tension in his expression by the time he touched down in the ring atop the House of Wind, because Cassian’s brows raised upon seeing him.

Azriel just had to cast him a cool look for his brother to relent, though he caught the half-smirk on the General’s face as he turned toward the group of priestesses warming up and began training.

It was during sparring that Nesta finally deigns to sidle up beside him as he watches a match. “So. What the hell’s going on between you and my sister?”

He stills for just a moment before erasing the reaction. He debates lying to his friend, but she’ll call him on it. He doesn't think she’ll warn him off her sister either, so finally he admits evenly, “Much less than I would like.”

The eldest Archeron huffs a laugh. “I appreciate you sparing me a lie. Honestly, Az? My sister is just supremely oblivious, clever as she is. If nothing else has worked at this point, you just need to lay one on her.”

He chokes and turns his head toward her. “I would never. Not without her express permission—”

She snorts, shaking her head. “Gods, males can be so boring. At the very least you need to sit her down and make sure she doesn’t leave until she understands exactly what your intentions are. Then you can lay one on her, if she’s amenable to it.”

Azriel takes a deep breath, letting the words sink into his turbulent mind. “I don’t want to scare her,” he admits after a pause.

“You won’t,” she replies instantly. “She’s not afraid of you, she never could be. In truth, my sister is scared of very little. But based on the fact that she’s never had a romantic attachment before, what seems like indifference is likely just borne out of nervousness.”

“I don’t want to make her nervous either.”

“It’s not you that does. It’s just—being vulnerable. Emotionally intimate with someone,” Nesta says. “Years of fighting with her have taught me that she’ll hide anything behind biting wit or a laugh and joke. I think that’s what makes it all the more difficult to understand.”

He doesn’t reply.

“But speaking not as her sister, she definitely is attracted to you,” Nesta continues. “Speaking as her sister?” He looks at her cool features. “Don’t fuck it up.” Then she stalks away to Gwyn and Emerie.

Azriel forces down a growl. Tonight. He'd do it tonight or hell, he'd go crazy from this dance around the line. He'd spent too many centuries wanting this, wanting companionship for him to squander an opportunity with, at last, a female that he connected so deeply with. A female that seemed to need his touch as badly as he needed hers.

So...yes. He'd had quite enough of waiting.

—

True to Azriel's word, it did end up being very cold today.

I forgo any ideas of taking a walk, but I did end up camping out in the warmth of Feyre's study, taking turns with her to organize some of her paperwork or play with Nyx on the floor. My nephew (and his poor parents) had had some rough nights due to the last dregs of his teething pain, but it was good to see him smiling and playing despite it all. Rhysand stopped in frequently, unable to stay from his mate and son for extended periods of time, and after the fourth time Feyre shooed him out with their laughing, squirming son in his arms.

Our bi-weekly dinner fell that evening. Usually I enjoyed it.

Usually.

The dinner was fine. But I was so chilled that I took the opportunity of warmth from any hot dish passed around to me. I shiver for the upteenth time as Azriel passes me the potatoes.

"Cold?" he murmurs close beside me, and I shiver again. Not from the cold, damn him.

"Freezing," I retort instead, scooping potatoes on my plate. "Doesn't Rhys have this place warded to hell? Why is it so drafty?"

Azriel chuckles lowly. "How do you know that it isn't just you?" he teases.

I shoot him a look. "No, no, Mr. 'Stay Warm Today', I'm quite certain it isn't."

He laughs again, and it warms me only temporarily. I finish before everyone else, per usual. Not only do I tend to eat fast, but I'm also not caught up in constant conversation. Bored, my eyes travel the room, around my friends. My family. Even in my relaxed, two-glasses-of-wine haze, my mind doesn't fail to notice how paired up they all seem to have gotten.

Feyre and Rhys feed a fussy Nyx in his highchair, Rhys's eyes roaming over his mate and child with unrepressed love. Cassian's arm was slung around Nesta's shoulder, my usually stoic sister slumped comfortably into his side. Varian looked down at Amren next to him like she was the most fascinating creature alive, which...wasn't entirely a subjective statement, considering her interesting history.

Even Elain was speaking in shy tones with Lucien, who watched her with amused adoration. I had been so proud of my younger sister for finally realizing that she could just as well choose him as not choose him. They were taking it slow, she'd been telling me recently, but she begrudgingly had found that her mate was, indeed, her perfect match.

But as with all my friends and family, my happiness for them comes at a cost. To myself.

I turn and opened my mouth to chase away the tightness in my chest, but found that the Spymaster next to me was turned away, engaging Mor in conversation on his other side.

I quickly clamp my mouth shut and instead go for my wine.

Gods, hadn't Feyre mentioned there was some sort of will-they won't-they situation between the two of them? Something that had been brewing for the five centuries they'd known each other? It was none of my business, of course, and I hardly paid attention, but even I noticed that it had been pretty consistently they-won't in the past few years of living here.

Right?

Azriel laughs at something she says, and suddenly I feel sick.

Cauldron. Was I going to be the only one left?

And even worse—had I also been imagining his forwardness with me as of late?

There's a rushing in my ears and I tune out completely, going blissfully blank.

I hardly recall cleanup. Or the migration to the living room. My body seems to draw itself to the fireplace, a hand lifting to drag a blanket off the back of an armchair as I settle on the floor before the flames.

And as I wrap the blanket around myself, shivering minutely, I can't bring myself to look at what I know I'll find behind me—each couple in the house cuddling for warmth.

—

Azriel's heart aches at the sight of her vibrating form in front of the fire.

He'd taken his place behind the armchair she usually sat in, hoping to finally coax her into having a conversation in the privacy of the hall. Or if things went well, his bedroom.

But instead he watched her walk as if unawake from the dining room to the fireplace in the living room. Unblinking. Not looking at anyone else.

He doesn't know what to do.

He also doesn't realize that a shadow had flitted to her until it came slinking back to his shoulder, whispering, Upset. Crying.

His heart broke. Oh, sweetheart.

He felt suspended in air, in time for a moment. Everyone was lounging, cuddling in their respective pairs, speaking quietly with one another. Distracted. So he took a gamble.

And silently pushed forward.

—

I felt him before I heard or saw him.

I lock up as I feel his warm body settle on the rug, not quite directly behind me, but not quite beside me either.

His touch was warm, intentional.

Mother, I needed intentional touch so badly.

I hadn't realize how upset I had gotten until the first cold tear spills down my cheek. I wipe hastily at it.

"Hey," he coos softly in my ear, his arm coming firmly around me and drawing me into him. I sniff, shooting a panicked glance over my shoulder since everyone was in the room right now. I barely register that his wings block any sight of the two of us from the rest of the room before his gentle hand guides my chin back to look up at him. "No one can see, sweet girl," he murmurs. "You're alright."

The lump tightens painfully in my throat as a second, third tear spill down my face. "Sorry," I mouth, unable to get any sound out.

"Stop," he whispers gently. "You're alright. You're safe." His hand slides to the back of my head and I let myself be guided to the shelter of his embrace, once again in his lap as I silently shake. "Are you feeling that way again?"

I nod silently.

He sighs. "Sweetheart. Why don't you just let me in?"

I untuck my wet face from his shoulder to glance confusedly up at him. "I...I am," I breathe. "You're—you're hugging me."

He shakes his head, cradling my face with both hands. "I mean: why don't you let me into that head of yours? That world? Most importantly, why can't you just let me into your heart?"

Said heart seems to stutter and stop beating.

There's a long moment where my lips don't form words, don't do anything except lay parted, slack. "What do you mean?" I finally blurt, a note of tightness in my voice.

His jaw works and he sighs heavily through his nose. "Sweetheart, is it so impossible to understand that this whole time you've found yourself lonely at the sight of everyone paired off that maybe I want to be that person for you? Your person?"

"Wh—you?" I sputter on a whisper as everything dawns, hell, practically crashes down upon me. The denial comes a split second after. "No."

"Yes."

My expression shutters in emotion. "There's no way—"

"There is," he murmurs with an adoring smile on his handsome face, thumbs brushing at my tears. "And you can't change that, ever. But what you can do is let me in."

I take a shuddery breath, in and out. "Let you in?"

He nods.

"Be my person?" I croak. "And I be yours?"

The words seem to have an effect on him, his chest puffing for a moment before deflating again. His hands cradle my face like I'm precious. I've never felt more so than in his lap. "Yes, sweet girl. Mine. And I, yours."

A release another uneven breath, feeling my body go warm all over. "I—I never thought that I...that you could want this with me. Could want me," I rasp.

He smiles. "But I do. I have for a long time."

I let out a little wet laugh. "Gods, I—" I shake my head. "I don't feel like asking questions right now. I've wanted you too, for so long. I just didn't want to delude myself, to make a fool of myself in front of you when you're so..."

He raises a brow but his eyes remain warm. "So?"

"So perfect, damn you," I finish, no real malice behind my words. When he laughs this time, I feel it seep directly through my chest and into my soul.

"You're the perfect one, sweetheart," he murmurs, and presses a kiss to my hairline like he had those weeks ago. "In more ways than one." He draws back to look at me, and I return his gaze with nothing but openness, with love. Then he breathes, "May I kiss you?"

Heat blooms across my cheeks, but I give him a little nod. "You may."

He dips his chin ever so slowly, and when his soft, full lips finally meet mine, my eyes slip shut. Tentative, and so gentle with me, he dares his tongue over my bottom lip. Though I feel like I have no idea what I’m doing, I let him through.

The first swipe of his tongue, this hungrier kiss sets my soul ablaze, his hands travel to wrap around my waist, drawing my chest against his.

We kiss quietly yet needy for Cauldron knows how long. All I know is that I’m breathless, fuzzy, and light by the time I draw away softly. He chases my lips a moment more before settling his forehead against mine.

Breathing the same air.

A giddy smile tugs at my features, and I giggle with blushing embarrassment. “They definitely know what’s going on,” I whisper, fighting the urge to peek. He chuckles lowly and draws me closer, depositing a kiss on my shoulder, my jaw, then my lips.

“I sent them out,” he replies. My brows raise. “I told Rhys mind-to-mind that if he didn’t get everyone out, I’d quit.”

A laugh bubbles up within me. “Liar. He just decided to have mercy on us. On me, at least.”

Azriel grins, and it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. Boyish. Free.

“Kiss me again,” I whisper. And he does.

That night, he takes me to his room, scooping me under the covers and into his body. I’m too wired, too happy to fall asleep right away. It’s when I watch him slip into dreamland, the most relaxed I’ve seen him, that there’s a tug within my chest.

A soft glow flickers to life deep in my soul. I smile and let the tears fall as I feel what I think is the bond.

I settle in. I’ll tell him tomorrow.

•••

NOTE: i hope you enjoyed reading it as much as i did writing it! i have an idea for a short series taking place post-ACOSF, where Reader is part of a group in Montesere that’s sort of adjacent to the Valkyries, and she comes to visit the Library, so I’ll start drafting if anyone is interested k love you bye! -diri

TAG LIST: @lilah-asteria @salvatoresister1 @a-courtof-azriel @thestartitaness @casiiopea2 @kk191327 @missxmarvelous @saltedcoffeescotch

[cannabiscomrade]

anticapitalist special interest dump incoming

capitalism corrupts everything it touches, even weather forecasting

US private media companies like AccuWeather and The Weather Channel take publicly available forecasting information provided by the National Weather Service, a publicly funded government service, and repackages it into their own forecast and disseminates the info.

In 2005, AccuWeather lobbied to attempt to ban The National Weather Service from sharing predictions with anyone besides commercial entities. In 2012 they successfully blocked the NWS from producing a free app for the public.

This allows there to be an inaccessible filter on free, timely, and accurate weather information and forces it to be distributed through for profit apps. Even free apps are bogged with ads and delayed alerts.

The G Word with Adam Conover covers this extensively and I highly recommend watching that episode or reading the transcript here [x] but I will sum it up, starting with an episode quote:

"Imagine a future where extreme weather warnings live behind a pay wall." In 2015, AccuWeather received warnings from the NWS that a tornado was heading towards Moore, OK, a city that has been decimated by F5/EF5 tornadoes twice. They only notified users that were paying for the app.

So what can you do about it?

Get your local forecast directly from The National Weather Service's official site weather.gov !

Follow your local meteorologists on social media, especially if you're in an active weather area.

If you're in tornado prone areas, follow storm chasers on social media and check the Convective Outlook during your tornado season.

Get a NOAA weather radio or tune to your local NWR station! They are the most reliable source of weather information in the event of a power outage and the coverage area is extensive. They cover all hazards including severe weather, wildfires, dust storms/haboobs, heat/cold warnings, and any other warnings the NWS would put out. Here is information specifically for Deaf/HOH accessibility.

[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.

[ghostiesnightmare]

Bound By Kindness

Pairing: The Grabber x Female Reader Summary: A raging blizzard brings an injured man to your doorstep. Against your better judgement, you decide to help him and show some compassion. But as the snow piles up, so does the tension, and you begin to wonder if your kindness was a terrible mistake. TW: DARK content, non-con, gore, blood, stalking, power imbalance, kidnapping, foul language, violence, choking, degradation, unprotected sex, bondage, loss of virginity, rough sex, abuse, and more. Read at your own risk. Word Count: 12,453 -Damn, she's long. MDNI- NSFW

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You always hated the cold.

The frigid air was teeth-chattering inducing, causing your breaths to come out in steamed huffs. Another gust of wind whipped through the empty streets, and you tugged your coat closer to your body, trying to fend off the chill seeping into your bones. Thick globs of snow fell intensely in the December air, each singular snowflake seemingly making it their goal to cling to your layers and burrow into your skin.

Crossing your hands over your chest, you tilted your head down and continued to brave the blizzard. Trudging through the sludge, your toes burned within your boots, mentally cursing you for not wearing warmer socks. It would take a miracle to keep your boots from becoming soaked, and your bones ache at the thought. Gritting your teeth, you questioned your sanity at the idea of walking the few blocks home instead of waiting for the storm to pass. 

December was always like this in Denver, with snow piling up until you felt as if it could sweep you away among the banks of frigid white. Living in a snowglobe, as some would say. Sometimes the weather looked like it came straight out of a Hallmark postcard, with the picturesque pine trees dotted with snow and Christmas decorations adorning every house in aesthetic symmetry.

Being in the postcard however, was a completely different story, with frigid nights that left you burrowed under multiple blankets next to the fireplace of your house. Looking up into the night sky at the silent snowfall around you, you almost would have said it was pretty if you were trying to keep your teeth from chattering beneath the wool scarf strung around your lower face.

The streets were almost empty, with most preferring to huddle up indoors rather than face the wrath of the cold. A stray car would creep down the streets, headlights blinding you for a moment before veering onto another street, almost as anxious to get home as you were. Pushing onwards, you picked up your pace, boots crunching against the snow on the cracked sidewalks.

At this rate, there would be ice coating every surface come morning, and you mentally noted to salt your section of sidewalk to prevent any hazards as the snow died down. Trudging past yet another snowman, you glanced at the bulking individual. Twigs adorning both sides, a warm scarf strung around its neck, and buttons pushed into its midsection; a true gentleman of a snowman. Two stones gazed soullessly back into your own, and you shivered at the sight.

Creepy.

Tearing your eyes away, you sighed in relief as the familiar brick of your home met your gaze. Settled on the outskirts of Rocky Mountain Arsenal National Wildlife Refuge, your home seemed tucked away from the bustling life of Denver. The house was old, with creaking floorboards and a sagging porch, but it was all yours. The brick was chipping in places, worn by weather, but the structure had never looked more inviting against the cold air.

Practically leaping up the steps of the porch as you fished for your keys, you leaned against the front door to support your weight. The door creaked open, causing your hand to freeze within your pocket. You had always locked the door, especially during the recent boogeyman stories you had only heard in whispers.

The Grabber.

A fitting name, seeing as he stole boys out of their beds at night, only for them to completely dissipate into the air. Only having recently moved in last month, you took extra precautions with the news, trying to stifle any panic that would arise from living alone on the outskirts of the refuge. Pushing the door open fully, you stepped inside before shutting the door behind you quickly, grimacing as the wood slammed from the force. 

Although in the comforting warmth of your home, a new chill seemed evident, weighing heavy with every step you took. Shedding your sopping coat, you kicked off your boots before padding against the wooden floorboards, trying to remain as quiet as possible. Heading towards the kitchen, you ripped the scarf from your body, winding it in your hands anxiously. “Hello? Is someone there…?” you called out, praying for silence.

When your wish was granted, dread began to settle in your stomach, and you gnawed on your bottom lip from nerves.

Had you locked the door? Did you forget in the bustle of trying to beat the storm on the way to work? Creeping into the kitchen, you sighed in relief when being met with nothing. Leaning against the counter, you finally let the scarf drop onto the , a laugh forcing its way of your lips due to your paranoia. You really needed to take some time off, the boogeyman clearly getting to your psyche from the long hours. 

Taking a deep breath, it felt as if the house took a breath of relief with you as you finally relaxed your spine. Tugging open a cabinet, you grabbed a wine glass and decided to treat yourself before bed. After all, nothing helped cure the chill of winter than alcohol. Rummaging through the fridge, you pulled out a white blend, pouring it to the glass absentmindedly, wracking your brain for any movies that sounded interesting to unwind to. Leaving the bottle on the counter, you scooped up your glass and moved to make sure the door was locked before relaxing. 

A cough ripped through the silence.

You froze, the glass slipping through your fingers, shattering against the tiles of the floor, and a startled yelp clawed through your throat at the sound. Whipping your head to the source of the sound, your eyes landed in the living room. A dark figure sat on your couch, blending in with the shadows. Immediately, you rushed to the wall and flicked on the lights. The first thing you noticed were his eyes. Striking blue clashed with yours, seemingly tearing you open and reading your soul.

Brown hair messily clung to his forehead, with sweat and grime covering his skin. Rough, hagged breaths seeped from the figure, and he hunched over his stomach, a hand clutching his side. Your frantic reaction didn’t seem to startle him at all, his steely gaze watching your every move. Your mouth opened, but you found yourself gargling on the words, nothing coming out. Sensing your shock, he shrugged slightly.

“Sorry for the scare, hon. I’m sure you’re confused but–” he grimaced suddenly, removing his hand from his side, which was covered in crimson. “I–... I could really use some help.” He said plainly, as if he had known you his entire life and was casually talking about the blizzard raging outside. 

There was a man in your living room. A man who needed help. Trying to still your breathing, you warily approached him, back hugging the wall as you neared the couch. “I… how did you get in here?” you squeaked, cursing yourself silently for not having a weapon on you. He could be anyone, anything, and his intentions could be far from innocent. Sensing your apprehension, he lifted both hands up, surrendering.

“I was in the woods when I was charged by a bison. He only nicked me in the side, but as you can probably tell…” He gestured to your surroundings, chuckling slightly. “...There isn’t much around. I had to get shelter from the storm and hopefully get patched up. I didn’t mean to startle you.” He jested, a smirk adorning his face at your anxious state. You stared at his appearance blankly, trying to piece together his story.

Bison were well known to the refuge area, but to have one charge… you grimaced at the thought. “I… stay here.” The words fell from your mouth before you could stop them, and you whirled around, rushing up the stairs to your bathroom. Throwing open the door, you rummaged through the drawers, grabbing towels, a first aid kit, and anything else that seemed remotely useful.

If you had any sense about you, you would have called the police at the sight of the strange man in your living room, but the threat of him bleeding out would have added even more problems to the predicament and you didn’t want to be deemed as a murderer after just moving in. Shuffling down the stairs, you almost sighed in relief when realizing he hadn’t moved.

At least he listens… you thought, and your feet gravitated to the wounded man before you even had the chance to stop yourself. Looking up at you, the man grimaced again while keeping his hand on his side. “I… I can help, but you have to stay still.” You say, dropping the first aid kit to the empty cushion next to the man’s leg before unpacking any supplies that seemed useful. He nodded curtly, fingers gripping the edge of his shirt before pulling it over his head, discarding the clothing onto the wooden floor. 

Your eyes widened at the sudden movement, heat flushing your cheeks at the sight of the now shirtless man sitting before you.

A nasty gash sliced through his right side, moving from his sternum to below his pec, blood pooling from the wound. Your eyes lingered on the wound before traveling to the rest of the exposed skin. He was pale, lean, but very fit, with sinewy muscle adorning his frame. His bicep curled as he moved to put pressure on the wound, causing his stomach to tighten from the pain.

Sweat trickled down the cavity of his chest to his belly button, where a dark brown happy trail slipped seductively down his hips and into the confines of his jeans. Your mouth gaped open again, unable to stop staring at the very mysterious, very attractive man spread out before you. 

A chuckle tore you from your thoughts, and your eyes ripped to meet the icy blue eyes that bore into yours once again. He smirked at you, brow cocked at your obviously flustered state. “Sorry…” you gulped, and grabbed the towel on the couch, knuckles brushing against his upper thigh before you retreated into yourself. Turning, you rushed into the kitchen and drenched the towel under warm water, cheeks burning as you tried to shake the image from your head.

Focus… there is a man injured and he needs your help, you chided yourself, ashamed at the heat that licked against your skin.

Wringing the towel between your hands, you approached the living room again, trying to muster a brave face while racking your brain on how to clean a wound. Eyes never leaving your form, his smirk seemed to burn into your brain as you approached the man. It all felt so… lewd, the air having a tense atmosphere that seemed almost suffocating. You pushed the rag into the man’s hand, almost shaking as his fingers brushed against yours. “Hold this to the wound… I have to sanitize it.” You muttered, refusing to make eye contact as you grabbed a bottle of iodine. 

“This will sting…” you warn, unscrewing the bottle cap. “Albert. My name is Albert.” He answered, trying to lighten the tense atmosphere. “Albert… It’s nice to meet you, although I would have preferred to not have someone break into my house in the dead of winter.” You teased slightly, earning another chuckle from him. He shrugged slightly, muttering off another apology before wincing again.

You grab another towel and drench it with iodine, the pungent smell invading your nostrils. You gag slightly from the chemical scent before scooting across the floor in between the man’s legs. Brushing off just how inappropriate the position was, you pushed yourself up onto your knees before pushing Albert’s hand away from the wound. Albert’s gaze seemed to burrow into your skull, but you braved onward. Pushing the rag onto the open wound, a hiss escaped the male.

He flinched at the contact, and you had to fight the urge to watch him squirm beneath your touch. “Fuck…” He seethes through gritted teeth, and you swallowed thickly at the noise. You dabbed at the wound, sanitizing it until his right side was coated in a deep orange. Grimacing at the sight, you moved to grab the tissue adhesive. “This will hurt, I have to glue the skin together.” You said, praying that watching medical dramas after work had any resemblance to reality.

“You really know what you’re doing… should I be nervous?” He teased through gritted teeth, and you flushed. “...lots of television.” You muttered before cradling the wound on his side. He immediately tensed at your touch, and you felt the warmth from his skin seep into your hands. “Shit… you're freezing.” He bit out, and you stuttered out an apology. Squeezing the glue onto the wound, you worked quickly to close the wound, trying to ignore the feeling of iodine and blood coating your fingertips. Once the gash was glued, you grabbed gauze and packed the wound, ignoring the curses flying from the man’s mouth.

 “Sorry, sorry, I’m almost done.” You said, before taping the final block of gauze on top of the wound. You marveled at your work, thankful that the wound wasn’t as deep as you initially thought. He sat up, inspecting your handiwork. “Not bad… I guess all that television really pulled off, right hon?” Your cheeks burned at the nickname. You grabbed three acetaminophen and dropped them into his open palm.

“Here… I’ll grab you some water.” You moved to the kitchen to grab a glass, sidestepping the now ruined wine glass and puddle on the kitchen tiles. Now that the immediate crisis was out of the way, questions swirled in your head. Why your house? Why was he out in the refuge in the dead of night in winter? Who really was this man? Brushing off the thoughts, you filled up the glass before padding back into the living room.

“Thank you…?” He looked expectantly. You chewed on the inside of your cheek nervously. “Y/n.” You stated quickly, gaze dropping from his once more. “Y/n… I appreciate it.” He thanked again, smiling. 

The lights flickered around the house suddenly, and your heart almost burst out of your chest. Glancing to the window, the flurry of snow continued its onslaught furiously, wind howling and battering against the old brick. No one in their right mind would travel now, especially injured. “I have to clean up my mess… are you hungry?” You queried, bending to pick up the broken glass.

“That’s sweet of you, hon. I’m famished.” Heat rose to your cheeks again, and you cursed yourself for being so easily flustered by his words. Throwing the pieces into the trash, you dabbed at the spill before opening the fridge. A stray takeout container, some sauces, and more wine stared blankly at you within the barren container. 

Groaning, you pushed open a cabinet, grabbing a can of soup. Comfortable silence enveloped you as you worked, and Albert decided to move to the kitchen and watch you cook. As the soup heated on the stove, you turned to meet the man’s gaze. It dawned on you that he was much taller than you expected, towering over you to the point where you craned your neck to maintain eye contact.  “I hope chicken noodle is fine… I wasn’t expecting guests.” You joke slightly, grabbing two bowls from the cabinet before setting them on the counter.

Albert shrugged, unphased by the intrusion of space. “So… a bison? You’re lucky you got away…” you said. It became apparent that you barely knew this man, and you couldn’t decipher if you found that intriguing or terrifying. He nodded, leaning against the fridge, fingers drumming against the metal. “Could have been worse… I was lucky enough to choose a house with a good samaritan.” He jested, and you couldn’t help but roll your eyes at the statement.

Ladling the soup into the bowls, you sat at the small kitchen table, and Albert made himself comfortable across from you. Poking at the soup, small chat ensued between the two of you. You talked about being new to Denver, and not being used to the cold. You vented about work and the day-to-day tasks you did in your spare time. You learned that Albert worked at a hardware store, and had lived in Denver his whole life. He had a dog named Sampson and was also a part time magician.

As you talked, the picture of Albert became more personified, he was just a simple man who was caught in the wrong place at the wrong time. There was nothing to worry about. “Storms like this don’t usually go on this long… it would have been hell to be caught out there.” He grumbled out, spooning another bite of soup into his mouth. You hummed in agreement. 

The blizzard would only get worse throughout the night, and after hearing Albert had abandoned his car at the refuge, your heart clenched at the misfortune of the man. You decided that Albert could spend the night to ensure his wound would properly stay sanitized and dry and let the storm blow over. When he protested, you ignored him, shoving a pillow and quilt into his hands. “It’s decided.” You smiled, guiding him back to the couch.

Throwing his bloodied shirt into the laundry, you stretched, joints popping as fatigue began to seep into your bones. “Goodnight Albert.” You called, heading upstairs into bed. Practically flopping onto your bedsheets, you rolled over to change and get ready for bed, the events of the day wearing you out. Finally situated in bed, you pulled the covers over your body, turning to look at the snow falling outside.

Maybe being kind to strangers isn’t a bad thing after all. 

—

There was a body in the woods. 

Albert barely spared it a second thought, his luck finally running out from a clean kill. The little shit deserved what was coming to him– having the nerve to pull a knife on him. It didn’t make a difference in the end, however. Albert wasn’t thrilled to end the game that quickly on a whim. It was too easy that way. He always stuck to a motto: grab, hide, kill, repeat. Simple, quick, and always calculated.

Trudging through the refuge in the pitch black while injured was not his forte, especially after having to abandon his jacket due to it being drenched in brain matter and blood. When he approached the residential neighborhood, he hadn’t planned to stay, just grab some medical supplies from a house and circle back to his van. Silent, predatory, deadly. 

He never planned on running into you. Innocent, naive little you. He almost felt bad for startling you so badly. Almost. Something about the way that fear radiated off of you just made him want to reach out and grab you. He had half the mind to lunge at you and steal the life from your eyes, breaking you. But when the apprehensive nature you had immediately faded when you saw he was wounded, the pulling of your heartstrings to help was too good not to indulge in.

You were so gentle, so kind in a way that made the darkest parts of him want to corrupt you. The most thrilling part of his… habits was the ability to completely and utterly destroy something, then pick up the pieces and mold them into whatever his fucked up desires had in mind. You were no different. You seemed so compliant, such a good girl who is too kind for her own good. You saw the best in everyone, and it made the monster within him want to take that kindness and twist it until it shattered.

It was your achilles heel, and no amount of good intentions would be able to keep him away from you. 

Still high from the adrenaline rush of his most recent kill, the darkness called from the most depraved parts of his mind. He wanted you. He wanted to grab you and mold you into the perfect little toy for him to ruin. It would be so easy to creep into your room and ravage you beyond repair, but Albert was a patient man. He wanted to gain your trust, make you feel safe around him, before dragging you down to the depths of hell with him. Sweet unsuspecting you and your naive way of trusting strangers.

Didn’t your mother tell you not to trust others, especially if one of them was a big, bad killer? Now that his basement was empty, he had plenty of time to prepare for the perfect time to take you. He wondered if the betrayal in your eyes would be just as delectable as your fear, it made his fingers itch to see just how far he could push you. He was always easily fascinated, especially when you were just so trusting. It was laughable really.

Poor girl, your fate was sealed the second he walked into that house.

 Maybe his luck didn’t run out, it must have been fate to choose the house with such a perfect, malleable toy waiting for the taking. You didn’t even realize it, did you? Taking care of such an evil man, yet being so trusting to let him sleep in your home. So trusting… so vulnerable, he had to teach you a lesson not to trust strangers. You thought you could fix him, patch him up and send him on his way, but what you didn’t seem to realize was that Albert didn’t want to be fixed.

He didn’t want to do anything other than completely destroy you, ruin you for anyone else other than him. He was never good at taking care of his toys, but the thrill of pushing you until you snapped seemed like a worthwhile challenge. The thought alone had his heart racing. You were his, his to love, his to ruin, you just didn’t know it yet. How cute, almost adorable even. You took him in like a stray, and now Albert will make it his goal to never let you go. 

The thing about strays? They always come back.

—

A knock on the door jolted you out of your cooking, causing you to bang your head on the open cabinet door. Hissing at the sensation, you rubbed your head before shouting, “The door is unlocked!” The door creaked open, and you glanced at a snow-covered Albert shedding his extra layers, kicking his boots off while cursing the howling wind.

You rolled your eyes at the sight, turning back to the bolognese sauce simmering on the stovetop. Albert hung up his drenched coat before waltzing into the kitchen, making himself comfortable at one of the stools situated by the kitchen table in order to watch you cook. 

It had been two weeks since he had nearly given you a heart attack, and after your consistent begging, he finally went to the hospital to get his wound checked out. It turned out that your medical television obsession had pulled off, with him only needing fresh dressings and a prescription of low grade pain medication before he was discharged. Albert had begun to see you consistently, bringing takeout or random trinkets he thought you would enjoy.

“It’s a gift… I promise, hon.” He would always muse at your attempts to pay him back for his endeavors. It turns out, Albert lived only a 10 minute drive from your house, and most nights he was more keen on crashing on your couch versus making the effort to go to his home. You didn’t mind however, feeling more safe with your new friend nearby.

Another two boys had gone missing, the news flashing across the screen upon his most recent stay. A gasp of horror had escaped you as the anchor reported the details of two boys, one 13 and the other 16 seemingly disappearing into the night. Vanished, as the anchor said. You screwed your eyes shut at the thought. You couldn’t even begin to imagine how their families must be feeling, losing their children to a monster in the middle of their night, stolen out of their beds. “He’s like the boogeyman– The Grabber.” You had said, and Albert’s expression had darkened at the television screen.

“The only difference, sweetheart, is that The Grabber is very much real.” The words haunted you throughout the night, causing you to toss and turn with paranoia. Albert seemed very… detached about the situation, so you decided to not bring it up again, his lack of emotion towards depicting The Grabber as a very scary, very real person that could be anyone made unease seep into your bones. 

“Everything okay?” The sound of his voice brought you out of your thoughts, and he cocked a brow at you out of amusement. Looking down, you realized you were gripping the wooden spatula, knuckles deathly white from the pressure. You chuckled awkwardly, releasing spatula from your grasp and turning off the stove. “Yeah… sorry, work has been tense.” Stretching against the counter, you felt his gaze burn into your frame.

That’s the one thing that unnerved you about the older man, he was very… observant. Always seeming to know what you were thinking before the words fell from your mouth, always watching your every move. Maybe it was his eyes, maybe it was just a habit, but either way, something about those eyes drew you in. His gaze held a type of darkness, like someone who had seen too much and the depths latched onto them. 

“Tense? That’s no way to spend the holidays… you should take a break. I make a mean eggnog, if you think that would help you relax.” He mused, and you scrunch your face at the mention of the sweet beverage. “I’m sure you do… of course you drink eggnog. I find it disgusting.” You shudder, moving to serve two helpings of bolognese pasta.

Glancing at the calendar, your eyes widened at the date. December 24th. “It’s Christmas Eve…” You muttered. “You think I just came to visit out of the goodness of my heart? Sweetheart, with a schedule as busy as yours, I would be surprised if you remembered New Years.” Albert teased, taking his plate from your grasp, your knuckles brushing his fingertips.

You flushed slightly at the comment.

Albert always had a sense of charm around him that never failed to fluster you. His endearing smile, flirtatious nicknames, and tokens of appreciation made your heart skip a beat at his affections. You found yourself trusting him over the past few weeks, excited for his presence in your otherwise empty house and the attention he gave you.

It felt like a fresh breath of air, being looked after when your long shifts finished for the day and you were stuck in the solace of your home. He knew how you reacted around him, almost enticing him to push your buttons and turn you into a stuttering mess. It was infuriating, but you wouldn’t have it any other way. 

“That is not true. I remembered Christmas, I just didn’t realize Christmas Eve was today.” You chided, earning a chuckle from across the table. Rolling your eyes at his teasing, you continued to pick at your pasta, glancing at the calendar once more. “Actually… I have something for you, Albert.” You said, standing quickly before rummaging through the cupboard before your hands settle on a wrapped package, the paper crinkling under your fingertips.

Albert’s spine straightens at the table, his food abandoned due to his curiosity. Shyly, you approached the seated male and set the present on the table. Albert’s long fingers reached for the gift tenderly, eyeing you with suspicion. “You didn’t have to get me anything, hon. I don’t have anything for you.” 

Yet. He didn't have anything for you, yet. 

You shrugged. “It’s not much, but I had some time over these past few weeks and…” You swallowed thickly. “- I thought you could use it.” He smirks at that, and your cheeks burn. Gently unwrapping the gift, Albert lifts a blood red scarf from the package. Holding the soft material in his hands, he looks at you, expression unreadable. Fingers dancing along the blood red fabric, his eyes darken. A knot wedged into your chest, worried you had been too personal.

“I know you lost your coat… and I thought you could use all the help you could get in this cold. If you don’t like it, I can-” “You made this?” His words sharply cut you off, still unreadable. His fingers tangled in the material, and his jaw clenched, his blue eyes drilling holes into your skull. Anxious you had overstepped, you chewed on the inside of your cheek, eyes downcast. “Yeah… I had some extra wool and thought you would like it.” He holds the scarf up, wrapping it around his neck quickly, snapping out of the daze that you had put him in. 

Eyes meeting yours, the blue clashed so starkly against the bold red of the wool that your breath caught in your throat. Finally, he spoke, warmth seeping into his words. “It’s perfect. I love it. Thank you, hon… you just made my Christmas.” He teased, unraveling the scarf from his neck and tenderly folding it in his lap. You laughed bashfully, flustered at the praise. “It’s just a scarf, Albert.” You paused, then muttered: “Red suits you.” Albert chuckled, a wolfish grin spreading across his lips.

“Yes, hon, yes it does.”

—

A scarf. How oxymoronic, how perfect. 

You were too sweet for your own good. You had given him a gift out of the goodness of your heart, yet it wasn’t the warm fabric that kept him warm on the chilling journey to his basement, it was you. You couldn’t have possibly imagined what this gift meant… or did you? The scarf was a promise, a vow to show your affection directly devoted to him.

Your hands tirelessly worked at the fabric that was now slung across his neck, and if he wrapped himself tight enough within it, it would be as if you were caressing his skin yourself. So intimate, the thought made his heart race. With one simple gift, you had bound yourself to him, and he couldn’t help but imagine how good the scarf would look like on you. 

So sweet, so kind. He was certain that he had cracked his jaw from the force when you gave it to him. It took every ounce of strength to not grab you from across that table and hide you away for only him to see. He wanted all of it; your kindness, your dreams, your happiness, your life. It was his now, and only his. “It’s just a scarf, Albert.” Your words circled in his head, a constant reminder of how much, it was not in fact, just a scarf.

You made it for him, only him, as a testament to your adorations. How could he not want to return the favor? You wanted his attention, you spent your precious little time trying to show him how much you cared, and he saw it; he always did. He understood the meaning completely, even if you were too stubborn to admit it. You naive pure little thing, your fate was already sealed when he first saw you, but now? You were undoubtedly his, even if you didn’t know it yet. The scarf symbolized a bond, a bond you forged, and he was more than happy to comply.

You wanted him, so he will show you what that really meant.

The darkness within him screamed to respond to your devotion, to tear down the rest of the world and watch it burn if it meant he would be able to repay the love that you bestowed upon him. All he needed to do was reply, reciprocate. For that, he needed a plan. A plan to show you just how much this confession meant to him– how much you meant to him, and he knew the perfect gift to give to you. All of him. He would show you his worst, most twisted self, and bind you to him in ways that only he knew how to do. 

“Red suits you.” You had no fucking idea.

He couldn’t wait to see how much it suits you too. He was sure it was going to look sinful. His hands balled into fists, giddiness coursing through his veins. He knew the basement was a vile place, a place where many have been subjected to his mercy, but with you… he had so much more in store for you. Sweet, innocent, angel, you really were about to give the man the best Christmas gift. And he was going to savor every last moment of it. Glancing at his handiwork, he finalized his preparations, a sinister smile breaking across his lips. “Merry fucking Christmas, hon.”

Now all he had to do was wait. 

—

I’ll be home for Christmas, you can plan on me.

Please have snow, and mistletoe, 

And presents on the tree~

You hummed slightly at the song playing from the television, scrubbing the tiled countertop hastily. Dinner with Albert went smoothly, yet something about that scarf sent a shiver down your spine. His eyes looked so… cold, with an intensity that sent your head reeling. The last thing you wanted to do was make him uncomfortable by overstepping, so once he left you immediately baked some sugar cookies as an apology gift.

Working in the kitchen with Christmas music playing softly in the background felt inviting, reminding you of fond memories with your family in the past. Sighing softly, you poked at the sugarcookies to ensure they were cooled before slathering them in red and green frosting. 

You were always the type of person to give people gifts as a token of appreciation, but sometimes that made others uncomfortable due to the intense giving nature you had. Although it was a fair response, your throat burned with rejection at Albert’s strange reaction of the gift. Chewing on the inside of your cheek, you coated the last cookie in a glob of green before throwing the frosting container in the trash.

Letting the cookies sit, you stretched, joints groaning in protest from standing in front of the oven for hours. Untying the dirtied apron from behind, you padded into the hallway, throwing the soiled clothing into the washer. Yawning tiredly, you stumbled up the stairs into your bedroom, grabbing a pair of pajamas and stripping out of your clothes. Your skin immediately prickled, hairs raising on the back of your neck.

You were being watched. 

You glanced around, seeing nothing. Scoffing at your paranoia, you continued to change before throwing your old clothes into the hamper, making your way into the bathroom. You needed to sleep, stat. Standing in front of the sink, you laughed at a smudge of green frosting covering your temple.

Rolling your eyes at your clumsiness, you reached for the toothbrush, coating it in minty paste before harassing your gums. Spitting in the sink, a shuffle downstairs caught your attention. Worried one of the baking trays toppled, sending your desserts face first onto the tile below, you quickly rinsed your toothbrush and padded down the stairs. 

Scurrying into the kitchen, you sighed in relief at the undisturbed baking sheets, turning to grab a container. Shuffling throughout the kitchen, your gaze landed on a red pen and small sticky note. “This will do…” you mumbled out, trying to figure out what to write. Hey Albert, sorry for being weird and giving you a heartfelt gift? No, too forward. Biting on the tip of the pen anxiously, you opted for a simple message that conveyed your feelings.

“Dear… Albert….” You mouthed as you wrote, “-thank you for having dinner with me. I hope you liked your gift,” you paused. Humming slightly, you ripped the sticky note from the stack and tossed it to the counter. “To Albert. Merry Christmas.” Simple and straight to the point. 

Placing the sticky note on top of a container, you turned to load up the cookies into the tray, stuffing as many as possible into the circular container. Eyes sweeping over the red and green desserts, your gaze faltered as it reached the furthest pan.

A singular cookie was half eaten, the gingerbread man-shape missing its head and arm. Eyes narrowing, you apprehensively approached the cookie as if it would jump back out at you. Picking it up, your brow furrowed, confusion sweeping your features. Did you happen to snack on it while frosting? 

The soft sound of guitar quickly pulled you from your thoughts, causing the half-eaten sugar cookie to fall absentmindedly to the counter. Peaking your head around the corner, the television stared menacingly back at you, Bing Crosby’s I’ll Be Home For Christmas playing at full volume. Heart stuttering, you approached the television. “That’s weird… I thought I just played this song…”

I’ll be home for Christmas, you can plan on me.

Please have snow, and mistletoe, 

And presents on the tre-

A grunt sounded out from behind you in the kitchen, and you whirled around, panic seeping into your features. Your eyes widened, a shriek tearing through your throat as your gaze met with a mask, its soulless eyes burrowing into your soul. A grin adorned its features, while horns protruded from the forehead of the mask. The white material was splattered with red, and you prayed it was anything other than blood.

The figure towered over you, dwarfing your kitchen counter, another sugar cookie in hand. You felt like a deer trapped in headlights, completely frozen in place, eyes raking over the figure in front of you while your lip quivered with fear. 

Christmas Eve’ll find me, where the love light gleams~

“These are divine, doll. So good, I could reach out and grab them.” The masked figure mused darkly, voice dripping with hostility. Your breathing quickened, and you immediately took a step backward. It’s him, your personal boogeyman.

The Grabber.

Tears immediately fell at that thought, dripping down your cheeks and plummeting to the wooden floor. A sob wracks your throat. This isn’t happening, this can’t be real. Yet the taunting chuckle that erupts from the monster in front of you was very much real. The hulking figure takes a step forward, and you flinch at the movement, another sob wracking through your body. 

I’ll be home for Christmas, if only in my dreams. 

“Cat got your tongue? You’re shaking, you poor thing.” The voice drawls, and the familiarity of it all haunts you. The mask cocks to the side, and the light catches his eyes. Icy blue meets yours, and you swear your heart stops. Your lip trembles, and you want to scream for being so stupid, so trusting.

Denver’s uncaught killer, your personal boogeyman, was Albert.

The same man you nursed back to health, who had been in your house countless times before, who stood before you in that god forsaken mask now. Your knees almost buckled from the realization, causing another bone chilling chuckle to pierce the air. Albert reached into his back pocket, producing a string of blood red.

Your eyes narrowed and the sight of the scarf wound perfectly in the hands of the killer before you. “This lovely gift had me thinking…” He took a few more brisk steps towards you, closing the distance between the two of you, cold and calculating. “- it’s only fair if I give you a gift too.” His words echo in your mind, and you refused to acknowledge him.

A hand shoots out, grabbing you by the throat. You scream, broken out of your frozen stupor, clawing at his hand. He drags you forward, the nose of his mask brushing against your skin. The smell of dried blood invades your senses, and you fight the urge to retch.

He smells like death… rather he was death, holding your life in his hand as his fingers dug into your skin.

His eyes burned holes into your skull, and you sputtered for air beneath his touch. You could practically feel the smirk that he was sporting under the mask at the vulnerable state you were in. Tears welled in your eyes, skin burning at the lack of oxygen. “Tell me, does your fear taste as good as it looks?” He murmured darkly, black spots beginning to coat your vision. Your hands gripped at his arm, the pressure on your trachea making your eyes roll back. 

His grip released suddenly, and you fell to your knees, clawing at the wood while greedily drinking in gasps of air. He glared down at you, seemingly satisfied with the view of you sprawled beneath him. Grabbing your wrists, he heaves you up, and you hate how easily you move. Holding your wrists in one hand, he moves the scarf closer, causing something in you to snap.

Screaming, you pull back as hard as you could, kicking and crying for this to all just be a bad dream. Yanking you forward by your wrists, Albert… no, The Grabber, weaves the scarf around your wrists briskly, pulling them so tight you hiss at the sensation. 

“This scarf binds us.” He seethes, yanking you closer by the tail of the scarf, causing you to stumble into his chest. He catches you effortlessly, one hand cradling the back of your head, fingers digging into your scalp, the other pulling the scarf tight. You never thought how your endearing gift would be turned against you, your wrists raw from rubbing against the material.

A choked sob escapes you, and you can do nothing but stare in the icy depths of his eyes, swallowing you whole. “You think I wouldn’t notice?” His tone softens slightly, cocking his head slightly, the breath peeking through the mask and fanning your ear. “You gave me a part of yourself, so I’ll show you what it means to belong to someone.” 

If you weren’t terrified, you would scoff at the words. Sensing your defiance, he pulls you by your hair to your feet. You whimper, scalp burning under his harsh touch. “Why are you doing this?” You bite out, stumbling as he drags you into the kitchen. He chooses to ignore your venomous words, instead glancing back to you, eyes sweeping over your form.

“I can’t wait to see you like that,” tugging on the material again. His voice hardens, “-wrapped up, bound to me. All mine.” The finality of his words sent a wave of terror down your spine, as if your fate was sealed forever. He rummages in his back pocket, the grip on the scarf loosening as he pulls a white cloth into your field of vision.

Freedom. This was your chance.

For a split second, you froze before adrenaline pushed your limbs into motion. You turn to flee, wrists bound tightly in front of you, scrambling backwards across the kitchen tile, almost tripping over your feet. Time slowed. You can feel the wrath radiating off of him in waves. You refuse to turn to look, crashing into the kitchen wall, jolting sideways at the impact. Steadying your feet, your legs pump vigorously at the prospect of escape.

You almost tumble over the steps leading upstairs, opting to head for the door, your only hope. The thought of freezing to death in the cold was better than what was in store for you. The silhouette of the door reaches your gaze, your savior,  and you bolt towards it without a second thought. 

A sharp pain stabs into your skull. White explodes along your vision, the world spinning as you crumble to the ground. The cool wood bites into your skin as warmth pools from your temple, dripping across your face and onto the floor beneath you. The taste of copper fills your mouth, ears ringing from the impact.

Darkness licks at your vision, and you turn to see The Grabber standing over you, a sauce pan in his hand. Triumphant, his haunting smile glares down at you, head cocked and poised to strike. 

Everything goes black. 

—

A slow, rough throbbing pulls you from the darkness. It hurts to open your eyes, your pulse hammering into every crevice of your skull, causing the world to shift across your vision. You blink; once, twice, the swirls of grey and shadows gradually coming into focus with every attempt. Finally, the world seems to fall into place, your left eye burning from the crimson dripping from the cut above your temple.

The faint hum of a singular fluorescent lightbulb buzzes from the ceiling, casting an eerie glow across the cramped room. The room was mostly bare, with a singular chair sitting across from the ragged mattress you were laid upon. The air was thick with the smell of mold alongside the faint scent of blood. You didn’t want to know if it was yours or not. A singular sliver of window adorned the top of one of the bare walls, the pitch black of night staring tauntingly at you through the thick glass. Squinting, you could barely make out the soft fall of snow against the dark sky, globs of white sticking to the glass momentarily before melting away, abandoning you.

You were in a basement, his basement. 

Your blood turned to ice, pushing your body into action. You tried to sit up, body groaning in the process before you are ripped back down onto the bed. Your right arm hangs above you, taunt against the wall, secured in a chain. A sob wracks your throat as you tug on the metal, the clattering deafening against the silence of the room. A swish of fabric stops you in your tracks, and you look down at your chest, where the blood red scarf is tied into a perfect bow over your pajamas. You pale.

To him, the scarf was never the gift, you were. 

“Finally awake, hmm?” His voice cuts through the air like a knife. You jolted, turning towards the menacing figure in the doorway. His mask was abandoned, leaving you to gape at your capture. Albert’s soulless eyes burned into yours, and you wondered if he was there the whole time, watching you. Stepping into the room, the door slammed shut, the noise jarring you slightly due to the force.

“You scared me for a moment there, doll...” He sighed out, crossing his arms and leaning against the closed door, eyes never leaving yours. “-I was nervous I hit you too hard,” He gestured to your head, and instinctively you put a hand to the prickled skin. Your hand pulled back red. “-ouch.” He taunted, chiding you for your attempt of escape. As if you would ever get away from him. “It would have been such a shame to ruin our plans before they even began.” He mused darkly, and you fought the urge to gag. 

“What… what do you want with me?” You force the words out, voice hoarse, throat raw from crying. He cocked his head amusingly, striding forward to close the space between you. He crouched over the mattress, towering over you. “What do I want with you?” He echoed, fingers ghosting over your cheek, brushing away a stray tear. He smudged the liquid between his fingers, looking at it while contemplating.

“You gave me a piece of yourself…” He mused, hand gripping the edge of the scarf tied around your chest, playing with the material endearingly. “-now I’m going to give you a gift. Something only I can give.” The scarf dropped to your chest, his head snapping to meet your gaze once more.

Your breath caught in your throat. 

“So scared… It's adorable. Your fear is addicting. It makes me want to reach out and bite you.” His calloused hand grips your chin roughly, forcing your face to move closer to his. His breath fanned across your face, a warmth that you savored against the frigid air. His fingers trailed over the bow again, gentle. “Look at you…” He breathed out, voice hoarse with restraint. “-like a gift, the perfect toy. There’s so many ways I could ruin you.”

A sob rips out of you at that, and it only amuses him even more. Tugging at the bow, he undid the fabric as if unwrapping a present, the undone material loosely falling to the mattress. Tracing your jaw, he cocked his head. “Tell me, after we first met, did you trust me?”

You did. He knew you did. You trusted him completely, your caring nature not only nursing him back to help, but igniting a spark within you. You found yourself pining for the man, his attractive features and those eyes bringing a sense of warmth around you when he flattered you.

He knew that too, and used it to push all the right buttons to make you fall apart like putty in his hands. It wasn’t hard for him to break down your walls, he was just so charming. So rough in all the ways that you were soft, and it made your heart melt. But that warmth turned to ice as his fingers brushed against your bottom lip. 

“Well?” He quipped, and your head nodded immediately. He smirked at the action, your compliant nature getting the better of you. “So obedient, so sweet. You understand why I had to take you, right? You’re just such a good girl.” Your cheeks burned at the words, ashamed at how easy it was for him to stir the warmth within you from something as simple as his words.

He sucked in a breath, fingers trailing down the column of your neck, causing goosebumps to prickle at the sensation. You shuddered at the contact, squeezing your eyes shut. It was so wrong, so incredibly skewed in a way that made you question your sanity, but his touch… it left you breathless. 

His fingers brushed the collar of your pajama shirt, fiddling with the fabric like a nervous schoolboy, giddy with nerves. You sucked in a breath. “So pretty… so soft. All dressed up for me, how sweet.” He mused, hands trailing down the expanse of your chest, brushing against the buttons holding the shirt together. His nose brushed against your neck, and your eyes snapped open.

Trailing upwards, you shuddered as he neared closer, breathing in against your skin. A low moan tore from his throat, and your chest tightened at the noise. Glancing at you through half lidded eyes, Albert’s gaze was heavy. His stare was suffocating, devouring every reaction you gave him, as if committing it to memory. He looked at you as if he was starving, and you were everything he could have ever wanted, the intensity of his gaze causing a broken whimper to snake from your throat. 

That whimper sealed your fate.

His lips were on yours in an instant, his resolve shattered. His lips were rough, moving fast against yours as he pressed so hard against you felt you would crumble beneath his touch. His hand delved into your hair, blunt fingernails scraping against your scalp and pushing you further into the kiss. He hungrily sucked on your bottom lip, tasting the copper that lingered in your mouth, groaning at the taste.

Warmth radiated from his touch, and you pushed closer to relish the feeling, melting into his embrace. You were falling from reality, the morals slipping from you as he held you close, stubble raking across your chin. The smell of smoke, sweat, and blood invaded your senses in a way that left your head reeling, and the chain rattled as you gripped his shoulders as if he was a lifeline. 

Albert shuddered at the feeling of your fingers digging into his clothed skin, teeth sinking into your bottom lip so hard it drew blood. You gasped at the pain, the metallic liquid seeping into your mouth. Albert persisted, pupils blown from the taste, tongue lapping up the liquid feverishly before deepening the kiss, pushing into your mouth.

His tongue was rough, invading your mouth so quickly that you felt like you were choking. Tangling his tongue against yours, your saliva quickly mixed with his as he explored your mouth, pressing so hard against you that your skull buzzed. He moaned into your mouth, the vibrations leaving you breathless. Shocked into place, Albert persisted, sucking on your tongue while pulling you even closer. You choked down another whimper, his musk invading your senses in a way that made your head spin. 

He was so warm. Skin pressed so hard against you it felt as if you were melting against him, burning like a furnace. His lips tore away from yours, a mixture of saliva and blood connecting the two of you. Your breaths came out in ragged huffs, lips swollen and sore from the onslaught of teeth and tongue. Albert’s gaze darkened, eyes taking over your disheveled form, soaking in the sight. His hand retreated from your scalp, skin tingling dully. His hands gripped your shoulders, mirroring your movements as he pushed you down into the mattress. You fell willingly, sinking into the fabric while trying to catch your breath, head reeling. 

Albert was on top of you immediately, arms caging you in as he knelt over your form. Ducking into your neck, his lips feverishly left open mouthed kisses along the column of your neck, and you squirmed at the feeling of his tongue against your skin. Your skin burned as if you were on fire, shame pooling in your stomach from how good it felt.

His stubble scraped against your sensitive skin as he searched for more ways to make you writhe against him, teeth sinking into your skin with a bruising force that left you gasping for air. Sucking on the tender spot, his fingers ghosted along your skin, mapping your curves. It felt as if he was devouring your skin, biting and sucking your soul from your body. 

He was marking you, leaving blots of red and purple along your skin so dark that nothing would cover the sin he was painting onto you. You would have been lying if you hadn’t thought about Albert during late nights alone in bed, but the reality of it all was all the more addicting. Your eyes rolled as his lips trailed the junction of your neck, chin grazing your collarbone.

Spit coated your skin as Albert practically drooled on you, making his way across any exposed piece that was deemed to be untouched by his ruinous intent. “You taste divine…” He muttered into your skin, barely audible as his lips rubbed against a fresh bruise. He peered up at you, eyes almost black from pleasure, and you sucked in a breath at the sight, shrinking under his gaze. 

His fingers toyed with your top button, and your heart stopped within your chest. Before you could protest, his hands ripped at your shirt, the plastic buttons popping from the force, rolling across the cement floor of the basement. Your skin prickled at the cold, gooseflesh as the frigid air coated your damp skin. Practically tearing away the shredded fabric, your chest was left bare to his hungry gaze, and you fought the urge to cover yourself from the icy eyes dragging across your skin.

Terrified of his wrath, you stayed still, trying to slow your breathing as his fingers immediately made their way to your exposed flesh, desperate for contact. His hand made contact with your breasts, palming the skin lazily, causing you to squirm beneath his touch. “Oh don’t get shy now…” He growled, a dull pain stabbing into your chest as he pinched your nipples roughly, rolling the sensitive flesh under his fingers. You yelped at the sensation, squirming, trying to cower away from the harsh grip. “-we have so much to do.” he finished, releasing your abused flesh from his hands. 

Gripping the mounds more tenderly, he squeezed them teasingly, thumbs ghosting your nipples again, causing your spine to straighten. He chuckled at your reaction, head dipping into the valley of your breasts, rubbing against your skin. Your brain short-circuits as his tongue licks at the skin of your sternum, warm and wet.

His saliva coated your flesh, teeth nipping as he moved, fingertips trailing down your sides. You shuddered at the touch of his fingers ghosting over your ribcage, nails sinking into his shoulders so hard you were certain you drew blood. Albert stiffened, straightening against you so quickly your arms dropped to your sides abruptly. 

Rolling his shoulders, he tilted his head, looking down at you with such a dark gaze it was deadly. You swallowed thickly, lip quivering as you shrank further against the mattress, fear stabbing into your chest. His fingers hooked onto the black button-up he was wearing, lazily undoing his buttons, eyes never leaving yours. If your heart wasn’t in your throat, you would have called his movements seductive. His calloused fingers traced his shirt while his pale skin became more exposed as he went lower, lower. The black material fell haphazardly off his shoulders, the shirt balled up and thrown into a forgotten corner of the room. 

You bit the inside of your cheek to suppress the whimper building in your throat at the sight, all too similar to that godforsaken night you met him. He was just so attractive, too much so for your own good. The rest of the world seemed to melt away as your eyes trailed the exposed flesh in front of you, watching him roll his shoulders again. Albert clenched his fists, arms flexing as he leaned closer, nose brushing against yours.

“It’s adorable, watching you struggle like this. So intent on hating me while fighting the truth. You want me.” He muses, grabbing your hand and laying it flat against his chest. Your lip quivers at the action, the heat of his skin seeping into yours as you fought the itch to explore. His heart hammered against your palm, and a small voice inside of you relished in the fact that it was beating for you. You clenched your jaw shut at the thought.

It was wrong, so wrong, but you couldn’t stop your head from reeling at the sight of him in front of you so intimately. 

Crawling over you, Albert easily caught your wrists within his hand, taking advantage of the war waging within your head. Immediately, you squirmed beneath his grasp, confusion wracking your form. Everything was moving so fast, too hard to process. Your heart felt like it was hammering out of your chest, about to burst at any second. Albert knew that though, he always knew, and he was going to use it against you.

Pulling the discarded scarf from the mattress beneath you, he knotted the material against your wrists once more, aligning your limbs to the chain that was bolted into the wall above your head. You hissed at the contact of the material against your raw wrists, itching to rip it off and burn it. You tugged on the scarf, but your efforts were all in vain, doing nothing but irritating your abused flesh even more. 

Albert clicked his tongue, admiring his work before tugging the tail of the scarf closer to him, mirroring his previous actions at the house. “So squirmy…” He teased, his other hand slipping down your naval, causing the hairs on the back of your neck to prickle. He toyed with the drawstring of your shorts, and your eyes widened.

“W-wait… I don’t-” You babbled onwards, praying, pleading that the train moving a million miles a second would halt. Albert, however, was less easily convinced, his fingers slipping beneath the fabric, brushing your hip bone. “-I… I haven’t done this before.” You begged, sinking your back further into the mattress to try and get space from the very eager hand toying at your clothes. Albert paused, fingers hooked on the waistband of the shorts, eyes dilated. 

“Poor girl… so innocent.” He growled, fingers digging into the waistband while his other hand pulled the scarf impossibly tight. You whimpered at the sensation, pain stabbing into your wrists. “Don’t worry… I’ll break you in nice and rough.” He finished, yanking the shorts down your thighs in one swift motion. Immediately, you snapped your legs shut, hips locking into place as you cowered, watching as your shorts were discarded at the edge of the bed, dangerously far from reach.

Guilt gnawed at your stomach as you felt the slick between your thighs, mentally cursing your body for being so traitorous. Completely bare beneath Alberts prying gaze, you flushed, trying to ignore the warmth that blossomed within your stomach. Albert dropped the scarf that connected your wrists, opting to grip your hip instead, his nails digging into your flesh so hard you were sure there would be bruises in the morning.

His fingers ghosted over the exposed flesh of your thighs, trailing inwards so slowly it caused a shudder to rip through your body. He chuckled at your response to his touch, braving onwards, pushing forward. Your toes curled in anticipation, whether from terror or excitement you couldn’t decipher. Wedging his hand in between your thighs, his index finger scraped against your unclothed center, and you squeezed your eyes shut. He hummed slightly, satisfied at the slick that gathered between your legs, and you swallowed thickly, shame rippling off of you in waves. 

“So compliant. I’ve barely touched you and you’re soaked for me… such a good girl.” Albert praised, teasing your folds. Your eyes fluttered as he eased in a finger, the length scraping along your gummy walls. You tensed at the foreign feeling, naval tightening as he stretched you out, testing the waters. Brows furrowed, you sucked on your bottom lip for comfort, trying to clear the battle of morals within your mind. It felt… good, Albert’s long finger reaching further than you ever could have on lonely nights, the stretch within causing that oh so sweet bundle of nerves to stir to life.

Pleased with your warmth, Albert sunk another finger inside of you, and you gritted your teeth at the slight sting. Working his way into you, Albert’s fingers curled within you, searching for ways to make you more reactive. The pads of his long digits hit that hidden spot within you, and you writhed against the scarf, tugging at the material sharply. A whimper slipped, your facade quickly fading as his fingers continued to sink into you, prepping you. 

Albert sighed at your noises, eager to draw more out of you, fingers picking up their pace. His free hand left your hip, and he palmed himself lazily over his slacks, growing impatient. This was for him after all, not you. Slipping in a third finger, you felt like you were being split open at the intrusion, glancing down at him knuckle deep inside of you.

Your arousal was evident, slick coating his hand and dripping down your thighs, and you flushed at the squelch that emitted when he withdrew his fingers from your core. You wanted to slap yourself when your hips jerked to meet his fingers, body betraying you as you subconsciously chased that high. Albert’s thumb brushed against your clit, and you almost jumped out of your skin, a gurgling moan ripping through your throat at the contact. 

Albert’s lips twisted into a wolvish grin at that, thumb continuing to draw circles on the bundle of nerves as he pumped his fingers within you until you were a breathless, blubbering mess. You felt like a furnace, skin hot to the touch as you writhed beneath the male’s sensual strokes, jerking at the rough touches to your clit. Obscene noises slipped from you, facade completely cracking as he scissored his fingers, stretching you so far you felt you would tear in two.

Practically gurgling, you clawed at the scarf, hips rolling into his touches as you abandoned all hope of shame or guilt. The feeling was addicting, your inexperienced body reacting in ways you never thought possible. “Shit… you’re sucking me in, doll… so needy.” He teased, thumb pressing against your clit so sinfully your eyes rolled to the back of your head. 

Your stomach tightened, pressure building within you as Albert fucked you with his fingers. Your core tightened as you throbbed around him, practically milking his fingers. So close… you were so close. Albert’s fingers brushed against that spongy spot again, and you almost tipped over the edge, a broken moan tearing through your throat.

Then it was gone.

Albert’s fingers withdrew from you so quickly it hurt. You clenched around nothing, tears lining your vision as you felt the emptiness overtake you. Nails digging into your palms so hard you were sure you left marks, you writhed against the mattress, gritting your teeth at the denial of pleasure. 

Albert chuckled darkly at your suffering, and you wanted to scream. “Look at you... practically begging me for it.” He brought his fingers to his mouth, drenched in your juices. Albert’s tongue ran over his fingers, slurping your slick off his digits, groaning at the taste. Humming in approval, he smirked down at your form, tongue running over his bottom lip.

You flushed at the action, embarrassed at the way your stomach flipped at the sight. Screwing your eyes shut, you tried to shake the image burned into your eyes, trying to calm your racing heartbeat. The jangling of a belt buckle ripped you from your embarrassment, and you cracked your eyes just enough to see Albert rip his belt from his belt loops, the item of clothing clattering noisily as it skidded across the cement floor. 

Albert quickly unbuttoned his slacks, the black fabric straining against his form. Glancing downwards, your eyes almost bulged out of your skull at the tent sported in his pants, looking dangerous. You paled, reality setting in as Albert tugged his fly down, hissing at the cold air. Impatiently, he shoved his slacks down, and god you were not prepped enough for that.

In the dim lighting, Albert’s cock stood proudly, straining against his abdomen. Ridged veins crawled along his length, trailing upwards seductively until they reached his head, red and angry and very hard. Precum leaked from his tip, and your mouth instantly watered at the sight. 

Wasting no time, Albert’s hand lazily stroked his length, running his thumb along his slit, gathering the precum that settled there. He squeezed his cock, a hiss escaping his form, and you swallowed thickly at the noise. His hips stuttered forward, and Albert pushed in between your legs, causing you to nestle around him. Your lip quivered as his head brushed against your slit, gathering your slick.

“This is going to hurt…” Albert cooed sadistically, hand gripping your jaw roughly while his other continued to align himself against you. You sucked in a breath, trying to steel yourself against his harsh words. With that, Albert thrusted forward, plunging inside of you. White hot pain exploded within you, and you felt as if you were being torn apart. A sob tore through your throat, tears filling your eyes at the painful stretch. 

Unphased by the intrusion, Albert continued, pushing so deep you were sure you were dying, his hips flush against yours, moving immediately with no room to adjust. Groaning, his grip on your jaw tightened so hard you felt as if you were going to snap. “Fuck… you’re so tight. Just like a bitch in heat.” He murmured, bottoming out before jutting forward again, causing a gargled yelp to escape you.

It was too much, you were too full, feeling as if you were bursting at the seams and filled to the brim with nothing except him. He was ruining you, practically tearing you apart and stuffing you so full there would be nothing left. His hips rolled again, cock dragging against your sore folds so roughly you were sure you were stretched to the brink. 

Albert moved at a bruising force, fucking into you so roughly you felt as if you couldn’t breathe. With every harsh thrust, the searing pain began to subside, an indescribable warmth beginning to take its place. Albert’s hand wrapped around the scarf, tugging it closer, and your back arched off the mattress to meet his grueling pace. You subconsciously clenched around him at the action, the thrusts of his cock becoming much more clear against you at the shift in your position.

The other hand dug into your hip, forcing your legs even further apart as he drove into you. Heat prickled across your skin, the stretch of his cock becoming everything except pain with each thrust. Your toes curled as he hammered into you, a sheen of sweat coating your skin. Quick, heated huffs escaped you as he ruined you, the pain completely shifting into white-hot pleasure. 

Albert practically growled as you succumbed to his ministrations, broken moans filling the air as he fucked you into the mattress. “Taking me so- hah… well… I knew you needed it…” He groaned, head dropping to your shoulder as his scarf-entangled fist met the bed, pulling you even more upright. “-Such a- fuck… dirty slut.” His degrading words burned at your skin, yet the way his hips rolled against you made any semblance of a response die on your lips.

The warmth returned to your stomach, kneading so heavily within you it felt like you were going to burst. Your legs trembled around Albert’s waist, the tension continued to build with every stroke of his cock through your slick walls. Uncontrollably, you clenched down, causing a hiss to escape the male hovering over you. “Shit… you’re milking me. You- mmh… you wanna cum?” He mused, dropping the scarf completely to wrap both hands around your neck, pushing you flat into the mattress. 

Pushing his weight against you, his hips slammed into yours at such a bruising pace your eyes rolled to the back of your head. Using your neck as a lifeline, Albert barred down, cutting off most of your oxygen as he pounded against you. “Cum for me, let me- ah… let me ruin you.” He pushed, thrusting so deeply you swore you saw stars. Your heels dug into the mattress, tension building within you so tightly tears welled in your eyes.

And finally, you burst.

Your orgasm hit you so suddenly your nails cut into your palms, body spasming as pleasure cut through your whole body, the dam releasing. A guttural scream tore through the air, rough and jagged, before it dawned on you that it was coming from you. Albert’s paced faltered as he fucked you through your orgasm, the pleasure radiating off of you in waves to the point you felt like jelly in his hands. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck-.” Albert chanted into your neck, riding out your orgasm before his hips stilled within you, stuttering as he reached his own orgasm. Hot, wet ropes of cum spurted within you, and you clenched at the feeling. Albert shuddered, practically collapsing against you, hips shallowly thrusting against yours. Sweat clung to your skin, and the smell of sex, blood, and saliva coated the air heavily.

Albert’s grip on your throat released, and you gasped for air. Albert tore his head from the crook of your neck, sweat dripping from his temple as he took in his handiwork. You were sprawled beneath him, skin adorned with love bites and bruises, covered in blood and sweat as you tried to catch your breath. You were his, ruined for all others.

A wicked grin spread across his lips, and he gently unwrapped the scarf from your neck, rubbing the raw flesh of your throat endearingly. He hummed at the way you melted against his hand, brain turned to mush and still reeling from your orgasm. So sweet, so compliant, all it took was a little breaking in, and you were all his. Albert withdrew his hips from yours, his softening cock retreating from your folds.

You jolted at the feeling, a hiss escaping you as the emptiness consumed you again, soreness creeping into your form. Crawling off the bed, Albert quickly dressed, shoving himself into his slacks before glancing at your fucked-out form on the mattress, a mixture of cum and blood dripping onto the mattress from between your legs. Albert huffed at the sight, buckling his belt into place before moving to crouch beside you. 

His fingers brushed your hair, and you sleepily opened your eyes to meet his own. Albert smiled at the empty gaze within them, only trained on him.

“Let’s get you cleaned up, hm? How about some of that eggnog?” Albert mused, grabbing your ruined shirt and pushing you upwards. You limply complied, jerking slightly from the shift in position. Albert produced a small key from his back pocket, unchaining your wrist from the wall before slipping the ruined shirt back onto your form. You hummed slightly, relishing the way the fabric brushed against your sore skin.

Releasing your form, you flopped backwards onto the mattress, exhausted. Albert chuckled at your almost broken state, standing and grabbing his shirt. Shrugging the material back onto his body, he buttoned the bottom few buttons before turning towards the door. “Merry Christmas, hon. I’m sure it’s one you’ll never forget.”

Your eyes met his once more, and he smiled, knowing he had won. Bound by kindness, he thought. Turning, he creaked open the heavy door before slamming it shut, leaving you alone in the cramped room. Rolling on your side, you brought your knees to your chest, the warmth fading from your skin.

Shame and guilt blossomed like a pit within your stomach, the pleasure seeping from you as you stared out at the wall. You winced at the pain from moving, groaning slightly as you felt Albert’s cum leaking from you onto the damp mattress. Mind swirling with emotions that were too complicated to decipher, you waited for Albert to return, craving his warmth, yet hating yourself for wanting him near you.

His betrayal was a fresh wound to bear, yet you couldn’t find yourself despising him, a much more primal emotion forming in your gut. You couldn’t tell which was more terrifying. Figuring out how you felt about Albert and how to adjust to your… new life was a tomorrow problem, for now you needed to rest. Staring out at the small window by the ceiling, you watched the snow fall once more, the frigid air creeping into the room and seeping into your bones.

You always hated the cold.

—

A/N: This was definitely a labor of love... requests and suggestions are still open for anyone interested!

[ceilidho]

OC: Sigrid (Love at First Sight) Masterlist

She barrels down a long, deserted stretch of road with her high beams on, the yellow median strip fluorescent under the glare of her headlights.  

It’s nine-fifteen. Too late for other drivers and too early for the truckers who use this road in the early daylight hours. On her way back from the soup kitchen, her volunteer shift over quite some time ago; she whittled away the last few hours of the evening helping with the clean up, reluctant to go home until they finally pushed her out the door. 

Now it’s only her and the endless stretch of black tar in front of her.

The car is quiet. She prefers it that way, no noise to distract her. Just the rumble of the engine and the muffled crunch of asphalt under the wheels. If there were someone else in the car, Sigrid would offer to put the radio on, but since it’s just her, she leaves it off. She doesn’t have a favourite station anyway; her taste in music has always gravitated to babbling brooks and soothing rain. In the absence of that, she prefers silence. 

Trees flicker by in her peripheral vision, the gaps of darkness between them growing thinner and thinner the farther she gets. The road is a deadzone amidst bosky surroundings, the trees on either side so tall that their tips end in spindly tendrils scraping the belly of the sky. 

When a plume of black smoke puffs out from the rim of the hood, Sigrid’s brow furrows and she steps on the brakes, putting her hazards on before pulling over to the side of the road. 

Smoke billows out when she pops the hood and she leaps back a foot, swiping the air with her hand to clear it, letting out a harsh breath to keep it from going into her lungs. 

Panic crawls up her throat and she runs back around to reach for her wallet through the window, fumbling around for her CAA card. 

“Roadside assistance, Patty speaking,” someone on the other end says.

“Hi—my, um…there’s smoke coming from my car,” Sigrid stutters, staring at the dark smoke still rolling off the engine. 

Clicking on the other end. “Is there any fire?”

She checks around. “No. I don’t see any.”

More clicking. “Alright, I’m sending a tow truck your way. Can you tell me where you are?”

Sigrid checks the map on her phone, giving the dispatcher a rough description of where she is and what road she’s on. Then she hangs up. 

It’ll be close to an hour, maybe more, before a tow truck will be here. Sigrid briefly contemplates sitting in the car until he does, but the smoke still rising from the engine makes her second guess that impulse. Besides, it’s not cold out at this time of year. Barely sweater weather. She can handle an hour standing around waiting for a tow truck driver to find her. 

The first ten minutes are agonizing and then the rest is a breeze. Sigrid plays a word search game on her phone, the battery still full from charging it at work, and checks her emails, firing off a couple responses that she would’ve otherwise saved for tomorrow morning. She texts her mom about her day and talks her down when she calls in a fit of worry about Sigrid being stranded in the middle of nowhere.

“It’s fine, mom,” she murmurs, keeping her voice down subconsciously. 

“Okay, baby, but you tell me the second the tow truck gets there, alright?”

When she hangs up, it feels like so much time has passed and yet when she stands in the middle of the road and looks into the distance, she can’t make out any headlights or hear the sound of a truck approaching. He shouldn’t be far off, judging by the time on her phone, but there’s no way to tell without calling the dispatcher again. Ten-thirty. It doesn’t feel worth it when he might be only a few minutes away.

She sighs and wanders back over to the car, away from the road.  

Off in the woods just beyond the road, a branch cracks.

Sigrid’s neck snaps towards the treeline, heart in her throat. The air is absolutely silent. With her headlights off, the woods are pitch black, the moonlight overhead a thin, bloodless replacement. The ferns and bushes on the edges are visible though, and Sigrid stares at them and the darkness just beyond, waiting for anything to move or for any more noise to come. 

The air seems to hum with its own silence, like a background frequency she’s only just tuned into by virtue of opening her ears. Though nothing moves in the shadows again, the hair on the back of her neck tingles. 

She stares harder into the darkness. A cold feeling washes over her when something crunches from the woods, like the soft tread of brittle autumn leaves under a foot. It’s not loud enough to give her a clear mental image of whatever’s hiding out in the trees—whether it’s just a vole scurrying across the forest floor or something bigger—but it’s distinct, singular against the silence.

Her palms are clammy. It’s not fear yet though because still nothing moves against the darkness and Sigrid thinks she’d know if there was a person there, tucked away behind the treeline. It’s just an eerie feeling, staring at nothing. 

And the longer she stares, the less certain she is that nothing is out there. Her skin buzzes like her body has seen something that her eyes haven’t. But nothing moves in the darkness and the trees don’t shift. 

A horn honks and bright lights blind her when a truck rolls up alongside her, the sudden noise making her almost jump out of her skin. 

“You called for a tow?” a man hollers from an open window and Sigrid squints against the light, nodding. “Alright—gimme a minute to get her up. Move off the road.”

She walks along the grass towards the back of her car, letting the tow truck pull up in front of her before the driver puts it in park, keeping the truck running so he can drive her car onto the flatbed. She swallows when her eyes dart towards the trees again, but the sound of the truck engine running muffles any sounds in the forest. 

The driver works quickly and methodically, slamming the hood of her car down before driving it up onto the bed and lifting the bed back up, fastening the straps around the wheels in a few short minutes. 

When he’s done, the driver wipes his hands off on his pant legs and turns to her. “You can get in—I’ll drive you to the garage and we’ll get you a lift home unless someone can come get you.”

Sigrid shakes her head. “No. I’ll take a lift.”

She’s buckled in before he makes his way around, wincing when the radio starts blaring. Her heart jumps when the truck starts moving and her car bounces on the flatbed, hammering against her ribcage before they start rolling and her car stays secured in place. Her fingers loosen against the underside of her seat.

When she glances at the side mirror, a tree shifts in the distance and something dark steps out. Sigrid’s eyes widen. Then the darkness envelopes everything behind them and whatever stepped into the road is lost, the truck hurtling down the long, dark stretch of road ahead of them.

[dyaz-stories]

put your arms around me and i'm home || Cha Hyun-Su x Reader

summary: In the dead of winter, you have to do a run to go get fuel for your generator. Things go wrong, but fortunately, Hyun-Su is here to save you.

word count: 3.7k

warnings & tags: canon-typical violence, gore, monsters, hyun-su and reader get injured, reader briefly thinks hyun-su is dead, monster!hyun-su makes a brief appearance, hyun-su needs a hug and he gets one!, angst, hurt/comfort, season 2 canon compliant.

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A/N: this can be read on its own, but there is another one-shot, if you're interested! for context, this takes place during season 2. reader and hyun-su know each other from high school and reader runs into hyun-su after the events of the first three episodes. reader also doesn't know that he is a monster/neohuman.

You’re not one to get caught off guard, not usually. You’ve always been cautious, measured, far-sighted. It had been an advantage back in high school, and you’re pretty sure it’s what kept you alive thus far.

Yet, in this new world that you never asked to be a part of, unforeseen complications were the norm. You could plan, and plan, and plan ahead, but here you were, freezing in your living room, because the biting cold of the lasting winter meant that you’d run out of fuel for your small generator, and everything else you used to generate electricity wasn’t functioning the way it should.

If you didn’t want to freeze to death, you had to act, and act quick.

You’d already held out a few more days than was reasonable, hoping that the weather would clear and your solar panels would be useful again, or — but you hadn’t dared to voice that thought — that Hyun-Su would come by, and you could ask for his help. He’d offered before, after all, even if he had always kept you at arm’s length whenever you’d returned the favor.

But things were dire now, and you couldn’t wait any longer, so you’re kneeling in your living-room, preparing yourself for a hazardous trip in the outside, shivering as you do. Things are dangerous enough on a good day, but the snow that’s been continuously falling only makes you dread it more. It swallows sounds, means you’ll leave tracks behind you, and you’ll consume twice as much energy just to move around.

The last thing you pack is a map, which you make sure to keep available, though you hope you won’t need it in between breaks.

You’re heading for a four-stories parking lot, where you hope you’ll find fuel in one of the cars, but that’s not the dangerous part. What’s risky is that monsters love these kinds of places, with all their nooks and crannies, all the dark places to hide, and fear already has your heart beating twice as fast as usual before you’ve even opened your door.

Still, you take a steadying breath, haul the backpack over on your shoulders, and exit the house without making a sound.

Everything is quiet outside. Snow is falling gently, and the sight would be heart-warming, if it wasn’t for all the overturned cars, the gaping hole torn into the building opposite from yours by one of those missiles a few months ago, and the worrying fresh footprints going towards the river. The snow also covers the decomposing bodies, and you can only hope that you don’t accidentally step on one as you start walking.

At least it fills your tracks behind you. By the time you’ve reached the other side of the street, which was one once an impossible task due to how bad traffic you used to be, nothing leads back to your door, and you leave with, at least, the reassurance that home will still be here waiting for you when you come back.

If you come back.

There’s comfort in knowing that you’d planned well, this time, to get to the parking lot. You get to your destination with only expected complications. You spot the monsters before they spot you. You have to reroute twice, but that had been accounted for, and you don’t even have to pull out your map. You reach the building right before noon, and after surveying it for a few minutes, you let yourself in before you can chicken out.

In the dark, you make your way to the first floor, where you will be able to have the greyish light of the day, instead of having to use precious batteries for your flashlight.

It’s not long before you’ve picked out the car, a familial minivan with an untouched baby seat in the back. You try not to think about the people it belonged to as you kneel by the side and prepare to siphon the tank. You make quick work of preparing it, with the tanks and hoses you’d brought for that purpose.

Maybe it’s your confidence that’s to blame for what happens next, or maybe it’s another one of these unforeseeable accidents. Either way, you catch movement from the corner of your eye and you jerk your head back as a reflex, but you’re not fast enough and unnaturally long claws dig into your cheek.

You manage not to scream despite the pain, scramble back and away from the van. There, standing on the roof, is a creature. Though it stands on two legs, there is nothing human about it anymore. The side of its face are sagging and drooping like it’s centuries old, covering where you assume its shoulders would be. It brings its claws to its lips, and your realize with horror that your blood is dripping from them.

Bleeding, in this world, might as well be a death sentence. You don’t bother wasting energy in stopping the tears from spilling from your eyes.

“Younnnnng,” the monster screeches. “Give— meeeeee…”

It at least snaps you out of the stupor, and you grab your bat, unwilling to go down without a fight.

But it’s not much of a fight, not when the scent and the noise are waking up all the other creatures hibernating around here.

You swing wildly as the thing, and manage to send it tumbling back. It’s only a short respite though, considering pain is only ever short lived for them, while blood is dripping down your chin and onto the concrete.

You throw your backpack on your shoulders with trembling hands and grab the first cannister that you’ve filled, abandoning the rest behind to start sprinting towards the exit.

You already know you won’t make it. You know you’ll have to run through the pitch dark ground floor, which is no doubt filled with more of those nightmares, and that the chances you’ll make it out on the other side are slim to none.

But you owe it to yourself fight until the very end.

As it stands, you don’t even make it to the downward slope that leads there. There’s the sound of something charging towards you, and then the— the head, it has to be, of a bull-like thing catches you in the ribs, and sends you flying into a car. Your breath is instantly knocked out of you, your vision goes blurry, your head starts reeling. You’re aware of the thing crashing into a concrete pillar. It at least stays there, struggling to pull itself out, but that’s barely any relief, because soon enough the first creature is calling out to you again, stretching out a skeletal arm towards you.

“Younnnnnng… Give meeeee…”

It kicks you in the ribs, and you roll onto your back, only to be met with the horrifying sight of its arm in the air, claws out and ready, preparing to cut your throat open.

You refuse to close your eyes.

And then, just as you think everything lost, someone steps in between you and the monster, blocking its arm with your very own baseball bat. You stare blankly at the large back, the unkept black hair, as the man forces it to step back and kicks it in the chest.

Then Hyun-Su turns around, and holds his hand out towards you.

He looks nothing like what you’re used to. He’s usually so lost, so hesitant, when he comes to you. Now he’s focused, purposeful, and in many ways, he reminds you of the boy you once knew, the captain of the football team who would without fail lead his team to victory.

“Let’s go,” he urges you, and when you weakly take his hand, he pulls you to your feet effortlessly.

You wheeze as the two of you run to hide behind a car. You press your free hand against your ribs, hoping to lessen the pain — it doesn’t work, of course.

“It’s going to find me,” you mumble to Hyun-Su as he keeps an eye on the thing. “It can— It can smell my blood.”

Hyun-Su’s head snaps towards you, and his expression darkens at the sight of the wound on your cheek. He lifts his hand halfway, as if to touch it, then lets it fall down again.

“You should—” Your voice breaks. “You should go. If it can find me… It’s not the only one.”

A strange expression that you can’t quite decipher passes on his face, before he shakes his head firmly.

“I’m not leaving you here.”

The relief you feel when he says those words is immediately overshadowed by embarrassment. You shouldn’t be happy. He needs to go, or he will die here with you, and what would the point be in that?

“What— What are you even doing here? How—”

You don’t know if he doesn’t answer on purpose, or if he hears a sound that takes his attention away from you.

“Can you run?” he asks you, glancing over the car.

Your body’s going to hurt like hell when the adrenaline wears out, but for now you give him a decided nod.

“Do you trust me?”

You should probably take your time to answer him, actually think about the question.

“Yes,” you answer instead, like it’s a reflex.

He exhales quietly, squeezes your hand in his.

“Then run.”

Then he’s pulling with him, running at full speed towards the open wall of the parking lot. Fear spikes through you. Even though you’re only on the first floor, it’s still too high to land comfortably. That fear is completely erased by the sight that greets you, briefly, of monsters stumbling and climbing all over each other to make their way up from the ground floor. There is a whole swarm of them teeming here already, and you can’t think of any other way to make it out alive — frankly, you have a hard time believing that this will work. But you cling to your faith in Hyun-Su like your life depends on it, because it does, and when he yells for you to jump, you do it without question.

While you’re flailing in the air, you feel him pulling you towards him. Strong arms wrap around you, and keep you caged and safe. You hit the ground brutally, rolling on the floor until you land on top of him.

“Fuck,” you mumble, painfully pushing you onto your elbows. “Hyun-Su, are— are you okay?”

The obvious answer to the question is ‘no’, and yet Hyun-Su doesn’t look worse for wear as he sits up, his eyes instead going over your body to make sure you weren’t too badly injured.

If you shiver when his hands run up and down your arms, it isn’t because of the cold.

“Let’s move,” he says, letting go of you all too quickly.

But, by the time you’re both on your feet, monsters attracted by the smell of your blood have started falling from the parking lot. The two of you sprint, but you’re no match for them and you know it. You regain the tiniest hope when you make it past a corner, thinking that maybe, just maybe, the snow will swallow your smell if you hide well enough — and then something wraps around your ankle.

In a second, you’re torn out of Hyun-Su’s grasp, and when you manage to roll onto your back to see who your assailant is, all you can do is let out an inhumane scream.

This particular monster has eight legs, like a spider, and its somewhat human torso  and head is completed by two long mandibles instead of a jaw. You manage to grab a knife from your pocket, but by the time you can cut its— web, you suppose, it’s charging towards you at full speed, and it’s close, too close for you to even get on your feet before—

When it attacks you, the first thing you see is what you first identify as a black wing, before you realize that it’s made out of a complex mix of flesh, bone and other materials that you can’t quite recognize, instead of feathers.

The wing pushes the creature back, and then Hyun-Su’s back is in front of you once more.

It’s his, you realize, brain awfully slow all of sudden. The wing. It’s attached to his shoulder, and all you can do is stare in confusion and horror. It flutters as he turns around to look at you.

You’re not fully in control when you scramble back, whole body shaking — because of the second near-death experience in ten minutes or because you’re terrified, you don’t know. What you do know is how hurt he looks, and how he turns his head the other way to face the monsters that are still coming after the two of you.

“You should run,” he says, low enough that you could miss it. He sounds hollow again. “Don’t turn around.”

You shake your head quietly, try to form some words. They all fail you. You don’t— you have no clue what’s happening. All that you know is that Hyun-Su is a monster and that he’s just used that to save your life.

The wave of monsters reach him just a few seconds later, before you’ve managed to decide anything. He pushes them back with practiced ease, one by one. You hate that you’re just sitting here, unable to move, as he fights for your life, yet your body just refuses to answer to you, even if you’re begging it to react.

Soon, the spider is the last one standing — or rather, the last one who hasn’t yet decided that you’d make a fairly meager lunch, considering how hard it is to get to you. It keeps attacking, and Hyun-Su keeps pushing it back, again, and again, until the creature manages to ensnare him in its web. Hyun-Su writhes, manages to pull his wing free, but it’s clear that he’s now at a disadvantage, and the mandibles click threateningly as the monster gets closer and closer to him.

Finally, your body agrees to react.

You run.

You don’t go very far though. You find the cannister you’d dropped and then you’re rushing back to throw the gasoline at the creature, half emptying it. The monster wasn’t paying attention to you, too busy trying to bite Hyun-Su’s head off, but its head snaps towards you when the liquid reaches it. It lets out a threatening hiss, which you ignore.

Instead, you find the lighter in your pocket.

Aim.

And throw.

The screams start right away, but it drops Hyun-Su, at least, as it tries to escape the fire.

For a second, you think you’ve made it — you’ve both made it, that is. Hyun-Su pulls himself to his feet. The wing flutters again, slowly starts to retreat back into his body to go back to a human arm.

He looks at you, expression unreadable.

And then one of the spider’s limb pierces through his chest. It’s not even calculated this time — just a movement it’s making as it tries to free itself from the flames that are consuming it.

You hear yourself scream. You don’t remember asking your body to move, this time, but you know that a second later you’re reaching Hyun-Su as he falls to his knees, and your arms are around him while you cradle him, pulling his head into your lap. Tears fall down your cheeks and onto his, as one of your hands tries, and fails, to apply pressure to the gaping wound, even if you know there is no point.

“No,” you beg. “No, no, no, no… Please, please, someone, please…”

You don’t know how many times you say it, how long you stay there. Snow starts to cover both his body and yours, and you realize you have a decision to make, if you don’t want to freeze to death. You just can’t bring yourself to do it.

Until Hyun-Su’s lifeless body arches in your arms with a gasp.

When his eyes open, they’re a clear, cold, uncanny blue.

You don’t dare to do anything then — not to let go of him, not to move away, not to break eye contact. It makes no sense, but you’re afraid that the slightest movement would have him gone again.

Slowly, his lips curve into a smirk, an expression you’ve never seen on him before. You’ve seen him smile, bright and sincere, and more recently, soft and subdued. But this amused, flirtatious smirk, that is completely new.

“You’re still here,” he comments, casually getting up, like nothing happen, like he can’t feel pain, like there isn’t a hole in his chest.

Even his voice is different. There’s a drawl to it, light and lazy, like he has all the time in the world.

“Hyun-Su?” you say, unsure of what’s happening. He was dead a minute ago. Then again, now that he’s breathing again, your brain is able to form the thought that he is a monster. An abnormal one, sure, and you don’t know enough to draw any conclusion, but it could be an explanation.

The smirk widens.

“Close enough,” he answers. “Are you scared?”

You’re not sure. You think you’re too emotionally exhausted to be scared.

“Should I be?” you ask. Maybe you shouldn’t trust this version of him to tell you the truth, and yet— All your senses are telling you that this is still Hyun-Su. And you don’t think he’d do anything to hurt you. Ever.

“It would break him if you got hurt,” not-Hyun-Su says, tilting his head. He lifts his index finger to tilt your head up. “I don’t want him broken.”

“Is he—” You interrupt yourself, unsure of what even is happening right now. But before you can start asking for answers, there is something you need to know. “Is Hyun-Su okay right now?”

He scoffs.

“He’s taking a break,” he replies. “He’s worked hard.” A beat while he seems to think about it. “Also, he thinks you hate him now.”

“I could never hate him,” you say, too easily, because it’s just the truth.

“Well, he is a monster,” not-Hyun-Su says with a shrug. He doesn’t seem to mean it as an insult, just stating a fact. You suppose he’s not wrong, and yet…

“The people I loved all turned into monsters,” you whisper quietly. Your mother, before you even made it home. Your best friend, who begged for death so she wouldn’t hurt others. Your father, who disappeared to protect you. You miss them all so much it sometimes feel like your heart’s been ripped out of your chest, and you’d give anything to have them back. So, if there is any way that you can still have Hyun-Su… “As long— as long as he’s not trying to kill me, does it really matter?”

The man watches you with interest, tilting his head to the side. It’s interesting. You haven’t been hurt by this world the way others have. Monsters caused death and destruction, but you watched half-monsters doing their very best to avoid hurting others, not unlike what Hyun-Su is doing right now.

The monster in him wonders what it would take, to destroy that ill-placed trust in others around you. The rest of him… is far too intrigued to give in. He grabs your chin between his thumb and his index finger, pulls your face closer to his.

“Doesn’t it?” he echoes your words. “What if I do hurt you?”

You swallow, call back the images of Hyun-Su easily taking out these monsters earlier. But you can’t forget that he’d been doing it to protect you.

“Y–You won’t,” you reply, even if your stutter betrays your lack of confidence.

It’s a leap of faith, but it seems to amuse him.

“For now,” he says, before his eyes roll into his head and Hyun-Su collapses in your arms.

You stumble back, barely manage to keep him up, before he seems to regain some control over his limbs and starts coughing. Even then, you don’t let go of him. You wrap both of your arms around him, head resting against his shoulder, and keep him there, against you.

Hyun-Su remains still for a while, breathing pained and ragged. The snow is still falling, but his body is warm.

“Are you okay?” he whispers with a hoarse voice.

“I am,” you answer. “Thanks to you.”

He lets out a pained sigh.

“Did he— Did he hurt you?”

You shake your head, barely moving away so you can look at him. He doesn’t look at you, keeps his eyes — black again, you note — fixedly in the other direction.

Like he can’t bear to know which emotion is on your face right now.

“I’m so happy you’re alive,” you say quietly. “I thought— I thought I’d lost you forever.”

Silence.

“Don’t leave me,” you beg, voice so low and broken you don’t think he’d hear if he wasn’t inches from you.

Hyun-Su’s body starts shaking against yours. Finally, finally, he wraps an arm around your waist, burying his head in your neck, and wet tears roll down your collarbone. In the freezing cold weather, they feel burning hot.

“Don’t hate me,” he begs in response, crying in your arms, fingers digging to the fabric of your clothes in a desperate attempt to keep you there, against him — even if there is no need for that right now.

You wish you could tell him that he just saved your life, that he’s been a guiding light in your cold, dark life this past few months, that you love him more than words can say. But that would take too long, and the situation calls for something shorter, more direct, and just as meaningful.

“You’re the only good thing about this world,” you say instead, and he sucks in a sharp breath.

Under the snow, for long minutes, Hyun-Su holds you like he never wants to let go.

When the two of you eventually detach from each other, he keeps your hand in his the whole walk home.

i hope you liked this installment! i'm probably going to write something much softer next, still for this couple (but it's hyun-su so it's still going to be angsty). if you're enjoying this, please let me know your thoughts, reblog or send in an ask. hearing from readers is so motivating and makes me want to keep writing!

next part

[wheels-of-despair]

A Night Under the Stars Pairing: Eddie Munson x You Summary: Eddie's sick of the all the damn rain. Evil Woman raises his spirits with a surprise. What if he has something up his sleeve too? Contains: Rain, boy in distress, girl to the rescue, kisses, mush, etc. Words: 1.8k

"Son of a bitch!"

You pause on the Munson's porch in the drizzle that's been hanging over Hawkins for days, waiting to see if there's more to this outburst. When you're only met by the sound of the local news, you reach for the doorknob and step inside.

Eddie's sitting on the couch in front of the TV, wearing sweats and a t-shirt and a scowl on his face. Notebook paper and D&D manuals litter the coffee table. A Dungeon Master's work is never done. Much like Eddie Munson's homework when he's left unsupervised.

"You kiss Higgins' ass with that mouth?" you ask, dropping your stuff by the door.

"Fuckin' weather guy," he grumbles, crossing his arms with a huff. It's a good thing he's pretty when he pouts.

You kick off your boots, hang up your raincoat, and cross the room to get to him. You sink your knees into the couch cushions and straddle his lap. His hands come to rest on your hips. You cup his face with your cold fingers, squishing his already-adorable pouty lips together.

"You know he's just reporting it, right? He's not the one in charge of deciding when the sun shines?"

"I know that." Eddie scrunches his nose at you and pulls his face from your grip. "I'm just sick of all this fuckin' rain. I wanna go up to Weathertop and look at the stars."

"It'll let up eventually." You brush his hair out of his face, and he sighs. "I hope."

"I've been trying to get us up there for ages," he whines. "But Hawkins is one big filthy mudslide."

"We could start a mud wrestling league," you tease.

Eddie's eyes rake down your body and back up, a lazy smirk spreading across his face. He leans back into the sofa cushions, lacing his fingers behind his head like he's waiting for a demonstration.

After a few seconds of debating whether to smack him or kiss him, you lean down and press your lips to his forehead. Eddie pokes his bottom lip out in an exaggerated pout, and you lean back down to kiss that too. You straighten and hold him close, letting his head rest in the crook of your neck.

"Love you," you whisper into his soft curls.

"Love you too."

⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

A week later, it was still raining.

But you had a plan.

Which is why you skipped science class to do something special for your special guy. Because it's what he deserves.

After school let out and The Hellfire Club boisterously wrapped up another epic session and the boys were dropped off at the ends of their flooded driveways, you suggested having a cuddly, quiet dinner at the empty Munson residence. Eddie agreed immediately.

When he pulled into his driveway and reached for the door handle, you stopped him.

"I want to show you something," you smile.

Eddie glances at your slightly damp shirt before returning his gaze to your eyes. Smirky bastard.

"Follow me," you say with a roll of your eyes, moving between the seats to the back of the van, which is slightly neater than you'd found it this morning. Not that anyone else bothered to notice.

You spread a blanket across the carpeted floor and sit on it, waiting for Eddie to join you. He does, uneasily, like he knows you've got something up your sleeve.

"Close your eyes," you instruct.

"Why?"

"Just do it."

"And what if I don't?" he challenges, a wicked glint in his eye. Of all the days to be difficult…

You groan and reach out, striking so fast he doesn't even realize you've snatched the bandana from his pocket until it's being wrapped around his head.

"Kinky," he smirks.

"Cram it," you bark, fighting a smile and pushing him down onto his back. Normally this would be a dangerous move, but you'd personally seen to it that there were no hazardous objects littering the floor of the van during this morning's top-secret mission.

"Mmm, yeah, this is my kind of surprise."

"Would you shut up?" you laugh. "Can you see?"

"See myself rippin' through half a box of condoms tonight," he says proudly.

You heave an exasperated sigh and wonder if this is even worth it. Maybe you should just smack him and go inside and try this another day. He seems to sense your mood, because his smirk disappears.

"No, I can't see."

"One second," you mutter, fumbling to extract the blacklight you'd hidden in your backpack. The light comes out, the switch clicks on, and you lie down beside beside Eddie and reach over to take his blindfold off. He keeps his eyes closed. "You can look now," you whisper.

Eddie looks up at all the stars, and he gasps.

A month ago, you picked up a heavily discounted package of glow-in-the-dark star stickers at the mall. You stuck them in a book to keep them from bending on the way home and promptly forgot about them... until yesterday, when Eddie went on yet another rant about not being able to see the stars because of all the damn the rain.

So you ripped your room apart to find them last night, and spent fourth period sticking tiny glow-in-the-dark stars all over the van's roof. Thanks to the rain, there was no sunlight for them to absorb. You wouldn't even notice they were there, unless you were looking for them. So you ran inside and stole the blacklight from your bedroom when Gareth was dropped off at home.

It was beautiful.

But it was nothing, compared to the wonder on Eddie's face in that soft purple glow.

"You… you did this for me?"

"My boy wants a night under the stars, my boy gets a night under the stars," you smile. "Anytime he wants."

Is that… a tear?

"Are you crying?" you ask, twisting toward him for a better look.

"No," he lies, sniffling and swiping at his eyes.

"Awww," you coo, wanting to scoop him up and hold him forever.

"Shut up!"

"C'mere," you laugh, reaching for him and knowing he doesn't mean it. Eddie rolls to his side and buries his face in your chest. You squeeze him tight and kiss the top of his head. You can feel the tears he's not crying leak through your shirt.

"Love you," you whisper.

"Love you more," he counters.

"Not possible," you inform him with another kiss to the top of his head. He rolls back over to stare up at the stars and lets out a happy sigh.

"What did I do to deserve you?" he asks, not taking his eyes off of the stars on the ceiling.

"Something bad in a previous life, probably," you joke.

"Shut up," Eddie sighs, squeezing your hand. "You're perfect."

You know better than to argue, so you lie there happily for a moment, just staring at the stars like you sometimes did on Weathertop. At least there are less bugs here. And no mud. And it required way less walking. And there was no risk of getting busted for trespassing.

Eddie lets go of your hand suddenly, sitting up and crawling away from you on his knees.

What the fuck?

You prop up on your elbows and watch as he fumbles with his guitar case. He clicks it closed and shuffles back, still on his knees. He sits on his heels in front of you. He extends his hand to reveal…

A ring.

In his palm.

You look from it, to his face, with no idea what to say.

"This is why I wanted to take you up to Weathertop," he explains. "I wanted to propose under the stars."

"We can still--"

"No," he cuts you off. "This is better. This is perfect."

Is he...?

"Can I…?" he asks.

This is it.

You're not just goofing around this time. You can't even bring yourself to tease him about taking this so seriously, he's on two knees instead of the traditional one. This is happening. Now. You nod, not trusting yourself to speak.

"Will you marry me?"

Yes. A million times yes. Eddie Munson is the only man you've ever loved. The only one you will ever love. You can't imagine a life without him. You want to be by his side, through everything life decides to throw at you. You want to go to sleep beside him every night and wake up next to him every morning, from now until the day you draw your last breath. You want to be together forever... and so does he.

Words, idiot. Use your words.

"Yes," you whisper, trying to keep your voice from cracking.

Eddie grins, teeth glowing, and slides the ring onto your finger. You admire the metal on your shockingly still hand for a second before pulling him in for a kiss…

⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

Half an hour later, you and Eddie are lying on your backs, holding hands and staring up at your own personal starry night. The rain hammers down on the roof of the van, and you have no desire to put clothes back on long enough to run inside.

"We're really doing this," you breathe, head still spinning.

"Your mom says we have to wait 'til after graduation."

"What?" you ask, turning your head toward him.

"Wayne said I had to ask for permission," he smiles sheepishly.

"You asked my mom for permission to marry me?"

Eddie scrunches one eye shut, which means yes.

"Are you mad?" he asks.

"Not at all," you smile, squeezing his hand. Why would you be? "I bet it meant a lot to her." And to you.

"Couldn't risk losing my position as Mom's Favorite," he grins. "Since I'm really gonna be part of the family now."

"You're already part of the family," you correct him, rolling to your side and inching closer to rest your head on his shoulder. His arms wrap around you and pull you even closer. "You know that as well as I do. This is just the legal part, so everyone else knows it."

"There's no take-backs, you know," he warns, his voice a whisper.

"I wouldn't dream of it," you smile.

Your chin tilts upward; his down. Your lips meet in a kiss that somehow feels different than the last ten thousand. Neither of you has the strength, or the desire, to pull away. For the next several hours, the only sounds in the van are kisses and whispered promises and the pounding of raindrops on the metal above.

Eddie doesn't seem to mind it anymore.

[saltnsugarbear]

and I can go anywhere I want (just not home)

summary: winter in DC is cold! but you have a loving girlfriend to warm you up

title from: "my tears ricochet" by Taylor Swift

word count: 0.7k

content warnings: none! soft, warm day today!

side note: starting a small collection of gifts with Emily Prentiss and my beloved Ruby! I'm so delighted to call you my friend, you're soso sweet <3 this one is for you, my beloved

divider from @/tsunami-of-tears! who did the original one that I use but I'm using her winter themed ones for today!

Living so close to the water in winter is a nightmare. Winter in D.C. can be a blessing or a curse, depending on the weather.

That's why you're so glad Emily's apartment has heating.

How she manages such a nice place on a government salary in downtown D.C. is a mystery to you. But she manages. A place to the both of you.

And Sergio...

Sergio is a blessing of his own, a miniature heater that can be carried from room to room. Despite Emily's willingness, you're incredibly conscious of heating in the house. Favoring blankets, bundling and Sergio over turning on the heater.

Georgetown prices were not something you favored.

However, Emily knew this habit of yours, setting the heating to go on when she needed. She was more willing to make the apartment comfortable instead of nesting in one spot all night. You supposed it was easier for her to rationalize as the person who paid the bills for the apartment.

But Emily also had a habit of keeping her windows open at night. Except for the obvious safety hazard it caused, the cold from the waterfront sneaking in.

Maybe she did it on purpose. So that you had no option but to cuddle up next to her. Face buried in her sleep shirt, arms wrapped tightly around your stomach under your sweater. Sergio is tucked in the notch of her legs, cozying up to both his parents.

A blessing from the cold air is it makes Emily sleep like a log. She's hard to wake after a cold night.

That makes it easier for you to sneak out of bed. Replacing your body with a pillow under her arm before slipping away.

Your rustling, however, wakes Sergio. He's a silent cat, following you out of the bedroom like a second shadow. You're both silent as you pad into the kitchen, starting up the coffee pot and grabbing the sugar from the pantry.

Emily's started this bad habit of feeding Sergio on the counter top, causing you to conform to this habit. Grabbing his food bowl from the dish rack and the container of wet food from the fridge. He's graceful in his jump onto the counter, sitting politely in his designated spot on the counter. You put his breakfast in his dish before serving it to him.

The machine is done by the time Serge is fed, coffee carafe ready for you to pour. You collect your and Emily's mugs from the cabinet, setting them down and pouring them. You know how Emily likes her coffee so you're quick to prepare both cups and stirring them thoroughly.

Sergio chirps at you when he's done and you know it's time to set out his water for him. Once he's set up again on the counter you collect your cups, walk steady back to the bedroom.

Emily is still asleep when you enter the room, setting your cups down on the nightstand on your side of the bed. The bed is cold when you climb under the covers, wriggling you way over to Emily. She stirs when you slip cold fingers against her skin.

"Y're cold.." She mutters, face half squished against her pillow. You can't help but grin as you kiss her cheek, then her shoulder, then her nose, teasing her until she glares at you for avoiding her lips.

"Good morning.." You say softly before appeasing her, kissing her gently. She's pliable in the mornings, melting into your touch, a much different version of her than the one you see after work.

"Good morning," she sighs before pushing herself up. You're quick to follow, reaching for her mug and giving it to her with a kiss on the cheek.

"It snowed last night.." You tell her, nodding your head towards her windows. You can't see it from the bed, with how high up her apartment is, but the reflection is obvious.

"And I have the day off.." Emily reminds you quietly, watching as your face lights up. "So we can stay in bed all day.."

She's teasing you, leaning in close enough that it would be easy to close the gap.

"I like the sound of that..." You whisper and she smiles.

"Me too.."

[vivsinkpot]

Writing Characters with Fairy or Dragonfly Wings: Fragile, Fierce, and Not to Be Underestimated

So maybe your winged character doesn’t have feathered angelic wings or leathery dragon limbs. Maybe their wings are translucent, gossamer, or glittering in the light — the kind of wings that hum like crystal and tear like silk. Let’s talk about fairy, insectoid, dragonfly-like wings — and how to write them in a way that makes them feel real.

This is a follow-up to my original winged character guide — if you’re writing any kind of winged character, definitely check that out first for biomechanics, symbolism, and physical challenges.

Anatomy of a Gossamer Dream

Fairy-style wings are typically modeled on insect wings — dragonflies, butterflies, moths, cicadas — all those delicate, veined wonders of nature.

Lightweight but Strong (Sort Of)

These wings are made of thin membranes stretched over a network of veins.

Dragonfly wings in particular are rigid, allowing agile flight with independent movement (yes — each wing can flap separately).

Butterfly wings are softer, more fluttery, designed for gliding and visual display rather than speed.

✍️ If your character has dragonfly-style wings, think precision, agility, rapid changes of direction. If they have moth or butterfly wings, think grace, drift, allure.

Placement Matters

Insects have multiple pairs of wings (usually two pairs — forewings and hindwings).

You’ll want to decide: do your characters have just one pair, or four wings? Are they stacked or spread out?

✍️ Tip: A four-wing structure gives your character more balance, lift, and complexity — but also more space needed, more room for injury, and more movement to coordinate.

Fragility and Function

These wings may be beautiful, but they are vulnerable. Treat them that way in your writing.

Delicate Damage

Gossamer wings tear easily — on thorns, rough walls, during fights, even in bad weather.

Once damaged, they might be painful, irreparable, or regrow slowly.

This vulnerability can be symbolic — a representation of your character’s innocence, past traumas, or changing identity.

✍️ A torn wing might be your character’s equivalent of a limp, a scar, or a lost voice. Or it might be something they’re deeply ashamed of — a mark of exile from a fae court, perhaps.

Environmental Hazards

Rain is heavier than it looks — it can ground or drown tiny-winged creatures.

Smoke, dust, and cobwebs can destroy the delicate membranes.

Cold weather makes membranes brittle and prone to cracking.

✍️ Think about a scene where a fairy-like character has to crawl to shelter in a storm, or shelter their wings under a cloak, or cut their flight short to preserve their mobility.

Aesthetic and Symbolism

Fairy wings are rarely just functional. They are emblems — of status, magic, mood, and identity.

Wings As Personal Expression

Wing color, shape, and shimmer could be tied to emotion, rank, or species.

Maybe your characters’ wings change with age, seasons, or personal development (think: molting, metamorphosis, magical flux).

Transparent wings might become iridescent when touched, or darken with grief.

✍️ Describe how the wings catch the light. Make it matter when someone sees their reflection ripple across them. That’s character, not just costume.

Courtly Hierarchies

Wings could denote nobility, caste, or function in a fae society.

Torn or clipped wings might signal punishment or shame.

Artificial wings — prosthetic, magical, or glamoured — could reflect ambition, bitterness, or resilience.

✍️ Imagine a fairy queen with tattered, barely functional wings — not from battle, but because she gave her flight for power.

Combat, Flight, and Movement

Small wings don’t mean weak characters. In fact, they’re often deadliest in motion.

Zipping Through Battle

Think hummingbird/dragonfly logic: speed, agility, unpredictability.

Fae warriors might use flight to dodge, dart, or launch from trees like wasps with knives.

Your character may not overpower their enemies, but they can outmaneuver them.

When They Can’t Fly

When grounded, wings get in the way. They might drag, snag, or shimmer too brightly in stealth situations.

Some characters might hide them, fold them tightly, or even glamour them away to pass as human.

✍️ Wings as a visible difference can signal everything — pride, alienation, vulnerability. Decide how your character handles being seen.

Worldbuilding Ideas for Faerie/Dragonfly-Winged Characters

Here’s some bonus worldbuilding to enrich your story:

Doorways shaped like arches to allow winged movement.

Suspended walkways, canopy villages, or vertical cities designed for aerial beings.

Wing-care stations: like spas or temples, for grooming, magical repair, or seasonal molting.

Winged court etiquette: a lowered wing as submission, a flare as threat, brushing wings as a form of intimacy.

Final Thoughts

Fairy wings are more than just sparkles and flutter. They can be a lens through which you explore vulnerability, pride, identity, and transformation. They can make your character otherworldly, but also deeply human.

Let them shine. Let them tear. Let them shimmer and fall and rise again.

💬 Reblog and tell me what color your OC’s wings are. Do they hum like cicadas? Pulse like flame? Or barely hold together after what they’ve been through?

And don’t forget to check out Part One: Writing Characters with Wings for everything on wingspans, anatomy, and the practical realities of flight.

[cypresswood3]

Malevolent Stay in Addison au breakdown. What if Arthur was never given a reason to doubt Larson and stayed in the estate long enough to recover. How it would affect the plot, Arthur and John's relationship, and Arthur's ability to trust people. All au related posts in tag.

Uncle finds Arthur in Addison, BUT, lucky coincidence, either they put him in a different room where he doesn't hear the girl scream, or there is no girl there that night at all. Point being, despite still being naturally wary about Larson, Arthur is a lot more relaxed. Yellow definitely played a role by dropping stuff like "he looks kind", warping Arthur's perception from the start. Yellow totally bought into Larson's persona initially, and it affects Arthur too, even if subconsciously. And hell, Arthur is tired and in shambles mentally.

He actually stays in the room to collect himself and think. Larson, not shunned away by Arthur's question about the screaming girl (because there is none), lingers by the door to listen in on what Arthur will do next. He may as well have noticed how weird Arthur's eyes are, and he did pick up on the way Arthur pauses as if listening to an extra person in the conversation. Of course he's curious. And he does overhear Arthur speak to Yellow! Maybe Arthur even drops some juicy lore about the book or his Dreamlands misadventures because Yellow asks him about John again.

So, Larson takes an interest in Arthur. He's smart enough not to approach him directly about it, deciding to either earn his trust or keep Arthur within his reach for long enough to crack it himself.

Arthur eventually succumbs to sleep in his room again, and sleeps well, feeling safe for once. When morning comes, he's treated like a welcome guest by Larson, clothed and fed breakfast and dragged into pleasant small-talk that Arthur never knew he missed so much. The normalcy of it all, the pleasant knowledge that as of now, all Arthur has to do is wait for Larson to give him a ride to Arkham, which he already promised to do. It's a welcome change of pace.

That's when Larson informs him that the weather played a cruel trick on them both, making it impossible to get out of Addison. Perhaps it's the cold rain they mentioned, having frozen overnight and turning the roads into a health hazard. Maybe the rain caused a small avalanche that blocked the road. Maybe Larson just made it up. And maybe he didn't.

But Arthur has no choice but to stay. Is he in a hurry? Well, yes and no, but there is no option better than Larson. It's not like Arthur can go out and find someone willing (or able) to give him a ride that very moment, and Larson's already agreed to it, and, Arthur won't ever admit to it, but he enjoys his stay. After everything he's been through, stress and suffering and outright torture, having lost a friend, he yearns for the small comforts Larson offers him. He wants a good meal and a warm bed and simple, human connection. Perhaps he even comes off as a bit clingy, much to Larson's delight. Perhaps Arthur wants to take all the socialization he can while it lasts. And God knows, Wallace Larson is a lonely man.

Yellow is not too fond of being idle, but what choice does he have? It's Arthur and Larson's time spent together that teaches Yellow so much about humanity. So that comes back later as well.

A day passes, then two, three, and Arthur warms up to Larson more and more. A total stranger is a better companion than a stranger wearing his friend's voice.

After the first few days, Arthur succumbs to a fever, his body finally giving out as he's no longer in a constant life-or-death situation. Larson takes care of him, learning little details from his feverish blabbering.

Arthur's leave gets postponed even after he gets better. Yes, he's no longer ill, Larson agrees, but while tending to Arthur, he couldn't help but notice how worn out and malnourished he is. And those wounds of his! Arthur hesitantly agrees that he indeed needs some more time to recover. It's hard to let go of this, to let go of Larson. Not after losing John.

Yellow, on the other hand, is getting more and more frustrated. He's stuck in this body and Arthut is refusing to move on, disregarding his feelings, brushing him off like he doesn't matter. Yellow settles on giving Arthur the silent treatment. He won't guide or aid him unless both of their interests are acknowledged.

Larson notices this. If course he does, he's been carefully studying Arthur and whatever supernatural he has going on about him. So when Arthur abruptly stops conversing with his invisible companion, Larson takes note of it. He's long wondered what this entity is, what it can do (not much, he figures), and how he can make Arthur confide to him. Arthur doesn't seem too eager – so it's Yellow he tries to appeal to instead.

Arthur has long since gotten used to sleeping in Larson's presence. And when he does, Larson speaks to Yellow, not knowing whether he's even heard. He barely knows anything about who he's speaking to, but slowly, carefully, using the most inoffensive language imaginable, he manages to convince Yellow he has both of their best interests in mind. Yellow yearns to be seen, heard, respected. So he does eventually speak to Arthur again, slowly pushing him to the idea of telling Larson of their shared predicament. After all, Arthur already knows Larson's familiar with the otherwordly. To Arthur, he is a man who's struggling with the occult without having a say in it. To Arthur, they are oh so similar. And Larson can turn out so much more knowledgeable than him.

So Arthur comes clean to Andrew Larson. However, Wallace Larson comes clean to Arthur in return. They both misjudge the other. Both think about the other as a possible ally.

That's when Arthur learns all about Addison. The town, Larson's daughter, all and the same. That's when Arthur flinches away from Larson like he's just been burned, shocked, disgusted, and betrayed. They have an argument, both frustrated and hurt, and Arthur punches him, which triggers Uncle to attack him in turn. He dislocates Arthur's shoulder, throwing him to the ground, but Larson tells him to stop once he regains his breath. He insists Arthur go back to his room and think. He won't just let them both go – Arthur and Yellow. Arthur says he won't spend another minute in his house, yet Uncle drags him there by force.

Oh how it feeds into Arthur's guilt, to know he felt such tenderness towards a willing child killer. Oh how it stings, to rip out the remainders of affection he has for this man, starting to root into his heart.

Yellow is having a full on breakdown, hissing and cursing and burning with rage.

That's when John returns to him. Either Kayne found an appropriate moment, or it was the time when Arthur and Yellow's ties weakened the most, allowing John to go back in.

Arthur's very shaken mentally. He spent a good month, if not more, building a bond with Larson, and John's sudden return only makes him more unstable.

John's disoriented, and Arthur barely explains anything to him – only that they have to leave, now.

They sneak out of the room, and soon see that Uncle's guarding the hall. Roughly the same thing happens as in canon, although it comes off as a little more surprising to John. Arthur tells him something about cults and monsters, but it's too jumbled and rushed and there are too many sobs to be comprehensive.

They don't go to the mines. Larson didn't speak of them much, and Arthur's set on getting out, so they get Larson's car (and, well, some provision never hurts) and leave.

Arthur finds himself lying a lot. Lying about how much time he has spent in Addison (how can he tell John he wasn't making a single effort to bring him back?), and what really happened between him and Larson. Oh, the guilt is eating him alive. So lie he does. No, he doesn't know much about Addison. No, it hasn't been long. Lies lead to more lies, and it's actively affecting the trust between them. John is frustrated Arthur won't tell him much about Larson, even when he's becoming an active threat.

[bcacstuff]

So after yesterday... and the discussion about is it wise (or worth) to line up in the middle of the night while it is freezing cold and snowing. I read one of the attendees even passed out in line due to lack of eating and long waiting in the cold...

In Chicago, for next Friday they advise to line up at 9am.

But I already saw people asking

Now I can imagine, you want to be there, and get in have your pic taken and all that. But I think people really should consider the weather predictions:

I hope people will seriously put health and safety first!

[marlynnofmany]

Unsettling

(Related side project: Prank War!) (Today we see what the Frillians look like. Among other things. Very exciting!)

~~~

“So,” I said. “This place is not recommended for most civilized species, but they won’t tell you why?”

Captain Sunlight sighed, tapping her portable screen with one scaly finger. “They’re not the ones with that recommendation; that was the rumor from other couriers.”

Zhee put in, “Who have no obvious reason to lie.”

“True,” the captain admitted. “But the group who are subcontracting to us are insisting that it’s safe — they’ve paid for an expensive enough insurance agreement that I believe they’re not lying either.”

“Intentionally,” Zhee said, clicking a pincher arm like he was visualizing something specific.

I asked, “And you’re sure they’re not just hoping for the best because this is a rush order?”

Captain Sunlight glanced over her shoulder toward the hall. No one else was in the cargo bay with us. “I got the impression that they simply didn’t want to do the delivery themselves because the area is cold and the ground is sharp. Strongarms, you know.”

“Ah,” I said, picturing the various tentacular crewmembers on our ship trying to pick their way across a hazardous ground without cutting a tentacle. “It’s a pity they’ve never mastered this technology called ‘shoes.’”

Zhee hissed in scorn. His exoskeleton was thinner on his narrow little bug feet, but he’d been able to maneuver along treacherous ground before. He’d be fine.

Captain Sunlight said, “With the speedcart, you won’t even need to touch the ground except at the dropoff point, but I’d like you in exo suits just in case.” She waved toward the crisp little hovercar that had come with the job. The package on it looked like a bundle of canvas with lots of rope loops sticking out.

Zhee said, “They could have used this themselves and shoved the package over the side. Cowards.”

“They are also very busy,” said Captain Sunlight with infinite patience. “They normally do the delivery with drones, but apparently those got wrecked in a storm.”

“Is that the danger everyone talked about?” I asked.

“No, the storm was elsewhere.”

Zhee regarded the speedcart with his antenna at a disapproving angle. “So the Strongarms are out because of the sharp ground, and the Heatseekers are out because of the cold. Never mind we have exo suits and heat garments. Why aren’t you sending Blip and Blop on this delivery?”

That was a good point; Frillians did wear clothes. Though I’d never seen our two wear anything particularly suited to cold weather.

“I could,” Captain Sunlight said coolly. “Should I?”

Zhee hissed at that, then finally said, “Fine. But if they are wrong about the dangers, I will be extremely cross as well as dead.”

“I will endure your haunting with humility,” said Captain Sunlight, tapping her screen. “Now we should be arriving soon, so you’ll want to get those exo suits on.”

Zhee hissed again in what sounded like the Mesmer equivalent of a whiney teenager, but he clicked off to get his. I couldn’t really blame him for complaining; it always looked annoying to put on.

I got mine as well, and as predicted, I was dressed first. By the time we both sat ready in the speedcart, Captain Sunlight had gotten herself a heat shawl and Kavlae was observing from the cockpit cameras.

“Stay in touch,” the captain said as the ship’s engines whined a touchdown. “Keep us posted at any sign of actual danger.”

“Will do,” I said, tapping my helmet.

The rest of the crew had other things to do elsewhere on the ship, but I saw Paint and Mur watching from the hallway.

“Be careful!” Paint called. She wasn’t wearing a heat shawl, and by the way she was peeking around the doorframe, she probably expected an icy blast from the airlock.

“Try not to die!” Mur agreed cheerfully with a wave of a tentacle.

Zhee scowled with his antennae. “Hauntings for everyone if we do,” he declared.

“You’ll be fine,” said Captain Sunlight. “Just keep your intelligence in your nose. Ready?”

I almost missed my cue, distracted as I was by that particular Heatseeker turn of phrase. I figured it was close to “keep your wits about you.” I activated the speedcart and said I was ready.

(Zhee was grumpy that it wasn’t a model designed for use by pincher arms, but he was ready too.)

The speedcart was just barely small enough to fit into the airlock without catching the door on a fender. The fact that it used the same hovertech to make bumper fields helped. That also made my driving look good, since I didn’t tap anything.

The door behind us shut, the one in front opened, and we scooted down the ramp into a foggy alien landscape that did indeed have spiky plant-things snaking across the ground everywhere. I was grateful for the heat controls built into my exo suit. The air had a distinct chill before the warmth kicked in.

Kavlae asked from the radio, “Good so far?”

I freed a hand to hit the button on my collar and replied. “So far. It’s a little creepy, but no obvious dangers.”

“Eggskin is here to advise, if you need them.”

“Thanks,” I said. I hoped we wouldn’t need any insights from the ship’s medic, but it was nice to have the option. And if there was actually a problem, we’d want them to know as soon as possible.

No real problems yet, though. Just creepiness. The fog closed around us, making visibility garbage, and various distant fauna were moaning and chattering. I focused on the speedcart’s navigation panel, reminding myself that I was an adult and a seasoned professional, not a kid experiencing the great outdoors for the first time.

It really was unsettling, though. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but something about this place was more eerie than the fog could account for.

Plus I was starting to feel nauseous.

Was that worth mentioning? It was probably worth mentioning. Maybe I just ate something bad earlier. From the canned food that didn’t expire until several planetary years in the future.

“Looks like you’re almost there,” Kavlae said. “Eggskin wants to know if things are okay.”

“Um, maybe?” I said, with a glance at Zhee. I couldn’t read his expression. “I feel a little sick, but it’s faint. Hard to pin down.”

Eggskin’s voice came through the radio. “Make the dropoff quickly, then hurry back.”

“Yup,” I agreed. “That is definitely the plan.” I was starting to sweat, and the exo suit didn’t know what to do about it. The temperature went down a notch.

The navigation panel flashed; we’d arrived. Good thing it knew that, since this spot looked the same as everywhere else. I put us in park. Zhee was already moving to unload the package.

A wave of dread rolled over me, pinning me to my seat. I could tell my breath was coming faster as I searched for danger. Shapes kept appearing at the corners of my vision, vanishing when I looked directly.

I tried to keep my tone light. “Guys, this place might be haunted.”

“How do you mean?” Kavlae demanded.

Before I could answer, Zhee said, “Haunted by a really irritating noise.”

“Noise?” I asked, while Eggskin asked him to describe it.

“You can’t hear that?” Zhee hauled the package to the edge of the speedcart and lowered it over the side. “Low and rumbling, the kind that rattles your core.”

“Infrasound!” Eggskin exclaimed. “Certain frequencies can be unsettling for some species, even dangerous with extended exposure.”

“Oh good,” I said with an unsteady laugh. “So it’s not ghosts that I keep seeing?” They really looked like ghosts. Indistinct gray blobs that wouldn’t stay put.

“When the soundwaves are just right, they can cause resonance!” Eggskin went into a detailed description of how the sound I couldn’t hear was making my eyes vibrate. This sounded fascinating for a medic who was safe back on the ship, not out here feeling irrationally terrified despite their best efforts.

“Got the beacon?” I asked Zhee.

He was still leaning over the edge, with two legs hooked under the seat. “Yes.”

Something clicked, then a sound that I could hear rumbled out like an earthquake. “That’s the beacon??”

Zhee settled back into his seat. “More irritating than the other noise. Drive.”

“Right. Yes.” My hands were only shaking a little. I put us in reverse even though there was nothing to be reversing away from, then turned and sped back toward the ship. Quickly. Not at a breakneck pace, but … quickly.

Zhee made a curious noise. I spared a look to find him staring back at the way we had come, where a shockingly large figure loomed in the mist.

The beacon turned off. Everything was silent to my ears, and slightly less terrifying, but I didn’t slow down.

I told Zhee, “I may have a new ghost story for Blip and Blop. Once upon a time, some couriers made a delivery to somewhere haunted, but that was really just the clients.”

Zhee was still looking behind us. “Or fauna that ate them. Drive faster.”

I clutched the wheel and drove faster.

~~~

Did I mention the Prank War?

~~~

These are the ongoing backstory adventures of the main character from this book.

Shared early on Patreon! There’s even a free tier to get them on the same day as the rest of the world.

The sequel novel is in progress (and will include characters from these stories. I hadn’t thought all of them up when I wrote the first book, but they’re too much fun to leave out of the second).